“So, the convention ended and I made report to Brezhnev. By which time he was far more interested in Russian successes—and infuriated by our failures—in the Olympics! The American boycott seemed to have upset him greatly. I think it was about then that his slow decline first became noticeable. But in any case, he commended me for my efforts before sending me back to my studies …”
As Tzonov paused, Andropov put in: “I sincerely hope all of this is going somewhere? I have other things to do with my time, young Tzonov!”
“It is going somewhere,” the other assured him, and went on:
“I have a locator, a man whose speciality is the detection of fissionable material. In his time under General Borowitz he tracked the flight paths of American bombers, also the movements of their mobile missiles, kept watch on NATO’s nuclear capability in West Germany, and Great Britain’s atomic submarines in waters around the world. His talent was largely dependent upon the critical mass or amount of fissionable material with which he was … sympathetic? For example: the many Trident missiles in the belly of a nuclear sub made it easy to find, while a single test bomb was far more difficult. In General Borowitz’s time, however, he had noted an ammunition dump of bombs in Chungking, and had recorded its size. Likewise he had records of many other such dumps worldwide.
“But in the eighteen months following the convention, my locator was a puzzled, even a worried man. He had not attended the convention, because his talent would have had no application there. Yet now he felt himself drawn to—or repelled by—a certain district of the city. This city. Moscow …”
This time when Tzonov paused, Andropov immediately nodded and said, “Yes, go on, you have my attention.”
“Finally,” Tzonov continued, “three months or so after we met, you and I, for the first time, my locator came to me with his problem. By which time his inexplicable repulsion with regard to a certain district had become a morbid obsession.”
“Tell me the district,” Andropov cut in.
“The Sivtsev Vrazhek district, Comrade …”
“Go on.”
“I went with him to the Central Committee Hotel, and we stood outside together looking at the place. For the locator, simply being there was a terrible ordeal! He wanted to be anywhere but there. The implications were obvious but proving our suspicions without causing a panic—a gigantic panic—would not be easy. Fortunately, an uncle of mine in Krasnoyarsk was scheduled to pay me a visit. He had good connections, was able to book himself in at the hotel.”
“Cut it short!” Yuri Andropov’s hands were pressing down on his desk now. He had thrust his face forward, and his staring eyes were more than ever visible.
“Once inside the hotel, access to the cellars—and from there to the substructure—was easy. We went down there when the hotel was sleeping, in the middle of the night. And after my locator had pinpointed the spot—”
“—You dug there!” Andropov said.
“Indeed. I had to, for my locator was now useless. I saw what was in his mind: a glaring ball of light, a nuclear furnace burning bright, sudden death by atomization. But my futurologists had foreseen no such disaster. So …
“I am no atomic physicist, Comrade Direktor, but I think it is safe to say the device is a crude one. The most surprising factor lies in its compact construction. Those six Tibetan ‘monks’ could easily have brought its components in as part of their luggage. Like all the other attendees, they had been met at the airport by officials and seen through customs. You will recall that at that time we were being ‘helpful’ to foreigners and trying to improve their opinion of us? It needed improving, for it was the same bad attitude that had impacted so badly on our Olympics. We were trying to mend our bridges, as it were.”
Andropov was stiff as a rod now, bolt upright behind his desk. “Tzonov, do you know what you are telling me? That there was an atomic bomb under the Central Committee Hotel for over two years!?”
“Was,” said the other. “That there was one, yes.”
“You … moved it? My God!” (Which came as a surprise to Tzonov, because he would never have considered the Direktor of the KGB a believer.)
“Not a problem,” he said. “The device was equipped with a radio receiver—a trigger. It would have to be detonated remotely by a prearranged series of signals. Remove the receiver and the bomb would be made safe. I removed it myself …”
“My God!” Andropov breathed again, then slumped down into his chair. He waved a loose hand. “How … how long ago?”
“Five weeks.”
