The Mercenary Read online

  Garin tossed the paper back at Rostov, dismissing it. “This is a cleverly doctored forgery.”

  “You work for the Central Intelligence Agency, correct?”

  “I am a consular officer who works on human rights.”

  “How does a human rights officer obtain a Swiss bank account that receives a deposit from a KGB disbursement account?” Rostov tapped his file slowly and waited for Garin’s answer.

  Garin had his eyes on the document, staring numbly, while his mind tried to come up with a plausible lie.

  “Let me suggest an answer,” Rostov said. “Defendant Posner has an office on the seventh floor of KGB Headquarters. It is near the copy machine that was used to produce these documents. He made these copies, and he supplied them to you, didn’t he?”

  “No. And I wouldn’t know. I know nothing about any of this, except that your so-called facts are inventions of your imagination.”

  Rostov turned to Garin. “We know there is a traitor inside the KGB who is passing documents to the CIA—camera, film, and a radio transmitter were taken from the CIA chief of station in Red Square. Do you know George Mueller?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “You are lying!”

  Rostov slapped the documents on the table in front of Garin, punctuating his accusation. The prosecutor’s face had reddened, his eyes were fierce, and his anger was palpable. Rostov turned to the judge. “This man,” he said, pointing to Posner, “is the man the CIA calls GAMBIT. A morally corrupt traitor to the State who trades military secrets for personal gain.”

  The judge examined the documents that Rostov presented and removed her glasses to look at Rostov. “But why is the money going into the American’s account? Shouldn’t it be going the other way? The American sending money, not receiving it?”

  “Madame Chairman,” Rostov said with a flourish, his voice deepening respectfully, “the elaborateness of this conspiracy is almost unimaginable. Here is a second numbered Swiss bank account at Compagnie de Banque et Investissements.” He placed the document before the judge with two hands, bending respectfully at the waist as he did.

  “The first transfer is from the KGB disbursement account at the Military Institute Commission, which is the only agency allowed to disburse foreign currency,” Rostov explained, “and when the amount is below ten thousand dollars US, Posner could authorize the transfer, so long as he explained it. And defendant Posner wrote such an explanation, which you can see is the second document. He claims he was paying Garin to be a Soviet double agent.

  “Here, however”—Rostov stepped forward and placed his finger on the second numbered account—“is the real business. Account number Q45458933A belongs to defendant Posner through his alias account at Coutts Private Bank, London, which has a banking affiliation with Compagnie de Banque et Investissements. May I direct your attention to the sum transferred on the same day as funds went to Garin, but this amount was from Garin to Posner, in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars.

  “As I said, the cleverness of this conspiracy is almost unimaginable, and the damage to State Security incalculable. We lost a KGB officer inside the embassy. This man Garin has masked his identity, leaving us to speculate who he is beyond who he claims to be. Our military technology shows up in the Pentagon. And the small sum paid to Garin is part of an elaborate subterfuge to give the appearance that Comrade Posner recruited this man Garin as a double agent, when in fact”—Rostov pointed at the prisoner in the dock—“he is the one who took cash for secrets, just as he took bribes to transfer dissident art into London galleries or secured prohibited alcohol for the Metropol Hotel. His ingenious plan was intended to make it look like he recruited the American Garin, but like the magician, one hand distracts while the other deceives.”

  “What does the witness say?” the judge asked.

  “He will deny it. He denied it to Comrade Talinov. But I will ask him.”

  Rostov and the judge faced Garin. The judge had slightly oval eyes and the matronly face of a grandmother. She leaned forward, looking soberly at Garin, and directed him to answer the question.

  Garin watched. He knew that the unreality of Hell didn’t mitigate the terror, but it could surprise him in unexpected ways. He heard in Rostov’s summary a plausible account, one even he could believe. Justice was outside of time because the crime and the judgment were only connected through facts woven into a reconstruction of the past. But they weren’t the past, only a version of it, and he preferred Rostov’s version.

  “That’s ludicrous,” Garin said. He waved off the question with the calculated bluster of a poker player holding a bad hand. “A clever theory. If only it were true.”

