Sacrificial lion

Moscow, January 1953

Henry Caulder knew by the sound of their footsteps they were coming to kill him.

Whether the spectacle was designed to instill fear or to uphold the image of Stalin's inescapable grasp, he didn't know, but every inmate in Lubyanka Prison recognized the ponderous march of the guard's boots in the corridor. It was a terrifying sound and an impressive sight, but Henry had been preparing for this day, and now all he felt was a sense of completion.

At least three men‑perhaps many more‑had gone before him, each receiving a single bullet in the head from a Makarov pistol. As most prisoners do, each man would have screamed his innocence to the end, until that last moment when he felt the cold steel circle of the muzzle come to rest on his skin.

The boots stopped outside his door. Henry took a last look around. His cell was a bleak cliche: no windows, a straw mattress and a brimming waste bucket in the corner. The walls were painted a mottled gray and pus yellow. His only illumination came from what little light seeped around the edges of the door. He hadn't seen sunlight in forty days. To his surprise, that's what he missed the most. More than the torture, more than the starvation, more than the cold, he missed being outdoors.

His body was failing him. Since they'd started on him, he'd lost so much weight his ribs and collarbone poked from his skin. His nose and right hand were broken and his testicles.well, he hadn't been able to bring himself to look at them. The soles of his feet were bruised and swollen, his toes turning black. Going to lose the nails on all of them, he thought, chuckling. Never be able to wear sandals again.

He'd also developed a deep, racking cough. Pneumonia, perhaps. Perhaps something else.

The latch was thrown back. He let his shoulders slump and his face go slack. The door swung open. Standing there in full‑dress uniforms were the two guards he'd dubbed Boris One and Boris Two. "You will come now," Boris One said.

Henry hobbled forward and fell in between them. He'd long suspected he was the only occupant of this block and now he saw he was right. Each door stood yawning, dark inside. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling and trailed down the corridor to a gate. When they reached it, Boris One called out in Russian, "Open. Prisoner one‑zero‑nine‑two."

The gate rattled back. They walked through and turned left. Henry felt his hands begin to shake. He clenched them. You're okay…you've done some good. They reached a stairwell and started down. With each step, the light from above faded until, at the bottom, he found himself in darkness. Ahead was a lighted doorway. He stopped, his feet frozen. Behind him, Boris Two placed an almost gentle, coaxing hand on the small of his back. It was the first kind touch he'd felt in forty days. He felt tears well in his eyes. Come on, Henry.

He shuffled forward. At the door Boris One stepped aside, heels clicking together as he snapped to attention. Henry gulped a lungful of air and stepped up to the threshold. Two months, he thought. God, was that all? He'd come a long way since this had begun…

Knowing the Brahmins at MI6 wouldn't sign off on his plan, Henry took the first available plane out of London for Washington, D.C., where he took a taxi to the E Street offices of the recently christened CIA. He still thought of it as the OSS and probably always would. He had friends there, many of whom he'd jumped with behind enemy lines during the war as part of the Jedburgh commandos.

At the security shack he asked for Lucille Russo. The guard made the call, gave him a badge and directed him to Lucille's Quonset hut. She was waiting for him. "Henry, as I live and breathe! I thought you hated planes."

"I do‑still do." Planes, parachutes and gunfire were affiliated memories. "I've got something in the works, Lucille. I need your help. Perhaps I could have a private word with you and Joe?"

Joe Pults was another Jedburgh friend, now in the CIA's Office of Special Operations. They found him reclined in his chair, feet propped on the desk. Seeing Henry, he bolted up and strode over. "Henry? Henry Caulder? God, it's good to see you!"

"And you, Joe."

Lucille said, "Henry's got an op he wants to talk about, Joe." Pults shut his door and gestured for them to sit. "Shoot." It took but five minutes for Henry to make his pitch. "It's dicey, but if we pulled it off‑"

"Jesus, Henry, I don't know what to say. What's your time line?"

"It should happen within the next couple of months‑plenty of time if we move quickly." "And your people?"

