Mystery Writers of America Presents Ice Cold

Genres: Anthologies; Mystery; Mystery Anthologies & Collections

Synopsis

Nuclear brinksmanship. Psychological warfare. Spies, double agents, femme fatales, and dead drops.

The Cold War--a terrifying time when nuclear war between the world's two superpowers was an ever-present threat, an all-too-real possibility that could be set off at the touch of a button--provides a chilling backdrop to this collection of all-new short stories from today's most celebrated mystery writers.

Bestselling authors Jeffery Deaver and Raymond Benson--the only American writers to be commissioned to pen official James Bond novels--have joined forces to bring us twenty masterful tales of paranoia, espionage, and psychological drama. In Joseph Finder's "Police Report," the seemingly cut-and-dry case of a lunatic murderer in rural Massachusetts may have roots in Soviet-controlled Armenia. In "Miss Bianca" by Sara Paretsky, a young girl befriends a mouse in a biological warfare laboratory and finds herself unwittingly caught in an espionage drama. And Deaver's "Comrade 35" offers a unique spin on the assassination of John F. Kennedy--with a signature twist.

Release date: April 1, 2014

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

BY JEFFERY DEAVER

To be summoned to the highest floor of GRU headquarters in Moscow made you immediately question your future.

Several fates might await.

One was that you had been identified as a counter-revolutionary or a lackey of the bourgeoisie imperialists. In which case your next address would likely be a gulag, which were still highly fashionable, even now, in the early 1960s, despite First Secretary and Premier Khrushchev’s enthusiastic denunciation of Comrade Stalin.

Another possibility was that you had been identified as a double agent, a mole within the GRU—not proven to be one, mind you, simply suspected of being one. Your fate in that situation was far simpler and quicker than a transcontinental train ride: a bullet in the back of the head, a means of execution the GRU had originated as a preferred form of execution, though the rival KGB had co-opted and taken credit for the technique.

With these troubling thoughts in mind and his army posture well in evidence, Major Mikhail Sergeyevich Kaverin strode toward the office to which he’d been summoned. The tall man was broad shouldered, columnar. He hulked, rather than walked. The Glavnoe Razvedyvatelnoe Upravlenie was the spy wing of the Soviet Armed Forces; nearly every senior GRU agent, including Kaverin, had fought the Nazis one meter at a time on the western front, where illness and cold and the enemy had quickly taken the weak and the indecisive. Only the most resilient had survived.

Nothing culls like war.

Kaverin walked with a slight limp, courtesy of a piece of shrapnel or a fragment of bullet in his thigh. An intentional gift from a German or an inadvertent one from a fellow soldier. He neither knew nor cared.

The trek from his present office—at the British Desk, downstairs—was taking some time. GRU headquarters was massive, as befitted the largest spy organization in Russia and, rumors were, the world.

Kaverin stepped into the ante-office of his superior, nodded at the aide-de-camp, who said the general would see him in a minute. He sat and lit a cigarette. He saw his reflection in a nearby glass-covered poster of Lenin. The Communist Party founder’s lean appearance was in marked contrast to Kaverin’s: He thought himself a bit squat of face, a bit jowly. The comrade major’s thick black hair was another difference, in sharp contrast to Lenin’s shiny pate. And while the communist revolutionary and first Premier of the Soviet Union had a goatee that gave him—with those fierce eyes—a demonic appearance, Kaverin was clean shaven, and his eyes, under drooping lids, were the essence of calm.

A deep pull on the cigarette. The taste was sour and he absently swatted away glowing flecks of cheap tobacco that catapulted from the end. He longed for better, but couldn’t spend the time to queue endlessly for the good Russian brands and he couldn’t afford the Western smokes on the black market. When the cigarette was half smoked, he stubbed it out and wrapped the remainder in a handkerchief, then slipped that into his brown uniform jacket.

He thought of the executions he’d witnessed—and participated in. Often, a last cigarette for the prisoner. He wondered if he’d just had his.

Of course, there was yet another fate that might await, having been summoned to this lofty floor of headquarters. Perhaps he was being rewarded. The Comrade General, speaking for the Chairman of the GRU or even the Presidium itself—the all-powerful Politburo—could be recognizing him for furthering the ideals of communism and the glory of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. In which case he would receive not a slug from a Makarov pistol, but a medal or commendation or perhaps a new rank (though not, of course, a raise in pay).

