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“I was in tanks,” Murov said.
Bullshit. You were in the KGB, or the OGPU, or whatever they called the Soviet secret intelligence service in those days.
You are a charming sonofabitch, Sergei, but you didn’t get to be the Washington rezident because you’re a nice guy.
You’re dangerous.
What the hell do you want from me?
They tapped the rims of their glasses together.
“I’m going to tell you a story, Harry,” Murov said, “one that would go over very well if you went on The Straight Scoop tonight with it—”
Well, here it comes!
Whelan interrupted: “Sergei, my experience has been that if someone tries to feed you a story ...”
Murov went on: “—but I think when you hear the whole story, you will decide to wait a little before coming out with it.” Murov paused, then added: “And if you decide to break the story immediately, I will of course deny it. And since it touches on the incredible, I really think people would believe my denial.”
“Why are you being so good to me, Sergei?”
“Because it is in my interests to do so. And because, frankly, you are the most important journalist to whom I have access.”
Whelan thought: That makes sense.
Murov reached for, and then placed on the table, a very elegant dark red leather attaché case. When Whelan saw it, he thought of the wine—bull’s blood.
Murov took two sheets of paper from the attaché case, laid them on the table, closed the attaché case, returned it to the floor, and then handed Whelan the two sheets of paper.
“What am I looking at? It’s in Russian.”
“Underneath is the translation. What you’re looking at is a letter from Colonel Vladlen Solomatin.”
Whelan read the translation, and then looked at Murov, his eyebrows raised in question.
“When you have your own translation of the Russian made, Harry,” Murov said, “I think you’ll find that one’s quite accurate. I know that because I did it myself.”
“I confess I don’t understand what this is all about,” Whelan said.
“Those warmongers who scurrilously accuse me of being a member of the SVR rather than the innocent diplomat that I am would also allege that my superior in the SVR is Vladlen Solomatin. The second directorate of the SVR is in charge of SVR agents around the world, exercising that authority through the senior SVR officer in each country, commonly called the rezident. Are you hearing all this for the first time, Harry?”
“Absolutely. This is all news to me.”
“I’m not surprised. Anyway, so I’m told, most of these rezidents know each other. We ... excuse me ... they went to school together, served together, et cetera. You understand?”
“Sort of an old boy’s club, right?”
“Precisely,” Murov said. “Not very often, but once in a great while, people who are not in the SVR form close friendships with people who are. In our embassies—as, I am sure, in yours—cultural attachés know who the rezident/ CIA station chief is even if that is supposed to be a secret. Am I right?”
“Probably. Are you going to tell me who the SVR rezident in your embassy here is, Sergei?”
“No. But I know who he is, even though I am not supposed to.”
“And I’m sure that secret is safe with you,” Whelan said as he reached for the bottle of Egri Bikavér. “Vladimir Putin may sleep soundly tonight.”
Whelan saw in Murov’s eyes something that told him Murov did not like the sarcasm or—maybe particularly—the reference to Putin.
Good!