  Rostov raised his hands. “See? Nothing can more clearly demonstrate his deception than his denial. Look at his face, listen to his voice. He is trying to protect the man sitting there.”

  “Numbered accounts,” Garin said. “Where is the proof? You would have the court believe you’ve pierced the confidentiality of Swiss banking.”

  Rostov walked to Garin. “And clever of you too, Mr. Garin, thinking we would reveal our methods here in open court.”

  23 POSNER’S DEFENSE

  THE TRIAL RECONVENED AFTER A two-hour break. The courtroom had no sense of day or night, and the unchanged fluorescent lighting created the illusion that time had stopped.

  Garin was escorted into the courtroom by two guards who held his elbows. The handcuffs and ankle shackles were again removed at the door, but he walked in with the slumped posture of an accused man, not a witness. Garin was made to sit to one side, and it was then that he noticed a difference in the room. Defendant Posner stood at the defense table, and Natalya sat alone at the witness table. She wore her gray KGB uniform with its service medal, black leather heels, and a scarlet necktie on a white blouse. Her black hair was tied tightly in a bun, and her pale lips were pressed together in a defiant expression.

  Natalya avoided his eyes. She was remote and seemed unnaturally rigid. When their eyes did meet, she did not acknowledge him in any way.

  “Madame Chairman,” Posner said, moving from behind the defense table, where he dismissed the restraining hand of his lawyer, a pudgy, short man in a rumpled suit. “I stand accused of crimes against the State, and if everything I am accused of is true, as the prosecutor alleges, I would be the first to demand your evenhanded judgment. I am speaking now on my own behalf, against the advice of my attorney, but only I know the facts and how they fit together. If I may?”

  Posner took his cue from the judge’s nod. “Thank you.” He turned to Rostov with a grim face. “The charges against me are false, the facts untrue, the allegations malicious, and the accuser Talinov has his own reasons to turn this trial into a mockery. Let me address each point of the charge and you will see that my accuser’s motives corrupt the accusations with foul intentions.

  “Madame Chairman, I was convicted in a sham trial a few weeks ago of extorting money from trade unionists in exchange for favors. The conviction is being appealed. The vague evidence against me was filled with circumstantial claims, except for one. I was accused of taking bribes to facilitate the import of a prohibited good—specifically French wine—to the Metropol Hotel’s restaurant. The principal evidence against me was the confession made by the restaurant’s maître d’. What is unconscionable is what happened behind the scenes after the principal witness, A. Y. Vyshinsky, who actually rejected the idea of my guilt, was put in the hands of Directorate Z. Its powerful chief, Viktor Stucka, an ally of Talinov, suddenly took an interest in the case, and the man was transferred to prison where, miraculously, Vyshinsky made a confession. Subsequently, I reviewed the confession, but I had no chance to question the man. He died in prison.

  “The idea that I would take a bribe from a hotel employee—it stretches the imagination and impeaches reason. But from this weed they grew a garden of claims that I had extorted millions from art dealers, food wholesalers, and cigarette importers. My conviction was quite co
nvenient for a colleague in the Fifth Chief Directorate who now had no competition for the deputy director’s position I was in line for.”

  “Comrade Posner,” the judge interrupted. “We aren’t here to retry your conviction. Speak to the present indictment.”

  “Madame Chairman, I will address the charge of treason. I am guilty of many things that, if viewed in the wrong light, as the present circumstances create, support a case against me, and in this I am a victim of my own mistakes. But who among us is perfect? Am I guilty of being complicit in a rush to uncover deceit among my colleagues, and in doing so, have I made errors of judgment that look like I was dishonest? Yes, I am guilty of that crime.

  “Madame Chairman, am I guilty of sympathizing with dissident, anti-Soviet individuals who dismiss the false rhetoric of the State and risk their lives to speak out? Yes, I am guilty of that compassionate mistake. But who among us does not see the hypocrisy?

