The Russian Operation E-Book

John J. Maresca

• Herausgeber: ibidem
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Edition Noema
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 382

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A fearless diplomat. A dangerous mission. And only one way out. Joey Torino would be out-of-the-mould in almost any career. He is tough, independent, and doesn't shy away from confrontation. But he is an American diplomat, who has recently been suspended and recalled to Washington because of his involvement in a fight while assigned to the US embassy in Moscow. In spite of his reputation, or because of it, the senior levels of the State Department choose him for an unusual and dangerous assignment. A diplomatic colleague from the US Embassy in Moscow has gone missing in the high mountains of the Caucasus, where a local rebellion is being suppressed by Russian military forces. For the State Department, Torino is expendable. Sending him on this mission will show the US government is trying to find the missing diplomat, but it will also be a small gesture and will not alarm the Russian government. Torino doesn't hesitate to plunge into the middle of the conflict. But he finds a complex situation, from which there is no easy way out and where the best conclusion may not be the one he has been asked to deliver. When he chooses the dangerous path, the conflicting forces are closing in on him. Will the fearless Joey Torino find a way out?

Leseprobe

ibidem-Press, Stuttgart

For the sunshine of my life—my lovely wife Sisi and our wonderful daughter Azadeh

Contents

Foggy Bottom

Arlington

Lubyanskaya Square

The Moscow Embassy

Monaco

Grozny

Langley

Khankala

Tel Aviv

Gorny-Mekhtyev

Near Noginsk

Cap d’Antibes

Yamsakur’s Yurt

The Encrypted Phone

The White House

Tebulos

Tel Aviv

The Georgetown Tavern

Tebulos

Lubyanskaya Square

Spaso House

Monaco

The White House

Bethesda

The Arbat

Paris

Tebulos

Menton

Moscow

Kashkul

Villefranche

Tel Aviv

The Kremlin

Langley

The Kazbek Road

Paris

Foggy Bottom

Kazbek

Tel Aviv

Barbes-Rochechouart

Kazbek

The Kremlin

The Gare de Lyon

Kazbek

Lubyanskaya Square

Tel Aviv

Langley

Oktyabrskaya Radar Station

Langley

Lubyanskaya Square

The Moscow Embassy

Oktyabrskaya Kolkhoz

Near Vladikavkaz

The Devil’s Crevasse

Foggy Bottom

Near Noginsk

Kazbek

Tel Aviv

Paris

Arlington

Moscow

The Promenade des Anglais

Blue Hill

Foggy Bottom

The padded door closed quietly behind him, and he found himself in an immense office, decorated with elegant eighteenth-century furniture. This was the style affected throughout the seventh floor of the Department of State, intended to remind visitors of the early days of the republic, of the solidity of the institution, of the international power of the American government and its representatives.

Through the windows he could see the columns of the Lincoln Memorial, the sweep of the Potomac River, and the wintry slope of Arlington National Cemetery up to the Lee Mansion high on the hill opposite the city. The winter light was fading in the late-afternoon shadows, and the rush-hour traffic was just starting to thicken as it flowed through Foggy Bottom toward Memorial Bridge and the Virginia suburbs. Comfortable Washingtonians were returning to their spacious houses, their cozy families, their thickly padded winter lifestyles insulating them against the biting cold outside their homes, their city, their world.

The Undersecretary behind his vast desk continued reading papers carefully prioritized for him in a blue leather folder with a State Department seal embossed in gold on the cover. A brass desk lamp cast a yellowish glow across the polished leather surface with its sparse but carefully selected embellishments—a broad marble pen set, a family photo in a simple silver frame, a small Egyptian statuette acquired during an earlier posting in Cairo. Framed on the wall behind him like a doctor’s degrees were the various Presidential commissioning documents from the successive stages of his conventionally brilliant career. The shadows lengthened slowly; Foggy Bottom was living up to its reputation as a low-lying region of the city, where winter mists from the river cast a denser gloom than anywhere else.

"Hello, Joey," said the Undersecretary, without looking up at his visitor, who did not reply. The Undersecretary slowly turned a page and initialed something before carefully closing the folder. Finally, he looked at Joey Torino, who was still leaning against the doorframe. "In trouble again?" he said, in the same even voice.

Joseph E. Torino took a few steps toward the desk and stood opposite the seated man. The Undersecretary did not rise. "No trouble," said Torino, "just divorce, unemployment, and boredom." The two men did not share the same sense of humor.

"Well, Joey," said the Undersecretary, "I can’t help with the divorce. Have you read this?" He handed Torino a secret telegram from the embassy in Moscow.

"How could I have read it," growled Torino, taking the brief message. "You cut off my access to telegrams two months ago."

"Need to know, Joey, need to know. We never circulate telegrams to people who don’t have a need to know. You know that." Pendleton Highsmith was a neat small man entering distinguished middle age. His silver hair was impeccably cut and combed, his discreet necktie in the latest fashion, his mind clear and orderly. He remained seated, looking Joey Torino steadily in the eye.