"I'm on a leave of absence."

Pults thought for a moment, then nodded. "Dulles is traveling. Let's talk to Beetle."

Walter Bedell "Beetle" Smith, former chief of staff to Eisenhower at SHAEF, had been appointed CIA director by Truman. Smith was a soldier at heart and Henry hoped that attitude would work in his favor. Smith listened to his plan, then said, "God, man, do you have a death wish?"

Standing against the wall, Lucille and Joe shuffled nervously. Henry simply smiled.

"Apologies," Smith said. "Okay, how many contacts?"

"Three." Henry gave him the names. "I doubt I'll have time to reach any more than that."

"You'd have to lay the groundwork just right."

"Yes."

"I know you speak German. How about Russian?"

"Ya ischu devushku, kotoraya khochet lyubit i bit lyubimoy." I am looking for a girl who wants to love and be loved.

"Aren't we all," Smith replied. "You'd go naked?"

"Naked" meant without diplomatic cover. If captured, he'd be executed. "It's the only way," Henry said.

"Timeline?"

"Two weeks of prep here and three days on the ground." "Tight schedule."

"I doubt they'll leave me alone any longer than that."

"Probably right." Smith gazed out the window for a moment. "You're sure about this?"

"General, we know they're coming sooner or later," Henry replied. "This is a golden opportunity."

"You have family?"

"My wife and I divorced in forty‑two. My son, Owen, is twelve. His stepfather's a decent sort." And I wasn't, Henry thought. Not much of a husband and not much of a father. Since '39 he'd been gone more than home.

"Still," Smith said, "they‑"

"They won't miss me, General. Let me do this. Please. It could make a difference."

"I'll have to run it by Ike." Eisenhower, who had been elected a week earlier, was in transition, preparing for his January inauguration. "In the meantime, Joe, you and Lucille get to work. Anything Henry needs, give it to him."

Ten days later Henry's cover, backstop documents, communication protocols and route were in place. The cornerstone of the plan, an executive secretary at the GSFG, or Group of Soviet Forces Germany, headquartered in Zossen‑Wunsdorf, was being prepped by her CIA handler.

Two weeks after arriving in Washington, Henry landed at Tempelhof Airport and took a taxi to the CIA station on Baer‑wald Strasse, where he spent an hour with the chief of station. By dusk he was pulling up to the East German checkpoint at Chausseestrasse in the French‑controlled sector.

He coasted to a stop before the barrier. On either side concertina razor wire stretched into the twilight, winking in the arc lights. A guard appeared beside the window and asked for his papers while two more circled his car.

"You are French?" the guard said in stilted English, the default language used at checkpoints.

"Oui‑yes."

"Your purpose here?"

"It's in the letter. I'm a consultant with COMECON," Henry replied, referring to the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance. This alone would pique the immediate attention of the Stasi‑the East German secret police‑and the MgB‑the current version of the Soviet's Ministry of State Security‑but it couldn't be helped.

The guard handed his papers back. "Proceed."

The barrier swung upward and Henry drove into the Soviet Occupation Zone.

Having worked in Berlin since the end of the war, he knew its nooks and crannies. Even in the dark, the bleakness of the Soviet sector was palpable: buildings gray, streets gray, streetlights muted in the cold drizzle. It was as if the occupation had leached all the color from the landscape. In every vacant lot stood mountains of rubble from the bombing raids seven years earlier, and most structures still showed signs of war: bullet holes, gaping wounds from artillery, facades crumbling onto sidewalks. Here and there people walked in threadbare coats, heads down as they hurried home or nowhere. How many? he wondered. At last estimate, the Stasi had 50,000 agents and 125,000 informants throughout East Germany. One in six people on the street were Stasi.

The question was, could he do the job before they moved on him?

Henry had no trouble finding the safe house, an apartment off Wilhelm Pieck Strasse. He parked down the block and circled on foot to ensure he hadn't picked up any watchers, then climbed the alley stairs to the door and knocked. A female voice said, "Ja?" The language was German, the accent Russian. "Herr Thomas?"

