Confessional. Jack Higgins
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to such attitudes – not from anyone. He opened his mouth to retort angrily and there was a sudden scream. The little girl who had sold Kelly the poppies pushed her way through the crowd and dropped on her knees beside the body of the police sergeant.
‘Papa,’ she wailed in Russian. ‘Papa.’ She looked up at Kelly, her face pale. ‘You’ve killed him! You’ve murdered my father!’
She was on him like a young tiger, nails reaching for his face, crying hysterically. He held her wrists tight and suddenly, all strength went out of her and she slumped against him. His arms went around her, he held her, stroking her hair, whispering in her ear.
The old priest moved out of the crowd. ‘I’ll take her,’ he said, his hands gentle on her shoulders.
They moved away, the crowd opening to let them through. Maslovsky called to the lieutenant, ‘Right, let’s have the square cleared.’ He turned to the man in the leather coat. ‘I’m tired of this eternal Ukrainian rain. Let’s get back inside and bring your protégé with you. We need to talk.’
The KGB is the largest and most complex intelligence service in the world, totally controlling the lives of millions in the Soviet Union itself, its tentacles reaching out to every country. The heart of it, its most secret area of all, concerns the work of Department 13, that section responsible for murder, assassination and sabotage in foreign countries.
Colonel Ivan Maslovsky had commanded Department 13 for five years. He was a thickset, rather brutal-looking man, whose appearance was at odds with his background. Born in 1919 in Leningrad, the son of a doctor, he had gone to law school in that city, completing his studies only a few months before the German invasion of Russia. He had spent the early part of the war fighting with partisan groups behind the lines. His education and flair for languages had earned him a transfer to the wartime counter-intelligence unit known as SMERSH. Such was his success that he had remained in intelligence work after the war and had never returned to the practice of law.
He had been mainly responsible for the setting up of highly original schools for spies at such places as Gaczyna, where agents were trained to work in English-speaking countries in a replica of an English or American town, living exactly as they would in the West. The extraordinarily successful penetration by the KGB of the French intelligence service at every level had been, in the main, the product of the school he had set up at Grosnia, where the emphasis was on everything French, environment, culture, cooking and dress being faithfully replicated.
His superiors had every faith in him, and had given him carte blanche to extend the system, which explained the existence of a small Ulster market town called Drumore in the depths of the Ukraine.
The room he used as an office when visiting from Moscow was conventional enough, with a desk and filing cabinets, a large map of Drumore on the wall. A log fire burned brightly on an open hearth and he stood in front of it enjoying the heat, nursing a mug of strong black coffee laced with vodka. The door opened behind him as the man in the leather coat entered and approached the fire, shivering.
‘God, but it’s cold out there.’
He helped himself to coffee and vodka from the tray on the desk and moved to the fire. Paul Cherny was thirty-four years of age, a handsome good-humoured man who already had an international reputation in the field of experimental psychology; a considerable achievement for someone born the son of a blacksmith in a village in the Ukraine. As a boy of sixteen, he had fought with a partisan group in the war. His group leader had been a lecturer in English at the University of Moscow and recognized talent when he saw it.
Cherny was enrolled at the University in 1945. He majored in psychology, then spent two years in a unit concerned with experimental psychiatry at the University of Dresden, receiving a doctorate in 1951. His interest in behaviourist psychology took him to the University of Peking to work with the famous Chinese psychologist, Pin Chow, whose speciality was the use of behaviourist techniques in the interrogation and conditioning of British and American prisoners of war in Korea.
By the time Cherny was ready to return to Moscow, his work in the conditioning of human behaviour by the use of Pavlovian techniques had brought him to the attention of the KGB and Maslovsky in particular, who had been instrumental in getting him appointed Professor of Experimental Psychology at Moscow University.
‘He’s a maverick,’ Maslovsky said. ‘Has no respect for authority. Totally fails to obey orders. He was told not to carry a gun, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’
‘So, he disobeys his orders and turns a routine exercise into a bloodbath. Not that I’m worried about these damned dissidents we use here. One way of forcing them to serve their country. Who were the policemen, by the way?’
‘I’m not sure. Give me a moment.’ Cherny picked up the telephone. ‘Levin, get in here.’
‘Who’s Levin?’ Maslovsky asked.
‘He’s been here about three months. A Jewish dissident, sentenced to five years for secretly corresponding with relatives in Israel. He runs the office with extreme efficiency.’
‘What was his profession?’
‘Physicist – structural engineer. He was, I think, involved with aircraft design. I’ve every reason to believe he’s already seen the error of his ways.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ Maslovsky told him.
There was a knock on the door and the man in question entered. Viktor Levin was a small man who looked larger only because of the quilted jacket and pants he wore. He was forty-five years of age, with iron-grey hair, and his steel spectacles had been repaired with tape. He had a hunted look about him, as if he expected the KGB to kick open the door at any moment, which, in his situation, was a not unreasonable assumption.
‘Who were the three policemen?’ Cherny asked.
‘The sergeant was a man called Voronin, Comrade,’ Levin told him. ‘Formerly an actor with the Moscow Arts Theatre. He tried to defect to the West last year, after the death of his wife. Sentence – ten years.’
‘And the child?’
‘Tanya Voroninova, his daughter. I’d have to check on the other two.’
‘Never mind now. You can go.’
Levin went out and Maslovsky said, ‘Back to Kelly. I can’t get over the fact that he shot that man outside the bar. A direct defiance of my order. Mind you,’ he added grudgingly, ‘an amazing shot.’
‘Yes, he’s good.’
‘Go over his background for me again.’
Maslovsky poured more coffee and vodka and sat down by the fire and Cherny took a file from the desk and opened it. ‘Mikhail Kelly, born in a village called Ballygar in Kerry. That’s in the Irish Republic. 1938. Father, Sean Kelly, an IRA activist in the Spanish Civil War where he met the boy’s mother in Madrid. Martha Vronsky, Soviet citizen.’
‘And as I recall, the father was hanged by the British?’
‘That’s right. He took part in an IRA bombing campaign in the London area during the early months of the Second World War. Was caught, tried and executed.’
‘Another Irish martyr. They seem to thrive on them, those people.’
‘Martha Vronsky was entitled to Irish citizenship and continued to live in Dublin, supporting herself as a journalist. The boy went to a Jesuit school there.’
‘Raised as a Catholic?’
‘Of course. Those rather peculiar circumstances came to the attention of our man in Dublin who reported to Moscow. The boy’s potential was obvious and the mother was persuaded to return with him to Russia in 1953. She died two years later. Stomach cancer.’
‘So, he’s now twenty and intelligent, I understand?’
‘Very much so. Has a flair for languages. Simply