Then, however, his busy mind, his spy’s mind, came up with another negative possibility: The KGB had orchestrated a transgression to get him demoted or even ousted.

The soviet civilian spy outfit and the GRU hated each other—the KGB referred to their military counterparts contemptuously as “Boots,” because of the uniforms they wore in their official capacity. The GRU looked at the KGB as a group of effete elitists, who trolled for turncoats among the Western intelligentsia, men who could quote Marx from their days at Harvard or Cambridge but who never lived up to their promise of delivering nuclear secrets or rocket fuel formulas.

Since neither the KGB nor the GRU had exclusive jurisdiction in foreign countries, poaching was common. On several occasions in the past year Kaverin had run operations in England and the Balkans right under the nose of the KGB and turned an agent or assassinated a traitor before the civilian spies even knew he was in country.

Had the pricks from Lubyanka Square somehow put together a scandal to disgrace him?

But then, just as he grew tired of speculation, the door before him opened and he was ushered into the office of the man who was about to bestow one of several fates.

A train trip, a bullet, a medal, or—another endearing possibility in the Soviet Union—perhaps something wholly unexpected.

“You may smoke,” said the general.

Kaverin withdrew a new cigarette and lit it, marshaling more escaping sparks. “Thank you, sir.”

“Comrade Major, we have a situation that has arisen. It needs immediate attention.” The general was fat, ruddy and balding. The rumors were that, once, he had set down his rifle and chosen to strangle, rather than shoot, a Nazi who came at him with a bayonet on the outskirts of Berlin in 1945. One look at his hands and you could easily believe that.

“Yes, sir, whatever I might do.”

So far, this did not seem like a death sentence.

“Did you know Comrade Major Rasnakov? Vladimir Rasnakov?”

“Yes, I heard he suffered a heart attack. Died almost instantly.”

“It should be a lesson to us all!” The general pointed his cigarette at Kaverin. “Take the baths, exercise. Drink less vodka, eat less pork.”

The man’s rasping voice continued, “Comrade Rasnakov was on a very sensitive, very important assignment. His demise has come at a particularly inconvenient time, Comrade Major. From reading your dossier, you seem like a perfect replacement for him. You can drive, correct?”

“Of course.”

“And speak English fluently.”

“Yes.”

This was growing more intriguing by the moment.

The general fixed him with a fierce gaze of appraisal. Kaverin held the man’s eyes easily. “Now, let me explain. Comrade Rasnakov had a job that was vital to the cause of communist supremacy. He was in charge of protecting the lives of certain people within the United States—people who we have deemed indispensable to our interests.”

Because they were all trained soldiers, GRU agents often served as undercover bodyguards for valuable double-agents in enemy countries.

“I will gladly take over his tasks, sir.”

The vodka bottle thudded onto the middle of the desk. Glasses were poured and the men drank. Kaverin was moderate with alcohol—which put him in the minority of men in Russia. But, just like not uttering certain thoughts aloud, you never declined the offer to share a drink with a superior officer. Besides this was real vodka, good vodka. Made from corn. Although as a soldier and a member of the GRU, Kaverin had some privileges, that meant simply potatoes without frostbite, meat once a week instead of every other, and vodka that, while it didn’t poison you, came in a corked bottle with curious flecks afloat. (Unlike the KGB, whose agents, even those in the field, had the best liquor and food and never had to queue.)

The general’s voice diminished nearly to a whisper. “Intelligence was received from a trusted source in America about a forthcoming occurrence there. It is necessary that the man behind this event remains alive, at least until he completes what he intends.”

“Who is this person? An agent of ours? Of another service?”

The general stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Kaverin noted he left a good inch and a half unsmoked. The ashtray was filled with such butts. Together they must have made up a full pack.

“No…” His voice was even softer now. And—astonishing—the comrade generally actually seemed uneasy. He tapped the top secret file before him. “As you’ll see in here, this man—Comrade Thirty-five, the code name we’ve given him—is not motivated by any overt desire to help the Soviet Union but that’s exactly what the effect of his actions will be—if he succeeds in his mission.” The general’s eyes were far more intense than his whispered voice as he said, “And it is up to you to make sure that he remains alive to do so.”

“Of course.”

“Now, Comrade Rasnakov learned that there are two men who intend to take the life of our American comrade by week’s end. That cannot happen. Now, read this file, Comrade Major. Study it. But make sure it does not leave the building. It is for your eyes only. It is perhaps the most sensitive document you will ever come in contact with.”

