Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan. Peter Cave

at least. It will be good to have our brave young men back from the German front – to finish our necessary business in Poland.’

      It was Oropov’s turn to smile, but with faintly malicious humour.

      ‘That too, of course. Although, personally, I was more looking forward to buying some decent Cuban cigars.’

      Oropov’s grey eyes twinkled briefly as Leveski twitched, reacting uncomfortably to the obvious jibe. It felt good to score a point over the man, whom Oropov both disliked and distrusted. It was not just the fact that he was, basically, a civilian; it went a lot deeper than that, with potentially more sinister implications.

      Leveski represented a new and unknown quantity. The exact nature of his sudden new post was ill-defined, as if deliberately vague. There were mutterings and rumours in the corridors of the Kremlin. No longer obsessed with matters of war, Stalin was stirring politically again. There was talk of new purges to come, of heads rolling and personnel once again disappearing at short notice and in suspicious circumstances. Stalin’s feared secret police, previously concerned with purely internal matters, were now extending their awesome powers. Now the newly formed KGB, with people like Leveski at its head, were moving in to take an active interest in military, European and overseas matters. It impinged directly on Oropov’s authority as head of wartime intelligence, and it was extremely disquieting. It was definitely a time for staying on top, and being clearly seen to be on top. A time to know exactly what was happening all around oneself – and, even more important, who was making it happen and why.

      With these thoughts in mind, Oropov decided it was politic to adopt a more conciliatory attitude towards his companion.

      ‘Speaking of Poland, Tovan Leveski, what news from Warsaw?’

      Leveski shrugged, a gesture of vague irritation. ‘Mixed, as ever. Confused and conflicting reports, rumours, snatches of Allied propaganda. The usual wartime rubbish. The very thing my new department was set up to rationalize.’ He broke off to nod deferentially towards Oropov. ‘With your cooperation, of course, comrade.’

      ‘Of course,’ Oropov said, nodding, his face suddenly more serious. ‘I was merely a soldier, doing a soldier’s job in a time of war. Now we must all work together in the cause of peace, and for the good of the Motherland.’

      The brief speech presumed a response. Predictably, Leveski obliged.

      ‘A toast, comrade?’ he suggested.

      ‘A toast indeed.’

      Oropov slid open a drawer in his desk and drew out a quarter-full bottle of Stolichnaya and two conical, stemless glasses. He handed one to Leveski, filled it, then splashed a generous measure into his own.

      ‘Rodina,’ Oropov grunted, waving the glass briefly in the air before placing it to his lips and draining the fiery vodka at a single gulp.

      ‘Rodina’ Leveski responded with suitable fervour in his voice. The word translated simply as The Motherland’, but it carried the patriotic zeal of an entire national anthem to anyone with a drop of Russian blood in their veins. In a society which had largely turned its back on the Church, it was the litany of a new and potent religion.

      The time for pleasantries was over, Oropov decided. It was obvious that Leveski had not entered his office on a purely social visit. He returned the bottle of vodka to his desk, smiling up at the man politely. ‘Well, Tovan Leveski, what can I do for you?’

      The little man cleared his throat, managing to make the apparently innocent gesture a censure of Oropov’s smoking habit.

      ‘We are a little concerned about the lack of information currently on file regarding Allied armaments projects.’

      Oropov ignored yet another implied rebuke. He raised one shaggy eyebrow the faintest fraction of an inch. ‘We, comrade?’

      ‘I’, Leveski corrected himself hastily, uncomfortably aware that he had just let something slip, without fully understanding its relevance. Just like General Oropov, he had yet to adjust fully to the scope of his position and powers. ‘I find myself slightly worried about the gaps in our intelligence. I was briefed to acquaint myself fully with current military research, but I find some of your dossiers and files rather sparse, to say the least.’

      Oropov made a steeple of his fingers, pressing them gently against his lips. He eyed Leveski stonily. ‘Specifically?’

      ‘Specifically, this “Manhattan Project”. As a military man, you must surely appreciate the momentous implications of a nuclear fission bomb. Yet we appear to have no idea at all just how advanced the Americans are in its development. Cause for worry, would you not agree, General?’

      ‘Indeed,’ Oropov agreed. ‘And, equally, a matter for the tightest and most efficient security screen we have ever encountered. The potential power of atomic weaponry is not lost on the Americans, either. Our files represent our finest efforts and the deaths of two top agents. I assume you have followed up on the cross-reference file relating to the German research facility at Telemark?’

      Leveski nodded. ‘Of course. Again, a woefully thin report and a disgusting fiasco. The damned Norwegians and the Allies made fools of us. It should have been Russian troops who stormed that laboratory. Then the secret of heavy-water production would be in Soviet hands, not at the bottom of some damned fiord.’

      ‘Our troops were otherwise engaged at the time,’ Oropov pointed out rather icily. ‘But a tragic loss to Soviet science, I agree. However, I understand our own atomic research facility is now well established.’

      Leveski’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘Oh yes, two or three years behind the blasted Allies, at a conservative estimate.’

      He hunched his shoulders, as if to subdue a shiver of rage, finally releasing only a faint shrug. ‘However, that is past news. What matters now is the future. Do we have any active personnel inside the Manhattan Project?’

      Oropov shook his head. ‘No one with scientific knowledge, I’m afraid. There is a woman – a minor clerical worker – who is able to send us copies of purchasing invoices, interdepartmental memos, that sort of thing. We are able to glean a little theoretical knowledge, but not much else.’

      Leveski digested all this information for a while, assimilating it into the dossier in his brain.

      ‘Have we made any attempts to get to the man Oppenheimer direct?’ he asked finally. ‘Our records suggest that in his postgraduate days, at least, he had certain…sympathies?’

      Oropov spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘A fact also realized by the Americans. Oppenheimer is a very important man, and a deeply mistrusted one. His every move is closely monitored. It is impossible to get an agent within shouting distance of him.’

      ‘So we have nothing? No one? No chance of further information. Is that what you are telling me?’

      Oropov was beginning to wilt under the mounting attack. ‘It’s not as bad as that,’ he countered, somewhat lamely.

      ‘No? Then please tell me how bad it actually is, comrade.’

      Leveski knew that he had his man on the run now. There was little point in any further pretence at friendliness.

      ‘There is one man – in England. Klaus Fuchs. We have him as a sleeper. He is not attached to the Manhattan Project, but his work involves him in a closely related field. In a year or two, perhaps, he may be of great use to us.’

      ‘A year or two?’ Leveski said dismissively. He rose from his high-backed chair, his mouth twitching angrily with barely repressed frustration. ‘In a year or two, comrade Oropov, Russian science will be left behind like a sick, abandoned animal. Out in the cold, waiting to die.’

      There was a slight tremor in Oropov’s voice when he finally spoke again. He was acutely aware that Leveski had only just started to show his claws, and the Kremlin rumours were beginning to assume a chilling reality.

      ‘What is expected