Читать книгу Bar in the Departure zone. The story of one escape - - Страница 4

The most important and prestigious section of the KGB is, of course, the First Chief Directorate – FCD (intelligence). This is the dream of young romantics whose heartfelt wish is to join the “Komitet.” Bitter disappointment awaits many of them. Upon returning from various foreign assignments, they will discover they are being watched, their phones tapped, and their careers will come to a halt. They spend long hours with their heads in their hands, trying to recall where and when they had aroused suspicion. Which of their comrades could be the source of the denunciation? The trouble, however, is that there may not have been any denunciation at all. The colleague has returned from beyond the ideological front, and who knows, who knows?

Members of the Second Chief Directorate – SCD (counterintelligence) almost never go on operational trips abroad, and because of this, their careers are more predictable. Life and service are simpler. For example, they are not required to live undercover – neighbors and friends could know that so-and-so works in the KGB. For every FCD officer, however, a cover story was arranged. Usually, for friends and neighbors he was supposed to be an engineer at a secret defense facility. Most employees of the FCU of the KGB of the USSR never used an official ID – a plastic card without a photo and without a name was used to enter the huge complex at Yasenevo on the outskirts of Moscow, and it never occurred to anyone to flash a brown folding ID with the embossed letters “KGB” to anyone without serious cause. Any way you look at it, life in the SCD was simpler.

The senior operations officer of Department “T” of the SCD, Major Valov, left the Detskiy Mir (Children’s World) store. In his right hand was a slim diplomatic briefcase while in his left, like a conjurer, he held two ice cream bars. Squinting at the sun and glancing at his watch, he ate both and discarded the sticks in an overflowing trash can, crossed the street, and disappeared into Building No. 2 on Dzerzhinskiy Street, the former Bolshaya Lubyanka. Here, on the fourth floor with a window overlooking the dreaded Inner Prison where the employee cafeteria is now located, was his office.

But it was not easy to find Valov there. More often, he could be found in one of the unmarked rooms in the main building of international airport Sheremetyevo-2, right behind the Deputy Hall. Or in the basement of the airport behind a steel door with the inscription “Civil Defense.” Or in the departure hall where he walked around with a detached look pretending to be a passenger. Often, he would sit at the bar with his habitual double-scoop of ice cream. Of course, the staff knew who he was, no secret about that. Among themselves, they called him “our curator from the KGB” or simply “curator.” In fact, the departure zone was his real workplace, a sort of battlefield where, like chess pieces on a board, his proxies and confidential informants were placed, special equipment was installed and concealed. Valov had sources among cleaners, customs officers, border guards, and even pilots.

It is not that the average Soviet citizen was naturally secretive and close-mouthed, but having been caught in a petty theft, a bribe, immorality, or any offense that entailed a trial and dismissal, he became extremely talkative and provided mountains of information, sometimes unexpected and sometimes unrelated to the work of the KGB. He would be investigated and asked to sign a document obligating him to voluntarily cooperate with the authorities, a pseudonym was selected, a schedule for secret meetings was agreed upon.

The major despised “initiators” – those who voluntarily sought contact and offered information. There were a large number of them, but, all employees at Sheremetyevo were not averse to snitching to the KGB. However, Valov, being an experienced operative, understood that these volunteers all wanted to use him, Major Valov. Some wanted to settle a score through him, some wanted to advance in their jobs, and others, anticipating future problems, wanted to get into his favor as an excuse or to receive special treatment.

Major Valov never refused to listen but mainly trusted his own tested informants, recruited based on solid evidence, indebted to him, and deeply involved in their own informant activities. In official documents, this is referred to as an “informant network,” and through this network, streams of foreigners flowed day and night. They would drink too much, eat, and buy souvenirs, speculating that the cashier or a cheerful bartender might have some connection with the “kay-gee-bee” (KGB). However, these were the rules of the game during the height of the Cold War.

The network provided a vast amount of information, often of a criminal nature, or as it was termed in the KGB, “police related info.” It was meticulously documented but never directly shared with the police to protect the anonymity of the sources. However, it would be incorrect to say that this data was not utilized – it was often used to recruit new KGB informants.

Foreigners, as a category, rarely interested Valov. This was the domain and concern of the prestigious First Chief Directorate of the KGB of the USSR. Instead, Valov focused on Soviet citizens actively seeking contact with foreigners. Providing a tip about such individuals could earn an informant a cash bonus, exemption from legal troubles, and, in some cases, a State award. These awards were granted by a secret order of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR. Recipients were prohibited from wearing or boasting about them to neighbors or relatives. However, Valov had never had such informants in his network. The majority of individuals in Valov’s network were ordinary people who had found themselves in some sort of trouble, which had been documented in intelligence reports that landed on Valov’s desk.

