GTCEASAR strolled calmly down a dingy, snow-filled Moscow avenue to meet his CIA contact. The contact would report the meeting to the CIA Moscow station chief who in turn would pass it on to the American Embassy, and in a matter of days he would be out of Russia to live the rest of his life un-oppressed. His destination was a bar about a thirty minute walk from his apartment, but he had begun his run over two hours earlier. He had spent hours painstakingly choreographing his SDR, or Surveillance Detection Route, involving three buses, a taxicab, two subway transfers and a round trip in an elevator. His employer, the KGB’s Second Chief Directorate, saw and heard everything in Moscow, and much precaution was necessary every time any clandestine communications were to be made. The Second Chief Directorate, under the leadership of Major General Rem Krassilnikov, was responsible for most of the surveillance and counter-intelligence in the Soviet Union. The package dead-dropped for him in a deteriorating urban park three nights before contained, in addition to 100,000 Rubles in unmarked nonconsecutive small bills rubber-banded and sealed in a plastic shopping bag, detailed instructions on how to approach and identify himself to the contact at the bar.
At 10:58, two minutes early and absolutely sure he was Black, free of any shadows, GTCEASAR entered the smoky building holding his copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and sat down at the bar. He carried the book to identify himself to his contact, and as instructed, he ordered a double Stolichnaya, which the bartender promptly served him.
GTCEASAR thanked him and, according to the script, said, “one must try to keep warm on a cold winter evening, eh?” to which the American bartender responded in perfectly spoken Russian “Da, if you can pay for the heat.” GTCEASAR raised his glass and downed his vodka in one swallow, then asked the bartender if he served earl grey tea. GTCEASAR knew the Bartender would respond to this in one of two ways. If “Da,” then GTCEASAR was to drink it casually, then walk out and return to meet the agent forty five minutes later after his shift at the bar was over. If “Niet,” he was to order another vodka and waste time in the bar for a while before walking directly back to his apartment and going to sleep. The bartender looked him in the eye, nodded, said “Da. One minute,” and walked over to the other end of the bar. He returned with a mug of steaming tea and a napkin, which GTCEASAR took thankfully.
He slowly drank the hot liquid, not paying any attention to the bartender or speaking to him again. When finished, he picked up the napkin to dry his lips, put it in his jacket pocket and walked out of the bar. He walked around the corner and hailed a passing taxicab. After climbing in the back and telling the driver to take him to a café 10 blocks away, he pulled the napkin out of his pocket, holding it low behind the drivers seat to prevent him from seeing it. It read:
BLUE VOLGA, 3 BLOCKS EAST OF BAR.
BROKEN LEFT TAILIGHT
He lit a stale cigarette and thought. At this moment in time his life was focused entirely upon delivering to the Americans the list of their agents and assets behind the Iron curtain that the KGB knew about or suspected. The year was 1985, and one by one all of the CIA’s most valuable operatives and contacts in eastern Europe were disappearing, being either arrested for espionage or shot for treason. The CIA was in a state of panic, frantically scrambling to keep its agents safe while still being able to run an at least semi-productive intelligence network. The list also included the information that the KGB knew about each operative, and the Americans were desperate to know what he had for them so they could save the operatives from being arrested and use the information to set traps for and distract the KGB. The taxi pulled up at the café and he paid the driver before climbing out and beginning to walk down the street back towards the bartender’s car, wishing he had bought an extra shot of vodka while at the bar. He made his way slowly back towards the bar, mixing in and out of different crowds of people, blending into the Moscow streets with a clandestine brilliance taught only to the masters of the espionage trade.
He located the blue Volga. Turning towards it and noticing its left tail light broken, he quickened his pace in excitement at finally making contact. He reached the car, opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat, digging in his coat for the list. GTCEASAR began to greet the man in perfectly un-accented English and glanced up at the American operative, who sat in the driver’s seat of the vehicle pointing a beretta .38 caliber pistol in his direction.
His lips froze in place as he stared at the American, and began to utter a protest but stopped when he flatly barked “Shut up.” Hearing noises behind him he turned around to see two Russians dressed in black trench-coats open the back doors and slide in. One drew a graz-burya automatic from a hip holster and aimed it at him while one reached his hand around the seat-back over GTCEASAR’s face and clamped a moist, fragrant rag over his mouth and nose. He dropped his book and tried weakly to pry the hand away from his face in an attempt to bite into the cyanide capsule sewn into his collar, but before he could close his fingers around his attacker’s wrist, his mind had disintegrated into a wet blur and the world spun slowly out of control until everything was void and gone.
……………………………..
“Goddammit!” roared Paul Gunter, chairman of the CIA’s SE (Soviet Eastern Europe) Division, as he stormed through the halls of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. “I want to see that cable in my office, Vinnie. Jack, how the hell did this happen? The op was planned out down to the last fucking detail and I want to know what the hell went wrong. Get Jim Gordon on the secure satellite channel to Moscow Station. NOW!”
Gunter burst furiously into his seventh floor office and sat down at his desk after closing his door. He had angrily demanded questions at his subordinates but had no time to hear their answers as he waited impatiently for his phone to buzz. It buzzed. He picked it up and spat “Jim what the hell happened? We needed this run to be completed, dammit!” the harsh, somber voice of Jim Gordon, Moscow station chief, answered from eight time zones away.
“It’s confirmed Paul. GTCEASAR was arrested last night during the run. Alexi Gordorovich is probably in the lubyanka now getting pumped full of god knows what and will without a doubt be shot within a matter of days. We’ve lost another, goddammit.” Gunter swore to himself and thought.
“What did Gordorovich’s case officer say? What was his story?”
