there had been no instruction â not even discreet guidance â from Moscow how to treat the man, which there should have been. It left him exposed. Forced into creating his own guidelines, Georgi Solov had so far proceeded with caution, even supported by the courage imbued by vodka. A native of Askhabad, just across the border in Turkmeniya â where his parents had actually been practising Muslems â the narrow-faced, burnt-skinned Solov was fluent in three local dialects as well as Farsi, looked more Afghan than southern Russian and rightly considered himself a natural choice to head the rezidentura. Assigning this man, with his fair-haired, open-faced Western complexion, collar-and-tie-and-suit appearance (which he made no effort to modify) and complete lack of any language qualifications, made as much sense as delegating him to the moon. Probably less; on the moon he could have mingled more easily with the American astronauts. Without question it was an appointment about which to be suspicious. And careful. But at the same time not allowing the slightest indication of subservience, which might equally be an error. With that in mind, Solov actually thought of refusing the demand for an unscheduled meeting, insisting the man return for a later appointment. But there was the high-priority retribution business, so Solov decided a delay was an unnecessary reminder of his seniority. But with some regret.
Solov didnât offer a chair and tried to open forcefully, intending the younger man to be intimidated by his appearing irritated. He said: âI certainly hope this is something of the utmost urgency and importance!â
âI have just returned from the airport,â announced Yuri, unimpressed. âSeen barrels and containers of gas and poison being unloaded from transporters.â Two things were important: frightening the pompous fool and hinting he knew everything, which he almost did.
Impressions â uncertainties â swirled through Solovâs mind like sand in a storm. It was strictly forbidden for a junior KGB officer to go in or out of the rezidentura without stating his destination and reason in the logbook. Which Yuri Malik well knew. Yet the man was standing there almost proudly declaring a breach of regulations. Unworried by any thought of being disciplined then: an important consideration. At once there came to Solov another and maybe more important awareness. The Eyes-Only Moscow traffic had been strictly limited to himself and maybe five other people, although he supposed wider gossip was inevitable once the shipments started to arrive by air. But had the man known in advance, through some other channel? Could the damned manâs posting â the retribution proposal itself â be some sort of test, of loyalty or ability? Proceed cautiously, Solov thought; very cautiously. Trying for the protective barrier of the operating procedure within the intelligence section of the embassy, Solov said: âYou made no entry of your movements this morning.â
âIf this operation goes ahead â if people are poisoned and gassed â you will end up in a gulag serving a sentence that will make the GRU imprisonment seem like a holiday,â said Yuri. The outrage at the insubordination would come now if it were going to come at all.
Solovâs mental sandstorm raged on. Contemptuously dismissive of regulations now, not even bothering to respond. So the man was completely unworried. Not just unworried: sure enough of himself to threaten a superior officer with imprisonment. Unthinkable. Solov said: âHow did you come into possession of classified information?â The stilted formality weakened the demand and he recognized it.
So did Yuri, who thought the ploy of keeping him standing was juvenile. Further psychologically to pressure the other man, he pulled an available chair close to Solovâs desk and sat on it, leaning forward in an attitude of
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