Snow Wolf: A Thriller

THE PRESENT

1

MOSCOW

I had come to bury the dead and resurrect ghosts, and so it seemed somehow appropriate that the truth and the lies of the past should begin in a graveyard.

It was raining that morning in Novodevichy Cemetery, and I was burying my father for the second time.

It isn’t often that a man gets to be buried twice, and as I stood alone under the dripping chestnut trees I could see the black Mercedes come in through the cemetery gates and brake gently to a halt near the grave. Two men stepped out, one of them middle-aged and gray-haired, the other a bearded Orthodox priest.

It’s a tradition in Russia to uncover the coffin before it’s buried, a chance for friends and relatives to kiss their dead and say their last goodbyes. But there would be no such tradition observed this wet day in June for a man who had died more than five decades before, just a simple ceremony to finally acknowledge his passing.

Someone had placed a red-flowered wreath beside the grave, I remember that, and then I saw the flashes of forked lightning illuminate the gray horizon and heard the cracks of thunder.

The Convent of Novodevichy lies south of Moscow, an ancient sixteenth-century Orthodox church surrounded by whitewashed stone walls. Five golden cupolas stand on top, and beyond the gates that lead to the cemetery is a maze of narrow roads, overgrown with weeds and crammed with marble headstones and ancient vaults.

Until a few years ago, the cemetery had been closed to the public. Khrushchev’s grave was nearby, a massive monument of black and white marble. Stalin’s wife and her family off to the right. Chekhov. Shostakovich. Grand marble edifices to heroes of the Soviet Union and writers and actors, men and women who had left their mark on Soviet history. And my father, an American, was strangely among them.

And as I stood there in the pouring rain under the wet trees in the corner of the cemetery, I saw the gray-haired man from the Mercedes put up his umbrella and speak quietly with the priest, who nodded and went to stand under one of the trees a short distance away.

The gray-haired man was in his late forties, tall and well built, and he wore a smart blue business suit under his damp raincoat. He smiled warmly as he came toward me.

A wet day for it, wouldn’t you say? He offered his hand. Brad Taylor, US Embassy. You must be Massey?

The handshake was firm and as I let go I said, For a while there I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.

Sorry I’m late, I got held up at the embassy. He took a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one. Smoke? I hope it doesn’t seem disrespectful?

No, it doesn’t, and thanks, I don’t mind if I do.

He lit both our cigarettes and looked back over at the priest as he arranged his white vestments under his black raincoat and removed a Bible from his pocket, almost ready to begin.

Taylor said, "Bob tells me you’re a journalist with the Washington Post. Have you ever been to Moscow before, Mr. Massey?"

Once, five years ago on a brief assignment. What else did Bob tell you?

Taylor smiled, showing a row of perfectly white and even teeth. Just enough so I wouldn’t be at a loss when we met. He said you were a friend of his from way back, when you were at boarding school together. And he said to make sure everything went smoothly for you while you’re in Moscow. Bob seemed very anxious about that.

Taylor went to say something else then, but hesitated and looked back just as the priest had made himself ready, lighting a small censer of incense before he came over to join us.

Someone had left a fresh marble slab against one of the trees, and I could make out the simple chiseled inscription in Cyrillic letters.

JAKOB MASSEY

Born: January 3, 1912

Died: March 1, 1953

Nearby was an old unmarked stone slab that had been uprooted from the grave, green with lichen and weathered by the years. There was another one still lying on the ground, marking a second grave beside my father’s, looking just as old, and out of the corner of my eye I saw two gravediggers wearing capes standing a distance away under some trees, waiting to go to work and erect my father’s headstone.

And as I stood there, I realized how suddenly everything had come together. One of those twists of luck that seem to conspire now and then to make you believe in fate. A week ago and over five thousand miles away in Washington, I had received the phone call from Langley, telling me they had arranged the funeral ceremony and that Anna Khorev would meet me in Moscow. It had taken three days to finalize the details, and by then I could hardly contain my excitement.

The Orthodox priest stepped forward, shook my hand, and asked in perfect English, Shall I begin now?

Thank you.

He stepped toward the grave and started to pray as he swung the censer of fragrant incense, chanting the prayers for the dead in Russian.

It was all over in no time at all, and then the priest withdrew and went back to the car. The gravediggers came over and began to place the fresh headstone on my father’s tomb. Taylor said, Well, I guess that’s it, except for your lady friend, Anna Khorev. She arrived early this morning from Tel Aviv. That’s what kept me.

Taylor lit us both another cigarette. I guess Bob explained the ground rules.

Sure. No photographs, no audio recorder. Everything is off the record.

Taylor smiled. I guess that about covers everything. The place she’s at is in the Swallow Hills outside Moscow. Belongs to the Israeli Embassy, one of their staff houses they vacated for the meeting. He handed me a slip of paper. That’s the address. They’re expecting you, and the appointment is for three this afternoon. He hesitated. You mind if I ask you a question?

Ask away.

He nodded over toward my father’s grave. Bob told me your father died a pretty long time ago. How come you’re having this service here today?

All I can tell you is my father worked for the American government. He died in Moscow in 1953.

Did he work for our embassy here?

No.

Taylor said, confused, I thought Moscow was out of bounds to Americans during the Cold War, except for those working in the embassy. How did your father die?

