Topaz - Leon Uris [7]
“As we all know,” Sanderson Hooper said calmly, not responding to the pressure, “this Kuznetov is an extremely skilled and highly placed agent, knowledgeable in NATO matters. He has a remarkable mind.”
“Is he authentic or the greatest fake and best actor of the decade?”
Sanderson Hooper’s bushy brows furled in concern. He fiddled with the tobacco in the omnipresent pipe. “What do we have, Mike? A defector who wants sanctuary and protection. He’s made no deals with us.”
“But he keeps feeding us just enough bait to let us know he’s important.”
Hooper puffed, folded his wrinkled hands and mulled. “Don’t lean on me yet for an official evaluation, Mike, but I will give you a guess. My guess is that Boris Kuznetov doesn’t really know what it is he wants. He fled because he thought his life was in danger, and now he can’t make up his mind.”
“Hoop, I’m not going to hold you to this, but are you saying he’s the real article?”
“My hunch is that Boris Kuznetov will turn out to be the most important defector we have ever received.”
5
I’M COOPED UP HERE! MY wife Olga complains day and night. Tamara is miserable.”
“What the hell do you expect?” Nordstrom answered. “You’ve locked yourself up for three months. You’re bound to be on edge.”
Kuznetov had grown sallow and morose. Michael knew the family was arguing more heatedly each day. Then Olga and Tamara made a few cautious ventures into the town, and one trip to Baltimore. The revelations whetted their desires.
“Why don’t we work out a trip for you to, say, New York?”
“No.”
“Then out west.”
“No! You know I can’t leave,” he intoned shakily, with the glaze of fear returning to his eyes.
“You’ll be protected.”
Kuznetov shook his head “no.” “Perhaps, if we could move. If we could live in the country so I could at least go out for a walk.”
“Let me see what I can arrange.”
Boris studied the American with somewhat of a hint of guilt. “You are a fine man. If our positions were reversed, things would not be so easy for you,” the Russian said.
Camp Patrick was tucked snugly along the Patuxent River outside of Laurel and midway between Washington and Baltimore in catfish country, tobacco farms, and summer places.
The camp was built of logs and pine. A central complex held one major building that housed the office, kitchen, recreation room, and a number of smaller classrooms and briefing rooms. To one side stood a softball field and a pair of tennis courts, on the other side a riding paddock.
Along the riverfront there were a number of cottages with screened-in porches. The camp had been abandoned when Nordstrom took it over as an ININ training site. It was convenient for special schoolings and particularly for important weekend briefings. On occasion, he had hidden defectors there, as he now hid the Kuznetov family.
During the winter Kuznetov seemed to thrive in the new surroundings. True to his profession as an intelligence man, he read compulsively, devouring a dozen newspapers and periodicals daily, along with three or four books each week in English, French, and German, as well as his native language.
Nordstrom approached the Kuznetov’s cottage these days to the sound of Tamara’s piano. She played magnificently. Olga now attempted to prepare luncheons and dinners, still baffled by the array of electric kitchen utensils and the unlimited varieties of food.
The American and the Russian took long, unhurried winter walks along the river, during which Boris expounded Communist dialectic, literature, the American technical wonders, music. He was a well-informed buff on Western art and philosophy. Yet his only mention of personal matters was that Tamara had great promise as a musician and it was a pity to keep her from her studies.
As the winter wore on, the confinement of Camp Patrick began to play on the family’s nerves. The Kuznetovs had, in fact, traded