Torino read the telegram:

TO: SECSTATE IMMEDIATE

FROM: AMEMBASSY MOSCOW

SECRET EXDIS

URGENT FOR UNDERSECRETARY HIGHSMITH’S EYES ONLY FROM AMBASSADOR RUDOLPHUS

SUBJECT: DISAPPEARANCE OF MALCOLM ROBERTS

ROBERTS WAS LAST SEEN ON A MISSION IN THE CAUCASUS TWO WEEKS AGO, WHILE ATTEMPTING TO MAKE A TRIP INTO THE MOUNTAINS TO MEET WITH REBEL LEADERS. DESPITE OUR EFFORTS, WE HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO LOCATE HIM OR LEARN WHAT HAPPENED. RUSSIANS HAVE TRIED TO BE HELPFUL BUT UNABLE TO PROVIDE ANY FURTHER INFO. I FEAR ROBERTS HAS BEEN KILLED OR TAKEN HOSTAGE BY ONE SIDE OR THE OTHER.

I RECOMMEND SENDING A WELL-QUALIFIED SEARCH TEAM UNDER INTERNATIONAL AUSPICES ON AN URGENT BASIS TO ATTEMPT TO LOCATE HIM OR ESTABLISH HIS FATE. HIS FAMILY HAS BEEN INFORMED OF THE STATE OF PLAY. PRESS NOT YET INTERESTED BUT WILL BE SHORTLY. AS YOU WILL UNDERSTAND, THIS MISSION IS LIKELY TO BE DANGEROUS.

REGARDS. RUPOLPHUS.

Torino looked up and met the Undersecretary’s direct gaze. They had known each other for twenty years. "You want me to do this?" he asked quietly.

"Joey," said the Undersecretary, "You’re the best troubleshooter we have."

Joseph E. Torino laughed. He was a stocky middle-aged man going bald. His eyes were weak, he had difficulties with his kidneys and the beginnings of what he was sure was chronic rheumatism. His colleagues considered him belligerent and thought he had a drinking problem. His suit was barely acceptable for a State Department bureaucrat and was worn and baggy in strategic places. Like the man inside it, the suit was deeply used.

"Pen," said Torino, "that’s the best line I’ve heard in a long time. You yank me back from my last overseas assignment, you leave me for I-don’t-know-how-long without anything to do, you even cut me off from incoming reports because of some spurious security investigation, and now you say I’m your best 'troubleshooter?' What the hell does that mean?"

"Now Joey, don’t be unfair. You know Security is routinely looking into your problems. Anyone who is assigned as an American diplomat abroad and gets into fights in bars is subject to checking. And normally someone in that situation is brought home. I think it was the right thing to do in your case, and if you would reflect on it a bit, I’m sure you would agree with me." The Undersecretary considered himself a fair man who abided by the rules. He resented any inference that he had behaved unfairly.

"The fight was necessary in the circumstances," said Torino in his quiet, somehow menacing voice. "I didn’t start it, and I wasn’t drunk. If you want someone to get information on terrorists, you have to reckon on him getting into a fight now and then."

"Joey, you have always been in trouble, from the day you walked into this place. You can’t get along with your superiors, you are tough on your colleagues, you refuse service discipline, you have even refused some quite normal assignments. These are the facts, I’m afraid. I know you were carrying out a difficult assignment. Everyone here recognizes that. But we could not leave you in that country after the fight. You would be dead by now, as you are undoubtedly aware.

"But that is not why I asked you to come up today. You may not have the qualities of a conventional diplomat, but you have the qualities we need for this job." The Undersecretary rose from his chair for the first time during their meeting, and slowly moved to the other side of his desk.

"You are the best qualified person we have for this mission. You don’t have to do it, of course. But you yourself said you were bored. You need to be doing something constructive; you need to be doing something! And this won’t be boring, Joey."

"No, Pen, I don’t suppose it will be boring."

"How’s your Russian these days?"

"Old."

"No problem. We’ll send an interpreter with you. When were you last in the Caucasus?"

"Ten years ago, on a tour of the Georgian side. I’ve never been to the northern side of the mountains, which is where this guy’s mission must have been. Circled all around it, but never set foot in it."

"Well, you know more about the region than ninety percent of our people, and we’ll have someone with you who’s been to the area recently. You will also have a communications technician so you can be in direct contact."

"With who?"

"Me." The Undersecretary moved away from Torino, his hands in a praying position.

"You? Why you? What’s so special about this case? It’s not the first of our people who has disappeared on a mission." Torino looked with fleeting envy at the back of the Undersecretary’s carefully tailored suit.

"It’s just sensitive, Joey, sensitive. The Russians are sensitive that we were trying to send a man to meet with the leaders of this rebellion. Ever since the war in Chechnya, the Russians have been resentful of any foreign activity in the northern Caucasus, in the mountains there. Now that there is a new rebellion, they watch everything even more carefully. So, it’s extra sensitive. I’m going to be supervising your mission personally, and directly."

