The Falstaff Enigma (41 page)

Before passing through the doorway he leaned back and grabbed the shirt of the shorter guard. He pulled on the body just enough to get it to lean against the stall door and then popped his own body out of the stall letting the door slam behind him.

After a few minutes he was wearing the uniform of the fallen guard. David was not quite as slender as he had been, and the uniform pinched his waist. The boots were a bit too big, but it would all work. He had been instantly transformed into a private of the Soviet Army. He pulled out his new pistol, remembering graphically what had saved his life only moments before. He pulled the gun's slide back enough to allow one round to enter the chamber and then returned the slide back to its usual position. David Margolis would not die through carelessness.

One final act  remained. The new Russian soldier picked up the right shoe that he had been wearing the last several days. Using most of the strength left in his arms, he pulled on the heel, twisting it from side to side, separating it from the nails that held it in place. He finally got the heel loose and turned its inside to face him. Two small steel rods formed an X pattern in the wood. After lowering the rest of the shoe, he maneuvered his left index finger against one rod and edged his fingernail underneath the strip of steel. He pulled it out and then tossed the heel into the stall with the two bodies. Picking up the shoe again, he turned it over and used the steel rod to pry off the rest of the sole, starting from the edge that had just been exposed by removing the heel.

The sole peeled away from its base of thin lead shield. A device about the size of a credit card, only several times thicker, was revealed. David gathered all his old clothing and tossed it into the stall, then raised the device to his lips. He pressed a small yellow button, which gave him up to four minutes of recording time. He would only need a fraction of that.

"Marshal Timolenko in Moscow now. Bomb to explode during Politburo meeting today. The ceiling is made of plastic explosive and can be detonated on command. Marshal uses television to announce takeover. Full invasion of Europe to follow. It is now ten hundred
hours on Monday, June 27." The recording was in Russian. David pressed the yellow button again and a red light began to blink at the top of the device. It was now ready to transmit the message in repeated bursts lasting only a fraction of a second. David placed the device in his left trouser pocket and made one last look into the mirror. He worried only about his age, realizing he was definitely too old to be a private. He threw some water on the small amount of blood on the floor and walked out, trying desperately to remember how he had entered the underground maze two days earlier.

David traveled back to his room, certain that the exit was in the opposite direction. His walk was hurried but he fought his own desire to run. The spy continued down the long corridors, confident that he was faithfully retracing his first footsteps. He passed a group of soldiers headed in the opposite direction, his heart speeding up once again. The group passed by without even noticing the alien in their midst.

David stopped. He had emerged into a large corridor, at least three times wider than the one he had just left. Forty meters to his left was an open door, exposing a large room beyond. To his right the floor sloped upward, reflecting sunlight all the way. The Mossad agent had made it. He was in the complex's main hallway. He began the climb to freedom, having no idea what he would do once outside.

A non-commissioned officer sat just inside the large entrance. The man was alone, having only the protection of a flimsy wooden desk and a Kalashnikov rifle standing against the wall, but out of immediate reach. As David approached, his eyes strained against the sunlight, barely able to interpret the large steel door that hung to the side. The non-com's main task was apparently to insure that the door was closed in an emergency. The lone sentry was reading
what looked like a comic book. David did not alter his pace. He was headed for the center of the opening, his face picking up the heat of the sun's glow. He passed the wooden desk, moments from emerging from this giant tomb.

"Private!" The non-com's voice was angry, giving it more authority than usual. David Margolis stopped and pivoted toward the gatekeeper. He stood at attention for his superior and saluted. The sentry stayed in his chair, the
comic book lowered just enough to expose his entire head. "The next time you pass by here without saluting, I'm going to make sure you're shoveling shit for the next year." The non-com's voice was low and husky. It was the voice of a heavy smoker. David stayed silent. "What are you doing, private?"

"Comrade Sergeant,
I am under orders to perform a task in Minsk," replied David, praying that he would not break out in a sweat.