  “Madame Chairman, I consider myself responsible for one crime against the Socialist Fatherland and the International Proletariat. It is the crime of ambition. I have advanced myself at the expense of other men, and perhaps I have slandered good men in the hopes the slanders would poison their careers. And who among us has not coveted a promotion?

  “But, Madame Chairman, I am not guilty of treason. I have not passed military secrets to foreign agents. I have not provided the CIA with photocopies. And I have not dishonored my loyalty to the State by compromising our national defense. All the evidence against me is circumstantial, except for the one piece of paper—an anonymous, numbered bank account—the meaning of which has been twisted against me. I am supposed to have created a cover for my treason by making it appear that I paid Garin money when, in fact, I was receiving money—again, through an anonymous, numbered account. That is what the prosecutor would have you believe. It is a fabrication, an atrocity. I deny it. Garin denies it. There is no proof of money I received. There is no proof I owned the account. And the claim that I used a copier is unsubstantiated. Tens of dozens of people have access to that copier. To the charge that I provided copies and received payment, there is not one scrap of evidence. Not one. I didn’t pass military secrets.”

  Posner had shouted his speech. He stood rigid and looked at the judge. Then he pointed at the witness table. “I have here a woman, a decorated KGB officer, who helped recruit Garin to work for the KGB.”

  The judge turned to the witness table. “What do you have to say?” she asked. “Speak.”

  Natalya rose from her chair, tall, poised, and dignified in her uniform. She commanded the attention of the room. Her hands were at her side when she turned to the judge. She gave her name, her rank, and her responsibilities in the KGB. She was subdued as she spoke, and her description of the events necessarily involved describing Garin.

  “He was a target,” she said. “We knew he was vulnerable. There was intelligence from within the embassy that his work on human rights was a cover. We suspected that he worked for the CIA.”

  Natalya did not look at Garin as she spoke. Her voice remained flat, almost hostile, when she described the events of the evening at the Bolshoi Theater and then dinner afterward. “He was cautious but drank too much. I brought him to the designated house where, by previous arrangement, KGB officers were stationed, and this man was compromised. Of course, he was surprised, and he became angry. It was clear that he was upset, and he had no interest in cooperating with Comrade Posner.”

  The judge leaned forward. “What did you expect to learn from him?”

  “We wanted to recruit him,” Posner interrupted. He had moved away from the defense table and stood between the judge and his witness. “He was an important target.”

  “Go on,” the judge said to Natalya.

  “We knew he had information on the death of General Viktor Zyuganov, and that case remains unsolved.” Natalya stopped. “It was settled, but questions remain. Garin was an important target to turn, but his value was also in what he knew about General Zyuganov.”

  She looked at Talinov. Her eyes were dark embers, fixed and accusing, but her voice was calm. “That man,” she said, “Lieutenant Colonel Talinov, executed General Zyuganov. Zyuganov was a patriot who uncovered evidence of corruption in the KGB, and he was falsely accused of sedition. He was executed by that man before he could make a defense.”

  Natalya paused. “Forgive my emotion,” she said. “I have known Comrade Dmitry Posner since I was a young girl. I have the highest admiration for him. We recruited the American Garin in an authorized operation to develop him as a source inside the CIA. I conclude my testimony.”

  “Did Garin mention Lieutenant Colonel Talinov?” the judge asked.

  “No.”

  “Who authorized the action against Garin?”

  “I don’t know. Someone higher up.”

  “But you don’t know?”

  “No. It wasn’t required that I know.”

  “But did you ask?”

  “No.”

  “So, you don’t know if it was authorized?”

  Natalya turned to Posner, her eyes searching.

  The judge prodded, “You don’t know if it was authorized?”

  Natalya turned to the judge. “No, I did not know that.”

  “Thank you. You may sit down.”

  An agitated Rostov popped up, like a jack-in-the-box. “It wasn’t authorized, Madame Chairman!” he shouted. “Defendant Posner misled her, as he is trying to mislead this court.”

