Frederick Forsyth - The Fourth Protocol

The phone call on Monday morning caught John Preston just as he was about to go out with his son.

Mr. Preston? Dafydd Wynne-Evans here.

For a moment the name meant nothing; then Preston recalled his request of Friday evening.

Ive had a look at your little piece of metal. Very interesting. Can you come out here and have a chat with me?

Well, actually, Im taking a few days off, said Preston. Would the end of the week suit?

There was a pause from the Aldermaston end. I think it might be better before then, if you could spare the time.

Er ... oh ... well, could you give me the gist of it on the phone?

Much better if we talk about it face-to-face, said Dr. Wynne-Evans.

Preston thought for a moment. He was taking Tommy to the Windsor Safari Park for the day. But that was also in Berkshire. Could I come by this afternoonsay, about five? he asked.

Five it is, said the scientist. Ask for me at the desk. Ill have you shown up.

Professor Krilov lived on the top floor of an apartment building on Komsomolski Prospekt that provided commanding views of the Moskva River and was handy for the university on the southern bank. General Karpov pressed the buzzer at just after six oclock, and it was the academic himself who answered it. He surveyed his visitor without recognition.

Comrade Professor Krilov?

Yes.

My name is Yevgeni Karpov. I wonder if we might have a word or two?

He held out his identification. Professor Krilov studied it, taking in Karpovs rank and the fact that the visitor came from the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Then he handed it back and gestured Karpov to enter. He led the way to a well-furnished sitting room, took his guests coat, and bade him be seated.

To what do I owe this honor? he asked when he had seated himself opposite Karpov. He was a man of distinction in his own right, not in any way awed by a general of the KGB.

Karpov realized the professor was different. Erita Philby could be tricked into revealing the existence of the chauffeur; Gregoriev could be browbeaten by his intimidating rank; Marchenko was an old colleague and a too-heavy drinker. But Krilov was high in the Party, the Supreme Soviet, the Academy of Sciences, and the elite of the state. Karpov decided to waste no time, but to play his cards fast and without mercy. It was the only way.

Professor Krilov, in the interests of the state, I wish you to tell me something. I wish you to tell me what you know about Plan Aurora.

Krilov sat as if he had been slapped. Then he flushed angrily. General Karpov, you exceed yourself, he snapped. I do not know what you are talking about.

I believe you do, said Karpov evenly, and I believe you should tell me what this plan entails.

For answer, Krilov held out a peremptory hand. Your authorization, please.

My authorization is my rank and my service, said Karpov.

If you have no signed authorization from the Comrade General Secretary, you have none at all, said Krilov icily. He rose and made for the telephone. Indeed, I think it high time your line of questioning came to the attention of someone far higher in rank than yourself.

He picked up the receiver and prepared to dial.

That might not be a very good idea, said Karpov. Did you know that one of your fellow consultants, Philby, a retired colonel of the KGB, is missing?

Krilov stopped dialing. What do you mean, missing? he asked. The first edge of hesitation had entered his hitherto completely assured bearing.

Please sit down and hear me out, said Karpov. The academic did so. In another room of the apartment, a door opened. A blare of Western jazz could be heard, which muted when the door closed.

I mean missing, continued Karpov, gone from his apartment, driver dismissed, wife no idea where he is or when, if at all, hell be back.

It was a gamble, and a damnably high one. But an air of worry entered the professors gaze. Then he reasserted himself. There can be no question of my discussing affairs of state with you, Comrade General. I think I must ask you to leave.

Its not quite that easy, said Karpov. Tell me, Professor, you have a son, Leonid, do you not?

The sudden switch of topic genuinely dumbfounded the professor. Yes, he conceded. I do. So what?

Let me explain, suggested Karpov.

On the other side of Europe, John Preston and his son were driving out of the Windsor Safari Park at the close of a warm spring day. Ive just got one call to make before we go home, said Preston. Its not far and it shouldnt take long. Have you ever been to Aldermaston.

The boys eyes opened wide. The bomb factory? he asked.

Its not quite a bomb factory, Preston corrected, its a research establishment.

Gosh, no. Are we going there? Will they let us in?

Well, theyll let me in. Youll have to wait in the car. But it wont take long. He turned north to cut into the M4 motorway.

Your son returned nine weeks ago from a visit to Canada, where he acted as one of the interpreters for a trade delegation, Karpov began quietly.

Krilov nodded. So?

While he was there, my own KR people noted that an attractive young person was spending a good deal of timetoo much time, it was judgedtrying to get into conversation with the members of our delegation, notably the younger memberssecretaries, interpreters, and so forth. The person concerned was photographed and finally identified as an entrapment agentAmerican, not Canadian, and almost certainly employed by the CIA. As a result, that young agent was put under surveillance and was observed to set up a rendezvous with your son, Leonid, in a hotel room. Not to put too fine a point on it, the pair had a brief but torrid affair.

Professor Krilovs face was mottled with rage. He seemed to have trouble enunciating his words. How dare you. How dare you have the impertinence to come here and seek to subject me, a member of the Academy of Sciences and the Supreme Soviet, to crude blackmail. The Party will hear of this. You know the rule: only the Party can discipline the Party. You may be a general of the KGB, but you have overstepped your authority by a hundred miles, General Karpov.

Yevgeni Karpov sat as if humbled, staring at the table, as the professor went on.

So, my son screwed a foreign girl while in Canada. That the girl turned out to be an American was certainly something of which he was completely unaware. He was indiscreet, perhaps, but no more. Was he recruited by this CIA girl?

No, admitted Karpov.

Did he betray any state secrets?

No.

Then you have nothing, Comrade General, but a brief youthful indiscretion. Hell be rebuked. But the rebuke for your counterintelligence people will be the greater. They should have warned him. As to the bedroom business, we are not so unworldly in the Soviet Union as you seem to think. Strong young men have been screwing girls since time began....

Karpov had opened his attach case and produced a large photograph, one of a sheaf that lay inside the case, and placed it on the table. Professor Krilov stared at it, and his words died. The flush went out of his cheeks, draining away until his elderly face appeared gray in the lamplight. He shook his head several times.

I am sorry, said Karpov very gently, truly sorry. The surveillance was on the American boy, not on your son. It was not intended that it should come to this.

I dont believe it, croaked the professor.

I have sons of my own, murmured Karpov. I believe I can understand, or try to understand, how you feel.

The academic sucked in his breath, rose, muttered, Excuse me, and left the room. Karpov sighed and replaced the photograph in his case. From down the corridor he heard the blare of jazz as a door opened, the sudden ending of the music, and voices, two voices, raised in anger. One was the roar of the father, the other a higher-pitched voice, as of a young man. The altercation ended with the sound of a slap. Seconds later, Professor Krilov reentered the room. He seated himself, eyes dull, shoulders sloping. What are you going to do? he whispered.