“Initial contact was made at the bar, the guy followed the script and seemed legit. Rendez-vous and transfer was scheduled for forty-five minutes later at the officer’s car. My case officer, Larry Duncan, reported that GTCEASAR never showed up. Most likely had a tail he thought he lost but didn’t. It’s possible that a KGB man happened to be in the bar and saw the contact. Maybe they’ve ID’d the bar as one of our contact spots and were watching it, saw Gordorovich and picked him up.”
“Shit… that doesn’t tell us a damn thing. What have you done so far?”
“Not a lot. All we could do, actually. My first priority was to get Duncan back to the embassy and play twenty questions a few hundred times. The KGB shadows are gonna be all over him until he leaves Moscow and probably still then.” Gordon paused, then continued quickly. “His cover is the bartending job. He’s got no official connection to the embassy. If the Russians arrest him he’s got no diplomatic immunity and after a few months in the lubyanka he’ll be sent to a work camp or shot.”
“Great Jim, that’s all great, but what can we do about GTCEASAR? We needed that list, Jim. I can’t keep losing contacts like this; everybody’s disappearing and other than what we’re getting from GTBLAZE we haven’t received anything useful in over three months. Dzerzhinsky Square is pissing on our shoes and somebody’s gotta clean it up. The best case officers in the company are operating under your control, Jim. I expect you to get me the intelligence I need.”
“God damnit it was out of my hands!” roared Gordon. “What could I have done? It fell apart due to factors outside of my control, Paul. I can’t possibly have complete control over everything in this city… I thought all night how it could have happened and only one thing seems possible.”
“I’m listening,” grumbled Gunter.
Gordon paused and cleared his throat. “There has to be a leak. Someone in my station’s been turned, I know it.”
“You really think so, Jim? I personally approved every man you operate right now!”
“I don’t know what the hell else to think. KGB surveillance is damn good, we all know that, but everything went as planned! CEASAR was acting on agency instructions, which his attackers were obviously aware of because they knew where and when to arrest him. They probably know about the dead drop and/or the contact at the bar. Someone has to be passing intel on our officers and assets, and I’d bet my job that the same man is responsible for the other arrests this year.”
“If that’s what you think, I’m not sure if I agree with you, but by god you gotta try to find the bastard. Number one priority Jim. I don’t want a single man on your staff to have any time off until you know who is telling those pinko bastards when and where to arrest our men, you hear me? I’m gonna send you another ten case officers on special assignment to keep an eye on your personnel, see what they’re up to. Now I’ll call back in an hour, I have to be in a meeting.”
Gunter hung up the phone and stared at his document safe in the corner of his office. He had speculated and feared for some time that there was a mole in the Moscow station, but now he was almost certain there was. Both Gordon’s officers and their assets were being found and arrested, meaning that most likely some case officer stationed in Moscow was accruing a large KGB-funded pension in several Moscow banks. He didn’t want to believe it, but he knew it was true. Rem Krassilnikov of the Second Chief Directorate in Dzerzhinsky Square had him by the balls. The thirteen men lost in the past year were betrayed by their co-worker and countryman on the clandestine battlefield of Moscow.
Brutus
CIA case officer Robert Howard walked into Jim Gordon’s office. He lived in Moscow working under the cover of an attaché at the US embassy, and was becoming increasingly disturbed at the number of CIA operatives arrested in the past year. He knew Gordon would be angry as hell and didn’t especially want to talk to him, but his work superceded all other concerns. He entered not knowing what to expect, and smiled tentatively as Gordon instructed him to sit down in a black leather chair resting on the opposite side of his desk.
“Hi Jim, anything new on GTCEASAR?” Howard asked.
“Nothing. Not a damn thing.” Gordon sat back in his chair and sighed. He glanced up at Howard and continued. “Its just like with Tolkachev four months ago. Gordorovich disappeared in the middle of the run and now we’re just as fucked as we were then. More-so. We needed that list, goddammit. I can’t have my entire station staff put at constant risk like this.”
“What do you think happened?” he asked, looking into Gordon’s hard grey eyes. Gordon looked back, pausing.
“We’ve got a leak. A mole in Moscow station.” Howard sat upright in his chair, incredulous.
“Impossible!” he roared. “Every man stationed in this city is a loyal American! These men were sent here for a reason Jim, they’re the best and most trusted in the agency and wouldn’t turn.”
“Goddammit, they would though.” Gordon spat angrily. “You’ve seen it before, Rob. They get approached at a bus stop or a letter’s left for them offering them millions of dollars and a huge estate north of St. Petersburg if they can be of help. It can be too much to refuse. How the hell do you think we recruit them?” Gordon paused, then continued coldly: “Some bastard in my station tipped off the KGB about the run… and whoever it was that betrayed Gordorovich is obviously responsible for all the other arrests this year. This bastard has betrayed so many of our officers and assets… we need to find him, dammit. This needs to stop. And before anyone gets more than two hours of sleep a night we are going to find him. By any means necessary.”
Howard paused and looked at his boss. “You’re sure of it, aren’t you…”
“Positive. I spent the whole night combing over every other possibility that could have led to this and only that makes any sense”
“You have any idea who it could be?”
“Not a damn clue. But I think the best place to start an investigation would be with Larry Duncan, the case officer who handled GTCEASAR and was to make contact the other night. If I’m right, the KGB will be onto him like an Irishman on a whiskey bottle and shadow him everywhere, either try to arrest him or wait for him to show them others they can arrest. Here-” Gordon lifted a file off his desk and handed it to Howard. “Larry Duncan, CIA case officer stationed in Moscow. Complete dossier. Drives a blue Volga with a broken taillight, I forget which side. Anyways, its easy to pick up and follow. In addition to you I have other embassy-sent officers who my men don’t recognize tailing them, and I need you to keep Duncan within sight. He’s got a contact to make this afternoon. If there is in fact a mole, then without a doubt the Russians are going to follow. You’re going to be there to see anything that goes down and help him evade arrest if they try to take him in, but step in only if its absolutely necessary. Take your .38. I’m going to learn what they know, and subsequently who’s telling it to them from what they do concerning Duncan. I’m providing my case officers with certain different bits of information, and depending on what the Russians do with Duncan, I’ll know who’s in contact with them from whose bit of information it seems that they’re acting on. The Soviet “barium” trap. It’s simple, but It’ll work.”