Any name other than "Thomas" would have been the wave‑off: run and don't come back.

Henry gave the correct response and the door swung open.

The agent known as ADEX was tall, blond and full figured. Henry had no idea what had motivated her to turn‑likely one of the MICE: money, ideology, compromise or coercion‑and he didn't care. Lucille and Joe had vouched for the handler, and the handler had vouched for ADEX. For the last four years she'd served in Logistics and Travel at GSFG.

"Welcome," she said. "My name is‑"

"I don't want to know your name."

"Oh. Yes, of course. Come in."

Henry was in a hurry, but she wanted to chat. Most of them did. Isolation and fear were common among agents, especially here.

After twenty minutes, she gave him the dossier. He asked her to make some tea, then scanned the file and put the details to memory. He walked to the woodstove and tossed the file inside.

"How did you come across this information?" he asked.

"Gossip, expense reports, that sort of thing. They come for meetings several times a week. What can I say? They like to talk." She smiled coyly and sipped her tea.

And more, perhaps, Henry thought. Sexpionage at its best. "And the other thing?"

Using her index and middle fingers, she mimed scissors. "Snip, snip. Done. Took it from his belt."

They chatted for a few more minutes, then Henry slid a folded newspaper across the table. Inside was an envelope. "Papers. You're leaving tonight. You'll be met on‑"

"What? Tonight? Why?"

"If you stay, you'll be arrested. From here you'll walk to the eastern end of Prenzlauer Allee and stop. You'll hold the newspaper in your left hand. You'll be met." In fact, ADEX would be watched from the moment she stepped outside. If she deviated, she'd be snatched off the street. "Repeat that," he said.

"Prenzlauer Allee, eastern end, newspaper in my left hand."

"Good. Better get going."

She left. Henry finished his tea, then stretched out on the trundle bed and slept.

He awoke at two, left the apartment and started driving south. On the outskirts of the city he made his first mistake, speeding through a stop sign within sight of a Volkspolizei car. He pulled to the curb and waited as the VoPo officer checked his papers, asked his destination and gave him a lecture before sending him on his way.

He spent the remainder of the night touring the German countryside, heading south and east, killing time. Two hours before dawn he reached Magdeburg and spent an hour servicing the dead drops. There was nothing to pick up, only drop off. Next he followed his map to Kleingarten, a park along the banks of Lake Neustadter. He parked, then ducked into a bus hut overlooking the path and waited.

His contact was on schedule. Colonel General Vasily Sergeye‑vich Belikov, hero of the Great Patriotic War and Commander of the Third Shock Combined Arms Red Banner Army, was a man of habit. Every morning without fail he walked his borzoi around Lake Neustadter.

Henry waited until Belikov was three hundred yards away then flipped up his collar and stepped onto the path. Hoarfrost coated the grass, and his footsteps kicked up billows of ice crystals that glittered in the sun.

Belikov was accompanied by four guards, paratroopers from the Ninth Corp, two preceding him and two trailing. Henry let his shoulders droop and adopted a shuffling gait‑another tired and overworked German. As he drew even with the leading guards, they frisked him, checked his papers, then sent him along. He could feel their eyes on him, guns at the ready should he take a step toward their charge.

As he passed Belikov he let the blue button slip from his fingers. He bent to pick it up and called out, "Entschuldigung Sie, bitte." Excuse me, please.

The general turned around. "Prastite?" in Russian, then in German: "Was?" What?

"You dropped this," Henry said, button extended.

Behind him Belikov's guards were trotting forward, machine guns coming up. Belikov raised a hand, halting them, then said to Henry, "Pardon?"

"There, from your coat belt. It must have fallen off."

Belikov glanced down at the coat. "Oh…yes." He took the button from Henry's hand. "Thank you." He turned and walked on.