“You’ve waited five weeks to bring this to my attention?”
“To anyone’s attention! To know that this thing was done was one thing, but to prove who did it … took longer. But it would have been totally impossible in the confusion that would follow an actual detonation … with Moscow reduced to so much rubble, and every nuclear power in the world blaming everyone else. A beautiful piece of sabotage, especially if this wasn’t the only bomb!”
“What!?”
“Ah, no, Direktor,” Tzonov read his mind the hard way: by guessing what he was thinking. “Not here in Russia but in some other part of the world.”
“Explain!” Andropov was sitting up straight again, leaning forward, and his eyes were like windows to Tzonov so that he could look right into his soul. Except right now there was nothing in there but shock, confusion.
Tzonov reached down and picked up his briefcase. Placing it on the edge of the desk, he opened it—and Andropov immediately leaned away from it. But Tzonov only grinned with that too perfect face of his, and took out a small piece of electronic apparatus: a black box with a coiled wire antenna, attached to some kind of meter with a dial and flickering needle behind a small glass window. At one end of the scale the dial was painted red.
“The trigger,” he explained, as he placed it in front of Andropov, and watched until the needle jerked to a standstill. “I had the meter wired to it in order to know when the signal had been sent—and ‘received.’ When that happens, the needle will swing to red and freeze there. And the time will be recorded. The time when you and I and Moscow were supposed to die, and World War III begin!”
“Chinese bastards!” Andropov’s usually pale face was now chalk white. “Knowing that we’d be mainly interested in them, they used the Tibetans to do their dirty work for them!”
But: “No,” Tzonov shook his head. “The Chinese knew nothing about it. The Tibetans were the ones who brought the bomb in and planted it; their fingerprints are all over the weapon parts and that receiver there. But … there are fingerprints and fingerprints.”
“Explain.”
“My locator ‘sniffs out’ the type of nuclear fuel. Every batch has its own distinct ‘smell.’ The dump in Chungking was the source of the device, yes. But why would the Chinese want to sabotage themselves?” And quickly: “Let me go on …
“The dump in Chungking has been depleted by three times the amount of fissionable material in that bomb. Three bombs’ worth, then—”
“—Wait!” Andropov picked up his telephone, dialled, and in a moment said, “Sergei? Yuri. Are we on scramble? Good. I remember our listening station intercepted a report concerning the theft of three nuclear devices … Chinese, yes. It was—I’m not sure—two to three years ago? But I do remember that heads rolled among the higher echelon in the Chinese Army. Dig out a copy of that report for me, will you? Good.” He put the phone down and looked at Tzonov. “I’m sorry. Go on …”
“So,” Tzonov said. “The final piece in the puzzle. China overran Tibet, destroyed many of the monasteries, and created all kinds of havoc. Now the Tibetans would have their revenge, and safe on the roof of the world watch the rest of us destroy each other. It makes sense.”
“Tell me now, where are the other bombs?” Andropov’s face was grim now. “I take it your locator has found them for you?”
“By their psychic fingerprints, yes. But Comrade Direktor, can’t I tell it my way?”
/> “Call me … oh, Yuri! But yes, go on, go on!”
“Locating the bomb in Moscow was easy, because we don’t get much nuclear stuff in here. Even the missiles in our annual parade are dummies; they have no live warheads. Of course not. No sensible government wants this stuff in their highly-populated cities. Especially centres of commerce and control.”
“That’s where your man looked for them? In the cities?”
“Yes. There is one ‘hotspot’ in London … Hyde Park, we believe—or ‘Jekyll and Hyde Park’ as we refer to it now.”
“And the other—?”
“—Lets the Chinese off the hook, very definitely. For it didn’t move too far. It’s still in Chungking. Not far from a certain address on Kwijiang Avenue!”
“Their ESP-Centre?”
“Yes. The same signature. And now we see it all.”
“Really? Then be so good as to ‘see it’ for me!”