“I see…so you want me to follow whoever follows him..” asked Howard, intrigued.
“Yes, in essence. You’re going to shadow him at a distance and try to locate a KGB tail, which I know is going to be there. At this point they have to know of Duncan’s involvement with GTCAESAR, and they aren’t going to leave him alone. Photograph and record whatever you can and report to me in three hours. I have a late lunch meeting in about a half hour but I should be back in time to hear from you.”
“Okay… where is he now and where’s his car parked?”
“He’s eating lunch downstairs and his car is parked a couple blocks west. I told him to leave here to make a contact at 2:00, and you’re going with him. He’s supposed to show up at the train station and pass a message to GTBLAZE, one of our last valuable soviet assets. He’s a Soviet air force colonel and he’s passing us intel on a new model of MIG bomber. Duncan’s giving him the location of a new dead drop we’re starting to use now that we suspect our others have been compromised by whichever bastard it was gave away Gordorovich. Watch him, watch the contact. Neither he nor my other case officers know a thing about you or the other men I have watching them. Something has to turn up soon, and we’ll get the bastard.”
“Yes sir,” answered Howard, looking at his watch and hoisting himself out of the plush leather chair feeling somewhat sick. “That’s in twenty minutes. I think I’ll go get some coffee across the street while I wait for him. We’ll be in touch.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Howard sat in the café across from the embassy smoking a cigarette and thinking he needed more than just the coffee. A mole in Moscow Station? That meant that an unknown large amount of the intelligence gathered in Moscow for god knows how long was fabricated by the KGB to be fed to the CIA. Many men had wasted many years of their lives working to obtain false information. Whoever it was needed to be caught immediately, but he doubted he would have the chance to do so while shadowing this Duncan guy. Oh well. He had a job to do.
He skimmed over Duncan’s dossier and refreshed himself of the details of the ill-fated run. Gordorovich entered the bar carrying a copy of Hamlet, engaged in a short scripted dialogue with Duncan and asked him for some vodka and tea. Simple enough. After that GTCEASAR left the café and was never seen again. Duncan reported that he waited in his car for twenty minutes after contact was supposed to be made, then decided to stop risking his life and took a fifty-five minute SDR back to his apartment. There were no irregularities, no holes to poke through the story. Everything went as planned except for the arrest. Today Duncan was going to the crowded train station to work his magic and blend in with the crowd before passing information on a dead drop to the CIA’s asset in the Russian air force.
Howard sipped his coffee and watched the embassy entrance. At 2:03 pm Larry Duncan exited the embassy and turned left, most likely going to his car. Howard set a few coins on his table as he watched Duncan disappear around the corner. As soon as Duncan was around the corner and out of sight he crushed out his cigarette, walked out of the café and followed after him.
Howard rounded the corner, saw Duncan a block and a half ahead of him going towards his car, and walked the rest of the block to his black Peugeot. Two minutes after getting in his car, the blue Volga went by and Howard started his engine. He followed at varying distances behind Duncan for about three miles, often changing lanes and slowing to let other cars pass to keep out of sight. Glancing around frequently, Howard saw no sign of the KGB shadow team he was told to undoubtedly expect.
Seeing Duncan park his car, Howard drove past looking the other way. He noticed a sign for the subway and instinctively knew where his man was going. Howard parked and waited in his car until he saw Duncan approach the stairs going underground, carrying a black duffel bag. Good, he thought, the bag would allow him to blend into the crowd at the train station and appear to be just another traveler.
Taking his agency-issued Smith and Wesson .38 out of the glove compartment and wedging it in his belt, he grabbed his briefcase and hopped out of his car. He walked over to Duncan’s car and peered through the window at the inside of the dirty car. An assortment of spent cigarette packs and vodka bottles littered the back seat, a pornographic magazine, a paper coffee cup and a book lay on the floor in front. Nothing of interest.
He cut across the street and began descending the stairs, noticing Duncan at the bottom. Peering down the stairs, he tried to locate anyone who looked out of place, searching for the KGB “escort” that was not there. Glancing backwards, he noticed that no one was following him, either. For reasons unknown to him, Duncan was absolutely free of a KGB tail. Jim Gordon was wrong, the Russians didn’t give a goddamn about Duncan. He was wasting his time following a bad lead. Oh well, he thought, he would waste two hours on a seemingly unnecessary SDR, but it would make things much easier for Duncan’s contact this afternoon.
Watching Duncan board the train in the front car, Howard slipped into a forward-facing seat in the car directly behind. He could see the top of Duncan’s hat and no more, and it was perfect.
After two stops a gray-haired Russian carrying a black duffel bag boarded the train, glanced around and sat down next to Duncan, setting his duffel on the floor next to Duncan’s. Howard could see his thin lined face which remained motionless, his lips sealed in silence, eyes staring forward as if fixed on a pre-designated location. Howard reached into his bag and drew out his CIA issued glasses containing a miniature camera between the lenses. While putting them on he flicked the shutter and captured the man’s face on film next to Duncan’s hat, then snapped two more pictures while feigning to adjust the glasses. He left the glasses on his head and continued to watch the man curiously. The Russian did nothing out of the ordinary and after four stops, and without saying a word, the man stood up and exited the train, a black bag in hand. The bag that Larry Duncan had brought onto the train.
