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  TEMPLE OF SPIES

  IAN KHARITONOV

  Temple of Spies

  Copyright © 2015 by Ian Kharitonov. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design by Hristo Kovatliev.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  www.IanKharitonov.com

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  PART II

  PART III

  PART IV

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  WAR OFFICE REPORT ON BOLSHEVIK ATROCITIES IN RUSSIA

  Presented to Parliament by Command of His Majesty.

  November, 1918.

  1. The Bolsheviks have established a rule of force and oppression unequalled in the history of any autocracy.

  2. Themselves upholders of the right of free speech, they have suppressed, since coming into power, every newspaper which does not approve their policy.

  3. The Bolsheviks have abolished even the most primitive forms of justice. Thousands of men and women have been shot without even the mockery of a trial, and thousands more are left to rot in the prisons under conditions to find a parallel to which one must turn to the darkest annals of Indian or Chinese history.

  4. They continue to hold on to power by a system of terrorism and tyranny that has never been heard of. With fiendish cruelty, the Bolsheviks have begun to operate a plan of systematic extermination. They perform wholesale massacres, the most barbarous methods of torture and the odious practice of taking hostages.

  5. The number of Corean and Chinese units is reported to be increasing in Bolshevik forces. The sole object of these units is plunder, as they are merely bandits and not a regular army. No one wants to join the Red Army now except the worst elements of the people. If a conscript deserts, his parents or wife are treated with extreme brutality. The Bolsheviks who destroyed the Russian army, have forcibly mobilised officers who do not share their political views, but whose technical knowledge is indispensable, and by the threat of immediate execution have forced them to fight against their fellow-countrymen in a civil war of unparalleled horror. At Pskoff, 150 Russian officers who were taken prisoners by the Red Guards were given over to Mongolian soldiers, who sawed them in pieces.

  6. The Bolsheviks vent violent hatred on church and clergy, pillage monasteries, persecute and murder priests and monks. Churches and graves have been desecrated. A bishop was buried alive.

  7. The avowed ambition of Lenin is to create civil warfare throughout Europe. Every speech of Lenin’s is a denunciation of constitutional methods, and a glorification of the doctrine of physical force. Bolshevism in Russia offers to our civilisation a menace, and until it is ruthlessly destroyed we may expect trouble, strikes, revolutions everywhere. For Bolshevik propaganda unlimited funds are available. No other country can give their secret service such a free hand, and the result is that their agents are to be found where least expected.

  RED TERROR

  Siberia, 1920

  The Hungarian commissar, Balázs Kurilla, holstered his revolver as he strode away from the church, leaving blood-stained footprints in the snow. The villages behind him burned down, bathing him in a devilish glow, every house set on fire. The clotted blood covering his calf boots matched the crimson pentagram on his leather cap. His Bolshevik superiors had tasked him with instilling a reign of terror, and they would be pleased with the results. He and his Red Guards had indulged themselves in a frenzied feast of rape, murder and pillage, sparing no one. He, Balázs Kurilla, would have no mercy for the enemies of the Revolution. Outside the church, a few hundred corpses lay piled seven rows high, their limbs intertwined in macabre stillness. Kurilla had personally shot several families of well-to-do peasants, their bodies now hidden somewhere at the bottom of the gory heap.

  A group of Red Guards filed out of the church, looting icons, holy vessels and ornaments which they added to a string of carts stashed with their plunder. Their mismatched sheepskins, now adorned with red ribbons to signify their Bolshevik allegiance, had also been requisitioned from the eliminated Russian vermin.

  Through the cocaine-induced haze clouding his brain, Kurilla noticed three Lettish guards up ahead. They stood over the prone figure of an old priest, kicking him. He cowered, reciting a prayer in defiance. Then the Letts began to smash his bones with the butts of their rifles. Instead of breaking into a scream, the priest’s voice grew stronger as he praised the Lord. The unwavering faith angered his assailants, who intensified their blows.

  “Enough!” ordered Kurilla, approaching. “Step aside!”