He was back in Berlin by late morning. As he crossed the War‑shauer Bridge over the Spree, he caught the first whiff of Stasi watchers: two cars, one leading him and a second trailing a hundred yards back. In his rearview mirror he saw the passenger raise a microphone to his mouth.

No question now. They were onto him and probably had been since Magdeburg. As he was still an unknown to them, the leash was loose, but that wouldn't last long.

He spent two hours driving around the city, playing the delicate game of surveillance/countersurveillance. If he knew how big the net was, he might gauge how long he had. Conversely, if they suspected he was dry‑cleaning, they might scoop him up. For now, his role had to be that of the oblivious quarry.

He spent the afternoon at the Pieck safe house. At six o' clock he left the city and drove north forty miles to Furstenberg, where he parked on a side street. Night had fallen and the lights along Leibninstrasse shone like yellow beacons. Only an hour from Berlin, Furstenberg had a lighter feel and the people on the streets were animated. He found the pub, the Schwarz Katze, halfway down the block.

The bar was crowded with Russian soldiers, mostly tankers and Spetsnaz, the elite of the Soviet Special Forces. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, and in one corner a radio blared Russian folk music. Henry picked his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a beer. Two minutes later a pair of civilians in black leather coats walked in and took a table near the back.

More obvious now, Henry thought. Tightening the leash.

It took but thirty seconds for him to spot the man he was looking for. General Yuri Pavlovich Kondrash, commander of the Second Tank Guards Army and the Twentieth Guards Spetsnaz Diversionary Brigade, sat alone, hunched over a bottle of vodka. Henry walked over, offered him a cigarette and struck up a conversation: Where was the closest butcher shop? What month was the Marigold Festival held? How often did the train run to Blindow?

Kondrash's answers were curt, but Henry had what he needed.

He was back in Berlin by 10:00 p.m. On the road he'd picked up more watchers, six men in three cars, bringing the total to ten he could see, and probably another dozen he couldn't. They were growing aggressive now, the lead vehicle only ten feet off his rear bumper.

Not long now, he thought, checking his watch. God, let me finish.

Remarkably, the Schiffbauerdamm theater, overlooking the Spree River and within sight of the Brandenburg Gate, had survived the war largely unscathed. Since '48 it had become the de facto center for East Berlin culture, from opera to ballet to theater. Friday night was opera, and according to the playbill given to him by ADEX, tonight's production was Wagner's Tannhauser. Henry preferred a good western to the opera, but not so the man he'd come to see.

General Georgy Ivanovich Preminin, marshal of the Soviet Red Army and commander of the Group of Soviet Forces Germany, was Stalin's iron fist in East Germany. He was also the last piece of the puzzle Henry was hurrying to assemble.

He parked under a copse of linden trees behind a half‑demolished church on Oranienburger Strasse and climbed out. The earlier drizzle had turned to freezing rain and the pellets ticked against the brim of his hat. He walked to the rear of the car and shined his penlight under the bumper. The transmitter was there, probably planted while he was in the Schwarz Katze. He ripped it off, crushed it under his heel and tossed the remains away. The move wouldn't save him, he knew, but it might buy him time as the Stasi quartered the area looking for his car.

He pulled the brim of his hat lower and started walking.

With the sleet, a thick fog had risen off the Spree. The Schiff‑bauerdamm seemed to float above the ground, mist swirling around its Gothic cornices. Lit from within, the stained‑glass windows were rainbow‑hued rectangles in the darkness.

From the alley Henry studied the parking lot until he spotted Preminin's car, a black ZIS‑110 limousine with a hammer‑and‑sickle flag on each fender. Preminin's chauffeur/bodyguard stood under an umbrella beside the driver's door, smoking.

Henry heard the squealing of tires. Down the block a black Mercedes pulled around the corner, rolled to a stop and doused its lights. Two figures, cast in silhouette from the streetlight, sat in the front seat. Henry saw the tip of a cigarette glow red, then fade.