That’s what I’m here to find out.

Taylor looked puzzled and he went to say something else then, but suddenly thunder cracked above us and he glanced up.

Well, I’d like to stay and talk, but duty beckons. He crushed his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. I’ve got to take the padre back. Can I give you a lift someplace?

I tossed away my cigarette. No need, I’ll find a taxi. I’d like to stay awhile. Thanks for your help.

Whatever you say. Taylor put up his umbrella. Good luck, Massey. And I sure hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.

  •  •  •  

This is what I remember.

A cold, windy evening in March 1953. I am eight. I am in my dormitory in the boarding school in Richmond, Virginia. I hear the footsteps creak on the stairs outside, hear the door open. I look up and see the headmaster standing there, another man behind him, but this man isn’t a teacher or staff. He’s wearing an overcoat and leather gloves, and he stares at me before he smiles weakly.

The headmaster says, William, this gentleman is here to see you. He looks meaningfully at the other two boys in the room. Would you leave William alone for a while?

The boys depart. The headmaster withdraws. The man comes in and closes the door. He’s broad and hard-faced, with deep-set eyes, and looks every inch a soldier with his tight-cropped haircut and polished brown shoes.

For a long time he says nothing, as if he finds what he’s about to tell me difficult, and then he says, William, my name is Karl Branigan. I was a colleague of your father’s.

Something in the tone of his voice puts me on my guard, the way he says was a colleague, and I look up at him and ask, What’s this about, Mr. Branigan?

William, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. It’s about your father . . .he’s dead. I’m sorry . . .truly sorry.

The man just stands there and doesn’t speak again. And then I’m crying, but the man doesn’t come toward me or touch me or offer any comfort, and for the first time in my life I feel utterly alone. A little later I hear his footsteps go down the creaking stairs again. The wind screams and rushes outside the window. A tree branch brushes against the wall, then creaks and snaps. I call for my father. But he doesn’t answer.

And then a scream from deep inside me, which echoes still inside my head, a terrible cry of grief, and I can’t stop my tears.

I remember running after that. Nowhere in particular. Out through the oak doors of the school and across damp, cold Virginian fields, grief heavy as stone in my heart, until I found the cold river that ran through the grounds. I lay on the wet grass and buried my face in my hands and wished my father back.

It was later that I learned something of my father’s death. They never told me where exactly he had died, only that it was somewhere in Europe and it had been suicide. The body had been in water for weeks and it wasn’t a pretty sight for a young boy, so they hadn’t let me see it. There was a funeral, but no more explanations or answers to my questions because no one bothers to tell a child such things. But years later those unanswered questions always came back: Why? Where? It was to take a long time to learn the truth.

Ten days ago when my mother died I went back to the rooms where she had lived and embarked on the ritual of going through her things. There were no tears, because I had never really known her. We hadn’t seen each other much over the years, a card or two, a brief letter once in a while, because we had never been that close, not the way I had been with my father. My parents had divorced soon after I was born, and my mother had gone her own way, leaving my father to bring me up.

She had been a dancer in one of the Broadway shows, and knowing my father even the little I did as a child, I always guessed they had never been suited.

She rented a small apartment on New York’s Upper East Side. I remember the place was in disarray. An untidy single bed, a single chair, some empty gin bottles, and a bottle of blond hair dye. Letters from old boyfriends and some from my father, held together with elastic bands, kept in an old tin box under her bed.

I found the letter from my father. Old and faded with years, its edges curling and the color of papyrus.

It was dated January 24, 1953.

Dear Rose,

Just a line to let you know William is well and doing fine at school. I’m going to be away for a time, and if anything should happen to me I want you to know (as usual) there’s enough money in my account to see you both through, along with my service insurance. Dangerous times we’re living in! I hear they’re building air-raid shelters on Broadway because of the threat from the Russians.

I’m keeping well and I hope you are. One more thing, should anything happen to me: I’d be obliged if you’d check the house, and if you find any papers lying around in the study or in the usual place in the cellar, do me a favor and pass them on to the office in Washington. Will you do that for me?

Jake

I read through the other letters out of curiosity. There was nothing much in there. Some were from men, notes sent backstage from someone who had seen her in the chorus line and liked her legs and wanted to buy her dinner. There were a couple more from my father, but none that hinted at how they might have once loved each other. I guess she destroyed those.

But I thought about that line in the letter about the papers. The house that had been my father’s was now mine. It was an old clapboard place he had bought when he and my mother first moved to Washington, and after he died it ran to ruin for a long time until I was old enough to tidy it up. It had taken me years to get it back into shape. There had once been a steel Diebold safe sunk into the floor in my father’s study in which he used to keep documents and papers. But I remembered his saying once that he never trusted safes, because they could always be opened by someone determined or clever enough. The safe was long gone, and the room refurbished. But I didn’t know of any other place he might have used.

So the day I got back from sorting my mother’s affairs I went down to the cellar. It was a place I rarely went, filled with long-forgotten bric-a-brac that had belonged to my parents and boxes of stuff I’d kept over the years and had promised myself I’d get rid of. Remembering the study safe, I shifted the cardboard and wooden boxes around and checked the concrete floors.

I found nothing.