  The Red soldiers complied. Kurilla yanked the rifle from one of them and waved all three away. Looming over the priest, he saw not a severely injured, bleeding old man, but ‘an element of the most reactionary class’ which had to be eradicated. Icy wind tugged at the priest’s white beard and simple black cassock as he struggled to rise to his feet.

  Kurilla reached out and ripped the gold crucifix off the old man’s neck. Furiously, he then raised the rifle and bayoneted the priest in the stomach.

  The Russian priest let out a muted cry.

  “Where is it?” said Kurilla. “The gold.”

  “You’ve … taken it all. There’s no more! … The icons!”

  Kurilla retracted the bayonet and thrust it again into the same wound. The priest gasped in shock as he sank to the frozen ground.

  “No. Not your worthless icons. The gold. Five hundred tons of gold. Where is it?”

  Despite the pain, incredulity crossed the priest’s wrinkled face.

  Through gritted teeth, he rasped, “I know nothing!”

  Kurilla stabbed him again and again into the wound, thirteen times.

  But through the agony, the priest only murmured his prayer.

  Frustrated, Kurilla turned to the Lettish guards.

  “Get me those new Russian conscripts.”

  Barking orders, the Letts brought the two young Siberian peasants who had only recently enlisted in the Red Army. Stability in the Red ranks depended on the well-paid Lettish and Chinese mercenaries, and the proportion of Russian soldiers had to be kept to a minimum to avoid unrest.

  Wearing cast off clothes, each looked filthy and emaciated. The two conscripts had joined the Bolsheviks for food, so this would be their first real test.

  Kurilla tossed the rifle to one of them.

  “Finish that old vermin!”

  The young Red soldier leveled the rifle, blood dripping from the bayonet, but was unable to pull the trigger. His hands trembled. Tears streamed down his sunken, pallid cheeks. His knees buckled and he dropped the rifle.

  “No! I can’t! Please, comrade, no!”

  Kurilla grabbed his revolver and shot the Russian in the forehead. In a puff of red spray, he toppled to the ground.

  Pointing with the revolver, Kurilla addressed the second man.

  “Pick up the rifle and do it!”

  Paralyzed by fear, the peasant did not move. Then he took off his worn-out hat and crossed himself religiously.

  Kurilla fired, killing him on the spot.

  Cheers erupted from the crowd of Red Guards who stood watching, drawn by the spectacle.

  Kurilla surveyed the scene, stroking his ginger mustache.

  The priest was still alive.

  A short man stepped forward. He wore an overcoat with a red star-shaped badge on the sleeve. He had a feline face and savage eyes. The front and top of his head were shaved and the rest
of his hair was braided in a pigtail. He was a Chinese mercenary named Wu Xiaodong, the most sadistic butcher Kurilla had ever met. For his ruthlessness, the Bolsheviks paid Wu the highest wages in the Red Army.

  With disdain, Kurilla threw the crucifix away and stared at the golden-domed church. The gold would haunt him until another day. He nodded to Wu.

  The Chinaman scampered toward the priest who attempted to crawl away, clawing at the snow. Stamping on his wound, Wu stripped the old man naked and bound his hands and feet with a length of rope. On his command, a mob of his fellow Asian mercenaries—Mongols, Koreans and Chinese—swarmed all over the priest. Together, they dragged the old man through the snow back into the church, where they had already set up a huge iron cauldron to boil him alive.

  THE NOVITIATE

  Moscow, 1943

  After an overly made-up secretary ushered Valdemar Vasiliev inside the office and closed the door behind him, he felt trepidation. He had been brought to the Lubyanka with extreme urgency, so he had no idea what to expect. It was the blackest hour of the night. Only a desk lamp illuminated the office. Its glow cast an eerie light on a portrait of Comrade Stalin himself. Coils of cigarette smoke drifted from the dwarfish, curly-headed, bespectacled man sitting behind the desk as he pored over a manila folder. Like Vasiliev, he was clad in the khaki-colored uniform of the NKVD, but he far outranked the young operative.

  Vasiliev snapped to attention in front of his superior.

