THE PEGASUS DIRECTIVE, page 14
He had first met Admir a little over a year ago, and they had continued to meet off and on since. Admir had listened to Vasili on too many occasions telling how life was passing him by, how he should be a movie director and not just a menial lab technician. He was an artist, and his talents were being ignored by his superiors. Time and again, he had requested to be sent to special schools to improve himself, but they kept telling him to be patient, not to push things. Shit! He was thirty years old; time was running out. If he did not do something soon, he would die an old man in that photo lab.
Admir sympathized with his plight, and promised to intercede, but was quick to point out that such things took time. He said he worked in a local Tass News Agency office and knew some pretty influential people who could help when the time was right. Well, he was getting tired of Admir’s promises, and his not delivering.
He thought back to the meeting with Admir when everything changed.
One evening, Admir asked him for quality photos of St. Basile’s Cathedral in the Kremlin. “I need them for a story I’m doing, and the pictures we have in our files are pathetic. I need some sharp color prints. It’s important to me, Vasili, I’ll even pay you fifty rubles for them.”
Vasili had laughed at the proposition. “St. Basil’s Cathedral?” he scoffed. “You can get good pictures anywhere for nothing. Don’t waste your money.”
“You won’t do it?”
“I’m just saying you don’t need me to steal copies from our lab files for you.”
“Very well,” said Admir, sounding hurt. “I ask a small favor from a friend, and he won’t help.” He shook his head slowly in disbelief.
“Look, if it means so much to you, I’ll get them. But you’d better not tell where you got them if you’re asked. That’s all I’m saying.”
A week later he gave Admir the prints, and he got his fifty rubles in return. It was like stealing sweets from a baby. The next time they met, Admir was full of thanks. His story had been accepted by some magazine or another, and the pictures were to be printed, too. He would surely get a raise and promotion if he continued his good work.
Over the next few months he had supplied Admir with other photos. Once, it had been several shots of a prototype tractor and other farm equipment, and later, a set of black and white glossy photos of the May Day Parade. Then, two months ago, he asked for a single picture of a new surface-to-air missile, and Vasili refused. But when Admir promised him five hundred rubles, he convinced himself it was really no big deal. The missile had been shown at last year’s parade, had it not? Yes, it had been hidden under a tarpaulin, but still, it had been shown in public. It took Vasili a nervous two weeks to get the picture, and true to his word, Admir gave him the money. It was then Admir mentioned there was a very good chance he could help Vasili soon get a transfer from the lab into a specialized moviemaking unit.
“I know what it means to you,” Admir said. “I’m going to help, to show my thanks for what you’ve done for me. I mean it, Vasili, I really do. Maybe you will have to leave Moscow to realize your full potential. Maybe school first, and then move to Poland.”
Now, they were to meet, have a couple of drinks, and see what Admir had been doing for him.
When Vasili entered the bar, he was hit by a blast of hot, stale air. The place was dingy and packed with college students. Three bartenders were in constant motion, filling orders and making themselves heard over the babble of voices and laughter. Pushing and shoving, he spotted Admir.
Finished with his second vodka and after telling Admir of the crap he’d been doing all afternoon including about a special project he was going to have to work on in addition to his regular work, he stood and looked around for a waitress.
Admir’s antennae went up. “What kind of special project?”
Vasili looked down. “Hell, I don’t know. My illustrious supervisor said we had some important film coming from America that needed to be processed, and duplicates made.” He sat, unable to catch the eye of a server.
“Well find out,” said Admir, his tone harsh, immediately realizing his mistake and regretting it. “I didn’t mean that,” he added with a smile. He leaned close. “Look, I’m excited. I’ve been talking to a friend who approves internal passports for people to study in other Soviet countries, and I told him how you want to study film directing in Poland. I know, I know,” he said, holding up his hand, “you never really said anything about Poland, but it’s a chance to learn what you need to know. Believe me, if anyone can do it, this guy can, and I’ve convinced him you should be selected. Plus, he owes me a favor or two. I’ll be able to tell you a date soon, then all you have to do is submit your application, and it will be approved. That’s my promise to you, my friend.”
Vasili was stunned. It was going to happen. The break he had been waiting so long for. It was fantastic!
“Well, there you have it,” said Admir “I told you I had influential friends— eh?”
Vasili caught the attention of a waitress and signaled for two more. His face was flushed with alcohol and excitement.
“Now, Vasili, I want you to do me a favor,” Admir was saying. “This film from America, find out what it’s about. It’s important to me.”
Vasili shrugged, his mind filled with thoughts of Poland and school. “Sure, I’ll find out,” he said absently.
“Listen carefully, my good friend. I must know as soon as possible. I will come here every night at six and stay until seven. When you know what it is, tell me. The sooner the better. Will you do that for me?”
“Sure. Of course I will.”
Two days later, he met Admir at the bar.
“It’s a pretty important film, from what I’m hearing,” he began, as he finished downing his drink and ordering a second. “It’s something about a meeting with the American President, and our ambassador. I overheard the General talking to the supervisor about it.”
