Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

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SNOW WOLF

GLENN MEADE

Synopsis:

It is 1953. Joseph Stalin, the world's most tyrannical dictator, is teetering on the edge of insanity, and about to plunge the world into nuclear chaos. Only one man and one woman can penetrate the Iron Curtain and stop this madman, before it's too late. But someone inside the Kremlin knows. And as the KGB's deadly manhunter pursues these two CIA-hired assassins, another dual unfolds, between secret warriors of the West and East, with a U.S. agent caught in between. Now that agent must do the unthinkable: find his way to the heart of the Soviet Union and stop the mission he himself set in motion before it ignites World War III.

RAVE REVIEWS FOR GLENN MEADE AND SNOW WOLF

"Meade's research is so extensive yet unobtrusive, and his evocations of these grim, desperate times so compelling, that it's often easy to forget you're reading fiction and not history.

–The Washington Post Book World

"The sweep of a historical romance and, the power of a classic heroic quest."

–The New York Times Book Review

"Enjoyable."

–San Francisco Chronicle

"An entirely believable and completely gripping thriller filled with intrigue, treachery and a wealth of dark secrets ... Moves back and forth between American and Soviet operations with deft ease and extreme tension."

–Cleveland Plain Dealer

"A young Dubliner to follow in the footsteps of le Carré, Forsyth and Ludlum ... Vivid chase scenes, emotion packed encounters ... A spellbinding thriller."

–Des Moines Register

"A heart-stopping thriller, part fact, part fiction, with a strong, passionate heroine at its center."

–Cosmopolitan

"I enjoyed Snow Wolf tremendously. It's as scary as a trip to Lubyanka Prison."

–Larry Bond, author of Red Phoenix ...

"Espionage afficionados will want to leap into the deep end of the pool with Glenn Meade."

–Christian Science Monitor

"Wonderful ... brings a whole new perspective to the world of spying."

–E. J. Applewhite, former operations officer, CIA

"A powerfully built and skillfully executed plot ... Immerse yourself in the intricately woven intrigue and explosive action, and enjoy it thoroughly."

GOLEG Kalugin, former head of the KGB's First Directorate

"If you love a strong story, with characters that you can believe in, then I would highly recommend this very intelligent thriller."

–Irish Edition (Philadelphia)

"Scintillating characterization and a brilliant plot ... Be assured, you will lose sleep-this book is extremely unputdownable ... A worthy contender and successor to Forsyth and Ludlum."

–Time Out (London)

"If you were enthralled by The Day of the Jackal and thrilled by The Eagle Has Landed, then there's a new blockbuster you mustn't miss ... It catapults Meade straight into the Forsyth-Higgins league."

Evening Telegraph (London)

"Meade writes with a silken pen, inking unusually sympathetic leads. Vivid cameos of historical figures lend credence to the story. The Cold War may be on ice, but through this literate, memorable story, Meade shows that it can still freeze readers' attention and chill their blood."

–Publishers Weekly

"Deft, dramatic ... Meade provides exciting, ingenious answers to questions that linger from a darker age ... An impressive debut by a storyteller worth watching."

–Kirkus Reviews

"Glenn Meade appears to have done his homework ... He deftly handles the novel's blend of fact and fiction, an enormous setting and a multitude of characters with dexterity ... A promising new voice in the espionage-thriller genre."

–Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

"Propelled by a pair of fascinating characters ... Cloakand-dagger at its best. If you enjoy international intrigue, aching suspense and rich characters, make reading this book your mission."

–Florida Times-Union, Jacksonville

"Snow Wolf manages to skillfully combine a great thriller with an endearing love story and an exciting blend of fact and fiction."

–Irish Voice

For Geraldine and Alex, and in memory of Julie-Anne

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Some of the events in this book are documented history. Although mention is made of certain well-known figures within the historical context of the period, this book is a work of fiction, and no reference is intended to any living persons. The term KGB is used to denote the Soviet State Security Organization, which went through several name changes before and after the period in which this book is mainly set, until it finally adopted the name KGB in 1954. And although certain events portrayed within these pages are historically recorded fact, they are tempered with a reasonable amount of artistic license, in time, place and content.

