Jeremy Duns - Dead Drop: The True Story of Oleg Penkovsky and the Cold War’s Most Dangerous Operation

DEAD DROP

The True Story of Oleg Penkovsky
and the Cold Wars Most Dangerous Operation

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013
A CBS company

Copyright 2013 by JJD Productions

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.

The right of Jeremy Duns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-84983-927-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-84983-930-3

The author and publishers have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright-holders for permission, and apologise for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given. Corrections may be made to future printings.

Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

For Johanna

22 October 1962.

As Oleg Penkovsky emerged from the basement cafeteria on to the chill of Gorky Street, he heard a voice calling out his name. He looked up to see Sergei Nasedkin on the other side of the road, waving at him through the traffic. Surprised, Penkovsky raised a hand in return, and Nasedkin strode towards him, briskly sidestepping a mud-smeared delivery truck and kicking up a cloud of startled pigeons in the process.

Hello, Sergei! Penkovsky said once Nasedkin had reached the pavement and they had embraced. Is your canteen closed today?

Nasedkin was a KGB officer, and they rarely ventured out for lunch. Penkovsky was a colonel in the GRU military intelligence but despite the often bitter rivalry between the agencies the two men had remained friends since their schooldays and still went drinking together, although their last bout had not been for several months.

Nasedkin laughed at Penkovskys gentle jibe. Im actually here to see you, Oleg, he said. I was just on my way to your office when I spotted you emerging from your hiding place.

Penkovsky was suddenly conscious of the smell of cabbage soup and sweat clinging to his clothes. With his rank, he should really have been eating at the Baku or the Praga, but he had a fondness for greasy foodand besides, at the moment he couldnt afford to dine out anywhere more expensive.

Its about work, then? he said, trying not to seem concerned.

Not really, said Nasedkin. Its that passport you applied for it came through. Fedorchuk was going to send one of his messenger boys to deliver it, but I overheard him giving the order and asked to do the honours myself. He gestured elaborately with his hands as though he were a magician reappearing after a vanishing act. And here I am.

Penkovsky nodded, a little dazed at the news. He had applied for an external passport months ago and had heard nothing back despite repeated enquiries. As a result, he had become convinced that the KGB didnt trust him enough to grant him one. He was immensely relieved they had finally come round.

Its wonderful to see you again, Sergei, he said. Come back to my office and give me the passport there. Id love to hear all your news, and you can watch Kennedy with us weve set up a television on the top floor. The American President was due to give a speech in the early hours of the morning about a grave international crisis, and everyone had been ordered to stay behind to watch it. Many were speculating that the speech would be about Cuba.

Id love to, said Nasedkin, walking in step with him, though Im not sure I can stay until the speech as Ive got a lot of paperwork to catch up on you know what its like. How are you feeling, by the way? I heard youd been ill.

Penkovsky smiled wanly. Is there nothing you lot dont know about? Yes, I was in hospital last month with a skin problem. It was painful, but it cleared up in a few days. In fact, it had taken three weeks and had been an excruciating experience, as he had developed blisters on his buttocks but there was no need to tell Sergei that.

A sudden gust of wind blew up from the street, lifting leaves from the pavement until they swirled about the two men. Sergei turned the lapel of his overcoat to shield himself against it. It was a beautiful coat, Penkovsky noticed it draped perfectly on his frame and looked brand new. Penkovsky prided himself on his appearance and had a collection ofWestern-style suits and silk shirts, but his coat was four years old and the sleeves were shiny and starting to bobble around the cuffs. These KGB bastards are so well paid, he thought. Sergeis a year younger than me and several ranks lower in their system, but hes still able to afford flashy clothes, keep in shape no doubt his apartment is bigger, too.

When the wind had subsided Penkovsky started to walk back down the street, with Sergei directly behind him. A car suddenly veered up to the pavement, a polished black Chaika, and a rear door sprang open. Oleg! a voice called from the back seat.

What was this? Penkovsky peered into the cars interior and glimpsed an outstretched hand. He leaned forward and felt a sharp shove in his back, which sent him tumbling on to the rear seat. The door thudded shut behind him and the car jerked forward, the sound of the engine reverberating in his skull.

Penkovsky lifted his face from the cold vinyl seat and righted himself. The man who had lured him into the car was looking down at him. A felt hat obscured most of his face, and Penkovsky could only make out a thin mouth and the tip of a fleshy nose.

What the hells this? he said. Dont you know who I am?

The mans nostrils flared. Be quiet, traitor.

On hearing the final word, Penkovsky slumped back against the upholstery. So this was it. The dreaded day had finally come. He felt the remains of the shashlik he had eaten for lunch gurgling in his stomach, but was surprised to find how calm he felt, as though nothing had changed. But everything had. Everything he had experienced before this moment was now meaningless, unreachable. He would never again have lunch in that cafeteria, or see his office, or walk down this street...

A second Chaika had now come up alongside them. Penkovsky caught a glimpse in the drivers rear-view mirror of Sergei brushing down his overcoat as he stepped into a third car that had pulled up just behind. What a fool he was to have fallen for the story about the passport. He should have seen through it, but they had chosen wisely in sending Sergei. He had trusted him unthinkingly.

Penkovsky closed his eyes and let the idea of death sink in. There was no question about it, of course: Popov had faced the firing squad, and he would, too. He thought of Vera. He had met her during the war, when she had been just fourteen years old and hed been a young officer in the Red Army. Gapanovich had invited him to his home to meet his wife and daughter and there she had been, smiling with her flashing eyes, promising so much. He had married her after the war, and had never been happier than on his wedding day, but their passion had dissolved soon after the birth of their first daughter, Galina, and he had turned to drinking and other women. If silence was broken between them now, it was mostly to fight. Youve ruined my life! she had yelled at him the night before last, after he had returned home at three oclock in the morning smelling of another woman and waking baby Mariana.