Joey Torino thought. He was a deeply cynical man, wounded many times by life, by his career, by those around him. He knew there were limits on the abilities of officials to be honest with each other. He knew Pen Highsmith well, a conventional career official, careful but not dishonest, and understood that as Undersecretary he might not be completely open on this subject. His instincts told him there was more to this than he was being told, but also that he would not be told any more, at least not now. He thought it likely that he would be badly used if he went on this mission, either as a scapegoat or as a sacrifice, or both. It was true that the Russians were edgy about the rebellion spreading from Chechnya across the Caucasus Mountains. They would not appreciate a visit there by an American diplomat from Washington. There would be unforeseen dangers. On the other hand, he knew Malcolm Roberts slightly by reputation; an honest, devoted young man with high ideals, untainted by the pervasive careerism of State Department officials, at least so far.

Torino reflected quickly on his own situation as well. He was tired of coming each day to the State Department with nothing significant to do; in fact, he corrected himself, with nothing at all to do. He was tired of meeting with his lawyer about the details of the court procedures concerning his divorce. He was tired of Washington, of his colleagues, of people like the Undersecretary with their impeccable hair and suits and minds. He was tired of diplomatic work, with its endless round of meetings and meaningless reports. He was, in fact, ready to undertake an unusual mission, even a dangerous one.

"When do you want me to go?" he asked finally.

The Undersecretary turned toward him and stood silhouetted against the window with its grey evening light. "We have you booked on tonight’s flight to Moscow. The Embassy will brief you fully, and you can continue on from there to Chechnya with a couple of assistants from the embassy staff. That’s where Roberts was last seen. You don’t need to spend more than a few weeks in the Caucasus. We want to be able to say that we have tried our best to locate Roberts."

"So, you just want to claim you’ve made an effort," said Torino. "You don’t really think you can find him? It’s really just for show."

The Undersecretary sighed wearily. "I am not saying that, Joey" he replied. "That is what you are going to find out." Then, after a pause, "You and I have always understood one another."

It had grown dark in the large office. The Undersecretary crossed the room to a sofa, turned on a light, and looked at his visitor. Joey Torino nodded and shrugged his shoulders. "Okay," he said, "but not for longer than a few weeks. I have to go to court at the end of March."

The Undersecretary laughed stiffly and clapped Torino on the shoulder. After a few parting words he asked Torino to work out further details with his assistant.

As soon as he was alone, Highsmith picked up his direct phone to the Secretary of State. "He’s going," he said. "I know him well; he’ll try his best. I don’t know whether he will learn anything, but at least we can say we did everything possible to find Roberts. The family will not be able to complain, and the Russians won’t be too upset. We don’t want to rock the boat with the Russians over this; they’re already suspicious that we are sympathetic to the rebels. We have too many important issues pending with Moscow, and that must be our primary concern."

He paused, sighed inaudibly, and allowed time for the Secretary to express his views. He knew the Secretary would not; he never did. At times Highsmith thought the Secretary had no views. "I believe this is the best solution, Mr. Secretary. Action, without trop de zele."

As soon as he had said it, he realized that he did not know whether the Secretary would understand the well-worn French expression. That was not wise; he did not want to appear more sophisticated than the Secretary. He quickly covered his tracks: "I’m sure it will look decisive—sending an experienced trouble shooter to find a missing man."

The Secretary of State thanked him and hung up.

The Undersecretary rose from his desk and stood by the window. Darkness had set in and floodlights lit the Lincoln Memorial. He had a brief misgiving about Torino—he was a bit too cynical, perhaps too independent—then put it aside. He had trained himself over many years to move decisively from one matter to another, and not to rethink decisions once they were made. Torino was the right choice, a natural troubleshooter. The Undersecretary buzzed his assistant and said he was ready for his next appointment.

Arlington

Among the many places and things which Torino hated was his temporary apartment in Arlington, just across the Potomac River from Washington. He had lived there since the beginning of his divorce proceedings and had never fully unpacked. It was a furnished, one-bedroom place with ancient air conditioners in each of the rooms which provided noise in the summer and view obstruction in winter. Torino’s suitcases lay on the floor, open, with clothes and other belongings scattered over furniture, doorknobs and the open tops of the suitcases themselves. Dirty laundry was mainly stacked on a closet floor, in full view because the door could not be closed.

When he entered, Joey Torino first dumped the contents of a well-used soft-sided canvas carrying case onto an easy chair, then threw into the empty case a few shirts and underwear, two sweaters, an olive-green winter parka, socks and rough walking shoes. He visited the bathroom, which was as disorderly as the rest of the apartment, and gathered his toilet articles. Realizing that he had missed his lunch again, he sat for a moment in his kitchen, snacking on mozzarella cheese and a beer. It had always been his favorite quick meal, ever since his youth in the Backbay area of Boston, where he would meet his friends in neighborhood bars for evenings of pizza and cruising in borrowed cars.

