a storehouse for the farm’s arsenal—an assortment of Uzi submachine guns, grenades and one light mortar.
“Did your actress friend leave before or after the charges were brought against you?” Stone asks.
Kulakov thinks a moment. “I can’t remember,” he says. “It was a bad time for me, you understand. I lost track of the sequence. I remember a vicious argument when she turned up one night with another man and kissed him on the lips in front of me. But I don’t remember if it was before or after the charges.”
“About the charges,” Stone says, “what was the first you heard of them?”
“I had just come back from a run to Paris, and was due for a few days off. I got a phone call from someone at the ministry ordering me not to leave Moscow, and to be available at my phone between nine and six every day. I thought maybe there was another diplomatic run in the works. Two days later, I think it was, though now that I think of it, it might have been three or four, the call came through.”
“But it wasn’t a diplomatic run?”
Kulakov nods. One of the men with the shotguns waves from the farm, and Kulakov and Stone wave back. “I was ordered to report to room 666—I remember the three sixes—at ten the next morning, in uniform. The uniform part made me nervous; I seldom wore a uniform.”
“And that’s when you met Colonel Koptin.”
“Yes.” They are up to the picket fence now, and Stone stops so they can finish before they go in. “He was a decent enough fellow,” Kulakov says. “He seemed sorry to be doing what he was doing. He said that a routine background investigation, which is ordered up periodically for people who have access to very secret material, turned up the fact that I had lied about my father. I must have turned very pale when he said that; you see, I thought they had discovered the truth about my father being Jewish. Koptin came around the desk and brought a seat over for me, and then gave me a glass of water. And he explained that it had come out that my father had not been a war hero after all, but rather a deserter who had been executed for collaboration with the Nazi invaders. He even showed me the handwritten entry in the war diary noting the execution of someone named Kulakov. I denied everything—all this was news to me—and henoted my denials in the dossier. He even appeared to believe my denials were sincere—he asked me if I would submit to a lie detector test and became openly sympathetic to me when I instantly agreed. Then he showed me a memorandum, signed by his superior, ordering my name stricken from the active courier list. And he advised me to hire a lawyer, as there was a good chance that the case would come to trial. I asked him what the consequence of a guilty verdict would be. He said that for someone in my position, which is to say someone with access to very secret material, a conviction would go very hard. He said I could expect a jail sentence of not less than ten years, along with a dishonorable discharge and loss of all pension rights.”
Thro comes out of the front door of the main house. “Anybody for lunch?” she calls.
“Let’s eat,” says Stone.
Thro’s skin is tingling from the Chinese tea disease. “I read it in Newsweek,” she says, pressing her fingers to her cheekbones. “By burning fossil fuels, we’re increasing the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. This curtain of carbon dioxide produces a greenhouse effect. So far, so good. Now, if we keep burning fossil fuels at the present rate, the atmosphere will be 5.4 degrees warmer than it is today by the year 2050. And that will turn the corn belt into desert.” Thro giggles hysterically. “The fact that there are enough nuclear weapons around to annihilate the world population 690 times over will be the least of our problems!”
Mozart serves some Cantonese rice to the gorgeous blonde who claims her name is Clyde. She flashes a smile that has been perfected in
“Did your actress friend leave before or after the charges were brought against you?” Stone asks.
Kulakov thinks a moment. “I can’t remember,” he says. “It was a bad time for me, you understand. I lost track of the sequence. I remember a vicious argument when she turned up one night with another man and kissed him on the lips in front of me. But I don’t remember if it was before or after the charges.”
“About the charges,” Stone says, “what was the first you heard of them?”
“I had just come back from a run to Paris, and was due for a few days off. I got a phone call from someone at the ministry ordering me not to leave Moscow, and to be available at my phone between nine and six every day. I thought maybe there was another diplomatic run in the works. Two days later, I think it was, though now that I think of it, it might have been three or four, the call came through.”
“But it wasn’t a diplomatic run?”
Kulakov nods. One of the men with the shotguns waves from the farm, and Kulakov and Stone wave back. “I was ordered to report to room 666—I remember the three sixes—at ten the next morning, in uniform. The uniform part made me nervous; I seldom wore a uniform.”
“And that’s when you met Colonel Koptin.”
“Yes.” They are up to the picket fence now, and Stone stops so they can finish before they go in. “He was a decent enough fellow,” Kulakov says. “He seemed sorry to be doing what he was doing. He said that a routine background investigation, which is ordered up periodically for people who have access to very secret material, turned up the fact that I had lied about my father. I must have turned very pale when he said that; you see, I thought they had discovered the truth about my father being Jewish. Koptin came around the desk and brought a seat over for me, and then gave me a glass of water. And he explained that it had come out that my father had not been a war hero after all, but rather a deserter who had been executed for collaboration with the Nazi invaders. He even showed me the handwritten entry in the war diary noting the execution of someone named Kulakov. I denied everything—all this was news to me—and henoted my denials in the dossier. He even appeared to believe my denials were sincere—he asked me if I would submit to a lie detector test and became openly sympathetic to me when I instantly agreed. Then he showed me a memorandum, signed by his superior, ordering my name stricken from the active courier list. And he advised me to hire a lawyer, as there was a good chance that the case would come to trial. I asked him what the consequence of a guilty verdict would be. He said that for someone in my position, which is to say someone with access to very secret material, a conviction would go very hard. He said I could expect a jail sentence of not less than ten years, along with a dishonorable discharge and loss of all pension rights.”
Thro comes out of the front door of the main house. “Anybody for lunch?” she calls.
“Let’s eat,” says Stone.
Thro’s skin is tingling from the Chinese tea disease. “I read it in Newsweek,” she says, pressing her fingers to her cheekbones. “By burning fossil fuels, we’re increasing the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. This curtain of carbon dioxide produces a greenhouse effect. So far, so good. Now, if we keep burning fossil fuels at the present rate, the atmosphere will be 5.4 degrees warmer than it is today by the year 2050. And that will turn the corn belt into desert.” Thro giggles hysterically. “The fact that there are enough nuclear weapons around to annihilate the world population 690 times over will be the least of our problems!”
Mozart serves some Cantonese rice to the gorgeous blonde who claims her name is Clyde. She flashes a smile that has been perfected in
Similar Books
