The Missing Spy Read online

  The Missing Spy

  A Daniel Knox Thriller Book Two

  J.A. Heaton

  Flannel and Flashlight Press

  Contents

  Preface

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  End Matter

  Author Notes.

  Preface

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  1

  Number 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, Moscow.

  Deep in the KGB archives.

  September 3, 1987.

  Dmitri Petrov froze.

  He checked again.

  He leafed through the thick file adjacent to the one he had just placed into the file cabinet. A piece of paper stuck out oddly, and he would have to straighten it so that he could shut the file cabinet.

  The paper came out of the file with ease. It was misplaced. Dmitri could not help but look at it.

  Inaccurate filing was a cardinal sin among the KGB officers in the archives. At the very best, carelessness resulted in wasted time and effort in the future while the KGB searched for lost bits of information. But at its worst, one misplaced piece of paper could mean not only the death of the unfortunate KGB archivist, but it could also result in a security breach that could harm the Soviet Union in incalculable ways.

  The protocol was clear about what Dmitri should do. The problem had to be rectified immediately. But for Dmitri, it wasn’t so simple. Moments before Dmitri had entered this row of the archives, he saw another KGB archivist, Kozlov, whom he despised.

  Kozlov was a lazy womanizer from an influential family who didn’t mind letting others know how powerful he was. Though his family connections were strong, his incompetence had kept him from rising higher in the KGB, even though he was already multiple levels above what his skill merited. In Dmitri’s opinion, Kozlov was an infantile intelligence officer. Kozlov was certainly the arrogant idiot who had misplaced the piece of paper. Despite what protocol dictated, Dmitri hesitated. Kozlov would not go down without a fight. His family would make sure Dmitri’s life was made very difficult if Dmitri got Kozlov into trouble.

  Dmitri exhaled deeply. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had been without a family for years. Nobody could threaten his wife, for she had died. Nobody could threaten any children, for they had also died. It was just Dmitri, and he would have to answer for his actions.

  The major complication was what the piece of paper contained.

  Dmitri was not well versed in global affairs, but he knew that the paper Kozlov had misplaced was a gold mine for the United States and her allies in NATO. This document was a list of Soviet agent codenames and their corresponding real names. Granted, some of these codenames could have been given to people whom the KGB was observing or hoping to use as a source, but Kozlov’s superior was known to have the most valuable agents.

  Dmitri could not tear his eyes away from the paper as he pondered what to do with it.

  He recognized one of the names.

  Human lives would be exchanged for the information on this piece of paper, Dmitri thought to himself. If this piece of paper fell into the wrong hands…

  A dull thud elsewhere in the archives snapped Dmitri out of his state of wonder.

  He instinctively hid the paper behind his back and looked about. Nobody was there.

  Dmitri forced himself to think. He didn’t feel like he could follow protocol. Kozlov would undoubtedly accuse him of something. But there was no way Dmitri could file it correctly. Doing so would require too much research on his part, and then he would have to answer as to why he even had such a document in his possession to begin with.

  Though Dmitri hated Kozlov, he hoped this could be a chance to ingratiate himself to the slob. He had to find Kozlov before he left the archives, let him know that he might have forgotten something and that he should go check. Kozlov would certainly fix his error, and he might even thank Dmitri for it in some way.

  It can’t always hurt to have a snake on your side, Dmitri thought to himself.

  Dmitri hurried to the exit of the archives and asked the man at the security gate if Kozlov had left yet.

  The guard at the only entrance and exit to the archives gave a bored, “No.”

  Relieved, Dmitri set out to find Kozlov. The store of paperwork and documentation was vast, but he knew which section Kozlov would typically be in, and he knew that they would most likely be the only two in the archives. Dmitri walked down the long aisle, looking down each row in turn, until he came upon the working tables where the gophers like him could organize and sort files to prepare for their KGB superiors.

  Finally.

  Kozlov sat at one of the tables with his back to Dmitri.

  Dmitri approached slowly, but made sure his footfalls were heavy enough to alert Kozlov to his presence. But Kozlov did not move.

  “Comrade Kozlov,” Dmitri said, stopping behind Kozlov’s chair.

  No response.

  Dmitri leaned forward and repeated the name. And then gave Kozlov a tap on the shoulder.

  Damn, Dmitri thought to himself. Did he drink so much the night before that he has passed out at work?

  That would explain why he had filed the paper incorrectly, despite its importance. However, Dmitri didn’t smell alcohol, just the ever-present musty scent of pulped wood pressed into paper in service of the Motherland’s archives.

  Dmitri gave Kozlov a firm shake on the shoulder, but the man didn’t move.

  A new possibility arose in Dmitri’s mind. He felt for a pulse on Kozlov’s neck. Placed his face near Kozlov’s nose and mouth.

  No pulse. No breath.