Something was wrong. This wasn’t part of the op.. or was it? What was in the bags that were exchanged? Was Jim Gordon feeding him the wrong information too as part of his plan to sting the mole? He would have to get in touch with Gordon as soon as possible to get some answers.
The voice of the train operator came on the loudspeaker announcing that the next stop would be for the international train station. Howard was stunned. Gordon was definitely right, and something was definitely wrong with Duncan.. but what? This was by far the shortest SDR he had ever witnessed, and Duncan carelessly made a contact without taking proper precautions. How could he be so stupid as to do that without being sure he was free of a tail? Was the contact just made prematurely before he got to the train station? Maybe they swapped bags prematurely in case the KGB was informed of the rendez-vous at the train station and Gordon wanted to make the contact before they got to the location where they might possibly be arrested. No, it couldn’t be.. he was supposed to simply pass the location of a dead drop to GTBLAZE, not receive a big bag. And to top it all off, there was conveniently no KGB tail team. Duncan had to know that since he was being so careless on his run.
Howard needed to see what was in the bag. And who the hell was the man who gave it to him? His mind raced, frantically searching for some rational explanation for the situation.
The train stopped and Duncan stood up, the bag hanging over his shoulder. Howard followed him out of the train and up the stairs into the crowded lobby of Moscow’s largest train station. Blending in and out of groups of people to stay out of sight, Howard watched Duncan walk casually towards the train platforms, looking over his shoulder periodically. Walking into a gift shop and pretending to page through a magazine, he watched his colleague, who finally approached a Russian man, presumably GTBLAZE, with whom he shook hands and embraced before engaging in conversation. Good, thought Howard. At least one thing went as planned. Without a doubt the location of the new dead drop was safe in the Air Force colonel’s jacket pocket and the run was successful, although confusing. But what was in the bag and where the hell was the KGB? And why didn’t Duncan get the hell out of there? It wasn’t at all a safe place to stay and chat.
Howard thought back to the shortened SDR that brought him to the train station, remembering the cars he saw, the people that walked by him, but his reflection yielded no answer. He thought of the suspicious incident on the train, of Duncan’s blue Volga and the junk inside, the cigarette packs, the book-- Holy shit, the book! He was in too much of a hurry to notice the titles of the books, but one of them had SHAKESPEARE printed in bold font on the back cover. Shakespeare wrote Hamlet! Oh shit! Howard dropped the magazine and dashed out of the store. He needed to find a telephone!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Larry Duncan was in high spirits. Adrenaline coursed wildly through his arteries and his shoulder ached slightly from the weight of the two million dollars worth of rubles packed in his duffel bag, but his attention was focused elsewhere. He embraced the man who had given him wealth and adventure, the life he dreamed of and deserved.
“Sergei..” Duncan began in Russian, “it’s good to see you.”
“Yes, Larry,” replied Sergei Zhomov, KGB major. “Quite good. I would say we should sit down and have a few drinks but we don’t have the time. Shall we walk? We wouldn’t want to remain conspicuous.”
“Yes… the train leaves in fifteen minutes?” The two men began walking through the crowds of people.
“Da. We ride to Achangel, where a car will be waiting for you. It will take you to your new home, about two hours out of the city.” Zhomov, Duncan’s KGB handler, had already described the property being given to Duncan by the USSR; a 72 acre estate in the woods with a three story, four bedroom house.
“Your efforts are much appreciated, for as you know I can no longer remain in Moscow.” said Duncan, smiling. “Thank you, Colonel.”
Zhomov laughed. “I only wish I were a colonel, although maybe I’ll receive the promotion after I see you out of Moscow safely. The KGB owes me a great deal for the success I’ve brought them with you, my friend. And as for the Air Force, if for some reason they are under the impression that they employ me, I won’t turn down the gift of a small jet for recreation’s sake. I’ve always wanted to learn how to fly.”
“I wish you good luck in that endeavor, Major. But we still have this journey ahead of us.” Duncan’s brow wrinkled as a thought came to his mind. “And what of Gordorovich?”
“He’s too weak from the drugs to talk much and when he does he’s quite hard to understand. He’s useless to us. The military tribunal has ordered his death, and the sentence will be carried out in two days.”
“I see,” Duncan mumbled, looked around habitually, checking each corner of the room for a tail. “No one followed me out of the embassy did they?”
“Aleksei saw no one.” Replied the Russian as they reached the end of the station and changed direction.
“Good. By the time Gordon wonders where I am I’ll be far out of reach.” The traitor said, basking in his victory. “And as far as you’re concerned, they’ll never discover that your supposed MiG intelligence is absolute trash. You should’ve heard Gordon talk about you – ‘GTBLAZE is our last valuable asset goddammit’ those are the bastard’s exact words, you know.”
“GTBLAZE…” repeated Zhomov. “Is that what they call me?”
“Yeah, that’s your agency code name. Generated randomly from a computer, preceded by the prefix GT to indicate you’re a Soviet asset. Really a simple system.”
“A simple name, too,” replied the Russian. “I don’t like it.”
“The agency can’t please everyone,” Duncan said, shrugging, and again glancing around for a tail. He turned to Zhomov. “And what do your people call me?”
Sergei paused. “We do not tell our assets their code names.. its foolish and unnecessary. But since your tenure as a Soviet operative has ended, I think I can tell you… We call you Pluto.” Duncan thought the name sounded cold and violent in the Russian language as he took it in and thought.