He sat for another few minutes at the table in the living room which served as his desk, rapidly scanning incoming mail, much of which had been sitting on the tabletop for some days unopened. Most of this mail he dumped into an already overflowing wastebasket. He made out checks to pay three bills, put them into their envelopes to mail on his way to the airport, and called his lawyer.

"Arnie," he said to his old college roommate, "I’ve got to go out of town for a few weeks. That any problem for you?"

"Where to, Joey? Should I be jealous?"

"Only if you like to freeze your ass off and maybe get shot at," said Joey. "I don’t think it’s your type of trip. They have to send me someplace, since they’re paying me, so they decided this is what I deserve."

Arnie said that there was only one session scheduled for his divorce case over the next month, and Joey did not have to be present for that. So there was no need for him to remain in town. "Where can I reach you if I need to?" he asked.

"You can’t," said Torino. Then, as an afterthought, "Well, if there is some super emergency, call Undersecretary Pendleton Highsmith at State. He can pass messages to me. But don’t have any super emergencies, Arnie. I’ll let you know when I’m back."

After he hung up, Joey picked up a tennis ball and started squeezing it rhythmically. He was not a violent man, nor did he believe in bodybuilding or even keeping in shape. But years ago, he had developed the habit of squeezing tennis balls whenever he was idle. He would pass long periods of reflection and tennis-ball-squeezing. As a result, he had a steel-like grip—his only really powerful physical attribute.

But on this occasion he did not have much time; a State Department car pulled up outside the windows of the small flat. For once he was getting an official car, Torino thought. He gathered his carry-on bag and his mail, took a last swallow of beer, and left the half-empty bottle on the kitchen table as he locked the front door and descended to the street entrance. He did not look back as the car drove away into the gloomy winter night.

* * *

CLASSFAX URGENT FOR UNSEC HIGHSMITH FROM SPECIAL AGENT

WARNER AT DULLES AIRPORT: TORINO DEPARTED ON MOSCOW

FLIGHT WHEELS UP AT 10:30 P.M. JAN 14. ENDS

Lubyanskaya Square

Six heavy-set men sat around a conference table in a windowless room in the basement of the old KGB headquarters building in Lubyanskaya Square. The building was now used by the Internal Security Service, successor to the KGB, with significantly reduced resources since the breakup of the USSR. Activities were considerably more discreet than they had been in Stalinist times. But otherwise, functions, habits, even people, had remained pretty much the same as before.

The table in the basement room was an impressive one, made of rare woods in a variety of colors and shades, with inlays in complex geometric patterns. It was part of the KGB’s rich legacy from days past, when its funds and power were seemingly endless. The carpeting in the room, however, revealed the way things had changed; it was threadbare and worn, obviously well beyond its acceptable replacement time.

A heavily middle-aged woman rolled a cart into the room and served tea to each of the men at the table. She moved about without speaking, having performed the same ritual thousands of times in the past. She placed two bowls of chocolates in wax-paper wrappers in the middle of the ornate geometric patterns, as well as greenish bottles of salty-tasting Russian mineral water. No one looked up at her; all of the men were reading through thick folders of documents. She left the tea cart in a corner and disappeared through the door.

After some moments, another heavy-set man entered, followed by two young assistants. The others rose and stood silently in a kind of forced respect. The new arrival took his place as chairman at the head of the table while his assistants stood behind him. This was General Fyodor Grilipov, the Director of the Service and the man who now controlled all of the former KGB’s networks and assets within Russia, as well as many leftover assets in various parts of the former Soviet Union which were now independent countries. One of his assistants placed some papers in front of General Grilipov. Everyone sat down at the same time. It was exactly 7:00 in the morning.

"Division Reports," said the General.

Each of the six section heads reported in turn on the activities of his division. They spoke slowly, in very bureaucratic Russian, as though reading momentous news from prepared texts. There were the usual security problems, extra-marital affairs, financial arrangements, spying suspicions, political maneuvers, displays of unknown wealth. Everything, it seemed, was of interest in this room—or more precisely, was of no interest, because as usual the participants in the daily morning session looked down at their papers, apparently overwhelmed with boredom, as they listened to their colleagues.

The third speaker started in the same way, droning through two routine items. But when he began his report of the "Roberts affair," the atmosphere around the table became more electric. The participants remained silent and motionless, staring down at the papers on the table before them, just as before. But it was clear that they were listening intently. Anything relating to the Caucasus was of interest to them all, to all of Moscow, now that the rebellion in Chechnya had opened again and drawn in other mountain peoples.

"The American diplomat, Roberts, is still missing in the rebel-controlled area of the Caucasus Mountains. The Americans have informed us that they will send a special party from Moscow to make enquires locally as to his whereabouts and what may have become of him. This search party is expected to travel to Grozny in the next days on its way to the rebel-held zone. There will possibly be three or four persons in it, including a specialist sent from Washington."

