Topaz - Leon Uris [43]
Nordstrom and his team had been warned strongly by the doctor not to grill Kuznetov too hard or to upset him, so the interrogation would have to be held on a far milder tactical level than normal.
“Mr. Jaffe, French desk at ININ,” Nordstrom said. He wouldn’t mind Jaffe, Nordstrom thought.
“Mr. W. Smith, Russian desk of ININ.” W. Smith, Kuznetov had heard of and would be hearing a lot from.
“Dr. Billings, our Soviet economic and military expert.” Billings had that soft-spoken appearance, but he would be deep and incisive in his questions.
The last man was introduced. “Mr. Kramer, counterintelligence.” Always the foe.
Dr. Billings spoke first. Indeed, his manner was mild. “My colleagues and I are all fluent in Russian. Mr. Nordstrom is only adequate in the language but will not be with us often. The interview will be conducted in your language.”
Kuznetov nodded.
“Everyone is well aware of your position,” Nordstrom said. “We’re not in a hurry, and if you become tired, just tell us.”
“You have advised these gentlemen there is much information I will not speak about unless Devereaux is present,” Boris said.
“We’re all informed of that,” W. Smith said, leaning on his elbows as if to get a better look into Kuznetov’s eyes. “Does cigarette smoke annoy you?”
“The only tobacco I’m allowed to get near is that other people smoke in my presence. So kindly exhale in my direction.”
“You see the tape machine here, of course,” Nordstrom said. “All tapes will be transcribed and also translated into English. You can make any corrections after you have read the transcription. Is that agreed?”
Boris agreed quickly, grateful that the whole business would be carried out without police-state tactics or menace.
“He’s all yours, gentlemen,” Nordstrom said.
“I’ll begin,” said Kramer of counterintelligence, scanning his note pad.
“Name?”
“Boris Alexandrovich Kuznetov.”
“Aliases?”
“I have many, but that comes later.”
“Birthplace?”
“Smolensk.”
“Year?”
“Nineteen-sixteen. A baby of the Revolution.”
“Family?”
“My mother died when I was three. There was left my father, a sister, and an older brother.”
“Was your father active in the Revolution?”
“No, no interest. He was a carpenter, like Jesus’ father.”
As Kramer was forced into cracking a smile, Dr. Billings picked up the questioning, more slowly and softly.
“About your formal education. Where did you attend primary school?”
“Smolensk.”
“What was the number of your school?” W. Smith fired out down the table.
“Sixty-two.”
“Where was it located?” W. Smith snapped.
“Pushkin Boulevard near Brofka Avenue.”
“There was a tobacco factory about a block away, was there not?”
“No. No tobacco factory.”
“My records show a factory.”
“Your records are in error. It was a residential neighborhood.”
“Your school was a four-story building,” Kramer said.
“No, two. It needed paint badly.”
“Would you name the restaurants in your area?”
He did. Smolensk was thoroughly scrutinized, street by street.
They brought him through a round of questions to establish a normal, poor, hard-working family unit quite devoid of deep involvement with early Soviet politics.
“When did you become interested in Communism?” Dr. Billings asked.
“Well, in those days one had to make a choice. During the counterrevolution we sympathized with the Reds against the Whites. First my brother, then I, became members of the Pioneers in normal course as the Reds won control. However, the Pioneers, or youth movements, were not highly organized in the beginning. My first real interest was when I entered gymnasium, similar to your high school, in 1931. I joined Komsomol, the Young Communists, and was quite active in our unit.”
“You went to gymnasium in Smolensk also?”
“Yes.”
W. Smith, the Russian expert, dominated much of the questioning, feeding a great deal of false information. Boris remained calm, occasionally displaying barbed humor to slap their wrists.
“Now what position did you hold before your defection?” Kramer asked suddenly, skipping ahead.
“First, Mr. Kramer,