Then I started on the walls.

It took me quite a while before I found the two loose red bricks high in the back wall above the cellar door.

I remember my heart was pounding a little. I wondered whether I would find anything, or if my mother had long ago already done as my father had asked, or if she’d ignored him as she so often did. I reached up and pulled out the bricks. There was a deep recess inside, and I saw the large yellowed legal pad lying there between the covers of a manila file, worn and faded.

There are some things that change your life forever. Like marriage or divorce or someone on the end of a telephone telling you there’s been a death of someone close in the family.

But nothing prepared me for what I found behind those bricks in the cellar.

I took the old pad upstairs and read it through. Two pages had been written on in blue ink, in my father’s handwriting.

Four names. Some dates. Some details and sketchy notes, as if he was trying to work something out, none of it making much sense. And a code name: Operation Snow Wolf.

My father had worked for the CIA. He had been a military man all his life and had worked in OSS during the war, operating behind German lines. That much I knew, but not much else, until I found that old yellow pad.

For a long time I sat there, trying to figure it all out, my heart and mind racing, until I saw the date on one of the pages, and it finally clicked.

I drove to Arlington National Cemetery. For a long time I looked at my father’s grave, looked at the inscription.

JAKOB MASSEY

Born: January 3, 1912

Died: February 20, 1953

I looked at those words until my eyes were on fire from looking. Then I went and made photocopies of the written pages I’d found and delivered the originals in a sealed envelope to my lawyer.

I made the call to Bob Vitali an hour later. He still worked for the CIA in Langley. We were both the same age and I figured he was due to retire.

Bill, it’s been a long time, Vitali said cheerfully. ‘‘Don’t tell me. There’s a school reunion, right? Why do they always have these things when you’re just about getting over those days? The amount of money that place in Richmond cost me in shrink’s bills . . ."

I told him what I had found and how I had found it, but not the contents.

So what? You found some forgotten papers of your old man’s. Sure, he worked for the CIA, but that was a long time ago. Do yourself a favor and burn them.

I think someone should come and look at them.

Are you kidding? Is this what this call is about?

Bob, I really think someone should come and look at them.

Vitali sighed, and I could picture him looking at his watch at the other end.

Okay, what’s in there? Give me something I can work with, and I’ll ask around, see if what you found is important. Remember, we’re talking over fifty years. I’m pretty sure whatever you’ve found has been declassified. I think maybe you’re getting excited over nothing.

Bob, please come and look at them.

Vitali said impatiently, Bill, I haven’t got the time to drive to your place. Give me something to go on, for heaven’s sakes.

Operation Snow Wolf.

What’s that?

That’s what it says on the top of the first page on the pad.

Never heard of it. What else?

There’s more.

Like what more?

Come over, and look at the pages.

Vitali sighed. Bill, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll ask some of the Archives boys, and see what I can come up with. See if this Snow Wolf thing rings a bell. I could hear the impatience in his voice. Listen, I’ve got a call coming in, I’ll talk to you soon. Be good, man.

The line clicked dead.

I stood up and went into the kitchen and made coffee. It seemed as though I sat there for a long time, my heart still pounding as I thought about those pages and what they might mean. I didn’t want to tell Vitali everything, because I wanted to know what Langley knew. My mind was ablaze, but I didn’t know what to do next.

It must have been an hour later when I heard the screech of car tires outside. I looked out of the window and saw two black limousines pull up, and half a dozen men step out briskly, Bob Vitali among them.

He looked white-faced, and when I went to the door he said urgently, Can I come in? We need to talk.

The others waited outside on the porch while Vitali came into the room with just one other man. He was tall, maybe sixty, distinguished, with silver hair. He had an arrogant look about him, and he didn’t smile or speak. Then Vitali said, Bill, I guess you figured this is about those papers you found—

The other man interrupted sharply, Mr. Massey, my name is Donahue. I’m a section head with the CIA. Bob explained about what you told him. May I see the papers you have, please?

I handed him the papers.

He looked white. These are copies!

Donahue’s tone demanded an explanation. I looked at him. The originals are in a safe place.

A muscle twitched in Donahue’s face, suddenly stern, then he glanced at Vitali before reading slowly through the photocopies. Finally he sat down with a worried look. Mr. Massey, those papers belong to the CIA.

They belonged to my father. He worked for the CIA.

Donahue’s voice was firm. Mr. Massey, we can argue that point all evening, but the papers you hold are still classified top secret. As such, they are government property.

They were written a long time ago.

It makes no difference—that classification still applies. Anything in those particular papers will never be made public. The operation referred to in the file was a highly secret and sensitive one. I can’t possibly stress both those words enough. The original papers, please.

I’ll make a deal with you.

No deals, Massey, the papers, please, Donahue demanded.

I was determined not to be bulldozed. I think you’d better listen to me, Donahue. My father died decades ago. I never knew where or when or how he really died. I want answers. And I want to know exactly what this Operation Snow Wolf was that he became involved in.

Out of the question, I’m afraid.

I’m a journalist. I can have the papers published, write an article, investigate, see if anyone who worked for the CIA back then remembers something. You might be surprised what it turns up.

Donahue paled again. I can assure you not a paper in the land will publish anything you may care to write on the matter we’re discussing. The CIA would not allow it. And your investigation would lead absolutely nowhere.