Admir could barely contain his excitement, but he kept his voice calm, betraying nothing.
“Hmm,” he said, as if to himself. “I wonder if there’s a story there?” He was silent for several seconds, then, “Vasili, what would be the chance of getting a copy of that film?”
Vasili jerked upright, as if shot from a cannon. “Are you mad, or just drunk? That footage will be so closely guarded nobody could steal a copy. Whenever we work on special projects, we are searched thoroughly before going home every night. Extra precautions are taken to destroy work-copy filmstrips, cuttings, prints, and whatever garbage we produce is incinerated immediately. There’s no way of me walking out of there with a copy of the film, so don’t even ask.”
“Meet me here tomorrow at the same time,” said Admir, and before Vasili could refuse, Admir got up and left, leaving some rubles on the table to pay for the drinks.
An hour later, Admir met with another man in a grubby apartment three miles away. Both were agents of the Red Chinese government, and they spent the better part of the night working out a plan to get a copy of the still-unknown film from the KGB photographic lab inside the Kremlin. Just before dawn they found their answer.
That night, Admir again met Vasili at the bar.
“Tell me, what will you be doing with this film?” He began.
“I’ll make copies of it,” Vasili replied. “If they tell me to make two copies, I’ll make two copies.”
“Then I want you to make three.”
“Oh sure, and I’ll just carry it out under my hat, right? Shit, I’d be shot.”
“No, no, listen. You’ve told me you make tons of copies of educational films that get shipped off to all sorts of different places, right?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Trade fairs, foreign governments, universities, and the like?”
“Yes, I’ve said so a thousand times.”
“Can you give me a list of the ones you are working on now and where they are going?
“I guess so,” replied Vasili, somewhat cautiously.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Tell me when you’ll be working on the American film. If it’s not for another week, or even two weeks, don’t meet me until you’re sure of the exact day you will be making the copies. Also, tell me what other films you’re working on, and where they’re going. Can you do that? I will still be here every night at this time, but you only come when you know the day you’ll be reproducing the film.”
Vasili nodded, but it was painfully obvious he did not like the idea. His was the face of a man knowing he was getting into something way over his head.
“Listen, my good friend,” said Admir, sounding paternalistic, “there is no cause for alarm, you have my word. Now, I have some good news for you. Very soon, you will submit your application for school. It’s as good as done. Well, almost. But it will be before the end of next month.” He slapped Vasili on the shoulder and grinned.
On March 3 Vasili returned to the bar and a waiting Admir.
“I will be working on the American film first thing in the morning,” he said. “And probably making just one copy,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“And what other films are you working on?” Admir asked.
“I’m finishing up duplicating films for Ukraine, Albania, and Poland about how to properly use fertilizer. They’ll be packaged for the Ministries of Information, stamped with the correct addresses, shipping date, and mailed.”
“Does anyone else check the copies after you make them?”
Vasili laughed. “Check film about fertilizer? Are you kidding me? Hell no, we send stuff like this by the ton every day. It’s garbage propaganda, no one ever checks it. Shit, I’ll even wager no one ever looks at it at the other end either. It’s junk, but we just keep cranking it out day after day, year after year.”
“Great. Now here’s what I want you to do. Make a second copy of the American film, then put it in the canister of fertilizer film for Albania. If it’s short, splice it into the middle. If it is long, well, just put it into the canister by itself, seal everything up, slap on the label, and forget about it.”
“But it’ll go to Albania,” Vasili said, in a troubled voice. “You’ll never get it then.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just make absolutely sure it goes in the fertilizer film can for Albania, and that it gets shipped tomorrow. That’s all I ask.”
Vasili swallowed visibly.
“Don’t let me down, I’m working hard to help you,” said Admir, his tone hard.
“I’ll do it, don’t worry, I’ll do it,” Vasili replied.
The next morning, Vasili was given the 16mm American film, and told to follow the instructions taped to the cannister. “Handle this as though your life depends on it. Because if you mess it up, I suggest you kill yourself. Now, I want one perfect copy made from this original. Here is your chance to show what good work you can do.”
Vasili locked himself in the darkroom and studied the footage. It was not a long piece. His experienced eye under the low wattage red lights told him it was about six, maybe seven minutes playing time. He set up his duplicating equipment and went to work. The moment the first copy came out of the dryer, he spliced it into the Albania fertilizer film, not even stopping to check the quality of his work. He sealed the container and labeled and dated it. The sooner done, the better, was his only thought as he placed it in the middle of a large batch of other cartons for bulk mailing with the lowest delivery priority.
Vasili took the original footage and the second copy to the supervisor. Late that afternoon as he was ready to leave for the day, he was congratulated on a job well done. Vasili mumbled a thanks and hurriedly left.
Less than a month later, the fertilizer film was intercepted by a Chinese agent in Albania and taken directly to the Chinese Embassy. Twenty-four hours after that, the inserted American footage was in Peking being viewed by the Chairman.
