He knew now that he should have taken that offer, and hated himself for the cowardice that had prevented the impulse. Service in a line company might have restored his self-image, might have—might have done a lot of things, Altunin told himself, but he hadn’t made the choice and it hadn’t made the difference. In the end, all he’d earned for himself was a letter from the zampolit that would travel with him for the rest of his life.
So now he tried to expiate that wrong. He told himself that perhaps he already had—and now, if he were very lucky, he could disappear, and perhaps he could forget the toys that he’d prepared for their evil mission. That was the only positive thought that his mind had room for, this cold, cloudy night.
He walked north, keeping off the dirt sidewalks, staying in shadows, away from the streetlamps. Shift workers coming home from the Moskvich plant made the streets agreeably crowded, but when he arrived at the railyard outside the plant, all the commuting was over. Snow started to fall heavily, reducing visibility to a hundred meters or so, with small globes of flakes around each of the lights over the stationary freight cars. A train seemed to be forming up, probably heading south, he told himself. Switching locomotives were moving back and forth, shunting boxcars from one siding to another. He spent a few minutes huddled by a car to make sure that he knew what was happening. The wind picked up as he watched, and Altunin looked for a better vantage point. There were some boxcars fifty or so meters away, from which he could observe better. One of them had an opened door, and he’d need to inspect the locking mechanism if he wanted to break inside one. He walked over with his head down to shield his face from the wind. The only thing he could hear, other than the crunch of snow under his boots, was the signal whistles of the switch engines. It was a friendly sound, he told himself, the sound that would change his life, perhaps lead the way to something like freedom.
He was surprised to see that there were people in the boxcar. Three of them. Two held cartons of auto parts. The third’s hands were empty, until he reached into his pocket and came out with a knife.
Altunin started to say something. He didn’t care if they were stealing parts for sale on the black market. He wasn’t concerned at all, but before he could speak, the third one leaped down on him. Altunin was stunned when his head struck a steel rail. He was conscious, but couldn’t move for a second, too surprised even to be afraid. The third one turned and said something. Altunin couldn’t make out the reply, but knew it was sharp and quick. He was still trying to understand what was happening when his assailant turned back and slashed his throat. There wasn’t even any pain. He wanted to explain that he wasn’t . . . concerned . . . didn’t care . . . just wanted to . . . one of them stood over him, two cartons in his arms, and clearly he was afraid, and Altunin thought this very odd, since he was the one who was dying . . .
Two hours later, a switch engine couldn’t stop in time when its engineer noted an odd, snow-covered shape on the rails. On seeing what he’d run over, he called for the yardmaster.
13.
Councils
BEAUTIFUL job,” Vatutin commented. “The bastards.” They’ve broken the rule, he said to himself. The rule was unwritten but nevertheless very real: CIA does not kill Soviets in the Soviet Union; RGB does not kill Americans, or even Soviet defectors, in the United States. So far as Vatutin knew, the rule had never been broken by either side—at least not obviously so. The rule made sense: the job of intelligence agencies was to gather intelligence; if KGB and CIA officers spent their time killing people—with the inevitable retaliation and counter-retaliation—the primary job would not get done. And so the business of intelligence was a civilized, predictable business. In third-world countries, different rules applied, of course, but in America and the Soviet Union, the rules were assiduously followed.
Until now, that is—unless I’m supposed to believe that this poor, sad bastard was murdered by auto-parts thieves! Vatutin wondered if CIA might have contracted the job out to a criminal gang—he suspected that the Americans used Soviet criminals for some things too sensitive for their own lily-white hands. That would not be a technical violation of the rules, would it? He wondered if the First Directorate men ever used a similar dodge . . .
All he knew right now was that the next step in the courier chain was dead at his feet, and with it his only hope of linking the microfilm to the American spy in the Defense Ministry. Vatutin corrected himself: He also knew that he’d have to report this to the Chairman in about six hours. He needed a drink. Vatutin shook his head and looked down at what was left of his suspect. The snow was falling so rapidly that you couldn’t see the blood anymore.
“You know, if they’d only been a little bit more clever putting his body on the tracks, we might have written it off to an accident,” another RGB officer observed. Despite the horrendous work done to the body by the wheels of the locomotive, it was clear that Altunin’s throat had been expertly sliced by a narrow-bladed knife. Death, the responding physician reported, could not have taken longer than a minute. There were no signs of a struggle. The victim’s—the traitor’s!—hands were not bruised or cut. He hadn’t fought back against whoever had killed him. Conclusion: His killer was probably known to him. Might it have been an American?
“First thing,” Vatutin said. “I want to know if any Americans were away from their flats between eighteen and twenty-three hours.” He turned. “Doctor!”
“Yes, Colonel?”
“Time of death again?”
“Judging by the temperature of the larger pieces, between twenty-one and midnight. Earlier rather than later, I think, but the cold and snow cover complicate matters.” Not to mention the state of the remains, he didn’t add.
Vatutin turned back to his principal assistant. “Any who were away from quarters, I want to know who, where, when, and why.”
“Step up surveillance of all the foreigners?” the man wondered aloud.
“I’ll have to go to the Chairman for that, but I’m thinking about it. I want you to speak to the chief Militia investigator. This is to be classified most-secret. We don’t need a mob of fumbling policemen messing this affair up.”
“Understood, Comrade Colonel. They’d only be interested in recovering the auto parts anyway,” the man noted sourly. This perestroika business is turning everyone into a capitalist!
Vatutin walked over to the locomotive driver. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”
The message was received. “Yes, Comrade. Perhaps you’d like something to take away the chill?”
“That would be very kind of you, Comrade Engineer.
“My pleasure, Comrade Colonel.” The engine driver produced a small bottle. As soon as he’d seen that the man was a colonel of the KGB, he’d thought himself doomed. But the man seemed decent enough. His colleagues were businesslike, their questions had been reasonable ones, and the man was almost at ease—until he realized that he could be punished for having a bottle on the job. He watched the man take a long pull, then hand the bottle back.
“Spasibo,” the KGB man said, and walked off into the snow.
Vatutin was waiting in the Chairman’s anteroom when he arrived. He’d heard that Gerasimov was a serious worker, always at his desk by seven-thirty. The stories were right. He came through the door at seven twenty-five and waved for the “Two” man to follow him into his office.
“Well?”
“Altunin was killed late last night in the railyards outside the Moskvich Auto Factory. His throat was cut and his body left on the tracks, where a switch engine ran over it.”
“You’re sure it’s him?” Gerasimov asked with a frown.
“Yes, he was positively identified. I recognized the face myself. He was found next to a railcar that had ostensibly been broken into, and some auto parts were missing.”
“Oh, so he stumbled upon a gang of black marketeers and they conveniently killed him?”
“So it is meant to appear, Comrade Chairman.” Colonel Vatutin nodded. “I find the coincidence unconvincing, but there is no physical evidence to contradict it. Our investigations are continuing. We are now checking to see if any of Altunin’s comrades from his military service live in the area, but I am not hopeful along these lines.”
Gerasimov rang for tea. His secretary appeared in an instant, and Vatutin realized that this had to be part of the regular morning routine. The Chairman was taking things more easily than the Colonel had feared. Party man or not, he acted like a professional: