The Lucy Ghosts Read online

  The Church of the Resurrection in Kadashakh, built by an unknown architect, is the most famous of the four. Unlike many of the Russian churches, this one had escaped the ravages of Stalin's reconstruction, had not been vandalised and turned into a working man's club as had its sister down the road, The Church of our Lady of Iberia.

  Rostov sat on a bench at the back, his head bowed as he prayed. The church was half full and the Russian Othodox priest at the altar led the prayers. As he listened to the priest, he felt the peace that always came at such times envelop him. He took strength from such moments, an inner calm that allowed him to deal expeditiously with the many unsavoury events that landed on his desk each day.

  Out of the corner of his eye, where his KGB bodyguard stood, he was startled to see the black shiny shoes of his assistant. He turned his head sideways and saw the two men talking. He looked forward again, anger bringing a flush to his forehead. It was an easily recognisable trait, one that warned those who were confronted by him that they were in for a rough ride.

  His rule was simple. He was always available, except when he was at prayer. That rule was sacrosanct and had never been broken.

  He felt his assistant slide onto the bench next to him.

  'Why are you here?' he asked icily without looking up.

  'To fetch you, sir,' came the nervous reply.

  'You know the rule, don't you?'

  'Rule, sir?'

  'That I'm not to be disturbed when I come to pray.'

  'Yes sir.'

  'Then what's so important that it can't wait?'

  'The Director would like to see you immediately.'

  'You told him I was here?'

  He heard the man gasp. 'Yes sir,' he replied when he had caught his breath.

  'That was a mistake.'

  The assistant knew he would soon be transferred. 'It is the Director. His orders,' he went on, grabbing at straws.

  'Nothing is that important that it couldn't have waited for another twenty minutes.'

  'Sorry, sir.' The assistant gave in; Rostov was not known for changing his mind.

  'Wait for me. Outside.'

  'Sir.'

  The assistant withdrew and Rostov went back to his prayer. But the moment was gone, he could only think of what was so important that he was being recalled to Dzerzhinsky Square immediately.

  The Director was impatient. They should have found Rostov by now. He leant down and switched on the intercom, changed his mind and switched it off.

  Outside, in her office, his secretary shook her head at his impatience. He had already called and asked where his Deputy Director was five times in as many minutes.

  The Director returned to the window and looked down on Dzerzhinsky Square, at the people scurrying round, rushing to the shops in their short lunch breaks. Who'd be a member of the human race? Who'd be common man? Not Feliks Dzerzhinsky, the Polish revolutionary who had founded the KGB, or the Cheka, as it had been. His gloomy, unwashed statue had stood in the centre of the Square, right there in the front of KGB Headquarters and had been pulled down unceremoniously by the citizens of Moscow in 1991. What would old Feliks have thought of it all now, or his discredited mentor, Stalin?

  He thought of the report on his desk. It was a mess. The Americans were still not to be trusted. He'd hated the new openness, the desperate urge to forget the Cold War and pretend it had never been. While the Soviets sued for peace and support out of the economic shambles they had got themselves into, the Americans had insisted on putting East Germany under NATO, had tried to build bases all over the Middle East after the Iraq Gulf crisis. No, they were still the old enemy, still not be trusted.

  He saw the Zil pull up at the pavement and Rostov get out.

  'Bloody christian,' he thought. You never could completely trust a man with two masters. At least you could see proof of the State, how did these people see proof of their God?

  'Sorry to drag you away from your prayers,' he said as Rostov walked in

  Rostov shrugged. ‘It’s obviously important.’ There was little need fopr an explanation. Both men knew Rostov’s Rule, as it was known around the building.

  The Director pushed a copy of the report across the desk towards his deputy. 'I only received this about an hour ago. It makes chilling reading. You can study the details later. I'll go through it with you first.' He reached over and took a cup, poured himself a tea from the samovar that was on the trolley beside the desk. 'Want one ?'

  'No thank you.'

  'It's about our sleeper network in the West. Looking at the age of some of them, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't planted before the revolution.'

  Rostov smiled at the weak attempt at a joke.

  'One of them,' the Director went on, 'was in Canada, Goose Bay. The NATO airbase. Hans Putiloff. His record's in there.' He indicated the file. 'Like most of our people, as you know, we arrange for them to make contact with us once a year. Putiloff used to visit Niagara Falls for an annual holiday, always met one of our people. They never spoke, just verified that all was well. The meeting was scheduled for two weeks ago. Putiloff never appeared. Our agent, as was expected of him, went to Goose Bay to find out why Putiloff hadn't made it. He discovered that Putiloff had died, just outside a hotel where he'd finished a meal. There was no apparent reason for his death. No heart attack, no choking, no obvious cause. He just died.' The Director drank his tea, draining the cup totally. 'In Cannes, last week, a black man, a Senegalese peddler, accidently shot a German tourist. Killed him. The reason he shot him, according to the newspapers and the authorities, was that he was trying to rob him and was surprised by a passing gendarme. He panicked and, while trying to get away, opened fire and shot this Kraut in the confusion.'

  The Director poured himself another tea, watched Rostov over the tilted samovar. His deputy revealed little, but the Director sensed his increased interest.

  'Sure you won't have some?'

  'I'm fine,' Rostov replied, reaching forward to pick up the file.

  The Director turned sideways, opened a drawer and took out a steel tube, about nine inches long and as thick as an index finger. He laid it on the table. It was in three sections and he unscrewed them, separated them. The bottom section had a simple firing pin, like a pair of tweezers. From the drawer he took out a small powder charge and put it where the firing pin struck. When connected to the centre section, it caused a small metal lever to move. The Director took a small glass ampoule and slid it into the centre section. Then he screwed the three sections together, rose from his chair and went round the desk to where Rostov sat. He slowly brought the tube up, to no more than eighteen inches from his deputy's face.

  'Maybe you'd prefer this?' he stated, pulling the simple trigger. There was an inaudible pop as the powder charge exploded, kicked the middle lever which burst the glass ampoule and released its contents through the end of the tube.

  Rostov never moved.

  'Stashinksky,' he said.

  'Very good. Top of the class,' the Director replied. He was impressed with Rostov's iron self control. He couldn't have been completely sure that the ampoule contained air, instead of the customary and deadly prussic acid. He moved the tube away and returned to his desk.

  'Is this what did in the sleeper?'

  'Our man in Goose Bay searched the area where Putiloff was killed. He found such a tube. He's an old timer, knew all about Stashinsky. He took it back to Washington, to the embassy, and had it examined. There was no trace of cyanide, but there were marks where a trigger had been. We're convinced it was the method used.'

  ‘And the German tourist in Cannes. Was he one of ours?’

  'No. But this...' he held up the tube he had fired at Rostov. '.....was found wrapped in a newspaper near the Senalegese.. Nobody linked it with the death. No, it was only afterwards, when one of our French operative asked some questions, that we found out about the weapon. To the police it was just some rubbish left on the beach. Our man, fortunately, also remembered his early
training and recalled Stashinksky.'

  'KGB folklore. Sometimes I think it's all we have,' remarked Rostov.

  ; No true. Bogdan Stashinksky had been one of the KGB's most notorious assassins. He was nicknamed the 'Murder Machine.' A Ukrainian by birth, we used him to spy on other Ukranians. The main target of his observance was Lev Rebet, an exiled Ukranian. We asked Stashinksy to assassinate him. The weapon we chose was simple and effective. Easily concealed, it also left no trace as to the cause of death.’

  'From what I remember, Stashinksky was a lucky amateur,' added Rostov.

  The Director was of the old school, remembered Bogdan Stashinksky and the furore his defection to the West caused . It was as the Berlin Wall was going up in 1961, that Stashinksky caught the electric train in East Berlin at Schonhauser Allee station and got off at Gesundbrunnen station in West Berlin.

  'I met him,' the Director recalled. 'In the OKR.' The Otdely Kontrrazvedki was the widely feared counter-espionage branch of the KGB that took over from SMERSH, or Smyert Shpionam which translates into "death to spies". 'He was a frightened sort of fellow. A misfit. I don't know how he ever got his reputation. Of course, the Americans never found out whether he was a plant or a genuine defector.' The Director laughed as Rostov opened the report and flicked through it, stopping at the file photograph of Stashinksky, a dark haired, attractive man.

  'Is he dead?' Rostov asked.

  'Probably. Changed his name so many times we lost track of him. Anyway, I can't see him doing all this. Bit old for that sort of fieldwork now, even if he is alive.'

  'What about the German, Kushmann?'

  'No link with us. Apart from the method used to kill him.'

  'But he was shot.'

  'But I think he was already dead. The blackie panicked when the gendarme came after him. That's when he drew his gun. I think he'd already killed the German with the Stashinksky tube. It had already been fired when we found it.' The Director watched for Rostov's response and was quietly pleased when he saw his deputy nod in agreement. 'There was also an American with the group. A top level scientist. The Yanks rushed him straight back to America immediately after the shooting. I presume they think he was the target.'

  'Have research come up with any ideas?'

  'Nothing. Even though I don't trust the Americans, I can't see what they'd get out of this.'

  'And there're no links at all?'.

  'Nothing obvious. Apart from the fact that they're all Germans.'

  'Putiloff had quite a record. Dachau. War crimes.' Rostov held up the file he had been skimming through. 'He could've been turned.'

  'He wasn't a serious operative. If he'd lived here he'd have been on a pension. At least his death will save some of our foreign currency budget.'.

  Rostov smiled and stood up and placed the report under his arm. 'It's a starting point.'

  'Whatever. But this has to be resolved. After all, if they're destroying our sleeper network, that means they've got access to our most confidential information.'

  'It'll take priority over everything.'

  'Good. At least we've something on our hands that smells interesting. Different from guarding food supplies and helping the police marshal crowds. Our leaders sometimes forget why the Cheka was first formed.'

  'We live in strange times.'

  'I may decide to go through our diplomatic people in Washington.'

  'Just don't upset the Yanks.'

  'Even if it's them?'

  'We'll worry about that when we get there.'

  In the distance, muted and faint, a fire warning bell started to wail.

  'Bloody drills!' snapped the Director. 'Too many of them. If it is the real thing I think I'd rather sit here and fry.'

  Rostov chuckled and turned to leave the office.

  'Merry Christmas,' said the Director. Rostov was surprised as he turned back. 'Isn't that what you Christians say?'

  'Yes. In two days' time.' He smiled, the Director was relaxing, becoming his old self. 'And merry Christmas to you, too.'

  The two men looked at each other, an understanding and warmth between them.

  'I'm sorry I pulled you away from your prayers,' said the Director. 'But this is important. I don't like the feel of it.'

  Rostov nodded and left the room. As he walked along the corridor, there was a stream of people rushing in all directions as the alarm clanged on from a lower floor. He decided to ignore it and went to his office. His secretary was out, probably checking to see if there was a real fire or this was simply another interminable safety drill.

  He went into his inner office and sat down, started to read the report. It said little more than the Director had, gave detailed information on Stashinksky and the two dead operatives. The German, originally from Dresden and now living in Berlin, was an important corporate lawyer who was on vacation with his friends. There was little else, nothing that hung it all together.

  He leant back, the fire bell still wailing in the distance, and considered the matter. After a while, when the bell finally stopped, he called his secretary on the intercom. She still hadn't returned. He then dialed the switchboard and asked to be put through to Dimitri Sorge of the Russian Embassy in Washington. He told the operator to ring Sorge's home and ensure it was a clean line, was not tapped by any outside agency. He waited for five minutes before he was connected.

  'Dimitri. Sorry to ring you so early.' He knew it was only three in the morning, but this was something that couldn't wait.

  When he had finished talking he hung up and went back to the report, rechecked to see if there was anything he had missed the first time.

  'Didn't realise you were back,' said his secretary, surprised to find him there as she returned to the office.

  'I had to see the Director.'

  'Tea?'

  'Good idea.'

  'I was out because of the fire bell.'

  'Another drill?'

  'No. It was real this time. An electrical fire.'

  'What do you expect in an old building like this? Where?'

  'On the fourth floor.'

  'Anyone hurt?'

  'No. But the room was destroyed before the firemen put it out. A small room. In the filing section.'

  'What filing section?' Rostov was alarmed suddenly.

  'The old ones. Nothing important. I checked because I knew you'd want to know. Nobody's been in there for years. Trouble is, it's the next batch of information that was to be processed onto the computer.'

  'What files were destroyed?'

  'All the post war ones. On agents and other counter-intelligence information from the end of the War up to 1956.'

  Ch.10

  San Diego

  California.

  Nothing. Just blank after blank.

  Billie stood at the window, her eyes smarting after hours of concentration in front of the computer screen. The bright sun, harsh in its winter clarity added to her discomfiture and she turned back into the small room that was her office.

  There was nothing new she could add to what Langley already knew. Which was nothing. An absolute zero.

  She'd worked her way through the indexes, run all the relevant facts through her programme and still come up with nothing. No links. Nothing between the few facts that tied Reindeer and a contaminated computer. Three days and nothing more than sore eyes.

  She walked back to her desk and sat down again. The taste of a cigarette suddenly filled her throat and she wished she had one. After giving it up for all these years, and she still yearned for that dry bitter taste when the pressure was on.

  The phone rang and she reached over for it.

  'Yes.'.

  'Billie?'

  She recognised Tucker's voice. 'Hello, Phil.' They were on first name terms now.

  'How you doing ?'

  'Not good.' She sensed the disappointment in her own voice.

  'Just give it your best. We're not doing much better here.' He'd picked up her disappointment. 'Anyway, there's new developme
nts. Could be a breakthrough.'

  'What's happened?' The excitement caught at her.

  'Reindeer's not alone any more.' He was being careful, knew that however closed a phone circuit was, there was always the possibility of someone overhearing. 'West Wing's joined him.'

  'Where?'

  'Hanover. In Germany. He worked as a baggage handler. Had just loaded a small commuter plane when he walked into one of its propellers. The plane was starting to taxi, it was a late flight, so no-one found him, or what was left, till the next morning.'

  'Anything unusual?'

  'Only that he was sixty five and about to retire.'

  'Police say anything?'

  'Our people are chasing that now. We've got to be careful. Can't use the usual channels. But, according to what we know, it's being treated as an accident. I think he had an alcohol problem. According to his wife.'

  'You spoke to her?'

  'She rang through. That's how we found out. She was also worried about her pension.'

  Who isn't, thought Billie. 'Is that it?'

  'For now. I'll get a full report, then modem it through to you.'

  'Did the computer show anything?' she asked. She knew the answer before he replied.

  'Didn't want to know. Just like before. Same pattern. Anyway, it just opens the door a little more. Gives you more to work with.'

  'Was he German?' she asked, unsure about what had prompted the question.

  'I don't know. Probably. Why?'

  'Just looking for a connection. Not ex-SS by any chance?' It was a joke and she said it lightly.

  'Yeah, maybe we finally found Adolf Hitler. Hell, I don't know. And we'll never know now.

  'Thanks, Phil.' She knew he wouldn't miss the sarcasm in her voice.