Parallax View Excerpt

May 29, 1987, 10:30 a.m.

Viktor Kovalenko squinted, his eyes glued to a tiny black-and-white monitor. The screen was crammed into a metal rack mounted on the wall next to his desk, alongside eleven similar monitors, each transmitting a different view of the exterior of the Kremlin.

The image was small, but he could see enough to know something unusual was happening. General Secretary Gorbachev was speaking with one of his assistants, something he did regularly throughout the day. But normally the men would be surrounded by aides and secretaries and assorted party apparatchiks. This meeting was being conducted one-on-one, almost an unheard-of scenario with a low-level bureaucrat like Aleksander Petrovka.

The men were engrossed in an intense conversation, 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.