Fifteen minutes later the sweat poured off the white body. He looked up to see the attendant, heard the usual cant about a drink—nobody wanted one just yet—plus the line about the swimming pool. It seemed the likely thing for a man in this job to say, but what the precise wording meant was: All secure. I am ready for the transfer. By way of reply, Misha wiped the sweat off his brow in an exaggerated gesture common to elderly men. Ready. The attendant left. Slowly, Misha began counting to three hundred. When he got to two hundred and fifty-seven, one of his fellow alcoholics stood and walked out. Misha took note of this, but didn’t worry about it. He had far too much practice. When he got to three hundred he rose with a jerking movement of his knees and left the room without a word.
The air was much cooler in the robing room, but he saw that the other man hadn’t left yet. He was talking to the attendant about something or other. Misha waited patiently for the attendant to notice him, which he did. The young man came over, and the Colonel took a few steps to meet him. Misha stumbled on a loose tile and nearly fell. His good arm went forward. The attendant caught him, or nearly did. The birch sticks fell to the floor.
The young man swept them up in an instant and helped ;Misha to his feet. In another few seconds he’d given him a fresh towel for his shower and sent him on his way.
“Are you all right, Comrade?” the other man asked from the far end of the room.
“Yes, thank you. My old knees, and these old floors. They should pay more attention to the floor.”
“Indeed they should. Come, we can shower together,” the man said. He was about forty, and nondescript except for his bloodshot eyes. Another drinker, Misha observed at once. “You were in the war, then?”
“Tanker. The last German gun got me—but I got him, too, at the Kursk Bulge.”
“My father was there. He served in the Seventh Guards Army under Konev.”
“I was on the other side: Second Tanks, under Konstantin Rokossovskiy. My last campaign.”
“I can see why, Comrade . . .”
“Filitov, Mikhail Semyonovich, Colonel of Tank Troops.”
“I am Klementi Vladimirovich Vatutin, but I am no one’s hero. It is a pleasure to meet you, Comrade.”
“It is good for an old man to be shown respect.” Vatutin’s father had served in the Kursk Campaign, but as a political officer. He’d retired a colonel in the NKVD, and his son had followed in his footsteps, in the agency later redesignated KGB.
Twenty minutes later, the Colonel was off to his office, and the bath attendant had slipped out the rear door again and entered that of the dry-cleaners. The store manager had to be called from the machine room, where he’d been oiling a pump. As a matter of simple security, the man who took the cassette from his hand was supposed to know neither the man’s name nor where he worked. He pocketed the cassette, passed over three half-liter bottles of liquor, and returned to finish oiling the pump, his heart rate up as it always was on these days. He was quietly amused that his cover assignment as a CIA “agent”—a Soviet national working for the American intelligence agency—worked very much to his personal fiscal benefit. The under-the-counter marketing of alcohol paid him in “certificate” rubles that could be used to buy Western goods and premium foodstuffs at the hard-currency stores. He balanced that against the tension of his assignment as he washed the machine oil off his hands. He’d been part of this line of cutouts for six months, and though he didn’t know it, his work along this line would soon be ended. He’d still be used to pass along information, but not for CARDINAL. Soon thereafter the man at the baths would seek another job, and this link of nameless agents would be dissolved—and untraceable even to the relentless counterintelligence officers of the KGB’s Second Chief Directorate.
Fifteen minutes later, a regular customer appeared with one of her English coats. It was an Aquascutum with the zippered-in liner removed. As always, she said something about taking special care to use the gentlest process on the coat, and as always he nodded and protested that this was the best cleaning shop in all of the Soviet Union. But it didn’t have pre-printed check forms, and he wrote out three by hand on carbon-sets. The first was attached to the coat with a straight pin, the second went into a small box, and the third— but first he checked the pockets.
“Comrade, you’ve left some change. I thank you, but we do not need the extra money.” He handed this, and the receipt, over. Plus something else. It was so easy. Nobody ever checked the pockets, just as in the West.
“Ah, truly you are an honorable man,” the lady said with an odd formalism common in the Soviet Union. “Good day, Comrade.”
“And to you,” the man replied. “Next!”
The lady—her name was Svetlana—walked off to the Metro station as usual. Her schedule allowed for a leisurely walk in case of problems at either end of her exchange. The streets of Moscow were invariably crowded with bustling, unsmiling people, many of whom looked at her coat with brief glances of envy. She had a wide selection of English clothing, having traveled to the West many times as part of her job at GOSPLAN, the Soviet economics planning ministry. It was in England that she’d been recruited by the British Secret Intelligence Service. She was used in the CARDINAL chain because the CIA didn’t have all that many agents in Russia who could be used, and she was carefully given jobs only in the center of the chain, never at either end. The data she herself gave the West was low-level economic information, and her occasional services as a courier were actually more useful than the information of which she was so proud. Her case officers never told her this, of course; every spy deems him- or herself to possess the most vital intelligence ever to make its way out. It made the game all the more interesting, and for all their ideological (or other) motivations, spies view their craft as the grandest of all games, since they must invariably outsmart the most formidable resources of their own countries. Svetlana actually enjoyed living on the jagged edge of life and death, though she did not know why. She also believed that her highly placed father—a senior Central Committee member—could protect her from anything. After all, his influence enabled her to travel to Western Europe two or three times a year, didn’t it? A pompous man, her father, but Svetlana was his only child, the mother of his only grandchild, and the center of his universe.
She entered the Kuznetskiy Most station in time to see one train leave. Timing was always the tricky part. In rush hour, the Moscow Metro trains run a mere thirty seconds apart. Svetlana checked her watch, and again she had timed her arrival perfectly. Her contact would be on the next one. She walked along the platform to the exact spot for the forward door on the second car of that train, ensuring that she’d be the first one aboard. Her clothing helped. She was often mistaken for a foreigner, and Moscovites treated foreigners with deference ordinarily reserved for royalty—or the gravely ill. She didn’t have to wait long. Soon she heard the rumble of an approaching train. Heads turned, as they always did, to see the lights of the lead car, and the sound of brakes filled the vaulted station with high-pitched noise. The door opened, and a rush of people emerged. Then Svetlana stepped in and took a few steps toward the back of the car. She grabbed the overhead bar—all the seats were filled, and no man offered his—and faced forward before the train lurched forward again. Her ungloved left hand was in her coat pocket.
She’d never seen the face of her contact on this train, but she knew that he’d seen hers. Whoever he was, he appreciated her slim figure. She knew that from his signal. In the crush of the crowded train, a hand hidden by a copy of Izvestia ran along her left buttock and stopped to squeeze gently. That was new, and she fought off the impulse to see his face. Might he be a good lover? She could use another one. Her former husband was such a . . . but, no. It was better this way, more poetic, more Russian, that a man whose face she’d never know found her beautiful and desirable. She clasped the film cassette between her thumb and forefinger, waiting the next two minutes for the train to stop at Pushkinskaya. Her eyes were closed, and a millimeter of smile formed on her lips as she contemplated the identity and attributes of the cutout whose hand caressed her. It would have horrified her case officer, but she gave no other outward sign of anything.