The Director lifted his head for the first time during the meeting. "A specialist?" he asked, "What kind of specialist? Specialist in what?"

"We do not know this. It is a man who has visited our country before, named Torino, Joseph. He was issued an urgent diplomatic visa yesterday by the Russian Embassy in Washington. Age 52, born in Boston, professional diplomat for 24 years. I requested and have received his previous file from our archives. It does not indicate any relevant specialty."

There was a pause. "Well," said General Grilipov, "What does it indicate then? What kind of a person is this Torino?"

"He seems to have traveled widely in the former USSR. He was stationed briefly at the Embassy of the United States of America in Moscow. He has been to the trans-Caucasian republics, but not to the republics of the North Caucasus, as far as we know. He also seems to be prone to getting into trouble. He was sent home as a persona non grata in 1982, after serving only 6 months of his assignment."

"We chose to include him in retaliation for American expulsions of several members of the staff at our Embassy in Washington, because he looked like he might cause trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"He has disputes with his colleagues. Twice this was observed and recorded in our files."

"Why do they send such a man for this searching mission?"

The division head paused for a moment, then said "Unofficially, the American Embassy has informed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that they do not wish to cause us unnecessary concern over this case. They have told the Ministry that they must go through the motions of conducting a thorough search for Roberts. But they wish to conclude this as soon as they can without making problems. They are aware that all movements into the Caucasus region at this time are sensitive. They have not said so, but they have implied that Torino was chosen because he is not highly regarded by them, and they can terminate his mission shortly."

"Good. What do the Americans know of the Roberts matter?"

"Nothing."

"Good." The General thought for a moment. Then he added: "Watch this Torino. Keep me informed of his activities. Be prepared to control him if necessary. But only if necessary. We want the Americans to think we are cooperating fully. Those are the instructions we have received from our government!" He glanced over his shoulder at one of his young assistants, who nodded and made some notes.

The meeting continued for another hour, but the General did not speak again. At exactly 8:30 he rose to adjourn the session. Everyone in the room stood at the same time, and General Grilipov strode out the door in silence, followed by his two assistants. The others gathered their papers without speaking to each other and left.

* * *

ULTRA SECRET URGENT TO INTERNAL SECURITY SERVICE RESIDENT GROZNY: INSTRUCTION 18 IN CASE OF AMERICAN DIPLOMAT ROBERTS. SPECIAL AMERICAN AGENT TORINO ARRIVING YOUR LOCALITY. KEEP UNDER SURVEILLANCE. OFFER NORMAL COOPERATION BUT REVEAL NOTHING. REPORT ALL DETAILS BY URGENT CODED REPORT.

The Moscow Embassy

It was deep winter in Moscow. Sheremetyevo Airport was as disorganized and dirty as usual, and the long drive into town was as depressing as ever. When Joey Torino arrived at the Embassy compound, snow was swirling around the gatehouse and the red brick buildings housing both the offices and the living quarters for the American staff. The entrance for American visitors like himself was, typically, he thought, through the cafeteria.

Torino was unshaven after his overnight flight. He had not slept, had tried watching a second-rate movie, and was feeling edgy. He hated Moscow, hated traveling, hated having to be nice to embassy officials with jobs he envied but would not take if they were offered to him. Once again, he felt his own separateness, his distance from the concerns of his colleagues, his sense of not belonging to this diplomatic world which had been his career for so long.

His first meeting was with the Ambassador’s deputy, Bob Harrison, a career official he had known slightly over the years. Harrison greeted him coolly.

"We didn’t know the Undersecretary would choose you for this mission, or we wouldn’t have recommended it," he said. "Frankly, we don’t need any more problems over this episode, and we’re worried that you will make more trouble than you fix. Your reputation for confrontation has reached the Ambassador, and she is very unhappy. All we want is to make an effort to find Roberts, so that we can say we’ve done all we can. That is what you’re supposed to do, no more. I hope you understand that. I hope the Undersecretary made it clear to you. We definitely do not want problems with the Russians. You have to understand the sensitivity of this job, and you had better not get into a fight with the Russians, or anyone else."

"Don’t worry," said Torino. "I didn’t ask to come here, and I’ll be quite happy to leave. If you think I want to go to the Caucasus Mountains in the middle of the Russian winter, you’re crazy. I’ll do my best to find Roberts and go home. I’m not interested in confronting anyone over this episode, including you." Torino felt a special distaste for this man but managed to be civil.

The embassy’s secure conference room, called the "tank" or the "bubble", reflected the preoccupation with security which had resulted from the discovery some years earlier of massive listening devices built into the walls of the newly-constructed central office building. Much of the main building was now useless as a result, but a warren of offices had been opened below ground level, under the empty structure. Torino was led through this maze to the secure area.