"Orders from whom?"

"Comrade Sergeant,  I am not allowed to discuss these orders."

The non-com did not view this statement as suspicious. He knew that many of the senior officers had soldiers run sensitive errands for them. This man might have a letter to a mistress, or a prescription to be filled for a medicine to alleviate an illness that could end an officer's career. The
possibilities were endless. But the sentry was bored, and still agitated by the lack of respect from the lowly private. "Let me see your identification," the sentry said as he lowered the comic book to the desk and stretched out his open palm.

This was the only request that David feared, for he had no papers at all. He checked his pockets, feigning surprise as he found nothing. "Comrade Sergeant, I have forgotten to bring my papers in my zeal to obey orders.”

"Then move your ass back to your bunkroom and get them." The non-com's words contained no hint of patience. "Now, private."

"Comrade Sergeant, I am under direct orders to be in town as soon as possible."

"I don't give a damn," the sentry shouted, his face offering the first hints of red as anger elevated his blood pressure. "What the hell is your name, private?" He picked up a telephone and put it to his ear.

"Sir, I must go now," David
replied. He turned to continue on his way, looking over his shoulder just enough to see the noncom's reaction.

"Stop!" The sentry stood and stepped back, reaching for the automatic weapon which would give him unquestioned authority.

David stopped. He had only an instant to decide. He drew his pistol and fired one bullet, hitting the sergeant in the back and instantly destroying one lung. The man fell to his knees, alive but immobile.

David stepped into the full sunlight, its brilliance blinding him temporarily. He did not stop walking, holding the gun calmly at his side. His vision returned and he could see two BMP-
1 armored personnel carriers lined up in front of him. One was to his left and the other to his right, its two rear doors wide open and inviting his entry. A movement. A soldier  who had been sitting against the first machine's huge front tire was getting to his feet. He would soon bring a muzzle to bear on David. The Israeli raised his pistol and fired once, the bullet striking the man's hip and knocking him backward off his feet. David ran for the armored machine. He could see a man climbing onto it from the opposite side. He aimed and fired twice, the second bullet striking the man’s bare head.

Only a few more feet and he would find shelter. Another soldier was climbing onto the trailing vehicle, his body aiming for a hatch on top. David could not stop to fire. His left foot planted in front of the open rear of the mobile steel box and he thrust his body into the darkness of the machine.

"What's happening?" The voice was that of a frightened young driver. He was twisted in his seat to see what intruder had penetrated this microscopic universe.

"Shut the doors and start up," David
screamed. "The sergeant just went crazy." The driver pushed a lever forward and the two thick rear doors closed. He fumbled with several other knobs and the vehicle's diesel engine started on command.

"Where's the rest of my crew?"

“The sergeant shot them. We have to get to Minsk to warn Marshal Timolenko. Now go.”

"Who are you?"

"I was one of the sentries. Something has gone wrong. Go! Go! We have to tell the marshal." David's words were intentionally confusing, designed to keep the driver off guard. The young driver put on his earphones and put the armored personnel carrier in gear. David crouched down behind him, looking over his shoulder and through the open portal at the outside world.

Then he remembered. David reached into his left pocket and pulled out the miniature recorder/transmitter. He pressed the red button on top. Following the large shaft of sunlight, he looked up at the open commander's hatch. He lifted his left hand straight up, extending the small device beyond the steel cage to fresh air and unimpeded transmitting.

"Dmitri. Dmitri. The soldier in there with you is a traitor. Slow down so we can catch you." The electronic voice was easily recognized by the young driver. It was his counterpart in the trailing vehicle. The driver understood, the reality of his situation bringing on sudden horror. He reached slowly with his right hand for the pistol that was strapped to the side wall. His fingers were just touching the weapon when he felt cold steel press against his neck.

