The Lure by Bill Napier Page B

Academician Velikhov. I too find a few Stolichnayas quite heart-warming in this weather.
    They have given us information of unbelievable economic, scientific, military and medical importance.
    And I especially appreciate being wakened from my bed at three in the morning for a joke. A good New Year to you.
    Velikhov smiled grimly and shook his head. No, I don’t think so.
    In any case, Ogorodnikov was unlikely to be in the Kremlin. More probably, he was five minutes’ drive from here, tucked up with his little fat Katya; or he might be staying in his other dacha, the modest one in the Odintsovo district. Or no – didn’t he go moosehunting in Sverdlovsk at this time of year?
    Sensible to wait until waking hours.
    Or a dereliction of duty?
    *   *   *
    Two miles away from Tatyana Maranovich’s small flat, in a bleak basement in the Nevsky Prospekt, a young man listened to her conversation with Academician Velikhov. The Professor had seemed a bit grumpy about being wakened up; perhaps the fact that it was three o’clock in the morning had something to do with it. The call was recorded automatically and there was little for the man to do but listen, which he did while idly filling in a jumbo crossword. Given the content of the call he was not surprised when, five minutes after it had ended, another one went out from the Academician’s dacha.
    The young CIA officer was alone, the Gorki-9 telephone traffic being light in the early hours. He had arrived only three weeks ago, full of enthusiasm about his Moscow posting, on the strength of his background in Van Eck monitoring. To his disappointment, he had been assigned to the ‘chatline’, the routine coverage of private calls to and from the dachas, private and government-owned, of the government officials.
    Velikhov’s name and address came up quickly on the screen, but there was a few moments’ delay while the recipient’s location was traced through a satellite.
    Ninety-nine per cent of it was drivel – gossip between wives, teenagers talking to each other, remote calls to children in distant places. There was an occasional diversion, the Canadian diplomat’s wife in particular: ‘Ruth’s on!’ would bring a gleeful rush to the terminal, as the calls between her and her opera house lover became ever more steamy and inventive.
    No name. Some castle in Slovakia.
    At this hour. Interesting.
    The phonetic translator threw up the words in passable English but the CIA officer’s Russian was better than the machine’s.
    He listened with growing perplexity. This wasn’t a conversation between two normal adults, it was between lunatics. He dropped the crossword and pressed the headphones lightly against his ear, frowning.
    And then he smiled. Of course – he was on the receiving end of a joke, some ponderous Russian humour. They were saying, ‘Merry Christmas, Amerika, we know you’re listening in.’
    But there was no humour in the voices.
    His smile gradually faded. If they knew he was listening in, why tell him this through a joke? Why not use this knowledge to transmit misinformation? Why tell a tale that couldn’t be taken seriously, not for a second?
    As the crazy exchange continued, it increasingly dawned on the young man that this was no joke and that if these were actors, they were damn good ones.
    The call lasted over an hour. At the end of it, the CIA man took off his headphones with a sigh and scratched his head.
    I’ve just intercepted this call about aliens.
    Aliens?
    The callers were serious.
    Of course they were. How long have you been with us? Three weeks?
    He shook his head. Three weeks in Moscow and either he had the coup of a lifetime, or he was the victim of a humiliating, career-damaging practical joke.

14
    Kanchenjunga
    ‘You people are nuts.’ Little patches of damp have appeared under the armpits of Gibson’s shirt. ‘Am I supposed to go to the British government and tell them that aliens have beamed us a picture of a