The tank was inside a much larger space so that all sides of it, including top and bottom, were visible and could be inspected from inside and out. It was constructed of two layers of transparent plastic all around. Even the doors were made of transparent plastic and were closed with airtight rubber seals and rotating latches. The whole cubicle was ventilated by a forced-air system which also produced a high level of background noise outside the tank, so as to further obscure the sounds of the discussions going on inside. This was where all secret discussions were conducted at the Moscow Embassy.

On this occasion there were only four people inside the tank: Ambassador Elaine Rudolphus, Bob Harrison, CIA station chief Phil Stansky, and Joey Torino. After receiving a general briefing on the situation, Torino asked who in the embassy was aware of Roberts’ disappearance. Ambassador Rudolphus replied that only the people actually in the room were aware that he had disappeared, although others in the Embassy knew of his mission, and a few might be wondering what had become of him because he had been due to return a week earlier.

Elaine Rudolphus was an expert on Russia. For years she had been a Professor of Russian studies at the University of Michigan until the President, anxious to name more women to leading foreign-policy roles, had chosen her for the Moscow Embassy. But she had her own view of relations with Russia and had often disputed her official instructions.

"I will be straightforward with you," she said. "It was my idea to send Roberts on this mission. I thought it was important to have some direct contact with the leaders of the rebellion in the Caucasus Mountains, to understand better who the rebels are and what their ambitions may be. After the war in Chechnya, this group appeared, obviously inspired by the Chechens’ success. They say they are fighting for the independence of all the Caucasus Mountain peoples, and that they will form an independent federation including all of them. Some Chechens are supporting them, including some units that fought in the earlier war, but no one knows how strong they are. I wanted to find out. What happened in Chechnya shows that it is not impossible that these people will succeed, and actually become independent, de jure or de facto. We have to know who they are and what they think. That’s why I sent Roberts there: to learn about the rebels, first hand.

"It is therefore particularly painful for me that he has disappeared. No one in Washington supported my proposal to send him, and now all they want to do is to cover it up and pretend it never happened. They are afraid the Russians will understand what he was up to, and that it will spoil our relations with the Kremlin. So, you can understand why I am anxious to locate Roberts."

"Let me get this straight," said Torino in his quiet voice. "You sent Roberts into the Caucasus Mountains to establish contact with the leadership of the rebellion there without the approval of Washington?"

"That’s right. But we have authority to send our people anywhere in Russia. We didn’t need specific authorization for that." The Ambassador looked coldly at Torino.

"Well, maybe that’s technically correct. Who am I to say? But it seems as though it would have been better to have Washington’s approval for such a . . . uh . . . tricky mission." Torino looked at his hands on the plexiglass table before him. He was not interested in having an argument with the Ambassador on this point.

The discussion turned toward Roberts himself, his duties in the embassy, his strengths and weaknesses as a diplomat. Ambassador Rudolphus was laudatory.

"Roberts is one of our best people, otherwise we would not have chosen him for this mission, which was of course very sensitive and required a strong, trustworthy individual. He had been to the region many times and had numerous contacts there. He had met with a number of representatives of the rebel group in the past and seemed to have their confidence. What we—I—wanted him to do on this occasion was to see El’brus personally, to get an idea of his motivation, an impression of the man himself." The Ambassador had lived in Russia over a number of years and tended to assume that others knew the country as well as she did.

"El’brus is Sheik El’brus," said Stansky, the CIA’s representative in the Embassy. He was a meticulous man with thick, horn-rimmed glasses. "He is the leader of the mountain rebels. No one knows exactly who he is or how he became the leader of such a diverse group of fighters. El’brus is not his real name—he took it as a nom de guerre from the highest peak in the Caucasus range. Many of the leaders do that—it’s an old tradition in the Caucasus. We do know that El’brus is a visionary, something of a fanatic and that he is worshipped by his people. We have been told that he is an ethnic Ingush, but he seems to obscure his national origin so as to maintain the loyalty of all the other mountain peoples. We also think he may be influenced by Islamic fundamentalists from other countries, maybe by the Taleban, for example. He uses Islam as one of his unifying themes." The other Embassy officials were looking at Stansky with impatience.

"We have arranged for you to go to Chechnya under the auspices of the United Nations mission there," said Harrison. That is the nearest you can get by plane to the rebel-held area where Roberts disappeared. The UN mission has been there for more than two years in connection with the Chechnyan war. They will give you a base in Grozny and some acceptability on both sides. That’s important because we don’t know which side has Roberts—if he’s still alive. He may have aroused the suspicions of either side. We just don’t know.

"You will be met on arrival in Grozny by Heywood Van Kampen, the head of the UN mission. He’s a Belgian diplomat. He is prepared to work closely with you, other duties permitting. He knows the region well, so he should be an asset. Also, he saw Roberts shortly before he disappeared. You will have to work with the UN mission, and the Russians in the area, to get to the rebel-held territory, but they are all prepared to help you."