David used the weapon's short barrel to knock the headphones off the young man's head. "Just do as I say and you will live to see tomorrow. Keep this thing going as fast as you can toward Minsk." The young driver complied. He had no desire to be a hero. The trees continued to pass by the myopic viewport.

Eleven minutes later, they rounded a mild curve. In the middle of the dirt road, about 600 meters ahead, stood another BMP-1, its front pointed in their direction. "Stop!" shouted David, his left arm still sticking straight up into the air. "There ahead on the right. You can fit through those trees. Do it."

"Mother of God," the young driver
muttered, his voice very quiet. In the distance, an orange flame appeared from the front of the BMP-1. The flame gave way to a growing cloud of white smoke. A Malyutka anti-tank missile was locked on target. The missile’s operator was an experienced veteran of the Afghanistan campaign. He kept his crosshairs on the armored target that contained David Margolis. A thin wire trailed the missile and received course corrections that made its path true.

David thought about the time at age 12 when he first beat his father at chess.

"I've got it!" The air force technician's words sounded excited, but were really just expressing the relief he felt that this waiting game had finally ended. With his partner he occupied a hotel room in the city of Minsk, having started this mission by rigging a small wire up to the hotel's television antenna, forcing it to double as a radio receiver. The technician reversed the tape machine on the desk in front of him and played the cassette. Both men knew that they had picked up an authentic message. They played the tape over again as one copied the recording onto a sheet of paper.

"This is it," continued the technician. "Place the call." His partner picked up the direct dial phone and entered a long series of
numbers. He abruptly hung up and tried again, to find himself disconnecting the line again.

"What's wrong?"
the technician asked.

His partner ignored him and dialed for the hotel operator. "Operator, Hotel Neva." The woman's voice was young.

"I am trying to dial Moscow. Can you please help?"

"All Moscow lines have been dead for over thirty minutes," came the reply.

"You can't get through?" the partner asked the operator.

"Not at all."

"What is the cause?"

"I don't know. The lines are just down. It has happened before. Try later." The woman's voice held no sympathy. She pulled the plug from the aging switchboard, eager to avoid the complaints she knew were inevitable.

The soldier lowered the phone from his ear and look at the technician. "There's no phone service to Moscow. What now?"

The young soldier was confused. He had grown up on a collective farm where decision making was an unnecessary skill. Next to him, the technician was busy writing the message over on another sheet of paper. When he was done he handed the second written copy to his partner and placed the first in his pocket.

"You stay here," said the technician as he stood up. "Keep trying to call Moscow every five minutes." He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to see if I can contact Moscow some other way."

"Most of the Politburo members have arrived," Anatoly Borskov
said. His voice was detached, sounding like a bad narrator. Robert Austin sat rigid in his chair, feeling useless as the minutes passed rapidly. "The ones who weren't in the meeting yesterday seem bewildered at all the security. They still haven't been told anything. The general secretary is in his office now with several advisors and Marshal Sukoronov. They are deciding about whether they should inform Washington on one hand or put all our nuclear forces on alert status on the other."

"They can't do that," interjected Austin, feeling awkward at the emotion in his voice.

“Don't worry. I think he is leaning toward doing neither. NATO forces have still not gone on alert and he doesn't want that to change.” Borskov sat down in a chair opposite the American.

He turned to Lieutenant Vasilevsky, who was standing just inside the door. "What is the time, Lieutenant?"

The soldier raised his wrist a little. "It is eleven hundred four hours, comrade colonel."

Borskov rubbed his palm across his left eye and forehead. The man's exhaustion was apparent but there
were no soothing words. All three men in the room were equally exhausted. Fear had become the greatest motivating factor.

"Did you find out anything more on Minsk?" Austin
asked, standing up in an unconscious attempt to consume a fresh burst of energy.

"Nothing," the colonel
replied, his voice containing only frustration. "The transmissions have not resumed. A MIG flew past the airport over an hour ago and took some photographs. Our plane is still on the ground and doesn't appear to be damaged. Which means that they either lost their radio or troops just went in and killed our people. Either way, we have no idea where Timolenko is now."

