George Martin - Aces Abroad

"I'm sure it hardly compares with those at Dzerzhinsky Square," Molniya shot back with just the proper amount of insolence. Dzerzhinsky Square was the location of KGB headquarters.

Polyakov laughed. "As a matter of fact it's identical, thanks to central planning. Gorbachev is doing away with that, I understand."

"We've been known to read the Politburo's mail too,"

"Good. Then you know exactly why I'm here and who sent me."

Molniya and the GRU had been ordered to cooperate with the KGB, and the orders came from the very highest places. That was the slim advantage Polyakov brought to this meeting… an advantage that, as the saying went, had all the weight of words written on water… since he was an old man and Molniya was the great Soviet ace.

"Do you know the name Huntington Sheldon?" Molniya knew he was being tested and said tiredly, "He was CIA director from 1966 to

"Yes, a thoroughly dangerous man… and last week's issue of Time magazine has a picture of him standing right in front of the Lubiyanka-pointing up at the statue of Dzerzhinsky!"

"Maybe there's a lesson in that… cousin." Worry about your own security and leave our operations alone!

"I wouldn't be here if you hadn't had such a spectacular failure."

"Unlike the KGB's perfect record." Mdlniya didn't try to hide his contempt.

"Oh, we've had our failures, cousin. What's different about our operations is that they've been approved by the Intelligence Council. Now, you're a Party member. You couldn't have graduated from the Kharkov Higher Engineering School without being at least slightly familiar with the principles of collective thought. Successes are shared. So are failures. This operation you and Dolgov cooked up-what were you doing, taking lessons from Oliver North?"

Molniya flinched at the mention of Dolgov's name, a state secret and, more importantly, a GRU secret. Polyakov continued, "Are you worried about what we say, Major? Don't be. This is the cleanest room in the Soviet Union." He smiled. "My housekeepers swept it. What we say here is between us."

"So, now, tell me," Polyakov said, "what the hell went wrong in Berlin?"

The aftermath of the Hartmann kidnapping had been horrible. Though only a few right-wing German and American newspapers mentioned possible Soviet involvement, the CIA and other Western agencies made the connections. Finding the bodies, even mutilated as they were, of those Red Army Faction punks had allowed the CIA to backtrack through their residences, cover names, bank accounts, and contacts, destroying in a matter of days a network that had been in place for twenty years. Two military attaches, in Vienna and Berlin, had been expelled, and more were to follow-

The involvement of the lawyer Prahler in such a brutal and inept affair would make it impossible for other deepcover agents of his stature to act… and make it difficult to recruit new ones.

And who knew what else the American senator was telling.

"You know, Molniya, for years my service ran moles at the very heart of the British intelligence service… we even had one who acted as liaison with the CIA."

"Philby, Burgess, Maclean, and Blount. And old man Churchill, too, if you believe the Western spy novels. Is there a point to this anecdote?"

"I'm just trying to give you some idea of the damage you've done. Those moles paralyzed the British for over twenty years. That's what could happen to us… to both of us. Your GRU bosses will never admit it; if they do, they certainly won't discuss it with you. But that's the mess I've got to clean up."

"Now… if you know anything at all about me"-Polyakov was certain that Molniya knew as much about him as the KGB, which meant that Molniya did not know one very important thing-"you know that I'm fair. I'm old, I'm fat, I'm faceless… but I'm objective. I'm retiring in four months. I have nothing to gain from causing a new war between our two services."

Molniya merely returned his gaze. Well, Polyakov expected as much. The rivalry between the GRU and KGB had been bloody. At various times in the past each service had managed to have the leaders of its rival shot. There is nothing longer than institutional memory.

" I see." Polyakov stood up. "Sorry to have troubled you, Major. Obviously the General Secretary was mistaken… you have nothing to say to me-"

"Ask your questions!"

Forty minutes later Polyakov sighed and sat back in his chair. Turning slightly, he could see out the window. GRU headquarters was called the Aquarium because of its glass walls. It fit. Polyakov had noticed, as he was driven by another GRU officer past the Institute of Space Biology, which, together with the little-used Frunze Central Airport, surrounded the Aquarium, that this building-perhaps the most inaccessible, indeed even invisible place in the city of Moscow-appeared to be almost transparent. A fifteen-story building with nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows!

To find it inviting was a mistake. Polyakov pitied the theoretical casual visitor. Before even reaching the inner circle, one had to penetrate an outer one consisting of three secret aircraft design bureaus, the even more secret Chelomei spacecraft design bureau, or the Red Banner Air Force Academy.

At the far end of the courtyard below, nestled against the impenetrable concrete wall that surrounded the Aquarium, was a crematorium. The story was that, in the final interview before acceptance into the GRU, every candidate was shown this squat green building and a special film.

The film was of the 1959 execution of GRU Colonel Popov, who had been caught spying for the CIA. Popov was strapped to a stretcher with unbreakable wire and simply fed-alive-into the flames. The process was interrupted so that the coffin of another, substantially more honored GRU employee could be consigned first.

The message was clear: You leave the GRU only through the crematorium. We are more important than family, than country. A man such as Molniya, trained by such an organization, was not vulnerable to any of Polyakov's interrogator's tricks. In almost an hour all Polyakov had pried out of him were operational details… names, dates, places, events. Material that Polyakov already possessed. There was something more to be learned-a secret of some kind-Polyakov was sure of it. A secret no one else had been able to get out of Molniya. A secret that, perhaps, no one but Polyakov knew existed. How could he get Molniya to talk?

What could be more important to this man than that crematorium?

"It must be difficult being a Soviet ace."

If Molniya was surprised by Polyakov's sudden statement, he didn't show it. "My power is just another tool to be used against the imperialists."

"I'm sure that's what your superiors would like to think. God forbid you should use it for yourself." Polyakov sat down again. This time he poured himself a glass of water. He held out the bottle to Molniya, who shook his head. "You must be tired of the jokes by now. Water and electricity."

"Yes," Molniya said tiredly. " I have to be careful when it rains. I can't take baths. The only water I like is snow… Given the number of people who know about me, it's amazing how many jokes I've heard."

"They have your family, don't they? Don't answer. It's not something I know. It's just… the only way to control you."

The wild card virus was relatively dissipated by the time it reached the Soviet Union, but it was still strong enough to create jokers and aces, and to cause the creation of a secret state commission to deal with the problem. In typical Stalinist fashion aces were segregated from the population and "educated" in special camps. Jokers simply disappeared. In many ways it was worse than the Purge, which Polyakov had seen as a teenager. In the Thirties the knock on the door came for Party members… those with incorrect ambitions. But everyone was at risk during the Wild Card Purge.