Brian Freemantle: The Bearpit

Vladislav Andreevich Belov was the director of the department within the First Chief Directorate responsible for espionage within the United States and Canada. He was a stick-dry, unemotional man who had linked himself to Kazin’s support of the old, out-of-date regimes and now, too late, accepted the mistake. The American proposal would provide the essential recovery, he knew: the uncertainty was presenting it through Kazin. The appointment of a new man to share overall control of the Directorate had to indicate that Kazin was in decline. It was too late now to switch the operation to the supervision of Vasili Malik, who was anyway someone with whom so far he had had no contact. Belov felt trapped; trapped and helpless.

‘We are finally ready!’ greeted Kazin. He was a small, fleshy man who perspired easily. He was sweating now, partially from an habitual nervousness which kept his leg pumping unseen beneath the desk, partially from the anticipation of how he could use the other man’s idea to his own benefit.

‘Almost,’ said Belov guardedly.

‘How long have we had John Willick as a CIA source?’ asked Kazin.

‘Five years.’

‘Burned out?’

‘It was getting close,’ said Belov. ‘He’s being transferred. We don’t know yet to what department.’

‘Suspicion?’

Why did Kazin need to query what was already in the report in front of him? Belov said: ‘He doesn’t think so. There is some personality clash with a new department head.’

‘Sacrificial then?’

‘That was the intention, from the beginning,’ reminded Belov.

‘Who is the conduit to be to the CIA?’

‘Kapalet,’ said Belov. ‘He’s been operating out of our embassy in Paris. We’re sure Washington is convinced he’s genuine.’

Kazin nodded, coming to the most important person in a deception that had taken years to evolve. ‘And Levin is ready?’ he demanded.

‘We’ve simulated every imaginable possibility,’ assured Belov. ‘He’s never failed.’ Yevgennie Pavlovich Levin was going to be a Hero of the Soviet Union but never acknowledged as such, Belov thought. He supposed the award could be given in absentia.

‘The CIA will be thrown into turmoil,’ said Kazin distantly. ‘Absolute and utter turmoil.’ And I will be protected and saved from whatever changes are being considered, he thought.

‘Turmoil is not the intended purpose of the operation at all,’ said Belov in further reminder.

Belatedly Kazin realized the other man’s need. ‘It has been brilliantly conceived,’ he said in delayed praise. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’

‘Thank you, Comrade First Deputy,’ said Belov. Who else would ever learn it was his idea, he wondered. The answer was quick in coming.

Kazin gazed directly across the desk and said: ‘I intend taking full control of this operation.’

The whore’s ass was going to steal the credit! Belov, who was adept at remaining dry-footed in the political swamp of Moscow, betrayed no facial reaction. He said: ‘I understand.’

‘You will be acknowledged the architect,’ promised Kazin.

Liar, thought Belov. He said: ‘You are very generous, Comrade First Deputy.’

Kazin realized allies were going to be important in the coming months. He said: ‘You have my personal assurance on that.’

There was a legend, Belov remembered, that Stalin had been fond of assuring his victims of personal support just before sending them before the firing squads in Lubyanka. He said: ‘Shall I issue the orders?’

‘No!’ refused Kazin, almost too quickly. More slowly he added: ‘I will decide the timing.’

Whore’s ass, thought Belov again.

Alone once more in his office, Kazin stared unseeingly down at his desk, continuing in his determined order. The son first, he decided. That had always been the intention: why he’d manipulated the brat into the Directorate he governed, enjoying the thought of Malik’s helplessness. The man had been politically astute in not trying to interfere over the Afghan posting of his son, although isolated as he had been in another Chief Directorate there would have been little he could have done anyway. But Malik had not been able to hold back after the slaughter of the military following the GRU fiasco. That’s when the opportunity had come.

Kazin focused upon the memorandum to which Malik had identifiably assigned his name, one of the man’s first actions upon his transfer. Not obviously self-destructive, acknowledged Kazin. Nor could it be construed to be nepotistic. It just had to be made to seem that way. And it would be. Gorbachov might be causing tidal waves within the KGB but Victor Ivanovich Kazin didn’t intend being washed away by them. It was others who were going to be engulfed.

So far the scarcity of sex hadn’t made the sheep look any more attractive but Yuri Vasilivich Malik wondered, in private amusement because there were so few other sorts of joke in a place like Afghanistan, just how long it would take for them to seem beautiful. There were only two unattached women – a secretary and a translator – with both of whom Yuri was sleeping and with both of whom he was bored. The wife of the Third Secretary was clearly available and he was sure the wife of the Third Secretary was also interested.

But so far Yuri had held back, unwilling to take any careless risks with his first embassy appointment. He only wanted to be fucked in the literal sense of the word. He already considered himself fucked every other way.

Yuri, a slight but compact man, fair-haired and blue-eyed and permanently diet-careful against becoming heavy, which he knew he could easily do, was unable to forgive his father’s refusal to intervene to prevent his posting to this stinking sewer of a place. Talk of inseparable divisions between Chief Directorates was so much bullshit: just like the lecture about the necessity of avoiding political infighting within the organization was so much bullshit. Yuri was… was what? Surprised wasn’t strong enough. Bewildered was better: bewildered because his father had never before refused him, in anything he had asked. Until now, when he’d made the most important request of all.

One realization brought another: that from now on Yuri Vasilivich Malik was the only person likely to help Yuri Vasilivich Malik.

Even his Kabul sex life was linked to that philosophy.

Both the secretary and the translator sensed his indifference and both tried with the desperation of single women in an environment of attached men to keep him in their beds, willing to share him unprotestingly and to innovate any sort of sexual experimentation he cared to suggest.

Yuri suggested a lot. And not all of it sexual. Yuri was circumspect, never appearing obviously to question but simply to listen sympathetically as they pillow-gossiped their day-to-day activities. It gave him access to the innermost secrets of the Kabul embassy; secrets, he was sure, unknown even to the official KGB security officer who was supposed to be informed of everything.

‘There’s a lot of Eyes-Only traffic being directed to the rezident from Moscow,’ disclosed the secretary, whose name was Ilena and who worked exclusively for the Kabul KGB controller, Georgi Petrovich Solov.

‘What about?’ said Yuri, the casualness successfully concealing his immediate interest.

They had just finished one of his favourite ways of making love and she still lay with her mouth wetly against his thigh. She said: ‘I’ve not seen it all: it looks as if a major operation is being planned.’

‘A lot of extra work for you, then?’ he lured.

‘I could find out more,’ she offered at once, anxious to please him in everything.

‘It’s inevitable I shall be involved, eventually,’ Yuri encouraged. ‘You wouldn’t be doing anything wrong in letting me know early.’