Kang put down the report. Halfway through the summary, he had already made up his mind. The Soviet photo technician, Vasili Kerensky, had to be eliminated. Should this man one day decide to inform the KGB of his actions, his Chinese intelligence network inside the Soviet Union and Europe would be irreparably damaged. But the real clincher for his decision was Admir could not deliver on his promise to intercede on Vasili’s behalf to help him gain entry into film school in Poland. It would only be a matter of weeks before Vasili would come to realize he had been duped and used. Before that day would come, Vasili would have to be silenced. Kang took immediate steps to solve this problem, informing the Premier what he intended to do.
On Monday, April 10, 1967, at eleven forty-five p.m. Moscow time, the coroner’s office received a badly mangled body. An autopsy performed that same night determined that one Vasili Kerensky had died after having fallen from the platform and under the wheels of an oncoming subway train. Witnesses, when questioned by the police, stated that as far as they could recall no one seemed to have pushed the unfortunate man. The autopsy also revealed Vasili Kerensky had enough alcohol in his system to power a rocket to the moon.
Throughout that spring, the Chairman and Premier, along with a handful of other ministers, met several times to discuss what China should do in light of the evidence revealed by the intercepted Soviet film. Hour after hour, they argued back and forth as to what approach to take, but no solution was forthcoming.
They also followed the deteriorating situation in the Middle East. The Soviet-supported Arabs were calling for war against Israel. From China’s vantage point, it appeared the two superpowers were being drawn into an unwanted showdown, and because of the incriminating film they now had in their possession, the Chinese were closely monitoring the state of affairs. Chairman Mao was not so naïve as to think that America and the Soviets were in a pact that somehow made them agreeable on all issues. He knew that in their mutual distaste for China, the two would be in accord, but as to their relationships with Third World and nonaligned countries, each would continue to try to outmaneuver the other.
This was the state of world affairs during the first week of June 1967.
News of a preemptive Israeli strike against the Egyptian and Syrian forces took Chinese intelligence agents in the region by surprise. Before they could get accurate information back to Peking, the conflict was over, leaving the Arab World in shambles. Within days, Mao received a second round of shocking news. The President of the United States would be meeting with the Soviet Premier in America. It would be the first time the two would get-together, the hope was to find a permanent cease-fire solution for the Middle East. Chou En-lai did not think so. He believed the two leaders were meeting only to affirm their prior agreements in the wake of the potentially damaging war. He felt each needed to assure the other that political circumstances had forced them to support their prodigies, and this clash was not to be seen as a US—Soviet confrontation.
Mao agreed. The Chairman had been incessant in his hounding of the physicists at Lop Nor to detonate a hydrogen bomb and demanded they do so before the first day of summer. Mao knew Johnson and Kosygin were to meet on June 23, but he wanted to serve a warning to both men that China would not be attacked with impunity by either, whether alone, or in concert.
On June 17, 1967, less than one week before the two leaders were to meet, China exploded her first hydrogen bomb, less than three years after detonating their first atomic bomb at Lop Nor. She had bought herself more time.
CHAPTER 19
China – 1967
THE INTIMATE OBSERVER can always tell when Chairman Mao is engrossed in thought and not to be interrupted. He has a peculiar habit of drumming lightly on his head with the index and second finger of each hand, while cradling it with the thumbs at the temples, elbows resting on a table or desk. He can spend an hour like this, trancelike, oblivious to everything around him. Edgar Snow had often witnessed such a scene.
This is how Mao’s wife, Chiang Ching, found her husband one morning in late June 1967. She knew not to disturb him. Mao had a large book open on the desk before him, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. Chiang later told Edgar Snow she suspected he was ruminating over the ongoing Cultural Revolution. Chiang was a powerful woman in her own right and, as a result, made a formidable foe. She was Mao’s fourth wife. For some unknown reason—possibly jealousy—her archenemy was Premier Chou En-lai, and she did nothing to hide her contempt. However, she had long ago ceased to try to remold her husband’s opinion of his old friend, so she simply avoided all contact with the Premier.
At eleven, the Chairman pushed himself away from his desk for a light snack, then slept for two hours. Early afternoon found him back at his desk, again lost in thought. His fingers continued their light tapping, and the eyes were unfocused. Shortly after two o’clock, a smile crossed his face. He rubbed his eyes and stood. Mao had obviously reached a decision of some kind. He seemed pleased with himself.
It was not the Cultural Revolution that had held his attention for so long, but rather the Soviet film of their ambassador to Washington, and the then-American Vice President. He was sure he had at last found the right solution to what he had deemed an insurmountable problem. He phoned the Premier and called for a meeting that evening. Mao needed Chou’s opinion before proceeding further.
“Ever since we received that Soviet film,” Mao began, “I’ve been obsessed with the thought of finding an answer. I kept asking myself: Who can we trust? Who can we share this terrible secret with? China is a pariah nation to all but a handful of Third World countries. When we sealed our borders in 1949, we thought we were protecting our people from the evils of a degenerate world, but unfortunately, soon discovered that we must exist, or rather coexist, with that world. I still think time will prove us right, but at this moment, our self-imposed solitude has created a problem of near unsurmountable proportions.”