  “Comrade Colonel! Lieutenant Vasiliev reporting as ordered!”

  Colonel Isaac Edelman eyed the lieutenant, sizing him up.

  “Ah, Vasiliev. Please, sit down.”

  Valdemar Vasiliev strode across the vast room, his heels clicking on the wooden floor, and occupied the chair opposite the walnut desk.

  Edelman proffered a silver cigarette case.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Negative, Comrade Colonel!”

  Edelman smirked. “Don’t worry, this is American quality via Lend-Lease. Only the very best from our Western allies.”

  “No, thank you, Comrade Edelman.”

  “A healthy lifestyle! Good. You are indeed a fit athlete. I can see that you rightfully deserve the top marks you received from our very own Dynamo sporting society. And I gather you’re an excellent marksman as well.”

  Edelman closed the file and put it aside, placing it on top of a stack of identical folders.

  It was his file, Vasiliev realized.

  “Well then, Lieutenant, I must inform you that you have been picked for a mission that will greatly serve the Soviet Union and the glory of communism. A mission sanctioned by our great leader, Comrade Stalin.”

  Involuntarily, Vasiliev glanced behind Edelman at the lamp-lit portrait of their Master.

  “You are no doubt aware,” Edelman continued, “that as the world’s most progressive proletarian society, we have successfully battled the opiate of religion poisoning the minds of workers and peasants. Namely, the most harmful and delusional cult of them all—Christianity.”

  Vasiliev nodded. He knew that the fiercest enemy of communism, the Orthodox Church, had been practically wiped out. Since the start of the Revolution, out of the 150,000 Russian clerics, approximately 120,000 had been exterminated. But for a handful, the rest would soon die rotting in prison.

  “However...” Edelman crushed his cigarette in an ashtray crammed with butts. “This religious hydra has spawned again despite our best efforts. Churches have been reopening across the Soviet territory occupied by the Germans. But our valiant Red Army will soon smash the fascist invaders. And we will flush out every German spy and lackey everywhere, including the churches. Meanwhile, we are conducting an operation under the direct command of Comrade Andrei.”

  ‘Andrei’ was the alias of Pavel Sudoplatov, the head of the NKVD Sabotage Division. One of Stalin’s closest servants, Sudoplatov had earned legendary status in NKVD ranks after orchestrating the assassination of Trotsky in Mexico.

  “It is called Operation Monastery. And you, Lieutenant, are just the kind of operative we need to accomplish the mission. You and many others like you working behind enemy lines. You will pose as an aspiring priest or monk—a novice—and infiltrate one the Russian churches. Is that clear?”

  Lieutenant Vasiliev straightened in his chair. His chest swelled with pride.

  “Comrade Colonel, I will do everything to justify your trust!”

  “I am sure of it. You’re a fine Bolshevik, as was your father.”

  “Yes, Comrade Edelman, he fought the reactionary clergymen in Siberia.”

  “Of course, he was one of the Latvian Red Guards. I shouldn’t forget that Vasiliev isn’t your real name, but your father’s alias. How ironic. You will now get to pick your new name as you become a novice. Choose wisely. Something that you can become comfortable with. You will have to use it for a very long time.”

  “A few months?” Instantly, Vasiliev regretted his error. For certain, the Red Army would sweep the Germans away shortly, no matter what the sacrifice. Doubting the Red Army’s success sounded criminal. But above all, he should not have inquired about the duration of a top-secret operation. His excitement was no excuse for letting that slip off his tongue.

  Stone-faced, Isaac Edelman produced another American cigarette from his silver case and lit it, exhaling smoke contentedly. Then he smiled.

  “No, not a few months. You should be prepared for a far longer period in the undercover role of a priest. I would say … the rest of your life.”

  Astounded, Vasiliev kept himself from asking any more questions that could cost him.

  “We will reclaim the Russian land,” said Edelman. “And we will reclaim the Russian churches. But this time, we will keep them for ourselves.”