I stared back at him. So much for democracy. Then maybe I couldn’t publish here, I said. But there are always newspapers abroad you can’t control.

Donahue went silent, his brow furrowed, and I could see his mind was ticking over furiously. What do you want, Massey?

The answer to those questions. I want to know the truth. And I want to meet the people involved with my father on that mission, whoever’s still alive.

That’s quite impossible. They’re all dead.

Hardly all of them. There must be someone. One of those four names on the pad: Alex Slanski. Anna Khorev. Henri Lebel. Irena Dezov. Whoever they were. I don’t just want a report secondhand. You could tell me anything you care to. I want evidence. Flesh-and-blood evidence. Someone to speak with who knew my father and the operation and knows how he really died. And, I said firmly, I want to know what happened to his body.

This time Donahue turned terribly pale. Your father was buried in Washington.

That’s a complete lie, and you know it. Look at the copies, Donahue. There’s a date written on the last page—February 20, 1953—in my father’s handwriting. You people told me my father died in Europe on that date. That’s the date on his tombstone—February 20. Now I may be dumb, but dead men don’t write notes. The CIA said my father died abroad, but he was here in this house on that day. You know something? I don’t think you even buried my father. I don’t think you had a body. That’s why you people never let me see it; that’s why you gave me all that bull about his being in the water too long. I was a kid—I wouldn’t question not being allowed to see the body. But I’m questioning it now. My father didn’t commit suicide. He didn’t drown himself. He died on this Snow Wolf operation, didn’t he?

Donahue gave a weak smile. Mr. Massey, I think you’re being highly speculative and really over-the-top here.

Then let’s not speculate any longer. I went to see my lawyer. I’m having the body exhumed. And when that coffin’s opened, I don’t think I’ll find my father inside. And then I’ll have you and your superiors dragged into a public court to explain.

Donahue didn’t answer, just went a deep red. He was either totally embarrassed or he wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. He looked briefly at Vitali for support, but Bob just sat there, in some kind of shock, as if he were struck dumb or completely in fear of the man or both.

Finally, Donahue stood up, looking as if he wanted to hit me. I want you to understand something, Massey. You do that, and you’ll find yourself in a whole lot of trouble.

From whom?

Donahue didn’t reply, just kept staring at me.

I stared back, then adopted a more conciliatory approach. If you tell me what really happened to my father, what harm can it do? I’ll agree to return the papers. And if it’s that secret I’ll agree to sign whatever you want pledging my silence afterwards. Don’t talk to me about trouble, Donahue. Not knowing the truth about my father, being told he killed himself, cost me years of trouble and pain. I looked at Donahue determinedly. But believe me, if someone doesn’t tell me the truth, I’ll do what I say.

Donahue sighed, then looked at me angrily, and his mouth tightened. I think I should tell you at this point that this matter is no longer within my control.

Meaning?

I need to make a phone call, Mr. Massey. A very important one. The person I speak to will have to call someone else. Both these people will have to agree before your demands can be met.

I looked at him. Who are you going to call?

The president of the United States.

It was my turn to react. And who’s he going to call?

Donahue flicked a look at Vitali, then back at me.

The president of Russia.

  •  •  •  

The rain had stopped, and the sun shone warmly between broken clouds and glinted off the golden onion domes of Novodevichy Convent.

I looked down at the two simple graves lying in the earth, my father’s and the worn and weathered slab beside it. There was no name and no inscription on the slab, just blank stone, the way my father’s was.

In all Russian cemeteries there are small chairs facing the graves, a place for relatives to come with a bottle of vodka and sit and talk to their departed. But there were no chairs beside these stones; they were forgotten, the ground around them overgrown with weeds and grass.

I wondered about the grave but knew there was no use wondering, even though my mind was already racing. By some instinct I realized there was something about this simple unmarked slab that related to my father’s death.

There was so little I knew and so much to learn. I hoped Anna Khorev would tell me.

I walked back to the cemetery gates and found a taxi, drove back through the hot, crowded Moscow streets to my hotel room, and waited. I lay on my bed and closed my eyes, but I did not sleep.

Now that the rain was gone, the heat lingered like smoke on a windless day.

I had waited over fifty years to know my father’s secret.

Another few hours was nothing.

  •  •  •  

The sun was shining on the Swallow Hills, flowers blooming in the gardens of the big wooden houses that overlook the Moscow River. The address was one of the old villas from the tsar’s time. A big, rambling place with a white picket fence and clapboard shutters and flower boxes out front.

The taxi dropped me at the gate, and when I walked up two men in plain clothes, Israeli guards, were standing beside a security hut. They checked my passport, and one of them examined the bunch of white orchids I had brought, then telephoned the villa before they opened the gate for me and I walked up to the front.

Unexpectedly it was a young woman who opened the door when I rang the bell. She wore jeans and a sweater and was in her early twenties, tall and dark-haired and deeply tanned. The smile was warm when she said in English, Mr. Massey, please come in.

I followed her into a cool marble hall that echoed our footsteps.

She led me out to the back of the villa. The gardens were dazzling with color, but in the bright Moscow sunshine the place looked a little shabby. Creepers grew raggedly on walls, and the house looked as if it could use a coat of fresh paint.