"What about flights out of Minsk?"

"The normal traffic of transports has been flying all morning. Some have come here, but most have gone to Poland or Germany. All these flights were scheduled several days ago." The colonel raised his hands in the air a few inches, his palms turning to the ceiling, signifying the hopelessness of the situation. "He could even have boarded any of the civilian flights out of Minsk. They share the same airfield, just the way the Americans do at Frankfurt."

The room became silent. Only the sound of air conditioning
vents broke the men's thoughts. Borskov looked at the cheap rug that covered the floor. It had not been replaced in at least twenty years. Dark stains marked the areas that the room's many occupants liked to travel. "I'm afraid it will be civil war," he said, answering his own unspoken question.

"I don't see how they can make any move. Troops surround the Kremlin and the palace building has been searched repeatedly," said the analyst. His words were meant to calm his friend.

"We can't even be sure of the loyalty of these soldiers." Borskov’s reply did not calm either man.

"Anatoly, there is no way that these soldiers fall into Timolenko's plan. This has been planned by him for a long time, but there is no way that he could have foreseen the presence of these specific units. He
must know by now that there are so many troops here, so he must have some way that will work despite the added protection."

"What about a member of the Politburo itself?"

"Could be, but they will all be searched for weapons." Borskov thought for a moment. "It doesn't have to be a gun. What about a gas cylinder? Just a small cylinder or even a vial of nerve gas would be enough."

Austin was impressed. It was not something that had yet crossed his mind. "I think you should alert the guards to that possibility. It can b
e found, if it’s there. But …"

The movement of the door startled the lieutenant. He raised his AKM rifle, swinging its deadly muzzle around to bear on the doorway. Nikolai stepped through the entrance, his look of excitement vanishing upon viewing the armed guard.

"It's all right, Lieutenant," Borskov said. He stood up, feeling uneasy at being the only man seated.

"Comrade
colonel, we should all head upstairs now. We need to discuss final preparations in the palace."

"Who has arrived?" asked Borskov, referring to the members of the Politburo.

"Everyone except the defense minister, General Pultkin and Chulayan; and, of course, the chief of the General Staff."

The colonel looked at Austin, anticipating the analyst's question. "Pultkin is the head of the KGB and Vladimir Chulayan is an old-time communist party philosopher and very conservative. He's in charge of Gosplan, the five-year economic planning group. The chief of the General Staff is under arrest."

Several minutes later, all four men emerged into the brightly lit central auditorium of the Great Kremlin Palace. Austin froze in his steps, his jaw parting noticeably. He had heard about this 19
th
century building, but had never before seen it. The walls were ornate, living monuments to the talents of past artisans – and to the vast riches of the royal families of Russia. The soft glint of gold leaf caught the American's eye, no matter in which direction he turned. Huge portals had beckoned the return of the czars. Now the same entranceways awaited the modern czars of Russia, with less wealth and less circumstance, but far more power than their predecessors could have imagined.

Time was growing thin, and Borskov summoned an
Army major who was in charge of the soldiers throughout the building. The major saluted the KGB officer, not questioning the colonel's authority. "Get a sniper in each one of those balconies," said Borskov, pointing to the rear of the auditorium. "Make sure each one has a quiet radio." Borskov continued to issue orders, often consulting Austin before speaking to the major. In an adjacent room, Nikolai directed the search of all the Politburo members present.

After thirty minutes, they were ready. Borskov and Austin stood in a darkened room
at the rear of the massive auditorium that stretched almost fifty feet, like a baseball dugout. The wall facing the auditorium was made of glass, with small sections every ten feet that could be swung open. Several television cameras lay dormant along the room's expanse, while hundreds of cables were stretched across the narrow floor, their huge plugs waiting to be put to use. One of the television cameras caught Austin's eye. it was large and modern, very different from the other two. The device was covered in a clear polyethylene dust cover, its lens pointed not through the window looking out over the central auditorium, but back at the rear wall. The analyst noticed something familiar on the camera. But the darkness of the room obscured it, forcing Robert to step closer. He saw the logo of ABC News. He turned back to the colonel.

