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Gorbachev doing most of the talking,
Petrovka’s body language suggesting he would rather be almost anywhere else in
the world. Gorbachev removed something from his pocket and after stressing a
point, finger waggling, handed the object to Petrovka.
    Kovalenko glanced
at his watch and jotted the time down on a small pad of paper, along with a
notation regarding Gorbachev’s odd behavior. He squinted, watching the small
Russian-made Ekran television monitor closely as he lit a cigarette and took a
deep drag. Tried to determine the relative importance of what he was seeing.
Decided to play it safe. He picked up a telephone handset and dialed a number
from memory.
    The call was
answered on the first ring, as Kovalenko knew it would be. It always was. He
laid out the details on the phone for the KGB watch commander: The virtually
unprecedented change to General Secretary Gorbachev’s routine. The seeming
reluctance with which Aleksander Petrovka received what Gorbachev had to say.
The secretive passing of an object, perhaps an envelope, between the two men.
    Despite his
familiarity with Gorbachev—he had been assigned to this post for over three
years—Kovalenko could not guess what the General Secretary might be up to.
Something was definitely amiss, though.
    Colonel Kopalev
listened without comment for five minutes or more as Kovalenko reported his
observations. Finally, when Kovalenko had finished, the colonel said, “Continue
observing Secretary Gorbachev. When he leaves his office for the day, I want it
thoroughly but discreetly searched. Have your men look for anything unusual and
then report back to me with your findings.”
    Kovalenko
grimaced. “Colonel, the object was passed to Petrovka. I seriously doubt any
evidence will remain in Secretary Gorbachev’s office by the end of the day.
There’s probably none in there now. If I may suggest following Petrovka—”
    “Thank you for
your assessment, Major. Of course we will follow Comrade Petrovka. But it
changes nothing as far as you are concerned. You have your orders. I will
expect to hear from you immediately if your search turns up any useable
information.”
    “Yes sir,”
Kovalenko replied, and the connection was abruptly broken at the other end. His
boss had just slammed down the receiver. He replaced the handset in its cradle
and lifted his middle finger at it, fully aware that he might be under
surveillance as well, that his insolence was probably being observed, but was
annoyed enough not to care.
    He lit another
cigarette and resumed observing the activity in and around the Kremlin.
     
     
    4
    Berlin, German Democratic
Republic
    May 29, 1987, 10:20 p.m.
    The vodka burned in a familiar and
not unpleasant way as it rolled down Aleksander Petrovka’s throat. He gulped
down his first glass in a matter of seconds and realized he should have ordered
two at once from the heavy-set barmaid when she had made her first pass by his
table. He shrugged. She would return soon. Any good barmaid could recognize the
heaviest drinkers in a crowd instantly. Her livelihood depended upon it.
    Aleksander knew it
was critical that he keep his head clear and his wits about him during the
upcoming rendezvous. This was only his second trip into the GDR, and every face
appeared hostile, suspicious of the Russian interloper. But the prospect of
getting through the next hour—indeed, the rest of his life—without the fuzzy
reassurance provided by a liberal dose of vodka was unthinkable. The enormity
of this mission was not lost on Aleksander, nor was its potential to destroy
his life, and for the thousandth time since yesterday afternoon he questioned
his commitment to General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev.
    Nobody defied the
KGB and got away with it.
    And Aleksander
knew that by carrying out the instructions Gorbachev had given him, he was
defying the KGB. There was simply no other way to look at it. The very
circumstances of their meeting this morning were enough to convince