As I followed the girl across the patio I saw the elderly woman waiting at a table. She was tall and elegant, with one of those chiseled, well-proportioned faces that keep their age so well.

She must have been well into her seventies, but she didn’t look it. She was remarkably handsome. Her face had a Slavic look, high cheekbones, and although her hair was completely gray, she looked like a woman ten years younger. She wore a simple black dress that hugged her slim figure, dark glasses, and a white scarf tied around her neck.

She stared up at my face for a long time before she stood and offered her hand. Mr. Massey, it’s good to meet you.

I shook her hand and offered her the orchids.

Just to say hello. They tell me all Russians adore flowers.

She smiled and smelled the flowers. How very kind. Would you like something to drink? A coffee? Some brandy?

A drink would be good.

Russian brandy? Or is that too strong for you Americans?

Not at all. That sounds fine.

The girl hovered by her side, poured me a drink from a tray, and handed it across.

The woman placed the orchids on the coffee table and said, Thank you, Rachel. You may leave us now. When the young woman had gone she said, My granddaughter. She traveled with me to Moscow, as if explaining the girl’s presence, and then she smiled again. And I’m Anna Khorev, but doubtless you know that.

She offered me a cigarette from a pack on the table, and I accepted. She took one herself, and when she had lit both, she looked out at the view. She must have been aware of my staring at her, but then I guessed she was used to men staring.

She smiled as she looked back at me. Well, Mr. Massey, I hear you’ve been very persistent.

I guess it comes with the territory of being a journalist.

She laughed, an easy laugh, and then she said, So tell me what you know about me.

I sipped the brandy. Almost nothing until a week ago, when I learned you were still alive and living in Israel.

Is that all?

Oh, there’s more, I assure you.

She seemed amused. Go on, please.

You once escaped from a Soviet prison camp after being sentenced to life imprisonment. You’re the only survivor of a top-secret CIA mission, code-named Snow Wolf.

I can see your friends in Langley filled you in. She smiled. Tell me more.

I sat back and looked at her. They told me hardly anything. I think they wanted to leave that to you. Except they did tell me my father wasn’t buried in Washington, but in an unmarked grave in Moscow. He died on active service for his country, and you were with him when it happened.

She nodded at me to continue.

I found some papers. Old papers of his he kept.

So I’m told.

Four names were written in the pages, and they cropped up several times. Yours. And Alex Slanski, Henri Lebel, and Irena Dezov. There was also a line written on the bottom of one of the pages that said, ‘If they’re caught, may heaven help us all.’ I was hoping you could help me there.

For a long time Anna Khorev said nothing, just looked at me through her dark glasses. And then she removed them, and I saw her eyes. They were big and dark brown and very beautiful.

I said, That line means something to you?

She hesitated. Yes, she said enigmatically. She was silent for several moments and turned her head to look away. When she looked back she said, Tell me what else you know.

I sat back in my chair. The file cover I found, would you care to see it?

Anna Khorev nodded. I took the photocopied single sheet from my pocket and handed it across.

She read it for several moments, then slowly laid the page on the table.

I glanced down. I had read it so many times I didn’t need to read it again.

OPERATION SNOW WOLF.

SECURITY, CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, SOVIET DIVISION.

VITAL: ALL COPY FILES AND NOTE DETAILS RELATING TO THIS OPERATION TO BE DESTROYED AFTER USE.

REPEAT, DESTROYED.

UTMOST SECRECY. REPEAT, UTMOST SECRECY.

Her face showed no reaction as she looked back at me.

So when you read this and the other pages and learned your father had not committed suicide or died on the date you were told, you realized there was perhaps more to his death and went looking for answers?

That’s when I was offered a deal. If I agreed to hand over the original pages I’d hear some answers, and I’d be present when my father was given a proper burial service. But I was told that the matter was still highly secret and that I had to sign a declaration promising to uphold that secrecy.

Anna Khorev crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and said lightly, Yes, I know all about your friends in Langley, Mr. Massey.

Then you’ll also know I was told that it was all up to you, whether you’d tell me what I wanted to know.

Which is?

The truth about my father’s death. The truth, pure and simple, about Snow Wolf and how my father ended up in a grave in Moscow at the height of the Cold War.

She didn’t answer but stood and crossed to the veranda.

I sat forward in my chair. The way I see it, my father was involved in something highly covert, something that people are still reluctant to talk about. I’m not just talking about a secret. I’m talking about something totally extraordinary.

Why extraordinary?

Because the people from Langley I spoke with still wanted to hide the truth after all these years. Because when my father was involved in the operation, it was a time when the Russians and the Americans were out to annihilate one another. And you’re the only person alive who might know what happened to my father. I looked at her. Am I right?

She didn’t speak, and I continued to look at her.

Can I tell you something? I lost my father decades ago. A whole lifetime of not having a father to talk to and to be loved by. It was like having a hole inside me for a long time, until finally he just slowly became a wistful memory. I had to live with the lie that he took his own life. And you—you know how and why he really died. And what’s more, I think you owe me an explanation.

She didn’t reply, just looked at me thoughtfully.

I said, And I have a question. Why did you want to meet me in Moscow and not someplace else? I was told you escaped from this country. Why come back?