“Pluto.. isn’t that what the Romans called Hades? Shit, I’m the god of the underworld…” He laughed. “I will never die… the dead pass before me and see my face before burning into nothingness.” He extended his arms out and up in a pose of arrogant megalomania and smiled, entertaining himself. “The KGB has dubbed me the Roman Lucifer.” Duncan smiled. “How fitting… Lucifer, history’s first successful revolutionary… it just so happened that he revolted against god and was banished from heaven. Now as I rebel and betray my country, I can never return there and I’m given my own land, a little kingdom on which to start a new life. Maybe I should call my new estate Hell.”
Duncan laughed slightly, expelling a small amount of air in one sharp burst and continued: “Yes, I like it. It’s fitting. But Sergei, we both know that other than pride, names don’t really mean shit in this business… I’ll tell you a story. About a year ago Gordon had to change the name of an asset working in the KGB Science and Technology division. The guy’s name was GTSPANIEL but he got offended by being named after a dog, even after the case officer told him how it was created at random and all that. This guy was a big producer for the company so Gordon had to keep him happy… we changed his name to GTSPHERE and he was happy again…” Duncan paused, then continued slowly: “Until he was arrested two months later and eventually shot for treason. His death was inevitable anyways, I would have compromised him eventually, but he helped it along greatly by carelessly clouding his mind with meaningless things. You waste your energy thinking about superficial issues like your name instead of your purpose and you’ll find yourself dead.”
Zhomov pondered his friend’s words. “That is interesting, but I’m not in the same position as was the foolish SPANIEL. This dog betrayed the mother country and was shot for it. I am doing no such thing.”
“Maybe you should be,” said Duncan, allowing the slightest hint of a smile to form on his thin lips.
Sergei stopped walking, his eyebrows lowered in an indignant scowl. “Do not speak of such things. You ask me to betray the people who at this moment are making you disgustingly wealthy? Remember that and show some respect.”
“Jim Gordon is already showing you enough respect. After all, you’re his most valuable asset and he’ll kiss your ass until his lips bleed if he needs to.”
“His most valuable asset, eh..” repeated Zhomov, mollified. “I’m honored to receive such high praise from my adversary, although he doesn’t know that he is. But now GTBLAZE will disappear like smoke.. at least for a few months until things cool down. Maybe then I will attempt to re-establish contact with one of the ignorant case officers you have informed me of and continue to supply Paul Gunter and his puppet Gordon with false intelligence.”
“If I were you,” Duncan said seriously, “I would end it now, just as I am doing. Espionage is a dirty business. You stay out in the cold too long and you’ll catch frostbite. Besides, if you go black at the same time as me it will raise suspicion at Moscow Station and they won’t trust you when you re-surface. And seeing how we’ve already screwed them so badly, you might as well quit while you’re ahead.”
Zhomov thought. “Perhaps you are right, my situation is dangerous. However, I cannot afford to retire to a handsome estate as you have been provided by mother Russia and I still have many years in which I have sworn to serve her noble cause.”
Duncan shot his KGB control a look of contempt. “I thought we were not mentioning politics during our interactions, Sergei,” interjected Duncan. “I made that very clear...this is business. I give less than a shit about your mother country and America. I joined the company for a little adventure, something different, and by god that’s what it’s been these past few years in Moscow. We all serve our own interests, Sergei.. lets keep them separate.”
“Yes my friend, but I have taken an oath to my country and it is my duty to keep it. I’m obligated to help bring by the Revolutsky Mir. You cannot condemn that.”
Duncan stopped walking and stared coldly at Zhomov. “I can condemn what I don’t respect, as those who do not respect me may and will condemn my actions. You can’t look at what I’ve done and expect me to honor an oath to your country. Your oath means nothing Sergei, Jack-shit, and you must realize that. Your superiors attempt to control and use you as mine attempted to control and use me - but Sergei, it is really us who dictate the direction of this cold war. And once we realize that we are the smartest and strongest our nations have to offer, we can become wise and take advantage of our natural gifts. We fight the clandestine battle, we slay and are slaughtered, we turn and betray; we rise to the top and live in glory – we win. And nothing changes… no one outside of Moscow and Langley are told a goddamn thing, and the peoples’ lives remain the same. World War III will never be fought and the world will be forever frozen in cold war. It’s so painfully obvious to me, Sergei. To me, it doesn’t matter who lives and dies, for in the end we are all just left bleeding in the snow.”
“Where is your sense of honor my friend?” asked the shocked Russian, pondering Duncan’s outburst.
Duncan leveled his hard gray eyes at Zhomov. “Bleeding in the snow. Come, lets board the train.”
……………………………………………….
Ripping the payphone’s receiver out of its cradle, Howard hurriedly stuffed change into the slot and dialed the number for the American embassy switchboard. He needed to reach Jim Gordon whether the Russians knew about it or not. Duncan needed to be caught before he got on the train and disappeared out of Moscow. The familiar recorded voice came on the line announcing that he had reached the embassy and he dialed the sixteen digit number that authorized the switchboard to connect him via satellite and routed through London Paris and Zurich to the line in Gordon’s office.
The phone purred in Howard’s ear as he waited, tapping his foot impatiently and glancing up to watch Duncan and the Russian talk. The phone continued to ring without being answered.
“God damnit Jim, pick up the fucking phone…” Howard futilely growled into the mouthpiece, remembering angrily that Gordon had to be in a meeting. No one answered the phone. Slamming it down furiously, he watched Duncan and the Russian stop at platform nine and proceed to a car towards the rear of the train. He swore to himself and kicked the base of the telephone in frustration. No wonder he didn’t bother with an SDR. Being followed by the KGB is not an issue for those who work for them.
This Duncan asshole had played his cards perfectly. After betraying twelve of his countrymen to the soviets he compromised GTCAESAR and must have done a damn good job convincing Gordon of his innocence. He even had a perfectly legitimate reason to be at the train station to make his escape from Moscow and justice… and because Jim Gordon wouldn’t pick up his phone, there would be no help in stopping him. Well fuck that, thought Howard. Justice would find this traitor.