In the course of my research, there were many people who gave their help and personal insights into these events, and I would like therefore to acknowledge the following:

In the United States: the Association of Former Intelligence Officers (AFIO).

In Finland: the staff of the US Embassy, Helsinki; the SUPO (Finnish Counter-Intelligence) for their invaluable help and courtesy, and allowing me access to certain archival material.

In Estonia: Arzeny Zaharov, Gulag survivor, for his memories of the period and background information; and Ave Hirvelaan for her kindness and support.

In Russia: certain former members of the KGB who, understandably, wish to remain nameless, but who will know the reasons why I thank them. For their expertise on the period and of certain historical episodes in this book: Alexander Vishinsky and Valefi Nekrasov.

Also, I would like to thank Steven Milburn; and the unfailingly helpful staff of the Finnish Embassy, Dublin, especially Hannele lhonen and Leena Alto.

There were many others, especially former intelligence personnel, who gave of their time and expertise, but as I've discovered, such men and women prefer quiet anonymity in their retirement-to all, my grateful thanks.

"The most difficult thing to predict is not the future" but the past.

Russian proverb

"There is a wolf out there, baying for my blood. We must exterminate wolves."

Remark attributed to Joseph Stalin on 17 February 1953, over two weeks before his death; to the Indian Ambassador in Moscow, the last foreigner to see him alive.

Moscow.

I had come to bury the dead and resurrect ghosts and so it seemed somehow appropriate that the truth and the lies of the past should begin in a graveyard.

It was raining that morning in Novodevichy Cemetery and I was burying my father for the second time.

It isn't often that a man gets to be buried twice, and as I stood alone under the dripping chestnut trees I could see the black Mercedes come in through the cemetery gates and brake gently to a halt near the grave. Two men stepped out, one of them middle-aged and gray-haired, the other a bearded Orthodox priest.

It's a tradition in Russia to uncover the coffin before it's buried, a chance for friends and relatives to kiss their dead and say their last goodbyes. But there would be no such tradition observed this wet day in June for a man who had died over forty years before, just a simple ceremony to finally acknowledge his passing.

Someone had placed a red-flowered wreath beside the grave, I remember that, and then I saw the flashes of forked lightning illuminate the gray horizon, and heard the cracks of thunder.

The Convent of Novodevichy lies south of Moscow, an ancient sixteenth-century Orthodox church surrounded by white washed stone walls. Five golden cupolas stand on top, and beyond the gates that lead to the cemetery are a maze of narrow roads, overgrown with weeds and crammed with marble head stones and ancient vaults.

Until a few years ago, the cemetery had been closed to the public. Khrushchev's grave was nearby, a massive monument of black and white marble. Stalin's wife and her family were off to the right. Chekhov. Shostakovich. Grand marble edifices to heroes of the Soviet Union and writers– and actors, men and women who had left their mark on Soviet history. And my father, an American, was strangely among them.

And as I stood there in the pouring rain under the wet trees in the corner of the cemetery I saw the gray-haired man from the Mercedes put up his umbrella and speak quietly with the priest, who nodded and went to stand under one of the trees a short distance away.

The gray-haired man was in his late forties, tall and wellbuilt, and he wore a smart blue business suit under his damp raincoat, and he smiled warmly as he came toward me.

"A wet day for it, wouldn't you say?" He offered his hand. "Brad Taylor, US Embassy. You must be Massey?"

The handshake was firm and as I let go I said, "For a while there I was afraid you wouldn't make it."

"Sorry I'm late, I got held up at the embassy." He took a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one. "Smoke? I hope it doesn't seem disrespectful?"

"No it doesn't, and thanks, I don't mind if I do."

He lit both our cigarettes and looked back over at the priest as he arranged his white vestments under his black raincoat and removed a Bible from his pocket, almost ready to begin.

Taylor said, "Bob tells me you're a journalist with the Washington Post?

Have you ever been to Moscow before, Mr. Massey?"

"Once, five years ago on a brief assignment. What else did Bob tell you?"

Taylor smiled, showing a row of perfectly white and even teeth. "Just enough so I wouldn't be at a loss when we met. He said you were a friend of his from way back, when you were at boarding school together, and that you served in his unit in Vietnam. And he said to make sure everything went smoothly for you while you're in Moscow. Bob seemed very anxious about that."

