The Debriefing by Robert Littell Read Free Book Online

engines makes Stone drowsy, and he has to struggle to keep his eyes open and the conversation, however intermittent, going. Kulakov, in a window seat, seems to be mesmerized by the thin wisp of smoke that spirals up from his cigarette in the ashtray. “I can’t remember,” he says slowly, troubled by the lack of memory, the failure to come up with names or details that he is sure he knows.
    Stone does his best to reassure him. “The peasants say you have to forget something seven times before you can commit it to memory.”
    “Yes, that’s so,” Kulakov says thoughtfully. “The peasants know many things we don’t know.”
    After a while Stone asks, “Considering all the things that happened to you in the last—what was it?—six or eight months, how is it they let you leave the country?” His tone is casual, the delivery offhand, but the question is the first direct one Stone has put. It is the start of a very precise debriefing process that will go on and on until Kulakov has been drained of every last drop of information.
    “I don’t know how to answer,” says Kulakov. He stares out the window into the darkness. “I saw a memorandum—the colonel conducting the investigation showed it to me—ordering my name eliminated from the courier list. I was told I was not permitted to leave Moscow. I was told there was every chance I would be formally charged, and that it would be in my interestto hire a lawyer. I was told that if I didn’t hire a lawyer, the court would appoint one. And then … then … out of nowhere, that phone call …”
    Kulakov is losing the thread again, but Stone gently nurses him along. “What phone call?” When this gets no response, he says, “You were talking about a phone call.”
    “Yes, out of nowhere. Summoning me to the duty officer. In civilian clothes, they specified. As if nothing had ever happened. As if … and he … said I was to take this”—Kulakov taps the pouch—“to Cairo. He said I was elected by one vote. His.” Kulakov’s lips twist into a vicious smile. “You can bet that’s the last time that poor son of a bitch will vote for anything. He’s probably on his way to Siberia right now.”
    The copilot, a young man with a blond mustache and a broad open smile, makes his way down the aisle to them. “Everything all right?” he asks conversationally. Without waiting for an answer, he hands Stone a metal message board that opens like a book. “I reckon this here’s for you. You’re Mr. Simon, aren’t you?”
    Stone reads the message, which has been decoded and printed out in capital letters. “Reception preparations laid on as per your instructions. Judging from the fuss the Russians putting up on all fronts there is nothing less than solid gold in the pouch, so handle with tender loving care. FYI White House plus State Department plus CIA plus various foreign governments expressing curiosity bordering on interest. Treat affair like proverbial hot potato. Report only to me.” The cable is signed “Elbow Room,” which is the operational code signature of the crusty admiral who is the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—and the man Stone happens to work for.
    “Our estimated time of arrival is 2230,” the copilot informs Stone. “Weather conditions will be clear but cold, somewhere in the low twenties.”
    “We’re not listed on the manifest, are we?” Stone checks. He doesn’t want to leave any trace of how he came into the country.
    “Just like you specified, there’s nothing on the manifest. As for us monkeys, we haven’t heard nothin’, we haven’t seennothin’, we don’t know nothin’.” The copilot flashes a conspiratorial grin as he leaves.
    Kulakov drifts into a fitful doze, his cheek pressed to the windowpane. Stone looks at his wrist watch, calculates the time left to the flight, settles more deeply into his seat, his mind going over for the thousandth time the details of the court case that his lady lawyer with a good