  PART I

  1

  Thailand

  The bodysnatchers arrived to collect the corpse like they always did, ahead of the police. Hundreds of them prowled the moonlit streets of Bangkok, waiting for accidents to happen. They operated all around the city, always ready to react as they listened to radio chatter. This time it was a dead body found floating in a canal, one of the city’s numerous khlong waterways. Within minutes of receiving the report, the nearest Toyota pickup truck patrolling the area had raced to the khlong. Getting out of the Toyota, a team of two hurried to the scene, their yellow coveralls bearing the stenciled logo of the Phyo Ba Kyu Foundation.

  A forty-six-year-old accountant by day, Jaidee worked as a night-time volunteer helping out during emergencies. His partner, Porntip, was a twenty-year-old waitress. Lacking a public ambulance service, Bangkok depended on the large-scale work of private organizations such as the PBK Foundation. The volunteers, also known as bodysnatchers, rushed the injured to hospitals or picked up the dead.

  In his three years at the Foundation, Jaidee had seen his share of accidents, mostly car crashes with drunk motorists, locals and tourists alike, returning from bars and nightclubs. Although he earned no money from his nocturnal part-time job, he received something far more valuable in return. The entire staff of volunteers acted on the Buddhist principle of karma, hoping that their efforts in the present life would be repaid after reincarnation. Similarly, the entire PBK Foundation existed only on donations from people who thus wanted to boost their karmic virtue.

  As he and Porntip approached the canal, Jaidee saw that some positive karma had already taken effect. To his delight, none of PBK’s competitors had shown up. Turf wars still broke out between rival charity groups, especially now that anti-government protests had swept areas of Bangkok, making teams of bodysnatchers avoid them for fear of being attacked.

  Stepping on a creaky wooden platform at the water’s edge, Jaidee trained his flashlight on the body. The drowning victim bobbed face-down in the murky, putrid water of the canal. Washed up with bits of trash polluting the khlong, the body had stuck between the wooden struts of the platform.

  A police siren sounded in the distance. The arrival of a cruiser drew a
few curious onlookers to the canal as Porntip spread out a bed sheet on the platform.

  Pulling the corpse out of the water proved to be a struggle. Jaidee had to use every ounce of his strength to tug the unusually bulky body onto the cloth, aided by Porntip and the policeman.

  Catching his breath, Jaidee examined the body. Dressed only in track pants, the Caucasian man lay like a grotesque wet mannequin, his skin waxen. With the muscular build of an athlete, he must have weighed around a hundred kilograms, and was just under two meters tall.

  “No sign of foul play,” said Jaidee. “Just another accident.”

  “Pack him for the morgue.” The policeman nodded and left. There was nothing else for him to see. Drownings in the canals occurred all too frequently.

  Latex-gloved, Jaidee patted the dead man’s pockets. The corpse carried no valuables. No wallet, no watch, no jewelry. Porntip scowled, visibly upset. Thai families at least made generous donations for finding the bodies of their relatives. With this foreigner, the case seemed unlikely.

  Jaidee shared both her disappointment and her dislike for tourists. The only item that he recovered from the body was a Russian passport issued in the name of Eugene Sokolov.

  2

  The CIA man swore profusely as the Iranian fired the first shot.

  From his position, Tom Frey observed the SWAT team move in with lightning speed against the backdrop of multi-colored containers and towering cranes. For the Texas-born intelligence officer, several months of intense work was now concluding in Laem Chabang Port.

  Located between Bangkok and Pattaya, Laem Chabang ranked as one of the busiest commercial ports in the world. The container traffic passing through Thailand’s main sea hub measured in the millions, but Frey only wanted twelve specific units stacked amid the endless rows of the B1 terminal. On the verge of busting a weapons-smuggling deal between Iran and North Korea, he was leading the joint operation personally. It was a chance he couldn’t miss. The North Koreans had chosen Laem Chabang as a transit point in an elaborate deception involving multiple vessels en route from Nampho to Bandar Abbas. Frey had known the date and place of shipment for weeks, but an anonymous tip-off had indicated that the respective envoys from both sides would be present to hand over the containers. He was going to catch them red-handed as they met to conclude the transfer.