Taylor went to say something else then, but hesitated and looked back just as the priest had made himself ready, lighting a small censer of incense before he came over to join us.

Someone had left a fresh marble slab against one of the trees and I could make out the simple chiseled inscription in Cyrillic letters.

JAKOB MASSEY Born: 3 January 1912 Died: 1 March 1953

Nearby was an old unmarked stone slab that had been uprooted from the grave, green with lichen and weathered by the years. There was another one still lying on the ground, marking a second grave beside my father's, looking just as old, and out of the corner of my eye I saw two gravediggers wearing capes standing a distance away under some trees, waiting to go to work and erect my father's headstone.

And as I stood there I realized how suddenly everything had come together. One of those twists of luck that seem to conspire now and then to make you believe in fate. A week ago and over five thousand miles away in Washington I had received the phone call from Langley, telling me they had arranged the funeral ceremony and that Anna Khorev would meet me in Moscow. It had taken three days to finalize the details and by then I could hardly contain my excitement.

The Orthodox priest stepped forward and shook my hand and said in perfect English, "Shall I begin now?"

"Thank you."

He stepped toward the grave and started to pray as he swung the censer of fragrant incense, chanting the prayers for the dead in Russian.

It was all over in no time at all, and then the priest withdrew and went back to the car. The gravediggers came over and began to place the fresh headstone on my father's tomb. Taylor said, "Well, I guess that's it, except for your lady-friend, Anna Khorev. She arrived early this morning from Tel Aviv. That's what kept me."

Taylor lit us both another cigarette. "I guess Bob explained the ground rules?"

"Sure. No photographs, no tape recorder. Everything is off the record."

Taylor smiled. "I guess that about covers everything. The place she's at is in the Swallow Hills outside Moscow. Belongs to the Israeli Embassy, one of their staff houses they vacated for the meeting." He handed me a slip of paper. "That's the address. They're expecting you and the appointment is for three this afternoon." He hesitated. "You mind if I ask you a question?"

"Ask away."

He nodded over toward my father's grave. "Bob told me your father died forty years ago. How come you're having this service here today?"

"All I can tell you is my father worked for the American government. He died in Moscow in 1953."

"Did he work for our embassy here?"

"No." Taylor said, puzzled, "I thought Moscow was out of bounds to Americans during the Cold War, except for those working in the embassy?

How did your father die?"

"That's what I'm here to find out."

Taylor looked puzzled and he went to say something else then, but suddenly thunder cracked above us and he glanced up.

"Well, I'd like to stay and talk, but duty beckons." He crushed his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. "I've got to take the padre back. Can I give you a lift someplace?"

I tossed away my cigarette. "No need, I'll find a taxi. I'd like to stay a while. Thanks for your help."

"Whatever you say." Taylor put up his umbrella. "Good luck, Massey. And I sure hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

This is what I remember.

A cold, windy evening in early March 1953. 1 am ten. I am in my dormitory in the boarding school in Richmond, Virginia. I hear the footsteps creak on the stairs outside, hear the door open. I look up and see the headmaster standing there, another man behind him, but this man isn't a teacher or staff. He's wearing an overcoat and leather gloves and he stares at me before he smiles weakly.

The headmaster says, "William, this gentleman is here to see you." He looks meaningfully at the other two boys in the room. "Would you leave William alone for a while?"

The boys leave the room. The headmaster leaves the room. The man comes in and closes the door. He's broad and hardfaced, with deep-set eyes, and looks every inch a soldier with his tight cropped haircut and polished brown shoes.

For a long time he says nothing, as if he finds what he's about to tell me difficult, and then he says, "William, my name is Karl Branigan. I was a colleague of your father's."

There is something in the tone of his voice that puts me on my guard, the way he says was a colleague, and I look up at him and say, "What's this about, Mr. Branigan?"

"William, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. It's about your father ... he's dead. I'm sorry ... truly sorry."

The man just stands there and doesn't speak again. And then I'm crying, but the man doesn't come toward me or touch me or offer any comfort and for the first time in my life I really feel utterly alone. A little later I hear his footsteps go down the creaking stairs again. The wind screams and rushes outside the window. A tree branch brushes against the wall outside, then creaks and snaps. I call for my father. But he doesn't answer.