  Now Dmitri really thought to himself: damn. The bastard is dead.

  Given the new circumstances, Dmitri did not have long to ponder. Instead, he acted instinctively.

  Dmitri ran to the guard at the front of the archives, not caring how loud or rapid his footfalls were.

  “Did you find comrade Kozlov?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Dmitri answered between heavy breaths. “But call an ambulance. Kozlov must have had a heart attack. I think he’s dead.”

  The guard got on the phone and began speaking rapidly.

  Dmitri pulled at his sweaty collar as he hurried back to Kozlov’s body. He passed it and went on to retrieve the misplaced document.

  Dmitri thought it through for the first time.

  If I continue, there is no turning back.

  He took one last glance at the paper as he held it before his eyes and muttered a name he saw written on it. Then he began folding it rapidly, thus intertwining his own fate with that of the document.

  After reducing the paper to a tiny rectangle, he slid it into a hidden hem in his jacket’s lining. He took a few deep breaths, wiped his sweaty palms against his pant legs, and hurried to Kozlov to await assistance.

  Moments later, two secretaries for men higher up in the KGB, both with clearance, entere
d the archives and helped Dmitri pull Kozlov’s body to the exit.

  None of them exchanged words. They were too afraid to say anything. But that was typical. They never conversed with each other. Asking for a light for a cigarette was the most conversation these men ever had at work. They all knew that any hint of indiscretion could mean not only their career but also their life.

  The men loaded Kozlov’s body onto the gurney that was waiting outside the archive’s exit. Several men were squeezed into the small entryway, waiting to tend to the body and wheel it away. During the confusion of moving Kozlov, the guard hadn’t searched the KGB officers who moved Kozlov’s corpse out of the archives and onto the gurney. After the body was gone and the two secretaries went back upstairs to resume their normal duties, Dmitri slouched down onto the ground, exhausted.

  “Dmitri?” the archive’s guard said. “I need you to sign out. That is, unless you come back in now.”

  Oddly, Dmitri felt the impropriety of being outside the archives without having first signed out.

  “Of course,” Dmitri said. He rose back to his feet, and his rubbery legs carried him the few meters to the entrance. He signed himself out from the KGB archives after checking the time.

  “It is shocking to come upon death, isn’t it?” the guard asked Dmitri.

  Dmitri nodded and said, “One rarely comes across such shocking things in the archives.”

  Dmitri desperately wanted out of the KGB building. He wanted space. He needed time.

  The death of a coworker would be reason enough to take the rest of the day off, go home, and drown my sorrows in vodka, Dmitri reasoned to himself.

  Dmitri started his way up to his superior’s office to request the rest of the workday off, which he was sure would be granted.

  With each step upward, he became increasingly suspicious that this was an elaborate trap.

  Had the file been misplaced on purpose to test me? Dmitri wondered. Or, are they already on to me?

  It had worked out perfectly for Dmitri. Almost too perfect.

  But they couldn’t have planned Kozlov’s heart attack. The truth was that Kozlov had misplaced the file. Nobody would have any reason to think that that one piece of paper was missing. Who knew how long it would be, if ever, until somebody would go searching for that record?

  If they were ever to trace the blame, the logs would indicate that Kozlov was the last one to handle that file and replace it. And Kozlov was now dead. If they suspected any funny business, the investigators would come across the same problem. Kozlov was now dead. Dmitri knew it was most likely that this piece of paper’s absence would not be detected for years, if ever. And nobody would be able to trace the blame back to him, for Kozlov was the man responsible for it, and he was now dead.

  Yes, Dmitri thought to himself. This is the perfect bit of espionage, and I’m going to deliver a goldmine to the Americans.

  Once he had leave for the day from his superior, he went to deliver the signal to arrange the delivery to his CIA handler.

  Agent Bishop, as Dmitri was also known, knew that this piece of paper would make him the most valuable spy to the West, even more valuable than Colonel Penkovsky from decades before.

  Later that evening in the US Embassy in Moscow, the American Patrick Riley went to his office mail slot to check for messages. Although Patrick was in the same city, Moscow, as Agent Bishop, he was in a different world. The US Embassy was the most secure location for the United States within Moscow. It had been the ongoing victim of repeated attempts by the Soviets to break their codes, steal their communications, intercept outgoing messages, and track every living being that entered and exited the embassy. Paranoid to the degree that Americans couldn’t understand, the Soviet Union was hell-bent on finding who was helping the Americans, and who in that building knew about it.

  From his mail slot, Patrick pulled out a postcard and a flyer.

  The flyer had a picture of ballet slippers along with an announcement that Patrick merely glanced at. The back of the postcard had a few scribblings of niceties from a colleague, but the front had a picture of St. Basil’s Cathedral in the Red Square. He ignored the flyer completely focusing instead on the image of the cathedral.

  Now it was Patrick’s turn to think: Damn.