He walked hurriedly over to the ticket counter, glancing to his right to see Larry Duncan and GTBLAZE board the train. But why did both of them get on? Nothing was making sense – shouldn’t GTBLAZE be leaving?
A sick feeling crept over him as something inside himself told him that this Russian was no CIA asset. The way the two men talked and smiled at each other, and now boarded a train together. These men knew each other quite well, but Duncan did not usually handle runs with GTBLAZE, and when case officers met contacts there was usually little more than pleasant small talk to take the cold edge off of the dangerous situation. No, these men were working together. Which meant that all the information this supposed Air Force colonel supplied the CIA was most likely fabricated by the KGB to tell the CIA exactly what they wanted them to believe. Shit.
He glanced up at the departures listing board which told him that the train at quai nine was destined for Archangel and was to leave in ten minutes. Hopefully he would have time for another attempt at reaching Gordon before he was forced to board the train and follow the traitor by himself.
Howard approached the ticketing counter and attempted to smile at the mildly attractive young lady behind it.
“Hi,” he said in perfect Russian, “I’m so glad I made it here on time to catch my train.. you see me and my wife – she’ll be here any minute now she’s just dealing with the kids – she decided at the last minute to bring her sister along for our trip out to Archangel to visit her mother. So if it’s possible I would like to buy tickets for five of us – one sleeping cabin, and one regular seat, preferably near the back of the train, you know how its always quieter back there, it should be easier for her to get some sleep back there.”
The ticket agent smiled sweetly, said “Da, I can do that for you,” and handed Howard the tickets. He paid and walked hurriedly away, back towards the payphone. He picked up the phone and was about to redial the embassy’s number when a female voice came on the Public Address system.
“Train for Archangel on quai nine will be leaving in two minutes.”
“Shit,” growled Howard aloud, and he slammed down the receiver and quickly made his way to quai nine.
He stepped up onto the train and glanced in both directions for the two men but couldn’t see either of them. Satisfied, he sat down, slid his briefcase under his seat and took a deep breath.
Nobody but him knew of Duncan’s espionage and the high probability of GTBLAZE being a Soviet dangle. Goddammit. And because Jim Gordon was in his lousy meeting and couldn’t answer the phone nobody would ever know until they escaped or until he or the two spies were dead. Howard was the last line of defense, the last person who could bring the cold hand of justice crashing down upon these enemy spies, these men who did not deserve to live. Especially Duncan… the bastard had kicked America in the balls and spat in the face of every hardworking, goodhearted man in the company. They deserved to die. And die they would.
…………………………………………
The Fall of Rome
From his rear-facing seat, Robert Howard could see the traitor and the Russian alone in the last seat of the rear car of the train. They had returned a half hour earlier from fetching food, coffee and vodka and appeared to be making quiet small talk while sipping their drinks. Howard had observed them getting their food from a table halfway across the dining car from where they ate, and had since then changed his appearance. He needed to remain close to the two spies without being recognized and subject to suspicion.
Locked in the cabin he lied to the ticket agent to reserve, he had removed his blue-colored contact lenses, revealing to the world his dark hazel eyes. Using a pair of tweezers, he plucked out over half the hair of his eyebrows, and then applied a small amount of skin-colored putty to the sides of his nose to make it appear larger. He had then fit upon his head a medium-sized light brown wig to cover his darker, shorter hair before taking off his green coat, turning it inside-out and putting it back on, its black interior now visible to his enemies’ eyes.
Presently, Howard was waiting. Waiting for his best chance for a clean shot at Duncan. He needed some more coffee to stay awake and keep his concentration but he couldn’t afford to lose sight of the two spies. Feeling the cold weight of his .38 on his hip, he placed his hand upon it to calm himself. It had been ten hours since they had boarded the train and nearly all the passengers were in the front of the train in sleeping cars to pass the night during the long journey across the snowy Russian plains. The early morning sun shone brightly out the window but all the Russian travelers were asleep as it was nearing one-thirty A.M. Moscow time. It was a good time for two Russian spies to die.
Howard looked up to see the traitor laugh and say something to the Russian, who smiled nervously and turned to look out the window. He sat disgusted, patiently sweating and waiting for the right moment. He needed them to get up again. He just needed them to slide out of their seats so he could have a clean shot at their hell-bound chests.
Another hour passed and still he waited, his fatigue mounting every minute. The clean shot began to not matter anymore. He wished he was carrying an mp5 with which he could spray bursts of bullets at his prey and be done with it in two seconds, but he had to make do with the .38.
His shirt soaked thru with cold sweat and his eyelids heavy, Howard could wait no longer without jeopardizing his task. After eleven hours of waiting, shaking and imagining the moment, he took the gigantic pistol out of his hip holster. Holding it low behind the seat in front of him, he screwed on a long cylindrical black silencer and took a deep breath. He slowly lifted himself out of his seat holding the weapon at his side and walked back towards the last car.
His heartbeat was a mad drumroll and adrenaline seized control of all bodily operations as he threw open the doors between the two rear cars of the train. He lifted the weapon to point it at Duncan’s head, his teeth barred.
“Jesus Fucking Christ who the hell is that?!?” Shouted the traitor, throwing himself to the ground to dodge the imminent bullets. Howard fired two rounds from the .38 which buried themselves in the train’s rear wall and continued to walk towards the traitor, saying nothing in response.
Keeping his pace down the aisle, Howard turned the weapon to aim it at the KGB man, who had leapt up out of his seat and stepped to his left in front of the train’s rear door, digging in his coat for his graz-burya automatic.