Major opened steel safe and pulled out two folders – one thin folder labeled “Personal” and the other thick folder with the words “Operational” written on the cover, along with the bold inscription “Confidential Informant LARIN” in felt-tip pen. Glancing at his watch once more, Valov picked up both folders and headed to meet his boss.

The head of Department “T,” responsible for counterintelligence operations at transportation facilities, occupied a bright and spacious office on the third floor. This “General” had formerly been a high-ranking member of the Party’s Central Committee, but during the campaign to “strengthen intelligence,” he was transferred to the KGB. Despite lacking experience as an intelligence officer and never holding a military rank, he was promoted to the rank of General overnight – a common practice aimed at imposing Party control over law enforcement. In the USSR, ideology always took precedence over professionalism. The Dzerzhinsky Red Banner Univercity of the KGB even had a special faculty to train those transferred Party and Komsomol workers for leadership positions within the KGB.

The former Party boss held a certain appreciation for Valov’s superior operational skills but also harbored a slight fear due to the absence of compromising information on him. Consequently, their interactions were infrequent. Although the major had a direct superior, that person had recently gone on vacation, leaving Valov in charge. After explaining his request, the General leaned over to read the contents of the “personal” file.

Valov had made a peculiar request – to seek approval for hiring the nephew of the informant named “Larin” as a porter. Larin, whose real name is Vlad Klimov, himself worked as a bartender in the departure zone of Sheremetyevo-2 and implored Valov not to obstruct his nephew’s employment. Larin had already handled all the necessary paperwork with the airport management using his connections, and the only remaining step was to secure the Committee’s approval.

“I don’t quite understand why he wants a relative to work there. And I understand even less why we need him,” the General emphasized the word “we.”

“There’s nothing illogical about it,” the major responded quietly. “There isn’t a single shift change at the bar without shortages. The porters typically steal beer and cigarettes. They drink the beer and break the empty bottles so they can claim they were damaged in transit, and the cigarettes are simply smoked in the storage room, eliminating the need to carry them through the checkpoint. Sometimes they loosen the caps of the cognac bottles and extract ten or twenty grams. Currently, they’re short of a porter. All the shift bartenders have to come in an hour early and transport the goods themselves on carts – they complain, but it’s better than shortages. A porter who doesn’t drink and happens to be a relative of the senior bartender administrator is precisely what they need.”

“Well, what good is a teetotaling porter to us then?” the General asked, once again emphasizing the word “us.”

“None. But “Larin’ wasn’t rewarded at all for the mother-of-pearl icon case,” the major replied.

“Tsarevich Aleksey?” the General became interested.

“Yes, it all happened in his bar, and he was the one who provided the initial information,” the major confirmed.

“Right, but all the glory went to the Counter-smuggling team! He should be punished for this,” the General exclaimed, laughing.

It had been a significant incident involving the wife of an African diplomat who had attempted to smuggle out an antique icon by strapping it between her legs and nearly strangling Officer Shubin from the Tenth Department (counter-smuggling) with his own tie. Many employees from the Tenth Department were rewarded, the woman was expelled from the country, and Sasha Shubin became the head of the department.

“Well, I can’t tell an informant that contraband isn’t our job, that Department “T” and Department ’10” are not the same,” the major explained.

“True, of course,” the General agreed. “But could he be revarded with money?”

“You clearly don’t understand how much they make over there,” Valov replied, daring to show a touch of insolence as he gazed out the window, his eyes filled with hatred. “So let me tell you – up to three hundred rubles a day! In just one day! And during the Olympics, that faggot managed to earn enough to buy a one-room cooperative apartment.”

The general disliked Valov’s tone and wanted to put him in his place, but Valov continued, “The bartenders receive more tips in rubles and foreign currency in a five-day week than you and I together in a month. They’re the ones who could motivate us with money.”

Noticing the expression on the general’s face, Valov fell silent.

“Well,” said the general, “try to control your emotions and explain what you want from me. You could have approved the nephew yourself.”

“I can’t. They are close relatives. The instruction states ‘in special cases.’”

“What instruction?” the former Party member asked, immediately regretting his question.

“Instruction Two Zero Sixty,” the major replied in surprise.

Oh, you’re a bitch, thought the general to himself. He was upset and changed the subject. “Is he really a homo?”

“Yes. He was recruited in 1977 in an incident with his homosexual partner – he was pulled out of the incarceration unit of the Zelenograd police department. Jealousy. Fight. Non-penetrating stab wound in the stomach.”

“I don’t care for your attitude toward sources,” pronounced the general in the officious tone of a former instructor of the Central Committee. “But why so much hate? Why do you speak with such irritation about your own informant who has worked with you for years? Yes, sometimes they have a lot of money; yes, they are not awakened and called to report in the middle of the night as we sometimes are. They live materially better than us in some ways, but tell me honestly, would you change places with this ‘Larin?’”

And again, the apparatchik realized he had blundered. After all, the informant was a homosexual. What a day!