And then a scream from deep inside me, which echoes still inside my head, a terrible cry of grief, and I can't stop my tears.

I remember running after that. Nowhere in particular. Out through the oak doors of the school and across damp, cold Virginian fields, grief heavy as stone in my heart, until I found the cold river that ran through the grounds. I lay on the wet grass and buried my face in my hands and wished my father back.

It was later that I learned something of my father's death. They never told me where exactly he had died, only that it was somewhere in Europe and it had been suicide. The body had been in water for weeks and it wasn't a pretty sight for a young boy, so they hadn't let me see it. There was a funeral, but no more explanations or-answers to my questions, because no one bothers to tell a child such things, but years later those unanswered questions always came back. Why? Where? It was to take a long time to learn the truth.

Ten days ago when my mother died I went back to the rooms where she had lived and embarked on the ritual of going through her things. There were no tears, because I had never really known her. We hadn't seen each other much over the years, a card or two, a brief letter once in a while, because we had never been that close, not the way I had been with my father. My parents had divorced soon after I was born and my mother had gone her own way, leaving my father to bring me up.

She had been a dancer in one of the Broadway shows, and knowing my father even the little I did as a child I always guessed they had never been suited.

She rented a small apartment on New York's Upper East Side. I remember the place was in disarray. An untidy single bed, a single chair, some empty gin bottles and a bottle of blond hair dye. Letters from old boyfriends and some from my father, held together with elastic bands, kept in an old tin box under her bed.

I found the letter from my father. Old and faded with years, its edges curling and the color of papyrus. It was dated 24 January 1953.

Dear Rose, Just a line to let you know William is well and doing fine at school. I'm going to be away for a time and if anything should happen to me I want you to know (as usual) there's enough money in my account to see you both through, along with my service insurance. Dangerous times we're living in! I hear they're building air-raid shelters on Broadway because of the threat from the Russians.

I'm keeping well and I hope you are. One more thing should anything happen to me: I'd be obliged if you'd check the house, and if you find any papers lying around in the study or in the usual place in the cellar, do me a favor and pass them on to the office in Washington. Will you do that for me?

Jake.

I read through the other letters out of curiosity. There was nothing much in there. Some were from men, notes sent backstage from someone who had seen her in the chorus line and liked her legs and wanted to buy her dinner. There were a couple more from my father, but none that hinted at how they might have once loved each other. I guess she destroyed those.

But I thought about that line in the letter about the papers. The house that had been my father's was now mine. It was an old clapboard place he had bought when he and my mother first moved to Washington, and when he had died it ran to ruin for a long time until I was old enough to tidy it up. It had taken me years to get it back into shape. There had once been a steel safe sunk into the floor in my father's study in which he used to keep documents and papers. But I remembered him saying once that he never trusted safes, because they could always be opened by someone determined or clever enough. The safe was long gone, and the room refurbished. But I didn't know of any other place he might have used.

So the day I got back from sorting my mother's affairs I went down to the cellar. It was a place I hardly ever went, filled with long-forgotten bric-A-brac that had belonged to my parents, and boxes of stuff I'd kept over the years and had forgotten I promised myself I'd get rid of. Remembering the study safe, I shifted the cardboard and wooden boxes around and checked the concrete floors. I found nothing. Then I started on the walls.

It took me quite a while before I found the two loose red bricks high in the back wall above the cellar door.

I remember my heart was pounding a little, wondering whether I would find anything, or if my mother had long ago already done as my father had asked, or ignored him as she so often did. I reached up and pulled out the bricks. There was a deep recess inside and I saw the large yellowed legal pad lying there between the covers of a manila file, worn and faded.

There are some things that change your life forever. Like marriage or divorce or someone on the end of a telephone telling you there's been a death of someone close in the family.

But nothing prepared me for what I found behind those bricks in the cellar.

I took the old pad upstairs and read it through. Two pages had been written on in blue ink, in my father's handwriting.

Four names. Some date@. Some details and sketchy notes, like he was trying to work something out, none of it making much sense. And a code name: Operation Snow Wolf.

My father had worked for the CIA. He had been a military man all his life, and had worked in OSS during the war, operating behind German lines. That much I knew, but not much else, until I found that old yellow pad.

