Snow Wolf

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?"