  But how am I going to make that fit into my schedule? Patrick thought to himself. Despite his job flexibility, if Patrick couldn’t make the meeting with the proper counterintelligence protocols, his source would be compromised. And his career would be over. A made spy.

  Patrick’s cover was that of a cultural and sports attaché and reporter for the US Embassy. The idea was that Patrick would report on all the wonderful cultural and sporting events in the Soviet Union for a mid-sized New York paper, and a Soviet counterpart would do the same in America. It was a meaningless sign of goodwill between the two countries locked in a Cold War. Both sides were willing to admit a reporter who would report on such insignificant things if it made them look better in the eyes of international observers.

  And Patrick did indeed report on many sporting and cultural events within the Soviet Union. It kept him moving about the city, and sometimes outside of Moscow. And even though Patrick genuinely enjoyed his job, he had grown lonely doing it. As a single man in his thirties, he had long desired female companionship, ideally a devoted wife.

  This James Bond never seems to get the girl, Patrick had often thought to himself.

  But now, having been posted in Moscow for the last two years, he knew there was no way he could find such a woman. A romantic liaison with a Muscovite woman would draw the wrong type of attention. A relationship with a fellow US Embassy worker would also not be appropriate. Patrick was more than a CIA officer using his job as a reporter on all things sporting and cultural in the Soviet Union for cover. Unknown to all, except for two people at the US Embassy, Patrick was the handler of Agent Bishop, one of the most consistent sources of intelligence in Moscow for the United States.

  The postcard had come from a known CIA officer who had seen Agent Bishop’s indicator earlier that day. It was the signal that indicated Agent Bishop needed an urgent brush pass the next morning on the subway. Of course, the CIA man did not know that it meant all that. He only knew that when he received such a signal, it was his job to deliver a postcard with St. Basil’s Cathedral on it into a numbered box at the US Embassy. He didn’t even know whose box it was.

  Patrick had one night to figure out how to make his schedule fit plausibly with meeting Agent Bishop on the Metro the next morning. As horribly inefficient and maddening almost all bureaucracy was in the Soviet Union, especially for Westerners, the subway system was one thing that ran well and on time. There were simply too many people for it to do otherwise. It also meant that Patrick had to board the specific subway car at precisely the right time, to ensure that Agent Bishop could brush by him and place whatever was so urgent in his pocket. It wasn’t an easy problem to solve, but Patrick was confident he would find a winning route that evening.

  As Patrick sat alone in his apartment that night, poring over the subway map and going through his black book of possible locations, people, and meetups for his job, he recalled the only time he had held a conversation with Agent Bishop. It had been two years earlier, and Agent Bishop had already been providing excellent intelligence two years prior to that.

  A small chess tournament in Sweden served as a goodwill event between the two superpowers. Naturally, as the cultural reporter for a New York paper, Patrick had been included in the spectacle. Agent Bishop, harmless paper shuffler and pencil pusher, had been granted the privilege of going with his superior on this trip. He had indulged in buying many fine Western goods for his comrades while in Sweden. But he was also known as a sharp chess player amongst his colleagues.

  Agent Bishop and Patrick had faced off in their chess game, which didn’t last long. Patrick knew how the game was played, but he did not understand its intricacies or traps. It wasn’t long before Patrick made a few regr
etful moves and found himself down two pieces.

  “At least I still have my white-square bishop,” Patrick had said. “I always find that I regret losing my white-square bishop.”

  “It doesn’t matter which bishop it is,” Agent Bishop said. “If you have only one, I just place my king on the opposite color, and there is no threat.”

  “But the knight can take forever to get across the board if needed late in the game,” Patrick argued back.

  “Based on the results of our current game,” Agent Bishop replied, “I think that my opinion on all matters related to chess carries more weight.”

  “Sure,” Daniel conceded. “But if you make a tiny mistake, it could cost you the game, even though you are winning by two pieces.”

  “But it’s more likely that I will crush you with my advantage,” Agent Bishop had said.

  Two moves later, Daniel pushed his king onto its side, resigning the game.

  The conversation had taken place in Russian. Patrick intentionally did not speak Russian well with Agent Bishop. The observers mustn’t think Patrick was a potential spy. Had it been a mistake to put the two of them in contact with each other at the chess tournament? Patrick thought it was okay. Having a personal connection with his agent, he thought, outweighed any risks. Besides, if he and Agent Bishop were ever caught together, they would have a plausible reason as to why they would be meeting. They had met before.

  It was after that chess game that Agent Bishop received his name. It had been decided that his codename needed to be changed because it had been in use for a couple of years. Thinking that the codename, if discovered, would divert the KGB to somebody in the Church (whom the KGB always suspected), Patrick thought Agent Bishop fit. It was a private joke between the two of them that Agent Bishop preferred the knight in the endgame of chess.