The room was warm despite the Russian winter outside. Torino and the others took off their jackets. Torino asked for more details on Roberts’ mission in the Caucasus. The three officials from the embassy looked at each other before the Ambassador replied.

"We have tried to maintain contact with the rebels over some time.

Our official position is that the whole region is part of Russia, but the reality is that the Russians may at some point decide to cut their losses and get out. The area could then be independent or quasi-independent—not just Chechnya but the whole mountain area of the north Caucasus. It’s important because much of the oil from the Caspian basin can be shipped to the West through pipelines which cross just to the north of the region. If it should become independent, we want to be on friendly terms with the leaders there. The risk of them falling under the influence of Islamic radicals is quite high."

"So, Roberts was just going to talk to them?" asked Torino.

"Just to talk to them."

"Hardly seems like a reason to make him disappear."

"It’s a sensitive issue here, especially anything having to do with Sheik El’brus himself. He is regarded as a dangerous rebel, to be shot on sight. If it looked to Moscow like we were anticipating the independence of the north Caucasus region, that would make us very unpopular here, especially among the military and the old KGB networks. But the mountain people could also have become suspicious of Roberts and concluded he was spying on their positions. So, we don’t know who might have seized him, if that’s what happened."

"And you have no trace of him?"

"We have tracked him up to the day he set out in a jeep from Grozny, en route to the foothills below the rebel-held mountains. That was two weeks ago. He was headed toward the mountain village where the rebels have a headquarters. He passed a Russian checkpoint in the foothills of the Caucasus mountains. According to the Russians’ informers, he never arrived at the next village. His jeep has not been found."

"He was alone?"

"He had his guide with him—a local girl he was friendly with. She may have been his girlfriend, we don’t know. She disappeared too."

The conversation went over the details of the episode again and again, without revealing anything new. Torino asked about Roberts himself, and was told he was 35, unmarried, and had been in Moscow for three years. His previous assignment had been in France, as Science Attache.

"Science Attache?" asked Torino. "Roberts was a scientist?"

"He wasn’t really a scientist, but he had a background in nuclear affairs, was a part of our delegation to several negotiations on reduction of nuclear weapons. That’s how he learned Russian and got interested in the country."

"And the girlfriend, the guide? Who is she?"

"She’s an ethnic Russian from Grozny, named Sevda—Sevda Mihailova. We have used her for some time as an interpreter and guide there. She knows her way around, is very reliable. We don’t know that she was his girlfriend, by the way, so you shouldn’t refer to her that way."

The meeting ended after two hours. The Ambassador’s deputy took Torino to his office to introduce him to the interpreter and the communications technician who were to go with him. The communications specialist was Kevin Hughes, a tall black ex-navy communicator from Detroit. The interpreter was Page Wheatley, an embassy officer who had worked with Roberts. Both were enthusiastic about the mission, and anxious to go. They had volunteered for it because they were friends of Roberts, and they had been chosen because they were regarded as the best-qualified among the Embassy staff.

Torino was driven back to his hotel in an Embassy car. The snow had deepened, and it was dark. As he crossed the hotel lobby toward the elevator, a large man approached him, sweating heavily. "You are Mr. Torino, by any chance?"

"Who are you?" said Joey Torino.

"I am journalist," said the sweating man in Russian-accented English. "I hear you are going to look for your friend, Mr. Roberts. Is this true?"

"Who told you that?" said Torino.

"I have sources. I know Roberts well. I know why he go in Caucasus Mountains."

"Why?"

"He sympathetic to rebels. He want to help them. That is why he get in trouble."

"What do you mean, get in trouble?"

"I think you know what I mean. I think you, also, can get in trouble in Caucasus. Are you going there?"

"What I’m going to do, or not going to do, is none of your business, my friend," said Torino. "Good night." He stepped into the elevator, but the large man blocked the door, preventing it from closing.

"Listen," he said, "I can help you. I know why you go there, and I know the problems you face. Without me you will have same problems Roberts had. If I go with you, this will not happen."

"I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about," said Torino, "but I’m tired and I’m going to bed. I said good night."

The large man placed his card in Torino’s coat pocket as he released the elevator door. "This tell you how to reach me. Let me know if I can be of service." The elevator door closed as the man hurried out the hotel door. Torino looked at the card. It read simply "Igor Agostinski, Journalist," with a Moscow telephone number. Torino stuffed the card back into his pocket as he reached his room and went quickly to bed.

Outside the sounds of the Moscow night were hushed by the falling snow. The towers of the Kremlin were illuminated against the dark sky, and the vast space of Red Square was white and empty. Joey Torino knew this place from Soviet times, when everything seemed ominous and threatening. Now, it was different, yet strangely the feeling of unease of those earlier visits haunted him still. How did this man Agostinski, this "journalist," know of his mission, and who did he represent? Once again Torino felt there were aspects of this story he did not understand. He fell asleep and dreamt of the high Caucasus Mountains, of the deep snow there, and of the enigma of Roberts’ disappearance.