He pulled a pint of whiskey from the pocket of his trench coat, dumped half of it onto the ground, then took a gulp and swished it around his mouth. He tossed his hat away, dipped his hand in a puddle and mussed his hair, then stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Playing a drunk was a tricky performance but Henry had used the ruse before. Humming tunelessly, he stumbled off the curb and weaved his way toward Preminin's ZIS. Spotting him, the chauffeur flicked his cigarette away and slipped his hand inside his coat.

"Hey, nice car," Henry called in German. "What is it, eh? A Mercedes?"

"Nyet, nyet," the chauffeur growled. "Go away."

Henry ignored him and shuffled around to the passenger side. The chauffeur followed, hand still inside his jacket. "Nyet, nyet… "

"Big bastard, whatever it is."

The ZIS's rear window was rolled down an inch.

Henry took a swig from the bottle. From the corner of his eye he saw the chauffeur moving toward him. Henry lurched forward and grabbed the upper edge of the window, pressing his face to the glass. "Big interior! Is that leather?"

"Get away from there!"

He grabbed a handful of Henry's coat. Henry let the slim aluminum tube slip from his hand. It bounced off the back seat and rolled onto the floorboard. The chauffeur jerked him backward. Henry let himself fall to the sidewalk. "Hey, what's the idea!"

"Go away, I said!" "Okay, okay."

Henry rose to his feet, brushed himself off and stumbled back across the street.

Behind him he heard an engine rev. Headlights washed over him. He glanced over his shoulder. The Mercedes was accelerating toward him. He dropped the bottle and ran.

Having sprung the trap, the Stasi was everywhere. For the next hour Henry sprinted through parks and hopped fences; down alleys and up fire escapes and over rooftops. Sirens warbled, sometimes in the distance, sometimes close. At every turn, blue strobes flashed off wet cobblestones and shop windows. Henry kept going, picking his way north and west until he reached the alley across from the apartment.

Crouched behind a hedge, he watched for five minutes, waiting for the skidding of tires and the blare of sirens. None came. He trotted across the street. As he mounted the steps, a pair of headlights pinned him, then a second pair, and a third. Car doors opened, slammed shut. Booted feet hammered the pavement.

"Schnell, schnell!"

"Halt!"

Henry charged up the stairs, fumbled with the key, then pushed through the door and locked it behind him. Boots pounded up the stairs. The door shuddered once, then again. The wooden jamb splintered. Henry rushed across the room, dropped to his knees, pried back the baseboard. Glass shattered. He glanced over his shoulder. An arm was reaching through the window, groping for the doorknob. Henry pulled the packet from its hole, then carried it to the woodstove. Inside, a single ember glowed orange. He blew on it. A flame sprung to life. He shoved the packet inside. Too big. He folded it, tried again.

The door crashed open.

"Halt!"

He turned around and caught a fleeting glimpse of a rifle butt arcing toward his face. Everything went black.

Blindfolded and shackled, he was taken to what he assumed was either Stasi headquarters on Normannenstrasse or to Ho‑henschoenhausen prison. No one spoke to him and no questions were asked. Around the edges of the blindfold he could see shoes coming and going in his cell, then he felt the prick of a needle and suddenly he was floating. Sounds and smells and sensations merged. He heard Russian voices, smelled the tang of cigarette smoke, felt himself being stripped naked.

His days became a blur as he teetered at the edge of consciousness. His world narrowed: the prick of the needle.the drug coursing hot in his veins.the rhythmic thump of steel wheels on tracks.the hoot of a train's whistle.the stench of burning coal. In that small, still‑lucid part of his brain, Henry knew who had him and where he was going.

On the morning of the third or fourth or fifth day, the train groaned to a stop.

He was lifted to his feet and dragged down steps. He felt the crunch of snow under his feet and through the blindfold he could see sunlight. He was trundled into a car. After a short ride he was jerked out and marched down more steps, then a long corridor. He was shoved from behind. He stumbled forward and bumped into a wall. A door slammed shut behind him.

Henry put his back to the wall and slid down to the floor. Lubyanka.