“Of course.”

“Learn all you can about Comrade Thirty-five and the two men who wish to harm him. Then make plans to leave immediately for America. You’ll meet with Comrade Colonel Nikolai Spesky, one of our GRU agents in place. He can provide weapons and updated intelligence.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, Comrade General.” Kaverin rose and saluted. The general saluted in return then said, “One more thing, Comrade Major.”

“Yessir.”

“Here.” The man handed him a packet of French cigarettes. “You must learn to smoke something that will not set fire to the carpet of your superior officers.”

Kaverin returned to his own small office, which offered a partial view of the airport; he would sometimes sit and look at airplanes on final approach. He found this relaxing.

He opened the file and began to read. He got no more than halfway through the first paragraph, however, then sat up with a start, electrified as he read what the mission would entail and who was involved.

Oh, my God…

Kaverin lit a cigarette—one of the new ones—and noted that for the first time in years his thick fingers were actually shaking.

But then, soldier that he was, he put aside his emotions at the momentous consequences of the assignment and got to work.

The flights were carefully planned to arouse the fewest suspicions of the enemy intelligence services.

For the trip Kaverin was dressed Western—a black fedora, a fake bespoke suit and white shirt and narrow black tie, like a funeral director, he thought. Which in a macabre way seemed appropriate. His route took him from Moscow to Paris on an Aeroflot TU-124, then to Heathrow. He connected there to a Trans-Canada Air Lines DC-8 bound for Montreal. Finally he flew from Canada into the United States, first port of call, Idlewild Airport in New York City.

Four hours later he disembarked in Miami.

Whereas New York had seemed hard as steel, edged and unyielding, the Floridian metropolis was soft, pastel, soothed by balmy breeze.

Kaverin walked from the airport terminal, inhaling deeply the fragrant air, and hailed a taxi.

The car—a huge Mercury—bounded into the street. As they drove, Kaverin stared at the palm trees, the bougainvillea and plants he’d never seen. He blinked to observe a flamingo in the front yard of a small bungalow. He’d seen the birds in Africa and believed they were water dwellers. He laughed when he realized the creature was a plastic decoration.

He regretted that dusk was arriving quickly, and soon there was nothing to see but lights.

In a half hour he was at the address he sought, a small, one-story office building, squatting in a sandy lot filled with unruly green groundcover. On the front window was a sign.

East Coast Transportation Associates.

Nick Spencer, Prop.

As good a cover as any for a spy operation, he reflected. After all, the company did do some transporting: stolen secrets and occasional bodies. And the proprietor’s pseudonym was a reasonable tinkering with the real name of the GRU agent who worked out of the facility.

Kaverin found the door locked and knocked. A moment later it flew open and there stood a round, broad-shouldered man in a short-sleeved beige shirt—with black vertical stripes of a chain design—and powder blue slacks. His shoes were white.

“Ah, Comrade!” Nikolai Spesky cried, warmly pumping his hand.

Kaverin frowned at the word, looking around at the other office buildings nearby.

Ushering him inside and locking the door behind them, Spesky laughed, and wrinkles rippled in his tanned face. “What are you worried about, Comrade? Microphones? It’s a different world here.”

“I suppose I am.”

“No, no, no. See here, to eavesdrop, the government must get the courts to approve it.”

“Which they surely do.”

“Ah, Comrade, not necessarily. You’d be surprised. And, what’s more, the CIA has no jurisdiction here.”

Kaverin shrugged. He took off his heavy jacket—the temperature was about 75 degrees.

“Sit!” Spesky said jovially.

The men lit cigarettes. Spesky seemed delighted Kaverin was the agent chosen to take over for Comrade Rasnakov. “You are quite famous,” Spesky said, though without the awe that would have made his comment awkward. “The vile traitor Penkovsky… The people owe you quite a debt, Comrade.”

Penkovsky was a GRU agent who spied for the British and Americans, his most valued contribution being providing information that helped Kennedy stand up to the Russians during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. He was, as Kaverin had learned, less motivated by ideology than by a desire to lead a decadent life in the West. Which he had—until caught by the Soviets and executed.

“I was merely one of a number of people who found the traitor.”

“Modest, modest… a good trait for a spy. We must remain unseen, anonymous, subtle. Only in that way can the exultant cause of Mother Russia and the ideology of Herren Marx and Engels, as espoused by our noble progenitor Comrade Lenin, be furthered for the glory of our cause and the people!”