For a long time I sat there, trying to figure it all out, my heart and mind racing, until I saw the date on one of the pages, and it finally clicked.

I drove to Arlington Cemetery. For a long time I looked at my father's grave, looked at the inscription.

JAKOB MASSEY Born: 3 January 1912 Died: 20 February 1953

I looked at those words until my eyes were on fire from looking. Then I went and made photocopies of the written pages I'd found and delivered the originals in a sealed envelope to my lawyer.

I made the call to Bob Vitali an hour later. He worked for the CIA in Langley.

"Bill, it's been a long time," Vitali said cheerfully. "Don't tell me. There's a school reunion, right? Why do they always have these things when you're just about getting over those days? The amount of money that place in Richmond cost me in shrink's bills ..."

I told him what I had found and how I had found it, but not the contents.

"So what? You found some forgotten papers of your old man's. Sure, he worked for the CIA, but that was over forty years ago. Do yourself a favor and burn them."

"I think someone should come and look at them."

"Are you kidding? Is this what this call is about?"

"Bob, I really think someone should come and look at them."

Vitali sighed and I could picture him looking at his watch at the other end.

"OK, what's in there? Give me something I can work with, and I'll ask around, see if what you found is important. Remember, it's over forty years. I'm pretty sure whatever you've found has been declassified. I think maybe you're getting excited over nothing."

"Bob, please come and look at them.

Vitali said impatiently, "Bill, I haven't got the time to drive to your place. Give me something to go on, for Christ's sakes."

"Operation Snow Wolf."

"What's that?"

"That's what it says on the top of the first page on the pad."

"Never heard of it. What else?"

"There's more."

"Like what more?"

"Come over and look at the pages."

Vitali sighed. "Bill, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'll ask some of the old-timers here, or one of the Archives boys, and see what I can come up with. See if this Snow Wolf thing rings a bell." I could hear the impatience in his voice. "Listen, I've got a call coming in, I'll talk to you soon. Be good, man."

The line clicked dead.

I stood up and went into the kitchen and made coffee, It seemed like I sat there for a long time, my heart still pounding, thinking about those pages and what they might mean. I didn't want to tell Vitali everything because I wanted to know what Langley knew. My mind was ablaze but I didn't know what to do next.

It must have been an hour later when I heard the screech of car tires outside. I looked out of the window and saw two black limousines pull up, and half a dozen men step out briskly, Bob Vitali among them.

He looked white-faced, and when I went to the door he said urgently, "Can I come in? We need to talk."

The others waited outside on the porch while Vitali came into the room with just one other man. He was tall, maybe sixty, distinguished, with silver hair. He had an arrogant look about him and he didn't smile or speak. Then Vitali said, "Bill, I guess you figured this is about those papers you found ..."

The other man interrupted sharply. "Mr. Massey, my name is Donahue. I'm a Section Head with the CIA. Bob explained about what you told him. May I see the papers you have, please?"

I handed him the papers.

He looked white. "These are copies?"

Donahue's tone demanded an explanation. I looked at him. "The originals are in a safe place."

A muscle twitched in Donahue's face, suddenly stern, then he glanced at Vitali, before reading slowly through the photocopies. Finally he sat down with a worried look.

"Mr. Massey, those papers belong to the CIA."

"They belonged to my father. He worked for the CIA."

Donahue's voice was firm. "Mr. Massey, we can argue that point all evening but the papers you hold are still classified top secret. As such, they are government property."

"It's been over forty years."

"It makes no difference-that classification still applies. Anything in those particular papers will never be made public. The operation referred to in the file was a highly secret and sensitive one. I can't possibly stress both those words enough. The original papers, please ..."

"I'll make a deal with you."

"No deals, Massey, the papers, please. Donahue demanded. I was determined not to be bulldozed. "I think you'd better listen to me, Donahue. My father died over forty years ago. I never knew where or when or how he really died. I want answers. And I want to know exactly what this Operation Snow Wolf was he became involved in."

"Out of the question, I'm afraid."

"I'm a journalist. I can have the papers published, and have the article investigated, see if anyone who worked for the CIA back then remembers something. You might be surprised what it turns UP."

