Black Knight in Red Square by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

recline on his narrow bed at seven on Friday morning, trying to find a reasonably tolerable position for his arm, Porfiry Rostnikov was entering the huge pale yellow building at 22 Lubyanka Street. The KGB headquarters stands opposite the 36-foot statue of “Iron” Felix Dzerzhinsky, who organized the Cheka for Lenin. The Cheka went through many transformations and is now the KGB, “the sword of the Revolution.” There are white curtains at the windows and shiny brass fittings on the door. Beyond the general offices and interrogation rooms are, as everyone knows, the cells.
    The KGB has more than 110,000 members, including many of the most intelligent and highly motivated Russians. It seemed to be Rostnikov’s fortune, however, to deal with but one of that number each time he entered this building. After a ten-minute wait, a stiff-backed man with dark, curly hair led Rostnikov down a corridor and up a short stairway. It was a repeat of his last visit, and Rostnikov did not look forward to it. The guide knocked at the unmarked door, and a familiar raspy voice behind it said, “Come.”
    Rostnikov entered alone and closed the door behind him. Yes, it was the same. Dark brown carpet, framed posters on the wall urging productivity and solidarity. Chairs with arms and dark nylon padded seats and an ancient, well-polished desk behind which sat Colonel Drozhkin, white hair, dark suit, black tie. Drozhkin examined Rostnikov critically and indicated with a gesture of his callused hand that the inspector could sit.
    â€œYour son is back in Kiev,” said Drozhkin, starting the game.
    â€œYes,” said Rostnikov, gazing at his host without emotion.
    â€œGood,” said the colonel. “Afghanistan is not a safe place for a Russian. Our losses, I will tell you confidentially, have been high.”
    It was Drozhkin, Rostnikov knew, who had arranged to have Iosef sent to Afghanistan, and it was Drozhkin who, having gotten Rostnikov’s full cooperation in covering up certain details about a politically sensitive case, allowed Iosef to return to Kiev with his unit. It was Drozhkin now who was making it quite clear that he could do the same thing again.
    â€œThere is,” Drozhkin said, folding his hands in front of him on the clean desk top, “a group of fanatics, capitalist terrorists who have sought on various occasions to embarrass the Soviet Union. This pitifully small group calls itself World Liberation. It has members from several countries. It seeks to drive us into conflict with the West. It claims in its literature that once we are at war with the Western powers, both sides will be destroyed, and World Liberation will be able to take over. We have infiltrated this group in the past. We thought we had destroyed them, but a few have survived. Some of them are now in Moscow.”
    There was nothing for Rostnikov to say as the gnarled colonel paused to allow him to speak. It was rare for a KGB official to reveal so much even to the police, and Rostnikov knew that much of it might not be exactly true. Rostnikov shifted his leg and nodded.
    â€œYour dead American, Aubrey,” Drozhkin went on, “was working on a story about this group, this World Liberation. We think that his death may be related to that story and the presence of those terrorists in Moscow.”
    â€œWhy—” Rostnikov began, but Drozhkin cut him off, rising and waving a hand.
    â€œWe know where the core is,” the colonel said, straightening a poster of a grim-faced woman holding a flag against a red background, “but we want them all. We will watch that core while you continue your investigation. We are especially concerned about possible terrorist acts. There are many Western and Third World people in Moscow for this film festival. Any act of terrorism would be most unfortunate.”
    â€œMost unfortunate,” Rostnikov repeated, thinking, unfortunate for whom?
    â€œThis is your