Keeping his face a calm mask, he dipped his head in respect. “Dobry dyen, zasluzheni Predsedatel.” Good day, honored Chairman.
Andropov peered at him through his glasses. “Kalugin, da?”
Vitaly nodded. “Da. Counterintelligence agent, Special Service II, Vitaly Dmitriyevich.”
Andropov nodded. “Sadeetyes.” Sit.
Vitaly sat.
The KGB Chairman took the chair at the head of the table, gesturing with his chin at the two other men. He spoke very clearly, pronouncing the names in an educated accent. “Vladimir Alexandrovich Kryuchkov. Vladimir Nikolayevich Chelomei.” He rightly assumed Vitaly would know who they were.
Vitaly met the eyes of each man, and again nodded in respect. Kryuchkov was head of the KGB First Chief Directorate, responsible for all operations abroad, including Vitaly’s department. Chelomei was a senior director in the Soviet space program.
Kryuchkov, as Vitaly’s boss, took the lead. His round face with its high-domed forehead was marked by a squashed nose, broken badly at some point long ago.
“Vitaly Dmitriyevich, please brief us on the situation.” He used the patronymic to ease the gap in seniority, which helped to put Vitaly at ease.
He took a steadying breath. These were smart, accomplished, powerful men. Where to start?
He quickly summarized the events that had transpired in orbit over the past 20 hours. While he spoke he glanced at Chelomei for con-firmation that he had his facts right; the man’s furrowed brow and pursed mouth gave away nothing. But he didn’t contradict him, either. So far, so good.
Moving to more familiar ground, he gave a quick intelligence summary of the woman cosmonaut and the American astronaut, Esdale. Their records were clean, nothing suspicious in the files. No leverage there.
The three senior men listened, their faces impassive. They knew he was keeping the key information for last.
“The third person in space, American Air Force Major Chad Miller, gives us the greatest opportunity.” Vitaly’s heart rate slowed as he explained in detail, recounting how he’d fostered agents in the heart of the Russian Orthodox Church around the world, looking for angles and access routes to the West. He shared the details of Miller’s file, starting with the boy’s adoption in Berlin. Andropov nodded slowly as he heard how Vitaly had used an agent, the church interpreter, to send money to the pilot, ostensibly from his long-lost brother, eager to help with the young man’s expenses when the adoptive parents, farmers apparently, had run low. And how Miller had never refused such handouts. The KGB chief looked at Kryuchkov, who nodded back.
“That gives us a position of strength. Spasiba, Vitaly Dmitriyevich. This Miller would not want the Americans to find out where that money actually came from.”
Vitaly inwardly thrilled at Andropov using his name.
Andropov turned to Chelomei. “Vladimir Nikolay’ich, I know little of space. I commiserate with you on the loss of our Almaz space station, and the tragic death of cosmonaut Mitkov. These are blatant acts of American aggression, and help set our course of action.” His old eyes blinked behind the thick lenses. “Nyet huda byez dobra”—there is no bad without good. “What other levers do we have here?” he asked.
“Respected Chairman, despite the tragedy of today’s events, I have good news from the Soviet space program.” Vladimir Chelomei’s deliberately formal phrasing lent import to what he was saying.
“With what I have learned from Agent Kalugin here, and an important discovery made just yesterday by the Lunokhod team that is exploring the Moon’s surface, I think we may have a rare opportunity.”
Having gained the room’s attention, he laid out his plan.
Kryuchkov had lifelong experience in diplomacy and subterfuge. He quickly evaluated the idea, considering the weaknesses as he rubbed his broken nose with his forefinger.
“We need communications with the cosmonaut—private communication. Can we get it?”
“Da, Vladimir Alexandrovich,” Chelomei said. The two men worked in different fields, but were roughly equivalent in power. Chelomei had reached the same conclusion earlier that day, and had issued orders. “I’ve thought of a way to reach her.”
Andropov stood. “I will take this to the Politburo, and to the General Secretary.” As KGB chief and his longtime protégé, Andropov was Brezhnev’s most trusted ally. “The Americans will be contacting us shortly, no doubt.”
He looked at each of the three men.
“Let’s make sure we’re ready.”