Anna Khorev thought for a moment. I suppose the simple truth of it is I would very much have liked to have gone to your father’s ceremony, Mr. Massey, but I considered it your own private affair. Perhaps my just coming here was the next-best thing. She hesitated. Besides, I’ve never seen his grave. And it was something I wanted to do.

The second grave, the one beside my father’s—it had the same unmarked headstone. Whom does the grave belong to?

Something passed across her face then, a look like sadness, and she said, Someone very brave. Someone quite remarkable indeed.

Who?

She looked out at the view of the city, toward the red walls of the Kremlin, as if she was trying to make up her mind, and then she finally turned back to look at me. She seemed to soften suddenly, and she looked down briefly at the flowers on the table. You know you look very much like your father? He was a good man, a very good man. And everything you’ve said is true. She paused. You’re right. All that pain and silence deserve an explanation. And that’s why I’m here. Tell me, what do you know about Joseph Stalin, Mr. Massey?

The unexpectedness of her question threw me, and I looked at her for several moments. I shrugged. No more than most. He was a god to some, I guess. The devil to others. Depends on which side of the fence you sat on. But certainly one of the great despots of the century. They say he was responsible for as many deaths as, if not more than, Hitler. He died of a cerebral hemorrhage eight years after the war.

Anna Khorev shook her head fiercely. Twenty-three million deaths. Not including those who died in the last war because of his stupidity. Twenty-three million of his own people whom he murdered. Men, women, children. Slaughtered. Shot or sent to die in camps worse than the Nazis ever imagined, by one of the cruelest men this world has ever known.

I sat back, surprised by the sudden ferocity in her voice. I don’t understand. What has this got to do with what we’re discussing?

It has everything to do with it. Stalin died, certainly, but not in the way the history books record.

I sat there stunned for several moments. Anna Khorev’s face looked deadly serious. Finally she said, I guess the story I’m going to tell you goes back a long time, to when it first began in Switzerland.

She smiled suddenly. And do you know something? You’re the first person I’ve spoken to about it in over fifty years.

THE PAST

PART ONE

1952

2

LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND

DECEMBER 11

All over Europe that year the news seemed to have been nothing but bad.

In Germany, the past was to resurface at Nuremberg, where a tribunal began its hearing into the Katyn Forest massacre of 1940. Four thousand bodies had been unearthed outside a small Polish town, all bound and shot with small-caliber pistols, the grisly remains of what had once been the cream of the Polish Army.

It was the year that also saw the French face an all-out offensive by the Viet Minh, a bloody war was raging in Korea, and in Europe the Iron Curtain was lowered between West Berlin and the surrounding Soviet Zone, the ultimate gesture by the Kremlin indicating a postwar peace was not to be.

Otherwise, wartime rationing was still in force in Britain; Eva Perón died; Republican Dwight D. Eisenhower beat his Democratic rival, Adlai Stevenson, in the US presidential election; and in Hollywood, one of the few bright moments in a dull year was the debut appearance of a stunning blond starlet named Marilyn Monroe.

To Manfred Kass, stalking through the woods outside the old Swiss city of Lucerne that cold December morning, such things hardly mattered. And although he could not have known it, that day was to mark a beginning, and also an ending.

It was growing light when Kass parked his ancient black Opel on the road in front of the entrance to the woods. He removed the single-barrel shotgun from beneath the blanket on the backseat of the car. It was a Merkel twelve-gauge, getting a little old now, but still reliable. He climbed out and locked the doors before slipping a cartridge into the breech but leaving the gun broken. He shoveled a boxful of cartridges into the pockets of his shooting jacket, then started to walk into the woods.

At thirty-two, Kass was a tall, awkward man. He walked clumsily and with a slight limp. The clumsiness had been with him since childhood, but the limp had been an unwanted memento from the Battle of Kiev eleven years before. Though he was born in Germany, being conscripted into Hitler’s army had not been one of Kass’s ambitions in life. He had intended to emigrate to Lucerne before the war, where his wife’s uncle ran the bakery business, but he had left it too late, the way he had left many things in his life.

Trust me, Hilda, he had told his wife when the winds of war had started to whisper and she suggested they beat a hasty retreat to Switzerland and her family. "There won’t be a war, liebchen."

Two days later Hitler invaded Poland.

Kass had been proven wrong on many other occasions. Such as when he volunteered for the front at the start of the Russian campaign. He reckoned that because the German army was rolling across the steppes of the Ukraine with such ease, and because the Russkis were dirty and stupid peasants, the war against them would be a piece of cake.

He had been right about one thing. The Russians he had met were generally dirty, stupid peasants. But they were also fierce fighters. And the fiercest enemy of all had been the Russian winter. So cold that your own piss froze, and you had to snap it off when it turned to solid ice. So razor-sharp were the freezing Baltic and Siberian winds that swept over the steppes that within minutes of defecating, your own waste was freeze-blasted as hard as cement.

Kass had laughed the first time he saw his own frozen turd. But it was nothing to laugh at really. Prodding the phenomenon with his bayonet, he had been hit by a sniper’s bullet. A clear shot from two hundred yards, into the right flank of his bare backside.

Manfred Kass was used to making mistakes.