* * *

SECRET

TO: SECSTATE IMMEDIATE

FROM: AMEMBASSY MOSCOW

PERSONAL EYES ONLY FOR UNDERSECRETARY HIGHSMITH FROM TORINO

SUBJ: ROBERTS SEARCH MISSION

EMBASSY HAS BRIEFED ME AND ASSIGNED TWO STAFF MEMBERS TO ACCOMPANY ME AS INTERPRETER AND COMMUNICATOR. I PLAN TO LEAVE TOMORROW FOR GROZNY, AND TO FOLLOW ROBERTS’ TRAIL TO THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS.

AMBASSADOR HAS REQUESTED ASSISTANCE OF RUSSIAN GOVERNMENT BUT IS NOT SURE I WILL GET FULL COOPERATION FROM RUSSIAN FORCES IN THE CAUCASUS AREA. THEY ARE UNDER CONTROL OF INTERIOR MINISTRY AND FORMER KGB, AND DO NOT ALWAYS RESPOND TO INSTRUCTIONS FROM GOVERNMENT, OR RESPOND ONLY MINIMALLY.

CAN YOU HAVE SOMEONE AT CIA CHECK ON A SUPPOSED JOURNALIST CALLED IGOR AGOSTINSKI, AND WHO HIS CONTACTS MAY BE AT THE EMBASSY HERE? HE SEEMS FULLY INFORMED OF MY MISSION, AND I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW BY WHOM.

ALSO, PLEASE KEEP HARRISON OFF MY BACK. I DON’T NEED HIS BACKBITING. REGARDS. TORINO.

Monaco

Assim crossed the square in front of the Hotel de Paris, heading for the cafe opposite the Casino. It was here that he loved to spend the early part of the evening, watching the rich of the world coming and going in their expensive cars and clothes, with their expensive women on their arms or sitting next to them in dark glasses and sensuous clothes.

Assim was a Muslim, what in the West was called a fundamentalist, but he had a special fascination for the decadence of this most expensive place in the Western world. And after all it was his specialty; he was expected by his organization to be the expert on the world of the decadent rich Westerners, so that, when needed, he could provide advice on how to pass into it or through it unobserved, to plant a bomb for its general terrorizing effect, or to eliminate an opponent who may have fled to this world in order to escape the harsh judgement of Koranic law.

Assim worked in a bank, one of the many branches of a well-established Middle-Eastern banking house in Europe. He was well educated, well paid, he dressed in European style, spoke several languages, and lived the life of the wealthy foreign youth on the French Riviera. He frequented discotheques, drove a sports car, and had European girlfriends. He was also popular, because he knew how to invite the most glamorous young people to his table in the chic restaurants along the coast, and his dark skin and black moustache made him attractive to many of the women who vacationed in the area’s expensive hotels and resort towns.

Every few weeks he would meet his friend Mohammed here at the cafe, and they would stroll through the gardens between the Casino and the sea. These meetings were always pleasant, never rushed or pressurized. The two would simply talk of recent world events and coming possibilities. This was Assim’s opportunity to report whatever information might be useful to his organization, and the occasion when he could receive instructions. He rarely received specific instructions, for his role was to provide information, and simply to be in place for the moment when he might be needed. On occasion, though, he would be told to meet someone arriving by plane at Nice airport, or to deliver a package, or to convey a message to a certain person, at a certain hotel, somewhere on the coast. Assim was never informed of the significance of these acts, or how they fit into some broader scheme, and he did not ask. The organization was compartmentalized in this way for security reasons.

Assim had been trained for this role and had been chosen for his patience and his ability to blend into his surroundings. He had never questioned this role, because he understood he was serving a larger cause, and that discipline was the key to the success of this cause.

Assim never knew exactly when Mohammed would come, nor where he came from or where he went when he left. He had no way of knowing what Mohammed’s place was in the organization, nor what was the larger plan within which his actions fit. He knew that Mohammed was not the man’s real name, but this did not bother him; Assim was not his own real name, either. This role suited Assim, for he was not particularly original or brave, and detested hardship.

After half an hour, on this particular day, Mohammed appeared on the terrace of the cafe. Assim excused himself from a circle of friends, and the two went for their habitual stroll.

"Salaam," said Assim.

"Salaam, Allah be praised," replied Mohammed as they shook hands.

The mild winter weather was fine, and a light breeze was blowing in the palm trees. A few sailing yachts could be seen on the horizon, in the midst of the dark water of the Mediterranean. Assim felt satisfied and important; he knew that the cause of Islam was prospering in the world, and that he was contributing to the success of this effort. He knew that ultimately all of Islam would be brought to follow the literal teachings of the Koran, and that this would purify the world and make it clean. He listened keenly to Mohammed for the latest news of progress.