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MOSCOW

Major Sergei Dmitrevich Runkov of the GRU--the Soviet Military Intelligence--left the communications center in the basement of the Lubyanka Prison and waddled down the corridor toward the elevator, his 160-kilogram bulk stuffed impressively into his bedraggled army uniform.

Major Runkov was in a foul mood this evening, and was sweating heavily, despite the damp chill that permeated the lower levels of the prison compound.

He was carrying a bundle of message forms in a file folder with two red stripes diagonally across its front, signifying top secret material.

At the elevator, two officers, neither of whom he knew, glanced at the file folder and then scowled at Runkov. It was a mistake on their part.

Runkov's right eyebrow arched. "You have a problem, captain?" he growled at one of the officers.

The other man, a lieutenant colonel, stepped forward. "It is you who apparently have the problem, major," hesnapped. "What is your name and your unit, and what exactly are you doing carrying top secret material out of here?"

"Runkov. GRU. And what I am doing with these messages is none of your goddamned business, comrade."

The elevator had arrived, and Runkov reached out and pushed back the iron gate. The lieutenant colonel tried to stop him by placing his hand on Runkov's arm. The GRU officer spun around out of the officer's grasp, surprisingly light on his feet, and, centimeters away from the man, he said menacingly, "Do that again, comrade colonel, and you will likely lose your arm and very probably more."

The other officer paled. "See here ..." he started to say, but his superior officer stopped him.

"Sergei Runkov?" the lieutenant colonel asked, his voice now polite.

Runkov glared at him and barely nodded his head.

"I see, major," the officer said. "Please forgive us the intrusion."

Runkov snorted, turned, reentered the elevator, and, without waiting for the two officers to join him, crashed the iron gate shut and slammed the control lever to the right. The elevator rose with a lurch as the captain, who now looked definitely ill, turned to his colonel.

"The Bear?" he asked. The colonel, who looked no better, nodded.

At sixty Runkov had well earned his nickname, the Bear, which in no way was a reference to the Soviet Union's symbol, but rather an indication of his impressive bulk, as well as his ferocity.

At the time of the Revolution, Runkov, who had come from poor peasant stock along the Volga northwest of Moscow, was a member of the Red Army, and in the fighting had proven himself over and over again. At that time his nearly two-meter frame had been packed with 125 kilograms of meat, and he could andoften had crushed men to death with his arms in a bear hug. Thus his title.

After the Revolution he had transferred out of his regular army unit into the newly formed Cheka Registry Department, the forerunner of the GRU. And his reputation spread so that during the purges of the late thirties he survived without even a hint of trouble.

He had been married, but his wife had died two years ago, and his childless marriage was now nothing more than a vague, indistinct memory.

Upstairs, he charged out of the elevator and moved down the wide corridor toward his office like a battleship crashing through the sea, neither moving aside nor slowing down for any obstacle.

His chief assistant, Sergeant Vladimir Doronkin, who had been with him since shortly after the Cheka had been formed, jumped up from his desk when Runkov barged into the room. The man, normally almost as unflappable as Runkov, looked definitely shaken. "I tried to get you downstairs, but you had already left," he said breathlessly.

Runkov ignored him as he crossed the outer office and went into his own cubicle, slamming the file folder down on his desk. He slumped into his specially built chair, loosened his tie, and poured himself a stiff shot of vodka from a bottle in one of his desk drawers.

When he had thrown back the drink and taken a deep breath to calm himself, he looked up at his aide, who had followed him into his office. "What hell has broken loose now, Vladimir Nikhailovich?" he asked gently.

"Comrade Beria's office sent over a messenger for you. He is waiting downstairs."

"That fairy!" Runkov exploded, pounding his massive right fist on the desk top. "What in hell does he want?"

"No, Sergei ... no ... it is not him. It is Marshal Stalin himself. He wants to see you."

Runkov snapped up. "When?"

"Now," Sergeant Doronkin said. "Immediately."

Runkov smiled. "So," he said, sitting back in his chair. "The 'man made of steel' has deigned to send for me at long last."

Sergeant Doronkin, who had served his major well over the years, and who loved and respected the man, had to look nervously over his shoulder. What the major was saying was treasonous, punishable by death. But Runkov was totally unperturbed. "There is a car waiting for you downstairs," said the aide.

"Yes." Runkov was smiling. He got ponderously to his feet and began straightening his tie. "Quickly now," he said. "Get me the current files on Klaus Fuchs and on the American Manhattan District Project."

"Yes, sir," Doronkin said, pleased that his boss was not going to completely ignore the summons, as he had other summonses before. When Stalin himself called, a man either moved fast or lost his head. It was simple.

 

A light drizzle was falling in the warm evening as Runkov emerged from one of the side doors of the prison and climbed into a waiting car. It was an American lend-lease Chevrolet painted an olive drab. The U.S. insignia on the doors had been covered over with a red star, and red flags adorned both front fenders.

An air force colonel was waiting for him in the backseat, and as soon as Runkov closed the door, the man indicated for the driver to take off.

The car proceeded through the courtyard, past the black statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the State Secret Police, and then sped through the gate and headed toward the Kremlin along the deserted Yaroslavskoye Road.

"So, Sergei Dmitrevich, what do you think of our new summer offensive?" the colonel asked pleasantly.

Moscow was still under a blackout, despite the Nazi setbacks, and Runkov could barely make out the colonel's features. "If you've asked me that to be polite,colonel, don't. I do not engage in pleasantries. And if you've asked that because you desire my military assessment, also don't. My opinions go through channels."

The colonel chuckled. "The Bear," he said, half to himself. "Why is it, comrade major, that you feel you must constantly live up to your fierce reputation?"

"Stupidity," Runkov growled, looking directly at the man. "Inefficiency. Mendacity."

The colonel interrupted him. "You would do well to curb your tongue, or you may lose it along with the rest of your head."

"There would be none to shed a tear, least of all me," Runkov snapped, and both men fell silent as the car rushed through the night.

It had been two weeks now since he had sent his summary of intelligence operations in the United States directly to Marshal Stalin. For the first couple of days afterward, he had braced himself for the expected storm of protest. What was a GRU major trying to do by sending such a report directly to Stalin? Was the man mad?

But nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing. And as the days had stretched into the first week, Runkov's mood had blackened.

And, now that Stalin...