“It will take more than your words to—”
The door opened quietly. The young man who entered wore dirty, greasy coveralls, and wore the ribbed helmet of a tank crewman. All the details were right: there was a trailing wire for the tank’s interphones, and the powerful smell of powder came into the room with the young man. The coverall was torn and singed. His face and hands were bandaged. Blood dripped down from the covered eye, clearing a trail through the grime. And he was the living image of Aleksey Il’ych Romanov, Corporal of the Red Army, or as close to it as the KGB could manage in one frantic night’s effort.
Filitov didn’t hear him enter, but turned as soon as he noticed the smell. His mouth dropped open in shock.
“Tell me, Filitov,” Vatutin said. “How do you think your men would react if they learned what you have done?”
The young man—he was in fact a corporal who worked for a minor functionary in the Third Directorate—did not say a word. The chemical irritant in his right eye was making it water, and while the youngster struggled not to grimace at the pain it caused him, the tears ran down his cheeks. Filitov didn’t know that his meal had been drugged—so disoriented was he by his stay in Lefortovo that he no longer had the ability to register the things that were being done to him. The caffeine had induced the exact opposite of a drunken state. His mind was as wide awake as it had been in combat, all his senses sought input, noticed everything that was happening around him—but all through the night there had been nothing to report. Without data to pass on, his senses had begun making things up, and Filitov had been hallucinating when the guards had come to fetch him. In Vatutin he had a target on which to fix his psyche. But Misha was also tired, exhausted by the routine to which he had been subjected, and the combination of wakefulness and bone-crushing fatigue had placed him in a dreamlike state where he no longer had the ability to distinguish the real from the imaginary.
“Turn around, Filitov!” Vatutin boomed. “Look at me when I address you! I asked you a question: What of all the men who served you?”
“Who—”
“Who? The men you led, you old fool!”
“But—” He turned again, and the figure was gone.
“I’ve been looking through your file, all those citations you wrote for your men—more than most commanders. Ivanenko here, and Pukhov, and this Corporal Romanov. All the men who died for you, what would they think now?”
“They would understand!” Misha insisted as the anger took over completely.
“What would they understand? Tell me now, what is it that they would understand?”
“Men like you killed them—not I, not the Germans, but men like you!”
“And your sons, too, eh?”
“Yes! My two handsome sons, my two strong, brave boys, they went to follow in my footsteps and—”
“Your wife, too?”
“That above all!” Filitov snarled back. He leaned forward across the table. “You have taken everything from me, you chekist bastard—and you wonder that I needed to fight back at you? No man has served the State better than I, and look at my reward, look at the gratitude of the Party. All that was my world you have taken away, and you say that I have betrayed the Rodina, do you? You have betrayed her, and you have betrayed me!”
“And because of that, Penkovskiy approached you, and because of that you have been feeding information to the West—you’ve fooled us all these years!”
“It is no great thing to fool the likes of you!” He pounded his fist on the table. “Thirty years, Vatutin, thirty years I have—I have—” He stopped, a curious look on his face, wondering what he had just said.
Vatutin took his time before speaking, and when he did so, his voice was gentle. “Thank you. Comrade Colonel. That is quite enough for now. Later we will talk about exactly what you have given the West. I despise you for what you have done, Misha. I cannot forgive or understand treason, but you’re the bravest man I have ever met. I hope that you can face what remains of your life with equal bravery. It is important now that you face yourself and your crimes as courageously as you faced the fascisti, so that your life can end as honorably as you lived it.” Vatutin pressed a button and the door opened. The guards took Filitov away, still looking back at the interrogator, more surprised than anything else. Surprised that he’d been tricked. He’d never understand how it had been done, but then they rarely did, the Colonel of the Second Chief Directorate told himself. He rose, too, after a minute, collecting his files in a businesslike way before he walked out of the room and upstairs.
“You would have been a fine psychiatrist,” the doctor observed first of all.
“I hope the tape machines got all of that,” Vatutin said to his technicians.
“All three, plus the television record.”
“That was the hardest one I’ve ever come across,” a major said.
“Yes, he was a hard one. A brave one. Not an adventurer, not a dissident. That one was a patriot—or that’s what the poor bastard thought he was. He wanted to save the country from the Party.” Vatutin shook his head in wonderment. “Where do they get such ideas?”
Your Chairman, he reminded himself, wants to do much the same thing—or more accurately to save the country for the Party. Vatutin leaned against the wall for a moment while he tried to decide how similar or how different the motivation was. He concluded quickly that this was not a proper thought for a simple counterintelligence officer. At least not yet. Filitov got his ideas from the clumsy way the Party treated his family. Well, even though the Party says it never makes mistakes, we all know differently. What a pity that Misha couldn’t make that allowance. After all, the Party is all we have.
“Doctor, make sure he gets some rest,” he said on the way out. There was a car waiting for him,
Vatutin was surprised to see that it was morning. He’d allowed himself to focus too fully these last two days, and he’d thought that it would be nighttime. So much the better, though: he could see the Chairman right now. The really amazing part was that he was actually on a fairly normal schedule. He could go home tonight and get a normal night’s sleep, reacquaint himself with wife and family, watch some television. Vatutin smiled to himself. He could also look forward to a promotion, he told himself. After all, he’d broken the man earlier than promised. That ought to make the Chairman happy.
Vatutin caught him between meetings. He found Gerasimov in a pensive mood, staring out his window at the traffic on Dzerzhinskiy Square.
“Comrade Chairman, I have the confession,” Vatutin announced. Gerasimov turned.
“Filitov?”
“Why, yes, Comrade Chairman.” Vatutin allowed his surprise to show.
Gerasimov smiled after a moment. “Excuse me, Colonel. There is an operational matter on my mind at the moment. You do have his confession?”
“Nothing detailed yet, of course, but he did admit that he was sending secrets to the West, and that he has been doing so for thirty years.”
“Thirty years—and all that time we didn’t detect it . . .” Gerasimov noted quietly.
“That is correct,” Vatutin admitted. “But we have caught him, and we will spend weeks learning all that he has compromised. I think we will find that his placement and operational methods made detection difficult, but we will learn from this, as we have learned from all such cases. In any event, you required the confession and now we have it,” the Colonel pointed out.
“Excellent,” the Chairman replied. “When will your written report be ready?”
“Tomorrow?” Vatutin asked without thinking. He nearly cringed awaiting the reply. He expected to have his head snapped off, but Gerasimov thought for an infinity of seconds before nodding.
“That is sufficient. Thank you, Comrade Colonel. That will be all,”
Vatutin drew himself to attention and saluted before leaving.
Tomorrow? he asked himself in the corridor. After all that, he’s willing to wait until tomorrow?
What the hell? It didn’t make any sense. But Vatutin had no immediate explanation, either, and he did have a report to file. The Colonel walked to his office, pulled out a lined pad, and started drafting his interrogation report.
“So that’s the place?” Ryan asked.
“That’s it. Used to be they had a toy store right across from it, over there. Called Children’s World, would you believe? I suppose somebody finally noticed how crazy that was, and they just moved it. The statue in the middle is Feliks Dzerzhinskiy. That was a cold bloody piece of work—next to him Heinrich Himmler was a boy scout.”