Before the Russian’s gloved hand made it out of his coat, Howard had fired four fast shots, the pistol’s loud reports easily drowned out by the rumbling of the train. The first bullet missed wide left and went clean through the lock of the door while the next three shells slammed into the Russian’s chest. His mouth agape, Sergei Zhomov let out an astonished ghasp as he was blown backwards with a savage force into the door, which easily gave way. Cold Russian air flooded the train car as the dead Russian dropped limply out of the train and was lost to the haze in the snowy distance.
……………
“Whoever the fuck you are,” roared Larry Duncan, “and for whatever reason you had to kill Sergei, by god I’m gonna kill you!” He dug frantically in his duffel and pulled out first a long-bladed hunting knife which he wedged in his belt, then a 10-guage double-barreled sawed-off shotgun. He cracked it open and struggled with frozen fingers to stuff two shells into its barrels, swearing to himself as he almost dropped one. Snapping it shut, he shivered as the cold wind played across his face and darted down into his heavy coat. He waited impatiently, glancing up at the ceiling. He shoved the shotgun and a little bit of his hand out from behind the seat into the aisle to check for a shot but none came. His attacker was hiding, a coward. Satisfied, he prepared himself for attack.
In one fierce motion he launched himself to his feet, bent his knees and threw himself to his left across the aisle into the opposite row of seats, letting off a deafening BOOM as he fired the shotgun down the aisle, taking off the tops of some of the plastic seats and embedding tiny pellets in the walls and floor. He landed with a hard thud on the opposite seat and, ignoring the dull pain, began to roll himself back onto the floor, aiming the shotgun down below the seats.
Before he got half-way there, Howard had fired two shots from below a row of seats twenty-five feet in front of him. Duncan gasped in pain as a .38 caliber bullet grazed the side of his chest before embedding itself in the wall behind him. Struggling, Duncan used the shotgun to propel himself back onto the seat and lay there in a fetal position to conceal his limbs behind the seat for protection.
Howard lay shocked on the floor in a similar position, wondering where in hell the shotgun had appeared from. He had already fired six shots from the .38, meaning he had six left. Duncan had one. Slowly, he inched his way under the seat behind him towards Duncan in the last row. He couldn’t feel his nose.
Duncan pondered his situation and swore to himself, breathing heavily. Jesus, it was fucking cold. Almost automatically, he opened his mouth and spoke. “You had to kill Sergei?” he glanced to his side out the door. “Shit.”
“Sergei.. that’s the Russian’s name?” Howard responded pensively, “He was going to shoot me. You would’ve done the same thing, traitor.”
Duncan took in the information and thought. “Traitor, you say? So you came for me, eh…” he paused to think, wanting to drag out the encounter. “Who the hell are you then, huh? CIA? Consular Ops? What’s your name?”
Howard waited and thought. Duncan was wounded and stalling for time while he made a plan. He needed to be in control, he couldn’t do what Duncan wanted and answer his question. He needed to retain the upper hand in this increasingly psychological war.
“I’m on the floor, you know,” he said, ignoring Duncan’s question. “You could probably kill me with your last shot if you just lowered the shotty below the seat-bottoms and pulled the trigger. I mean really, you could.” He paused. “But it’s your last shot. Can you take that chance?” Howard continued to slowly inch himself forward, the noise of his advance drowned out by the frozen wind howling through the train’s door. “You miss, you’re screwed.” He let out a small chuckle. “No you can’t. Your finger won’t touch that trigger until you have a damn clear shot at me.”
He was right, thought Duncan, grimacing from the pain in his side as he searched for a way to turn the situation in his favor. “Goddammit I said who are you!… and how the hell did you catch on to me?”
“Jim Gordon told me to follow you. You were careless.”
“Goddammit, shady motherfucker said he trusted me…but Sergei’s man said that no one followed me out of the embassy.”
“I say I came out of the embassy?”
Duncan couldn’t believe what he heard. If he hadn’t gotten excited about his escape from Moscow and had taken a good long SDR Sergei would be alive and he wouldn’t be in the current grim situation. He composed himself and decided to speak. “Well shit, O nameless one, what else do you know? You know I turned in GTCEASAR.. and GTSPHERE and eleven others. You know that, right?” Howard lay on the floor, flicking the S&W’s safety on and off nervously as he listened to his prey. “One of them was actually working for the Russkies too but I beat the shit out of him and told Krassilnikov he was just a CIA puppet feeding them false information so I could be their number one asset. It felt good you know, being the important one, enjoying myself and getting rich at the same time.” Duncan continued, attempting to anger Howard and make him careless. “But I played the CIA the most with Sergei. GTBLAZE, Jim Gordon’s last big asset in Russia – a KGB dangle provided by me to give the glorious US of A top notch technological intelligence on Russia’s airplanes and satellites. All bullshit.” Howard’s thumb left the S&W’s side, the safety resting in the “off” position. He grimaced as Duncan continued: “Every single bit of information fabricated to make the CIA think and act exactly how Dzerzhinsky square wanted them to. And it was all me.” Duncan chuckled to himself, knowing he was enraging his attacker and making him careless. “If you wanted to before, you must really be lusting to kill me now, huh?”
Howard’s breathing was hard and heavy, and he had stopped crawling forward. He climbed up onto a row of seats twenty feet in front of Duncan and spoke. “I don’t just want to kill you,” he growled slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I want to make you feel the most intense, horribly violent pain imaginable to man.” He shivered in the cold air. “My name is Robert Howard, CIA, and that would be very, very satisfying.”
Duncan smiled. His aim was accomplished, and his nameless adversary would become careless with raw emotion and rage. “Larry Duncan,” he said.
For about half a minute, neither man spoke. Howard drew his coat tighter around his torso in a feeble attempt to cancel the cold while Duncan did the same to slow the bleeding in his frozen chest.