Kaverin remained silent at this pronouncement. But then, as if he could not control himself, Spesky exploded with laughter. “I do a very good impersonation of the Premier, do I not?”

Khrushchev was notorious for his bombastic speeches, but Kaverin wouldn’t think of answering the question affirmatively, though Spesky was in fact spot on.

The man scoffed good-naturedly. “Ah, relax, relax, Comrade! We are field agents. The rules don’t apply to us.” His smile faded. “It’s a dangerous job we do and we are to be entitled to some indulgence, including poking fun at the people and the institutions taken far too seriously at home.” He patted his large belly. To Kaverin it resounded like a timpani. “I missed my lunch today, Comrade. I must eat something.” Squinting at his guest, the man asked, “Now, do you know of CARE packages?”

“Yes, indeed. They were a propaganda tool created by the West after the War for the purpose of exploiting the unfortunate and winning them to the cause of capitalism and imperialism.”

Spesky waved his hand impatiently. “You must learn, Comrade Major, that in this country not every comment is an invitation to a political statement. I was merely inquiring if you know the concept. Because I have received a CARE package, of sorts—from my wife in Moscow, and I have been waiting for your arrival to indulge.” He lifted onto his desk a large cardboard carton, labeled “Accounting forms,” and, with a locking-blade knife, sliced open the lid. He removed a bottle of good vodka—Stolichnaya—and tins of paté, smoked fish and oysters. He unwrapped a loaf of dark bread and smelled it. “Not bad. Not too moldy yet.”

They drank the vodka and ate the bread and paté, both of which were excellent. The bread didn’t taste the least moldy to Kaverin, and he had quite some intimate knowledge of bread in its final stages.

Tossing down a third small glass of vodka, Spesky said, “I will tell you the details of this assignment.” His face clouded over. “Now, our Comrade Thirty-five, the man you are to protect, is not a particularly likable fellow.”

“So I have read.”

“He acts impulsively, he speaks out when he should listen. Frankly I believe he is a cruel man and may be unstable. Accordingly he has made enemies.”

“The Comrade General told me there are two men who present an immediate threat.”

“Yes, that’s correct. They are U.S. citizens, though of Latin American extraction. Comrade Rasnakov learned that they plan to kill him sometime on Friday.” He slid a slim file across the battered desk. “Your job is to intercept them. Then communicate with them.”

“Communicate?”

“Yes, exactly. With one of these.” Spesky removed two pistols from his desk, along with two boxes of ammunition.

“You’re familiar with these?”

One was a Colt Woodsman, a small caliber, .22, but very accurate, thanks to the long barrel. The other was a large 1911-style Colt .45. “And you will need a car, Comrade,” Spesky told him. “I understand you can drive?”

A nod.

“Good. In the file you will find an address, an abandoned house. There’s a garage behind it, off an alley—‘garage’ they say here to mean not a repair station but a separate place to keep your car in, like a stable.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“In the garage is a Chevrolet Bel Air. The keys are hidden up under the front seat… Ah, I see you know not only guns but automobiles too, Comrade.”

Spesky had apparently noticed that Kaverin was smiling at the mention of the Bel Air.

“Now these are your targets.” Spesky opened the file and tapped the documents.

Kaverin read through the file carefully, noting facts about the two men whose mission was to kill Comrade 35—Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín, both in their mid-thirties. Dangerous men, who were former prisoners. They had murdered before. Their round faces—both bisected with thick mustaches—looked sullen, and Barquín gave the impression of being stupid.

Kaverin, though, knew it was a mistake to underestimate your enemy; he’d seen too many soldiers and agents die because they had done just that. So he read carefully, learning every fact he might about the men.

According to Rasnakov’s sources, the two were presently traveling—whereabouts unknown—but would arrive in Texas day after tomorrow. The plan was to kill Comrade 35 that day. Spesky explained that Rasnakov had planned to lie in wait and kill them when they arrived at the boarding house. This would be Kaverin’s job now. He pushed the file back and placed the guns and ammunition in his attaché case.

Spesky then handed him an envelope. It contained one thousand dollars U.S. and another airline ticket. “Your flight’s tomorrow morning. You’ll stay at a hotel near the airport tonight.”

After calling for a taxi, Spesky poured more vodka and they ate the rest of the paté and some smoked oysters. Spesky asked about life back in Moscow and what were the latest developments at GRU headquarters. There was gossip about who had become nonpersons and an affair at a very high level, though Kaverin was careful not to mention any names. Spesky was delighted nonetheless.

