Jeffery Deaver: Ice Cold

“Of course.”

“Now, Comrade Rasnakov learned that there are two men who intend to take the life of our American comrade by week’s end. That cannot happen. Now, read this file, Comrade Major. Study it. But make sure it does not leave the building. It is for your eyes only. It is perhaps the most sensitive document you will ever come in contact with.”

“Of course.”

“Learn all you can about Comrade Thirty-five and the two men who wish to harm him. Then make plans to leave immediately for America. You’ll meet with Comrade Colonel Nikolai Spesky, one of our GRU agents in place. He can provide weapons and updated intelligence.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, Comrade General.” Kaverin rose and saluted. The general saluted in return then said, “One more thing, Comrade Major.”

“Yessir.”

“Here.” The man handed him a packet of French cigarettes. “You must learn to smoke something that will not set fire to the carpet of your superior officers.”

Kaverin returned to his own small office, which offered a partial view of the airport; he would sometimes sit and look at airplanes on final approach. He found this relaxing.

He opened the file and began to read. He got no more than halfway through the first paragraph, however, then sat up with a start, electrified as he read what the mission would entail and who was involved.

Oh, my God…

Kaverin lit a cigarette—one of the new ones—and noted that for the first time in years his thick fingers were actually shaking.

But then, soldier that he was, he put aside his emotions at the momentous consequences of the assignment and got to work.

The flights were carefully planned to arouse the fewest suspicions of the enemy intelligence services.

For the trip Kaverin was dressed Western—a black fedora, a fake bespoke suit and white shirt and narrow black tie, like a funeral director, he thought. Which in a macabre way seemed appropriate. His route took him from Moscow to Paris on an Aeroflot TU-124, then to Heathrow. He connected there to a Trans-Canada Air Lines DC-8 bound for Montreal. Finally he flew from Canada into the United States, first port of call, Idlewild Airport in New York City.

Four hours later he disembarked in Miami.

Whereas New York had seemed hard as steel, edged and unyielding, the Floridian metropolis was soft, pastel, soothed by balmy breeze.

Kaverin walked from the airport terminal, inhaling deeply the fragrant air, and hailed a taxi.

The car—a huge Mercury—bounded into the street. As they drove, Kaverin stared at the palm trees, the bougainvillea and plants he’d never seen. He blinked to observe a flamingo in the front yard of a small bungalow. He’d seen the birds in Africa and believed they were water dwellers. He laughed when he realized the creature was a plastic decoration.

He regretted that dusk was arriving quickly, and soon there was nothing to see but lights.

In a half hour he was at the address he sought, a small, one-story office building, squatting in a sandy lot filled with unruly green groundcover. On the front window was a sign.

As good a cover as any for a spy operation, he reflected. After all, the company did do some transporting: stolen secrets and occasional bodies. And the proprietor’s pseudonym was a reasonable tinkering with the real name of the GRU agent who worked out of the facility.

Kaverin found the door locked and knocked. A moment later it flew open and there stood a round, broad-shouldered man in a short-sleeved beige shirt—with black vertical stripes of a chain design—and powder blue slacks. His shoes were white.

“Ah, Comrade!” Nikolai Spesky cried, warmly pumping his hand.

Kaverin frowned at the word, looking around at the other office buildings nearby.

Ushering him inside and locking the door behind them, Spesky laughed, and wrinkles rippled in his tanned face. “What are you worried about, Comrade? Microphones? It’s a different world here.”

“I suppose I am.”

“No, no, no. See here, to eavesdrop, the government must get the courts to approve it.”

“Which they surely do.”

“Ah, Comrade, not necessarily. You’d be surprised. And, what’s more, the CIA has no jurisdiction here.”

Kaverin shrugged. He took off his heavy jacket—the temperature was about 75 degrees.

“Sit!” Spesky said jovially.

The men lit cigarettes. Spesky seemed delighted Kaverin was the agent chosen to take over for Comrade Rasnakov. “You are quite famous,” Spesky said, though without the awe that would have made his comment awkward. “The vile traitor Penkovsky… The people owe you quite a debt, Comrade.”

Penkovsky was a GRU agent who spied for the British and Americans, his most valued contribution being providing information that helped Kennedy stand up to the Russians during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. He was, as Kaverin had learned, less motivated by ideology than by a desire to lead a decadent life in the West. Which he had—until caught by the Soviets and executed.

“I was merely one of a number of people who found the traitor.”

“Modest, modest… a good trait for a spy. We must remain unseen, anonymous, subtle. Only in that way can the exultant cause of Mother Russia and the ideology of Herren Marx and Engels, as espoused by our noble progenitor Comrade Lenin, be furthered for the glory of our cause and the people!”

Kaverin remained silent at this pronouncement. But then, as if he could not control himself, Spesky exploded with laughter. “I do a very good impersonation of the Premier, do I not?”

Khrushchev was notorious for his bombastic speeches, but Kaverin wouldn’t think of answering the question affirmatively, though Spesky was in fact spot on.

The man scoffed good-naturedly. “Ah, relax, relax, Comrade! We are field agents. The rules don’t apply to us.” His smile faded. “It’s a dangerous job we do and we are to be entitled to some indulgence, including poking fun at the people and the institutions taken far too seriously at home.” He patted his large belly. To Kaverin it resounded like a timpani. “I missed my lunch today, Comrade. I must eat something.” Squinting at his guest, the man asked, “Now, do you know of CARE packages?”

“Yes, indeed. They were a propaganda tool created by the West after the War for the purpose of exploiting the unfortunate and winning them to the cause of capitalism and imperialism.”

Spesky waved his hand impatiently. “You must learn, Comrade Major, that in this country not every comment is an invitation to a political statement. I was merely inquiring if you know the concept. Because I have received a CARE package, of sorts—from my wife in Moscow, and I have been waiting for your arrival to indulge.” He lifted onto his desk a large cardboard carton, labeled “Accounting forms,” and, with a locking-blade knife, sliced open the lid. He removed a bottle of good vodka—Stolichnaya—and tins of paté, smoked fish and oysters. He unwrapped a loaf of dark bread and smelled it. “Not bad. Not too moldy yet.”

They drank the vodka and ate the bread and paté, both of which were excellent. The bread didn’t taste the least moldy to Kaverin, and he had quite some intimate knowledge of bread in its final stages.

Tossing down a third small glass of vodka, Spesky said, “I will tell you the details of this assignment.” His face clouded over. “Now, our Comrade Thirty-five, the man you are to protect, is not a particularly likable fellow.”

“So I have read.”

“He acts impulsively, he speaks out when he should listen. Frankly I believe he is a cruel man and may be unstable. Accordingly he has made enemies.”