But the mistake he was about to make that December morning in the woods outside Lucerne was to be the biggest of his life.

He knew the forest reasonably well. Which paths led where, and the locations of the best rabbit grounds. The rabbits made a good tasty stew to accompany the fresh, floury bread he helped to bake six nights a week. And the thought of food made him hungry as he stalked through the forest, snapping the breech of the shotgun closed as he came closer to the clearing in the woods.

The light was getting better. A faint, watery mist lingered on the low ground. Not perfect light, but bright enough for him to get a clear shot.

As Kass stepped carefully toward the clearing, he heard the voices. He halted and rubbed his stubbly jaw. He had never met anyone in the woods that early, and the sound of voices made him curious. It occurred to him that he might have come across a courting couple, still out after a late Friday night dance in Lucerne, who had come to make love in the woods. It sometimes happened, he supposed. But he had not seen any car parked on the road, nor any bicycle tracks in the forest.

As Kass moved through the trees to the edge of the clearing, his eyes snapped open and he halted, riveted to the spot.

A man wearing a dark winter overcoat and hat stood in the center of the forest clearing. He held a pistol in his hand. But what shocked Kass, stunned him, was that it was aimed at a man and a young girl kneeling in the wet grass, their faces deathly white, their hands and feet bound with rope.

As Kass stumbled back, his belly churned, and his body broke out into a cold sweat. The kneeling man was crying in pitiful sobs. He was middle-aged, his face painfully thin and sickly gray, and Kass noticed the dark bruises under his eyes and the cuts on his hands indicating he had been savagely beaten.

The child was crying, too, but there was a white cloth gagging her mouth and tied behind her long dark hair. She was no more than ten, Kass guessed, and when he saw the frightened, pitiful look on her face, her body trembling with fear, it made him want to vomit.

And then suddenly Kass’s anger flared, his veins no longer ice but boiling now, because there was something pitiful and debauched about the man and the young girl kneeling there as if waiting for death.

He looked at the man. His weapon had a long, slim silencer, but from where Kass stood he couldn’t see his face, only his profile. But he noticed a vivid red scar that ran from the man’s left eye to his jaw, the blemish so livid that from a distance it looked as if someone had painted it on.

He was talking to the man kneeling in the grass, and in between his sobs the kneeling man was pleading. Kass couldn’t hear the words, but he could see that the man with the scar was not listening, realized that what he was about to witness was an execution.

And then it happened. So fast Kass hardly had time to react.

The scar-faced man lifted his pistol until it was level with the kneeling man’s forehead. The weapon gave a hoarse cough. A bullet slammed into the man’s skull, and his body jerked and crumpled on the grass.

The child screamed behind her gag, her eyes wild with raw fear.

Kass swallowed, wanted to scream, too, felt icy sweat run down his face. He felt his heart was about to explode with terror. He wanted to turn back, to run, not witness what was about to happen, but for the first time he seemed to realize that he held the shotgun in his hands and that unless he did something the child was going to die.

He saw her struggle helplessly as the executioner pressed the tip of the barrel to her head and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

As Kass fumbled to raise his shotgun, he called out hoarsely, Halt!

An angry, hard face turned to look at him. The scar-faced man stared coldly at Kass, his thin lips like slits cut in his face with a razor. His eyes seemed to take in everything at a glance, flicking to the forest left and right, then settling on Kass again, assessing his enemy, but no sign of fear showed in his eyes.

Kass called out shakily, Stop, do you hear me? Put down your weapon!

He heard the naked fear in his own voice and barely had time to squeeze the trigger as his adversary swung around and the silenced pistol gave another hoarse cough. The bullet smashed into Kass’s right jaw, shattering bone and teeth, slicing through flesh, flinging him back against a tree, the shotgun flying from his grasp.

As Kass screamed in agony he saw the man fire into the child’s head. Her body jerked and crumpled.

Kass stumbled back into the trees, but the man was already rushing toward him. As Kass crashed through the woods and fled, oblivious to the pain in his shattered jaw, his only thoughts were of survival and making it back to the car.

Fifty yards to go and he could see the Opel through the trees, could hear the man rushing through the forest after him.

Fifty long yards that seemed like a thousand, and Kass ran like a man possessed, a hand on his bloodied face, his whole body on fire with a powerful will to survive, the horrifying image of the young girl’s execution replaying in his mind like a terrible nightmare, spurring him on.

Thirty yards.

Please, Lord.

Twenty.

Ten.

Lord, no.

Please.

A bullet zinged through the trees, splintering wood to his left.

Holy Mother . . .

And then suddenly he was out of the woods.

As he reached the Opel and yanked open the door the man emerged out of the forest behind him.

Kass did not hear the shot that hit him, but he felt the bullet slip between his back ribs like a red-hot dagger. It jerked him forward onto the hood of the Opel.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The bodies were found in the woods two days later. Another hunter, like Kass, but this one more fortunate because he hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He threw up when he saw the child’s body.

Her pretty face was frozen and white. The flesh around her head wound and behind her neck had been partly chewed away by forest rodents.

Even the hardened policemen of the Lucerne Kriminalamt thought it one of the most brutal murder scenes they had ever witnessed. There was always something pitiful and particularly repugnant about the body of a murdered child.