Neither man, however, had any hesitation in sharing stories about the latest KGB cock-ups and scandals.

When the taxi arrived, Spesky shook Kaverin’s hand. Suddenly the brash spy seemed wistful, almost sad. “You will enjoy certain aspects of life here, Comrade. The weather, the food, the plenty, the women, and—not the least—the absence of spies and informers dogging you everywhere. Yet you will also find such freedom comes at a price. You will be alone much, and you will feel the consequences of that solitude in your soul. There is no one to look out for you, no one above to care for you. In the end, you will long to return home to Mother Russia. I know this for a fact, Comrade. I have eight months left here and yet already I am counting the days until I can fly back to her bosom.”

The flight the next morning, on a propeller-driven DC-7, was turbulent as the plane fought its way west through strong winds. The journey was so bad that the stewardesses, who were quite beautiful, could not serve breakfast. Kaverin, more irritated at that fact than scared, at least had managed to secure a vodka and he took comfort in sipping the drink and smoking nearly half a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes, which were marvelous, during the flight.

The weather broke and, as they descended, he could look down and see flat sandy earth for miles and miles, grass bleached by the season, occasional groves of trees. Cattle, lots of cattle.

The aircraft landed uneventfully and the passengers disembarked.

He took his attaché case, containing his guns and ammunition, from the plane’s overhead bin and walked down the stairs onto the tarmac.

Pausing and inhaling the petrol- and exhaust-laced air, Mikhail Sergeyevich Kaverin found himself content. Here he was in a country very different from that portrayed by the great propaganda mill of the Soviet empire. The people were friendly and courteous, the food and cigarettes plentiful and cheap, the workers content and comfortable, not the least oppressed by greedy capitalist robber barons. And the weather was far nicer than in Russia this time of year. And nearly everyone owned an automobile!

Kaverin strode into the lobby of Love Field in Dallas, Texas. He glanced at the front page of today’s morning newspaper, Thursday, November 21, 1963.

President and First Lady Join Governor for Fund-Raiser at Dallas Trade Mart

Feeling the weight of the guns and ammunition in his case, Kaverin now felt an unabashed sense of pride to think that he alone had been selected for this critical mission of helping the USSR extend its reach throughout the world and further the glorious goals of communism.

As he waited for his bus, at a weedy stop in Dallas, Lee Harvey Oswald was troubled.

People had been following him. He knew this for a fact.

People who wanted to do him harm.

The skinny, dark-haired man, in his mid-twenties, looked around him again. Was there someone watching him? Yes!

But no. It was just a shadow. Still, he wished he had brought his pistol with him.

He awakened early in his boarding house on Beckley Avenue in Oak Cliff and taken a bus to a stop near the Dobbs House Restaurant for breakfast. The food had been bad and he’d complained. He wondered why he kept going back there. Maybe I’m a creature of habit, he reflected. He’d heard the phrase on a TV show.

Was it Ozzie and Harriet? He’d wondered. He liked that show, partly because it echoed his nickname in the Marines. Ozzie Rabbit.

When he thought this, he remembered his days in the service and recalled the fight he’d gotten into with a sergeant and that made him angry once more.

As angry as he’d been with the waitress over the food.

Why do I keep going back there? he thought again. Looked around once more. He didn’t see any overt threats but he still had to be careful. Considering what he had planned for tomorrow. And considering that he knew people were after him, smart people. Ruthless ones.

The bus arrived and Oswald boarded it and rode to the place he worked, the Texas Book Depository on Elm Street and North Houston, across from Dealey Plaza. He climbed off the bus, and gazed about him once more, expecting to see one of the sullen faces of the men who he was sure were following him.

FBI maybe. Those bastards had been harassing Marina and their friends again.

Oh, he’d made some enemies in his day.

But in morning glare—it was a beautiful autumn day—he saw only housewives with perambulators and a few salesmen, a retired couple or two. Ranchers. Some Hispanic men…

Killers?

It was possible. Oswald grew alarmed and leapt into the shadows of the depository building to study them. But they showed no interest in him and strolled slowly to a landscaping truck, pulled out rakes and headed into the park across the street.

Despite the bristling of nerves up and down his back, Oswald noted that no one seemed to have much interest in him. He shivered again, though this was from the chill. He was wearing only a light jacket over his T-shirt, and he had a slight frame with little natural insulation.