  Rostov lifted several stapled pages and waved them theatrically over his head. “To exonerate himself he would have us believe he is the target of a corrupt rival who has slandered him. He has submitted evidence to this court, which I hold here. This document from KGB archives suggests that General Zyuganov was not working for the CIA—and we must then conclude that he was wrongly accused of treason by Lieutenant Colonel Talinov. Defendant Posner would have us believe that he too has been wrongfully accused by Comrade Talinov. This document claims that General Zyuganov was sent to Vyborg to meet an English MI6 agent who Zyuganov had recruited during his two-year posting in London. General Zyuganov was not defecting; he was secretly recruiting a senior MI6 officer. But there is a problem,” he said, his voice rising.

  “This six-year-old document is a forgery. Long-lived cotton-fiber paper used by the KGB for classified reports contains an almost invisible date-code watermark to protect the integrity of the document from fraud. The date-code on this document is March 27 of this year. How does a six-year-old document come to have last month’s date-code?” Rostov looked around the courtroom and let his question hang in the air. He waved the document.

  “It is a counterfeit. A well-done counterfeit. Three men know it is a forgery. The alert KGB technician who spotted the incriminating mistake, the American forger who created this evidence, and defendant Posner. An ingenious forgery, yes, but the mistake usurps its ingenuity.”

  Garin gazed at Posner, feeling no compassion.

  Rostov continued: “This document is final proof of defendant Posner’s treason. A forgery created for him by the CIA. He would have you believe he is an ordinary victim of human failings when, in fact, he is working for the CIA. Duty, honor, country. Hollow words from his foul mouth. He has betrayed the State just as he betrayed General Zyuganov.”

  Natalya’s face was ashen, and she looked stricken, as if day had become night. She stood at the witness table until a guard took her arm and escorted her from the courtroom. She stared at Posner in disbelief. She continued to look at him as she was hustled out of the room.

  * * *

  TALINOV WAS SUMMONED to the witness table. “Our first suspicion that Posner worked against the State came in 1979,” he said. “We discovered that Zyuganov conspired to pass classified material to the Americans. Posner alerted us to his friend’s crime, and only later did we suspect that Posner knew Zyuganov was to be arrested and turned against him. Later, we discovered that Posner owned a townhouse in London and traveled freque
ntly. We can see a pattern in his clever arrangements. Posner is the man the CIA call GAMBIT.”

  Garin gazed at Posner and saw a man who understood the ghastly snare that he had stepped on. The pallid face of a dead man. His crime was wrong, the evidence against him false, but justice had found Posner.

  24 ESCAPE

  GARIN HEARD THE GUARD’S LOUD voice through the cell door’s grated window: “Hey, you in there. Wake up.” He had been returned to his basement cell in Lefortovo Annex before the end of the proceeding and told nothing. He had been unshackled and thrown onto the floor of his cell. He had spent some time looking for a way out. There was a weakness in every prison, and he had made a concerted effort to find it in his cell. He had tried the bedroom’s grated window, testing the iron anchors in the crumpling mortar, but he found that no amount of force dislodged them. He spun around to look for a tool, but the cabinets were empty. The kitchenette, the sofa, and the small bedroom all added to the appearance of a voluntary confinement, but the outside door was firmly locked. He was a prisoner of the State, and he knew from experience, and from the way the Soviet bureaucracy worked, that the full lens of State Security would focus on him until the magnification caused him to combust. To escape, he had to get past the guard, which seemed like an impossible challenge, but he knew that his most dangerous enemy was his feeling of helplessness.

  His plan was terrible, but it kept his mind from the numbing fear that he didn’t exist to the outside world—and would cease to exist, with a bullet to the nape of his neck, buried in an unmarked grave. The mortal void angered him. As he had done all his life, even as a child, he put his fear into the service of crazy ingenuity. He screamed and then was quiet. Again, he screamed, pounded the door with his fists, and screamed. This went on for several minutes, and then he listened through the door. He had counted the minutes that the guard took to reach the end of the hallway in his rounds, inspecting each of the hallway’s cells, and he timed his activity to the guard’s schedule. He loosened one leg of a three-legged stool and tested its strength, proving to himself that it was an adequate weapon. He hid it under his belt.