The Main Enemy Milton Bearden (read full novel .txt) 📖

all, while he was spying for the British. He simply eased back a little deeper into the couch and concentrated on keeping his face as unreadable as possible.

Krassilnikov’s expression was impassive. An awkward silence descended between us, but in the end he did respond. “Now that you raise the question of Gordievsky’s wife and daughters,” he observed at last with an ironic smile, “I am reminded once again of the mystery about our Mr. Gordievsky’s disappearance from Moscow. I have always wondered why you Americans show such a strong interest in having this man’s family leave the Soviet Union. Is it solely a humanitarian interest, or was there perhaps an American hand in getting Mr. Gordievsky out of the USSR?”

“Our interest is purely humanitarian,” Hathaway said, ignoring Krassilnikov’s probe. “We would like to see Gordievsky reunited with his family.”

“And our position remains unchanged,” Nikitenko interjected. For the first time that evening, his smile showed signs of brittleness.

At that point, Krassilnikov commented on the nature of our mutual engagement. “I would not suggest that spying against each other will ever cease,” he said. “But at some point we should begin to look at what kinds of rules might be incorporated into the conduct of our business. I am speaking here of coercion. The use of drugs and, indeed, the use of violence. I think at some time, perhaps not today, we might examine certain, how should I say, provocative behavior.”

“Are you actually referring to the allegations that we drugged, kidnapped, and used coercion against Yurchenko?” I asked.

“Yurchenko might not be the most appropriate example,” Krassilnikov said. “I am talking about the conduct of our operations against each other in general, not in a specific case.”

Hathaway leaned forward an extra few inches to signal that he, too, found Krassilnikov’s statement provocative. “The Soviet side has chosen to cover the changing of sides of its officers over the years by accusing us, as well as the British, of using drugs, kidnapping, and violence. You know as well as I that these things have never happened, and to raise the issue, quite frankly, surprises me.”

“What we are saying is that perhaps there would be some value to discussing certain ground rules to the way we carry out our business,” Nikitenko interjected, attempting to defuse the issue. “This can be done over the course of some time, and I, too, think it would be of value.”

“I think there is merit to keeping our agendas open,” I said. “Though I think we should be careful not to bring certain themes to these meetings that might be more appropriately considered propaganda battles. But you can be certain that the CIA does not use drugs or violence against officers of your service. We have always thought it dangerous for your side to make such claims, as was done with Yurchenko, when we all know the truth in that case. But your points are taken.”

With that exchange, it was clear that the substantive part of the meeting had come to an end. It was almost with relief that we turned the discussion to the harshness of the winter that had enveloped northern Europe at that moment. Within those few hours we’d gotten a look at our opposite numbers in the KGB, and they’d done the same with us. While nothing concrete had been accomplished, I felt that the Gavrilov channel, after two years of dormancy, had been resurrected. I wasn’t certain what might come from it, but I was fairly sure it would do no harm. With the changes coming as rapidly as they were, I was happy enough to have the option to call a temporary truce to talk things over from time to time.

After more than two hours of talk and vodka, Hathaway and I left for our hotel on the Helsinki waterfront. After we had been walking through a deserted park for about ten minutes, we heard a voice calling from the road fifty yards away. “Mister Gataway, Mister Gataway . . .” The Russian pronunciation of Hathaway’s name was unmistakable. In a moment we were joined by the Soviet driver, who handed Gus his wallet. “Must fall out your pocket,” he said, his breath streaming in the cold of the night, and quickly returned to his car.

Hathaway’s look sent an unmistakable message: It wouldn’t be good form for the new SE Division chief to spread the story around Langley about how the CIA’s chief of counterintelligence had lost his wallet at a drinking party with a bunch of KGB hoods.

I stared at Hathaway’s oversize and fully stuffed wallet. “Jeez, Gus, whatcha got in there?” I said. “Every phone number of every contact since you were in high school? Christ, the thing’s probably radioactive from all the photocopying!”

Hathaway ignored my comment, and we walked the rest of the way in silence, both of us trying to make some sense out of the Alice in Wonderland evening we had just spent with our adversaries.

   4   

Langley, 1130 Hours, December 27, 1989

The revolution that swept through the northern tier of Eastern Europe had finally reached the Balkans, where it played out darkly in Romania. Over the course of the month of December, a rapidly spinning cycle of riots and government-fomented counterriots grew in intensity until all semblance of order simply evaporated. The U.S. embassy was forced to evacuate its personnel overland to Bulgaria, and for Washington the lights went out in Bucharest.

Romanian leader Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife, Elena, escaped a step ahead of the mobs three days before Christmas, but they were soon captured, and on Christmas Day they were tried and executed by firing squad. Two days later, after a short Christmas break, I met with William Webster to bring him up to date on the Balkans.

“The Army went over to the opposition on the twenty-second,” I said, “the same day the Ceausescus escaped by helicopter. We’re still not clear on the precise sequence and timing, but we think they were captured within a day