“At some time in the near future—maybe a time of high tension between East and West, or problems on the Sino-Soviet border—one of the bombs would be detonated. The world would go into shock, briefly, before the accusations started to fly. Then, say thirty-six hours after the first bomb, the second—retaliation, obviously. Confused messages—of peace, détente, commonsense, pleading, and threats, of course—are flashing all around the world. But those rubble-strewn centres of commerce were also the centres of communication! Now those communications are down. And in any case, no one is listening! Bomb number three follows in short order …
“ … And numbers four, five, six, seven. China throws in all she’s got. And her bombs are crude, dirty. One British sub wrecks Russia! France strikes at our satellites. The Americans decide to make it final and finish what they started at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And we—what’s left of us—reply in kind. And the Tibetans count beads, bang gongs, and begin rebuilding their monasteries. It’s God’s will after all, for he said he’d destroy us by fire next time …”
“We must tell the British, of course,” Andropov was sweating now.
“Oh?”
“But of course! They would certainly blame us—as would the Americans! And it’s as you said: afterwards, there’d be no proving who did it.”
“Not so. There would be an atomic signature, too—pointing at China.”
“And a war with China? On our doorstep? And China our next satellite, once she runs out of steam? No, it can’t be allowed. We’ve come too close to nuclear war in the past. The purpose of these things is to stop us killing each other!”
“Of course.”
“Therefore we must tell London … and China.” (But Tzonov saw how Andropov was less enthusiastic about that.) “As for the British: they’ll owe us a big favour. And it will give us a massive bargaining chip with China! Tzonov—er, Turkur?—you’ve done extremely well!” The head of the KGB was on his feet now, coming out from behind his desk, holding out his hand.
Tzonov took it, shook it, said: “I’m glad you’re pleased.” And he looked Andropov directly in the eyes.
“Not only am I pleased, but the Politburo—and Brezhnev, who has been giving me a hard time—will also be pleased. He may even stop blocking my right …” He stopped, freed his hand and began to turn away. But too late.
“ … To succession? Oh, I assure you he will, er, Yuri. He must, and soon, I think …” Again Tzonov looked deep into the other’s eyes.
Andropov went back behind his desk, sat down again, faded to a dark blot against the haze of light. “Your precog?”
“Did I not tell you my people consider you a very special man?” Tzonov answered. “I’m sure I did …”
There was a long pause then, but as Tzonov took the electrical apparatus and replaced it in his briefcase, so Andropov said: “If—and I mean if—it comes to pass that I am elected to the Presidency, you have my word that I shall reinstate ESP-Branch. And you, Turkur Tzonov, shall be the head of that branch, responsible only to myself.”
“I shall be forever in your debt,” Tzonov answered. “But a debt that I’ll repay many times over, be sure.”
“Oh, I am,” Andropov smiled thinly. “And now I have much to do.”
“Likewise,” Tzonov answered. He brought his feet together, bowed slightly from the waist, walked to the doors.
“And Turkur … not a word!”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, Yuri. Except …”
Andropov leaned on his desk, looked at Tzonov across the room where he had paused at the doors. “Yes?”
“When exactly will it be? I mean, I read it in your mind, you understand? And I agree it has to be done. For we must have a strong leader, after alt—especially in times like these—and Brezhnev is little more than a vegetable. It’s almost like doing him a favour. So when, exactly, in November, will it be?”
Andropov thought about it for a long time, before slowly answering, “You realize, of course, that while I now accept your weird talent—and those of your group—parapsychology is not generally accepted? And certainly not in evidence.”
“Oh, yes. I’m aware of that.”
Andropov nodded. “Then you tell me when, exactly, in November, Brezhnev will die. For after all you read it in my mind.”
“The tenth,” Tzonov answered at once. “He’ll be given the final dose on the morning of the tenth.”
“Very … clever,” said the slightly shaken voice of the figure in the haze.
“And on the eleventh, I shall be head of ESP-Branch.”