Donahue paled again. "I can assure you not a paper in the land will publish anything you may care to write on the matter we're discussing. The CIA would not allow it. And your investigation would lead absolutely nowhere."

I stared back at him. "So much for democracy. Then maybe I couldn't publish here," I said. "But there are always newspapers abroad you can't control."

Donahue went silent, his brow furrowed, and I could see his mind was ticking over furiously.

:"What do you want, Massey?"

"The answer to those questions. I want to know the truth. And I want to meet the people involved with my father on that mission, whoever's still alive."

"That's quite impossible. They're all dead."

"Hardly all of them. There must be someone. One of those on the pad. Alex Stanski. Anna Khorev. Henri Lebel. lrena Dezov. Whoever they were. I don't just want a report secondhand. You could tell me anything you want. I want evidence. Flesh and blood evidence. Someone to speak with who knew my father and knew the operation and knows how he really died. And," I said firmly, "I want to know what happened to his body."

This time Donahue really did turn terribly pale. "Your father was buried in Washington."

"That's a damned lie and you know it. Look at the copies, Donahue. There's a date written on the last page, 20 February 1953, in my father's handwriting. You people told me my father died in Europe on that date. That's the date on his tombstone-20 February. Now I may be dumb, but dead men don't write notes. The CIA said my father died abroad but he was here in this house on that day. You know something? I don't think you even buried my father. I don't think you had a body. That's why you people never let me see it, that's why you gave me all that crap about him being in the water too long. I was a kid, I wouldn't question not being allowed to see the body. But I'm questioning it now. My father didn't commit suicide. He didn't drown himself. He died on this Snow Wolf operation, didn't he?"

Donahue gave a weak smile. "Mr. Massey, I think you're being highly speculative, and really over the top here."

"Then let's not speculate any longer. I went to see my lawyer. I'm having the body exhumed. And when that coffin's opened, I don't think I'll find my father inside. And then I'll have you and your superiors dragged into a public court to explain."

Donahue didn't answer, just went a deep red. He was either totally embarrassed or he wasn't used to being spoken to like that. He looked briefly at Vitali for support, but Bob just sat there, in some kind of shock, like he was dumb-assed or completely in fear of the man or both.

Finally, Donahue stood up, looking like he wanted to hit me. "I want you to understand something, Massey. You do that and you'll find yourself in a whole lot of trouble."

"From whom?"

Donahue didn't reply, just kept staring at me.

I stared back, then adopted a more conciliatory approach. "If you tell me what really happened to my father, what harm can it do? I'll agree to return the papers. And if it's that secret I'll agree to sign whatever you want pledging my silence afterwards. And don't talk to me about trouble, Donahue. Not knowing the truth about my father, being told he committed suicide, cost me forty years of trouble and pain." I looked at Donahue determinedly. "But believe me, if someone doesn't tell me the truth, I'll do what I say."

Donahue sighed, then looked at me angrily, and his mouth tightened. "May I use your phone?"

"It's in the hall. You passed it on your way in." Donahue said, "I think I should tell you at this point that this matter is no longer within my control. I'm going to make a call, Mr. Massey. A very important call. The person I speak to will have to call someone else. Both these people will have to agree before your demands can be met."

I looked at him. "Whom are you going to call?"

"The President of the United States."

It was my turn to react. "And who's he going to call?"

Donahue flicked a look at Vitali, then back at me.

"The President of Russia."

The rain had stopped and the sun shone warmly between broken clouds and glinted off the golden onion domes of Novodevichy Convent.

I looked down at the two simple graves lying in the earth, my father's and the worn and weathered slab beside it.

There was no name and no inscription on the slab, just blank stone, the way my father's was.

In all Russian cemeteries there are small chairs facing the graves, a place for relatives to come with a bottle of vodka and sit and talk to their departed. But there were no chairs beside these stones, they were forgotten, the ground around them overgrown with weeds and grass.

I wondered about the grave but knew there was no use wondering, even though my mind was already racing, knowing by some instinct there was something about this simple unmarked slab that related to my father's death.

There was so little I knew and so much to learn. I hoped Anna Khorev would tell me.

I walked back to the cemetery gates and found a taxi, drove back through the hot, crowded Moscow streets to my hotel room and waited. I lay on my bed and closed my eyes but I did not sleep.