Inside the depository he greeted fellow workers, nodding and smiling to some of them. And he got to work. It was while he was filling out paperwork for a book order that he happened to look down at a scar on his wrist. He was thinking of his attempt to become a Soviet citizen several years before. He was about to be deported but had intentionally cut himself to prolong his stay after his visa expired, and convince the Russians to accept him.

Which they had and they welcomed him as a comrade. But there was a lot of important work to do in this hemisphere and, with his Russian wife, he’d returned to the United States, where he’d resumed his procommunist and anti-American activities. But now, he wanted to return to Russia, for good, with Marina and their two baby girls.

There’d been a setback, though. An incident had occurred that had put his plans—and his life—at risk. After he finished his task tomorrow he wanted to go to Cuba for a while and then back to Russia. Just last month he’d gone to the Cuban consulate in Mexico City to get a visa to allow him to travel to Havana, but the bastards had given him the runaround. The officials had looked over his records and said he wasn’t welcome in Cuba. Go away. None of them understood what an important man he was, more important than his five-foot-nine, 135-pound frame suggested. None of them understood his great plans.

The rejection in Mexico City had sparked his terrible temper, and he’d said and done some things he shouldn’t have. The Cuban security force had been called and he’d fled the capital and eventually made his way back home.

Stupid, he told himself, making a scene like that. Like fighting with the waitress at the diner. He’d lost control and made a spectacle of himself.

“Stupid,” he raged aloud.

He shivered once more, this time from pure fury, not fear or from the chill. And gazed out the window of the depository, looking for people spying on him.

Fucking Cubans!

Well, start being smart now. He decided it wouldn’t be safe to go back to the boarding house. Usually he spent weekdays at the boarding house. Tonight he’d return to the Paines in Irving, stay the night. Considering what he was about to do tomorrow, he couldn’t afford any complications at the moment.

His serenity returned—thanks largely to a memory of his time in the Marines in 1954, specifically the day his firearms instructor had looked over his score on the rifle range and given him a nod (the man never smiled). “You did good, Ozzie. Those scores? You just earned yourself the rank of sharpshooter.”

Anthony Barter swung his slim frame out of the car.

He stretched.

The thirty-one-year-old was tempted to light a Winston, needed one bad, but his employer wouldn’t approve. It wasn’t like drinking—that was wholly forbidden—but even taking a fast drag could get you in hot water.

So he refrained.

An old Martin 4-0-4 roared overhead and skewed its way onto the runway at Love Field.

He straightened his narrow tie and his dark gray felt fedora, from which he’d long ago removed the green feather—very bad form, that.

Barter looked around, oriented himself and went to the Eastern Airlines luggage claim area. His long hands formed into fists, relaxed and contracted once more.

He found a supervisor, a heavyset, balding man, sweating despite the pleasantly cool temperature. He displayed his identification.

The man drawled, “Oh. Well. FBI.”

Barter was from New England; he’d been assigned to Texas, though, for ten years and recognized an accent from much further south, probably El Paso.

He explained he needed to find out about a passenger who’d arrived that morning from Miami. The supervisor almost seemed amused at the idea that luggage handlers could recognize a passenger, but he went off to gather his employees.

The Bureau’s New York field office had informed their colleagues in Dallas-Fort Worth that a man believed to be a Russian military intelligence agent had arrived in the country yesterday or today and continued on to Dallas. There’d been debate in New York and Washington about the purpose of the agent’s trip, if he was indeed an agent.

There was, of course, the question of Presidential security. Kennedy was coming to town tomorrow, and lately the threats against him had been numerous—thanks largely to the U.S.’s aiding Cuban rebels at the Bay of Pigs invasion, as well as Kennedy’s and his brother’s support for civil rights. (He’d kicked some Soviet ass last year, too, of course, with the missile blockade, but no one in national security believed that the Russkies were stupid enough to attempt to assassinate the President).

No, more likely the spy’s mission was pure espionage. The GRU was the intelligence organ specializing in stealing technology secrets—specifically those dealing with nuclear weapons and rocket systems—and Texas was home to a number of defense contractors. Barter’s boss, the special agent in charge of the office here, immediately assigned him to the case.

The only lead was a photograph of the purported spy, entering the country as a Polish businessman. All individuals coming in from Warsaw Pact countries were surreptitiously photographed at Customs at Idlewild airport. The image