"What about the Western press corps?" the analyst
asked. He wanted to ask about the camera, but considered it too trivial to worry about.

Borskov stopped testing his hand-held radio. "Everyone in Moscow with the press is under house arrest today, and that includes West and East. It's one of the few things I trust the KGB to do, since the rebels have as much interest in controlling the world press as we do."

The analyst looked back at the camera, his curiosity still activated. The colonel did not notice – he was already scanning the empty auditorium with a pair of small binoculars, looking for any misplaced package. But the Army major noticed the American's interest.

The major continued issuing orders to the twenty men who would act as their bodyguards in that small room. He stepped over to Austin as he issued his last command. "That is an American news camera. I was curious about it myself when we checked through everything earlier today. It seems that the Americans were filming a documentary on our government and had been given permission to use this auditorium on Saturday. They were cleared out so fast Saturday that it was left behind."

"Was it taken apart?" the analyst asked.

"I told you it was thoroughly checked."

"Tell some of your men to get it out of this building," said Austin, suddenly feeling like a  high-ranking KGB officer. "And take those other two out also."

The major was caught by surprise. He had assumed that Austin was a high KGB official, but he hadn't heard the analyst give an order before. He thought about the order; it made sense. The major complied with Austin's demands.

"Colonel, the members are ready. They are carrying nothing.” The voice was Nikolai’s and it hummed in a higher pitch than normal over Borskov's radio. "I am sending them in if you're ready. Over."

The colonel raised the device to his mouth. "We are ready, but give us at least ten minutes before you bring in Zhukov. Over." The name of the esteemed World War II general was the code
name for Premier Andropov.

"Yes, Colonel."

As four large, young soldiers struggled with the American television camera, two ornate wooden doors on the left side of the auditorium opened and the old men who ruled the Soviet Union filed into the huge room. Borskov looked down at each face through his binoculars, searching for some sign that might betray a traitor. "Make sure your snipers are ready, Major." The major whispered into his radio, receiving back two affirmatives from the men in the balconies below the television room.

The fifteen old men, some in uniforms and some not, all took seats in the front two rows of the auditorium. The nine voting members present all sat close to the center of each of the wide rows. They talked to each other nervously, most still angry at the explicit search they had just endured. These select few men, who controlled the world's strongest military, who were used to being viewed as modern royalty, were treated just like a group of tourists boarding a plane.

From the same door that had just been used, a middle-aged man and a young woman emerged. They walked up on the stage and took seats behind antique oak desks on each side of the large podium that dominated the stage. They were the secretaries who would keep a record of the minutes of this meeting as they had done for years. Borskov looked at the woman, who was very overweight and strained to find a comfortable position in her chair. She was nervous, the unusual security measures having caught her by surprise. Too, the man was shaken, even though he had almost thirty years of this procedure behind him. He had not seen measures like these since the meeting that ousted Premier Khrushchev following the American imperialists' blockade of Cuba. He opened his briefcase on the desk and removed one file, placing it in front of him and returning the briefcase to the wooden stage.

The low murmur of the occupants quieted as if by spontaneous cue. General Secretary
Andropov emerged from the rear of the stage, all present rising for the occasion. The leader walked to a wooden chair normally located on one side of the podium but now situated directly behind it. He sat down and everyone else mimicked him. Between his feet and the base of the podium, he studied the outline of a trapdoor, underneath which awaited Nikolai. Andropov was shocked by  the thought that he had never noticed the door before. He coughed lightly, suddenly worried about catching a cold, something he was prone to after several nights of little sleep. He looked to his left at the middle-aged secretary and waved his hand almost imperceptibly.