He sat in darkness for three days. On the fourth day, two guards came for him. He was blindfolded and marched down a corridor, then several flights of stairs, then another corridor, ever deeper into the bowels of the prison.

He was guided into a room, where he was shackled to a chair bolted to the floor. His blindfold was removed. The room was small and square, windowless, with a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. A man in an MgB uniform stood before him. The man's epaulets told Henry he was a colonel. Second Chief Directorate, he thought. Bad, bad news.

"Good morning, Mr. Caulder," the colonel said in accented English.

Henry wasn't surprised they knew his name. He'd run dozens of operations in Berlin, either from the ground or at a distance, causing both the Stasi and the MgB a lot of heartache.

The colonel said, "I've been wanting to meet you for a long time."

"And now that you have, I assume you'll let me go?"

The colonel chuckled. "No, I'm afraid not. Let's have a talk, shall we?"

Over the next two days the colonel interrogated him twenty hours a day, at dawn, during the day, in the middle of the night, sometimes for twelve hours, sometimes only an hour. All the questions were variations on a theme: Why had he come to East Berlin?

Henry remained silent.

On the third day, the beatings began. He was hung by his wrists from the ceiling while a bald, heavyset man worked on him with a truncheon, pausing only to catch his breath or to let the colonel ask questions.

Still Henry remained silent.

At the start of the second week, he was brought again to the interrogation room. This time, however, he was stripped naked and shackled to the chair. The colonel stood in the corner, smoking, watching him. The bald man entered, carrying what looked like a birdhouse.

No, not a birdhouse, Henry thought. Get a hold of yourself. You know what it is.

A hand‑cranked field phone.

The bald man attached wires first to the phone, then with alligator clips to Henry's testicles. He then nodded at the colonel, who walked over and stared down at Henry. "One last chance."

Henry simply shook his head. The bald man started cranking.

He managed to hold on for another week. Once he started talking, it came in a flood, from his arrival at Tempelhof, to his meetings with Belikov, Kondrash and Preminin, to his capture at the Pieck apartment. Friendly now, the colonel walked Henry through the story again, and again, and again, looking for inconsistencies and contradictions. Finally, on the fifth day the colonel ended the questioning and dismissed the stenographer.

"Don't feel bad, my friend. You did your best."

For the first time in forty days, Henry Caulder smiled.

Now, standing at the threshold of the execution room, Henry felt that same smile forming on his lips. He quashed it and stepped forward. The space was identical to the interrogation room, save two features: The walls were draped in thick, heavily stained canvas, and off to one side lay a body bag.

"Good morning," the colonel said.

"That's a matter of perspective, isn't it?"

"Indeed. A poor choice of words. I wish it hadn't come to this, but I have my orders."

"Don't we all."

"We are enemies, you and I, but professionals nevertheless. You were doing your job and I was doing mine. Of course, they don't see it that way."

"They never do."

"It will be quick, I promise."

"What's going to happen to my people?" Henry asked. "Be‑likov, Kondrash and Preminin?" He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the words.

"It's already happened. They were convicted of treason and executed yesterday."

"And my network?"

"We're investigating each of their commands. We'll have confessions soon."

"I have no doubt," Henry said. "On your knees, please."

Henry turned to face the wall and knelt down. He was waiting for the fear to come, ready for it to fill his chest like acid, but nothing happened. He felt peace. Suddenly a cough welled up in his chest. He heaved, bent double with the pain until the spasm passed. He wiped his mouth. His palm came back bloody.

"Pneumonia," the colonel said.

No, I don't think so, Henry thought.

Ironic that only now he was feeling the symptoms. The doctor had given him four months, no more, before the cancer would metastasize and spread from his lungs to his brain, then to the rest of his organs. Past that, he had a week, perhaps two.

For years both the American and the British intelligence communities suspected Stalin would eventually send the Red Army rolling across Europe, and the allies would be hard‑pressed to stop them without going nuclear. The question was how to stop it before it started. For Henry, the answer was simple: Gut the Red Army of its best and brightest. Stalin's own paranoia had cocked the gun; all that remained was the gentlest of nudges on the trigger.