After what seemed to be forever, Duncan spoke. “Hey Howard, you got a favorite card game?” There was no response. “I like poker. You know why?” Silence. Duncan smiled weakly. “I always win.” Howard lay listening silently on the seats, disgusted. “In a way, the game of poker is a microcosm of humanity – life, the struggle we endure and compete in to survive in the world. We’re all randomly dealt a hand of cards - some good, some bad. Everybody’s given something different in life and you make of it what you can… If you’re lucky, you play your hand well and you think you got it made. you maybe get careless, but it don’t matter cause you’re fuckin’ unbeatable. But no matter how strong a hand you have, no matter what you’re life has dealt you your opponent can always have something better. And you’ll never know until he throws it down on the table and you’re caught blindly shitting your pants cause you know you’re fucked and there ain’t a goddam thing you can do about it.”
Howard thought for a minute, not quite sure how to respond. “But in poker,” he responded, “one can manipulate their luck. You can make a lot out of a little depending on how you act in the game. There’s a significant skill factor, that is, if you knows what you’re doing.”
Duncan snorted. “That sounds like a goddam capitalist approach. Now I’m no commie but I can tell a morally committed asshole conformed to society when I come across one. Why do you think I got no respect for Langley?”
Howard was enraged. “And I can tell an absolutely immoral asshole who is completely lost and absorbed in his twisted futile philosophies but doesn’t know or care about a goddam thing except himself!” he roared. “That’s it, you sick twisted bastard!” Duncan smiled.
Launching himself out of the seat-bench, Howard ran zig-zagging up the aisle towards the back of the train, firing a shot every second at the seats in front of Duncan to keep him from popping up and firing his last shotgun shell. When he was two rows in front of Duncan he threw himself to his left into the row of seats on the opposite side of Duncan, who sensed Howard coming near and fired his last shot into the aisle, leaving his ears ringing and his finger cold and sore. Pellets ripped apart the top of the seat behind which Howard was hiding and one grazed his left shoulder. That was it, Duncan was out. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder he got up to shoot but didn’t have a chance to do so. Immediately after rising from his seat, the butt of Duncan’s shotgun crashed into his jaw and laid him flat on the floor, stunned. He tried to raise the gun but Duncan kicked it and sent it sprawling back out the train’s door.
Howard scuttled backwards defensively towards the open door as Duncan brought the shotgun down towards his head with the force of all his weight. The weapon crashed into the floor and Duncan grunted fiercely as he threw himself on top of Howard, who had weakly backed himself up so his shoulders were almost even with the doorway.
Duncan slammed the butt of the shotgun down towards Howard’s frozen face, which darted to the right and barely dodged it. Howard hit Duncan twice in the face, and blood began to flow from his nose. Roaring in rage, Duncan shoved the shotgun into Howard’s neck and pressed down with all his strength. Howard frantically tried to grasp Duncan’s neck and throttle him first but his arms couldn’t reach the other man’s strained throat.
Howard, panicked and gasping for air, rammed his fist repeatedly into Duncan’s side where the bullet had skimmed his chest. Duncan’s grip on the gun loosened a little as he grimaced and gasped in pain. He drew the hunting knife from his belt, raising it for the kill.
Howard sucked in a deep breath as the pressure on his throat was lessened, and expelled it as he used all the force his cold injured body could muster to launch Duncan over his head and upside-down. Duncan dropped the shotgun in mid-flip and latched his hand onto Howard’s arm, catching him un-prepared for the fall out the door of the moving train into the cold soft snow.
Duncan landed first then bounced, his head smashing violently into the rail, rendering him bloody and unconscious. Howard landed on top of him and was thrown aside with great velocity, rolling over himself fiercely for about ten yards. Slowly and painfully, he glanced up at the train quickly disappearing in the distance. He passed out.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when he woke up, but it made no difference. His shoulder hurt like hell and the cold was overwhelming. Howard began to slowly make his way through the snow back towards the man he had to kill. He tried to get up and walk but his knees failed him and he fell. He tried this three more times, putting him within ten feet of Duncan who still lay unconscious. He closed his eyes and passed out again.
Howard woke up some time later and began to crawl through the snow the rest of the way towards Duncan. His injured shoulder ached horribly in the painful cold so he stopped using it and moved himself forward with only his right arm until he came up next to Duncan’s unconscious, weakly breathing body. Howard noticed Duncan’s hunting knife laying next to his open fist. Throwing his arm across the fallen traitor’s torso, he grabbed the knife and raised It high above his enemy’s body.
Howard brought the knife down upon his enemy with all the strength he had left in his tired injured body, repeatedly stabbing Duncan in a mad rage. Flesh was torn apart and Larry Duncan’s life was ended as Howard finally completed his quest.
He took his hand off the knife and rolled over onto his back, leaving the red steel wedged in Duncan’s chest. He lay there in the blood-soaked snow, knowing he would never make it back to Moscow to report his story. He knew Jim Gordon would never know how he followed and killed Duncan. He knew Paul Gunter in Langley would never know who the mole was, or the extent of the damage he and the false GTBLAZE had done. Hell, they wouldn’t even know that Sergei’s intelligence was a big crock of shit. Howard had solved their problem, but they would never know. Life in the CIA would continue as if nothing happened, because they would never know. But he knew. He knew the cold war would never end.
He sighed, digging in his jacket for a cigarette. Fumbling with a lighter, he attempted to light his cigarette but his frozen fingers were not capable of flicking the flint and pressing down on the gas. He tried for a few minutes until his fingers hurt more and then crushed the cigarette in his hand, then opened his fist to let the stale tobacco fall out into the reddening snow. He threw the lighter away, swearing to himself. Robert Howard, bleeding in the snow, closed his eyes and thought about poker.