But Andropov’s silhouette only nodded and said, “Good day, young Turkur Tzonov.”
Outside Andropov’s office, Tzonov narrowed his eyes, gripped his briefcase and commenced walking the marble flags to the stairs. And on his way he thought: You’d better keep your word, you arrogant bastard! Having delivered terrific power into Andropov’s cold hands, he wanted something of it back—and soon. It would have to be very soon, yes. For, as Tzonov was only too well aware, Russia’s Premier-elect wasn’t destined to last all that long himself …
Three days later, at E-Branch HQ in the centre of London, Ben Trask had just spoken to—or rather confronted—Darcy Clarke in his office.
“Just how did this come up?” Darcy asked him, when he was through.
“I had a little time to spare,” Trask told him. “I’d finished with the police case I was working on and thought I might catch up on some old files. I never had read everything in connection with that case up in Scotland—those Tibetan monks—and I’d never been too happy with the result of that telephone conversation you talked me into having with Harry Keogh, to see if he’d had anything to do with it. You said it had to be done, but I didn’t like it anyway. Hell, we’re all on the same side, you know?”
“Were,” Darcy told him. “We were on the same side. Except Harry left us, remember? Oh, I know the argument—we don’t spy on fellow mindspies, etcetera; our own, that is—but I had my reasons, believe me.”
“Stuff you couldn’t talk about?”
“It was all on a ‘need to know’ basis,” said Darcy. “I needed to know, and you didn’t.”
“And even now, there’s still something you’re not telling me,” Trask accused.
“Security,” the Head of Branch answered. And: “Look, Ben, I like the Necroscope as much as you do, as much as we all do, but when he left the Branch …”
“He became a security problem?”
“Could have become one … which is as much as I’m going to say.” Darcy knew Trask’s talent for getting at the truth of a subject—the fact that he was a human lie detector—and so tried to change the subject, or at least divert it. “So, what did you find in the files?”
“Something that the police had covered up, from the general public anyway,” Trask answered. “Probably because they’d been asked to do so, and probably by us.” Looking at Clarke’s face—his changing expression—he knew that he was right. He read the truth of it in the other’s frown, the
way he blinked his eyes.
“The crossbow bolts,” Clarke said.
“Right,” Trask answered. “Silvered bolt-heads. One buried in the door of that burned-out station-wagon, and another in the heart of a Sunday roast that used to be a man. The same kind of bolt-heads that were used in the garage that time. The same ones that Harry used, or so we believe. But we never did find the actual crossbow.”
“You’ve a good memory,” Clarke told him. “But didn’t you ever stop to think I might be covering up for Harry?”
“Does he need covering up for? The way I see it, he did a good job that time. He always did a good job!”
“That’s how you see it,” said Darcy. “But the police see it differently. To them, murder is murder unless it’s a state execution, and we stopped doing that a long time ago.”
“What are you saying? That because Harry had quit E-Branch, because he no longer had our cover, the police could have dragged him in for the Scottish job?”
“Maybe,” Clarke shrugged. “If he’d left clues to tie him to it.”
“And did he?”
“No, just those bolt-heads—which tied the job to us instead, because the police knew it was one of our agents who’d put the whammy on that auto-theft gang!”
Trask cocked his head a little and pursed his lips. Darcy Clarke was telling the truth, he knew, but he still wasn’t telling all of it. And that galled. “So,” Trask mused, “since you already knew that the Necroscope was involved with these Tibetans—in fact that he’d taken them out—why did you require me to check him out? What else were you worried about, Darcy? And what are you still worried about?”
Clarke slumped a little behind his desk. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me, yes. Has been for more than three years now, ever since Harry walked—or ‘went’—out of here. But especially in the last three months or so, since this incident with these Hari Krishna types. I mean, why can’t you talk about it? Is it the old Department of Dirty Tricks again?”
And even before Clarke could answer, his expression said it all, said yes, it was that department again.