He'd purged the Red Army a dozen times since the twenties, killing hundreds of thousands of dedicated soldiers based on nothing more than suspicion and innocent association. Despite this, three of the most gifted had survived and had come to command key positions: Colonel General Vasily Belikov, General Yuri Kondrash and Marshal Georgy Preminin. When war came, these three men and their armies had the power to conquer Western Europe.

Of course, all three had sworn their innocence, but the MgB, ever ready to ferret out traitors to the motherland, and Stalin, ever wary of plotters from within, had all the evidence they needed.

Planning the operation, Henry had rehearsed the scenario from the MgB's perspective:

A British spymaster who has plagued them for years suddenly appears in East Berlin on a hurried mission.

A message intercept from a code the CIA believes still secure mentions an Operation Marigold and the activation of three agents: PASKAL, HERRING and ARIES.

In the weeks preceding the agent's arrival in East Berlin, CIA‑backed Radio Free Europe strays from its normal programming and begins broadcasting what the MgB believes is plain‑talk code, which includes multiple uses of the word Marigold.

Finally, coinciding with the agent's arrival in East Berlin, an executive secretary at GSFG headquarters vanishes.

Henry had little trouble envisioning the MgB's report to Stalin:

Once inside the Soviet sector, British agent Caulder was followed to Magdeburg, where he serviced three dead drops near the headquarters of the Third Shock Combined Arms Red Banner Army, after which he was photographed passing a message to Colonel General Vasily Sergeyevich Belikov. Upon Belikov's arrest, a false coat button was found on his person. Inside the button was a microdot containing a two‑word message: Proceed Marigold.

In Furstenberg, Agent Caulder was seen talking with General Yuri Pavlovich Kondrash, commander of the Second Tank Guards Army and the Twentieth Guards Spetsnaz Diversionary Brigade. Witnesses state the word marigold was passed between them.

In East Berlin, Agent Caulder was photographed near the limousine of General Georgy Ivanovich Preminin, commander of the Group of Soviet Forces Germany. Upon Preminin's arrest, his limousine was searched, and found was a small tube containing a message: Proceed Marigold.

During questioning, Agent Caulder offered a signed confession disclosing the details of Operation Marigold and the complicity of Belikov, Kondrash and Preminin in a plot to foment an uprising in the Red Army and topple the Soviet government.

For his part, Henry had selectively and carefully broken every tradecraft rule in the book: He walked undisguised into a CIA station where he was photographed by Stasi watchers; he entered East Berlin from the French sector with a poorly backstopped cover letter; he was stopped by the VoPo, who noted his license plate and destination, which allowed the Stasi to intercept him in Magdeburg; he destroyed a tracking transmitter, a sure sign he was about to run; finally, he was arrested with espionage paraphernalia, including a cipher book and a partially encoded message containing the word marigold, false travel documents and a burst transmitter found hidden behind a wall.

From the start, Henry had been the right man for the job, but he knew if it were to succeed, the plan required a sacrifice‑a man willing to punch a one‑way ticket.

The cancer had made his decision easy.

He heard the scrape of the colonel's pistol sliding from its leather holster, followed by the clicking of heels on concrete. He imagined the pistol drawing level with his skull, the cold muzzle hovering over his skin. No regrets, Henry. You made a difference. You went down like a lion.

"Colonel," Henry said without turning. "A favor? One professional to another?"

A pause. Then, "What is it?"

"I'd like to see the sun one more time."

Silence.

Henry squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath.

"Very well, Henry," the colonel said. "Stand up, I'll take you."

In the months following Henry Caulder's arrest, hundreds of officers from units across the GSFG were tried and either executed or imprisoned for treason to the motherland. The purge spread quickly, first to associated commands, then to the civilian political ranks, and finally to GRU military intelligence. By the end of February thousands had disappeared into Lubyanka's basement.

On March 5, 1953, Joseph Stalin died in his sleep.