The subsequent forensic and pathology examinations determined that the girl was aged between ten and twelve. She had not been raped, but there was severe bruising on her legs, arms, chest, and genital area, which suggested she had been badly beaten and tortured some hours before being shot. The same with the man’s corpse lying next to hers. Both bodies were placed in cold storage in the Lucerne police morgue.

The only corpse that could be identified was that of Manfred Kass. In his wallet was a driver’s license and a shotgun permit, and he wore a wristwatch with an inscription, To Manni, with love, Hilda.

The police learned that the bakery worker had gone hunting after his Friday night shift and they deduced that he had perhaps stumbled onto the slaughter of the man and the child and paid with his life.

But of the murderer or his identity, there was no trace at all.

A month later there was still no evidence that linked the two unknown corpses to missing persons. Both had no personal identification and had been wearing the sort of clothes that could be bought in any large clothing store in Europe. The child’s dress and underwear had been purchased in a Paris department store; the man’s suit had been bought from a very popular chain of men’s outfitters in Germany.

Concerning the bodies, the only clue was a faded, minute tattoo on the man’s right arm. It was of a small white dove, inches above his wrist.

3

WASHINGTON, D.C.

DECEMBER 12

It was a little after eight in the evening when the DC-6 carrying President-elect Dwight D. Eisenhower from Tokyo landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Washington, D.C.

Although he was not to take over the reins of power until January, Eisenhower had flown to Seoul a month after his election to assess personally the war situation in the Far East, wanting to see for himself the state of play on the muddy battlefields of Korea.

His meeting with President Harry Truman the next day was unofficial, and after the brief welcome Truman suggested they take a walk in the White House gardens.

The air was crisp and clear, the ground covered in a moist carpet of brown and gold leaves, as Truman led Eisenhower down the path through the lawns where the Secret Service men stood at strategic intervals.

The two men seemed a strange pair: the small, bespectacled president with the bow tie and walking cane who, like a certain predecessor, believed that the way to earn respect was to speak softly and carry a big stick, and the tall, erect military man and former five-star general who had been a professional soldier all his life.

They reached one of the oak benches, and Truman gestured for them to sit. He lit up a Havana cigar, puffed out smoke, and sighed. You know what I’m going to do the day after I leave office? I’m going to fly down to Florida and bake under a hot sun. Maybe do me some fishing. Seems like I haven’t had time for that in years. The president hesitated before he looked at Eisenhower’s face and said more seriously, Tell me, Ike, what’s your opinion of Stalin?

The president called his successor by his nickname, the one that had stuck with him since West Point as a young cadet. Eisenhower ran a hand over his almost bald head. His shoulders tensed as he sat forward and looked out at the White House gardens.

You mean as a military adversary?

Truman shook his head. I meant as a man.

Eisenhower shrugged and laughed bitterly. I don’t think you need to ask me that question. I’m on the record in that regard. The man’s a despot and a dictator. Shrewd and cunning as they come. You could say he’s the cause of all our present problems, or certainly most of them. I wouldn’t trust the man an inch.

Truman leaned forward, his voice firm. Heck, Ike, that’s my point. He is the whole darned problem. Forget about the Chinese. We don’t have to worry about them for at least another ten years down the road. But the way the Russians are moving so fast with their nuclear research they’re going to be way ahead of us militarily. And you know as well as I do they’ve got some pretty good technical minds working for them—the top ex-Nazi scientists. We’ve exploded a hydrogen device, but they’re working on the actual bomb, for heaven’s sakes. And they’ll make it, Ike, you mark my words, and sooner than we think. And when that happens, old Joe Stalin knows he can do pretty much as he likes.

What do our intelligence people say?

About the Russian hydrogen program? Six months. Maybe sooner. But six months at the outside. The word is, Stalin’s authorized unlimited funds. And our latest intelligence reports say they’ve built a test site at a place near Omsk, in Siberia.

Eisenhower frowned. The sun was still warm on his face as he glanced toward the Washington Monument half a mile away. He looked back as Truman put down his cigar and spoke again.

Ike, this is the first real opportunity we’ve had to talk in private, and no doubt the CIA will be briefing you in the coming weeks, but there’s something else you ought to know. Something pretty disturbing.

Eisenhower studied the small, dapper-dressed man. You mean about the Russian bomb program?

Truman shook his head, and his face appeared suddenly grim. No. What I’m talking about is a report. A highly classified report. It was sent to me by the special Soviet Department we have over near the Potomac. I want you to read it. The source is a highly placed contact who has links to the Kremlin. And to tell you the truth, the report has me scared. More scared than I’ve been in a long time. And you’re looking at a man who’s come through two world wars, like yourself. But this— Truman broke off and shook his head. Heck, to be honest, this worries me even more than the Germans or the Japs did.

There was a look of surprise on Eisenhower’s face. You mean the source of the report is a Russian?

An émigré Russian, to be precise.

Who?

Ike, even I can’t tell you that. That’s a matter for the CIA. But you’ll know the first day you’re sitting in the Oval Office.

Then why let me read this report now?

Truman took a deep breath, then stood up slowly. "Because, Ike, I’d like you to be prepared before you come into office. What you’re going to be privy to doesn’t make for pleasant