That first day on Ellis Island, like somany thousands of other immigrants from Eastern Europe and Russia, StanislasMasensky had his name changed to an Anglicized version, Massey.

This was partly because of theimmigration clerk's impatience and inability to understand or spell the Polishname, and also because it somehow affirmed Stanilas's belief in a fresh startin life and satisfied an unconscious wish to erase his troubled past.

An only child, young Jakob Massey provedto be an ardent pupil at school, but what appealed to him most was to sit athis father's feet and listen to stories of his Russian homeland. About theassassination of the Tsar Alexander and the countless attempts to establishdemocracy by students and workers put down mercilessly by a succession ofTsars, long before the revolution was even a gleam in the communists' eyes.

And later he was to learn from theimmigrant newspapers how the Reds had moved whole villages to Siberia, killedanyone who got in the way of their lust for power; how millions of smallpeasant farmers called kulaks had been savagely annihilated because they daredto speak out against Joseph Stalin's agrarian reforms. Whole families brutallywiped out, villages destroyed or deported, millions shot because of one man'slust for power.

When the Depression deepened andStanislas couldn't find work, in his despair he never blamed America, but theReds for forcing him to flee his homeland. When it became harder for him tosupport his son and their lodgings became squalid tenements, he finally movedto a hostel where he and the boy had to line up for soup from a charitykitchen.

For young Jakob, the nadir came onewinter's afternoon at the age of sixteen.

He had walked home from school one day tosee his once proud father standing on a street corner with a placard on whichhe had scrawled: "I am good honest carpenter. Please give me job."

To Jakob it was heartrending to see theparent he loved reduced to such humiliation. It was the final straw. That dayhe made up his mind that he was going to be rich and his father was never goingto have to beg for work.

But Stanislas was to die on hisforty-fifth birthday, a broken and disillusioned man.

Jakob himself never became rich. And ittook him longer than he thought to make something of himself. He found asuccession of menial jobs just to keep food in his belly. He earned a degree inlanguages at night school followed by a year at Yale. All paid for with his ownsweat. Then in 1939, much to the surprise of his fellow students, he joined theArmy as an officer cadet.

After Pearl Harbor there had been rapidpromotion for those who sought it but Massey was more interested in action.Within six months of America entering the war he was based in Switzerland withAllen Dulles's OSS, organizing reconnaissance missions deep intoGerman-occupied territory.

After the war, America soon discoveredher former Russian ally to be an enemy.

The wartime American Intelligence hadlittle or no knowledge of the KGB and knew still less what went on behindSoviet borders. In a frenzy to gather intelligence information, growing numbersof immigrant Russians, Poles, young men with a knowledge of Soviet languages ancustoms-were recruited from the cities and prisoner-of-war camps all overEurope, and the Americans picked their brightest and best officers to train andoversee them.

It seemed a job Massey was curiouslyfitted to, and so after the war he had remained in Europe, working out ofMunich and dispatching agents onto Soviet soil on long-term reconnaissancemissions, hoping they could send back detailed information on the alarmingpostwar Soviet military buildup of the patriots, freebooters and renegades,some of them restless men still thirsting for action after a war that had notprovided them with enough.

Former SS with Russian-language skills whowere destined to face long terms in prison or, worse, death for war crimes,like the two men being dropped tonight, risked nothing by parachuting intoKGB-controlled territory. If they performed their tasks and somehow made itback over the border they were free men with a new identity and a cleanslate-at best they prolonged their life; at worst, they forfeited it in thegamble.

Jake Massey ran the Munich station withruthless efficiency, relative success, and nothing short of hatred for theSoviets, and with an intimate knowledge of their wiles. In Washington, it wasacknowledged he was among the best.

Massey heard another distant fog-hornblast the air somewhere out in the drizzling darkness of the lake and lookedup.

There was another thing Jake Massey wasunaware of that cold January evening as he looked out at the icy waters.

At that moment, less than two thousandmiles away in Moscow, the wheels were already turning in a plot that was toconsume the next six Weeks of his life and bring the world to the brink of war.

Massey took one last look out at the darkshore, then pulled up his collar against the cold and started the jeep. Therewas just time to write his monthly report to CIA Headquarters in Washingtonbefore bed.

Moscow.

January 13th It was almost 2 A.m. as theEmka sedan and the two Zil trucks trundled out through the massive black gatesat the rear of KGB Headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square.

As the vehicles headed south toward theMoscow River, the plain-clothes officer seated in the front passenger seat ofthe car removed an old silver case from his pocket, flicked it open andselected a cigarette.

Major Yuri Lukin of the KGB 2ndDirectorate knew that his task that morning wasn't going to be a pleasant one,and as he sat back in his seat and lit his cigarette he sighed deeply.

He was thirty-two, of medium build, ahandsome man with dark hair and a calm, pleasant face. He wore a heavy blackovercoat and a gray civilian suit underneath. His left hand from the forearmdown was missing, and in its place was an artificial limb, sheathed in a blackleather glove.

As Lukin drew on his cigarette he staredout beyond the windshield.

The snow had come early to Moscow theprevious November, and now the streets were piled high with thick banks ofslush. It seemed to fall incessantly, giving no letup even to the hardenedcitizens of one of the coldest capitals on earth.

As the convoy passed through the Arbatand headed east along the banks of the frozen Moscow River, Lukin consulted thelist of names and addresses on the metal clipboard on his lap. There were nine,all doctors, to be arrested that freezing morning.

He turned briefly to his driver."We'll take the next left, Pasha."

"As you wish, Major."

The driver, Lieutenant Pasha Kokunko, wasa squat Mongolian in his late thirties. His yellow face and muscular, bowleggedbody gave the impression of a man who would have looked more at home sitting ona horse on the Mongolian steppes than driving a four-seater Emka sedan.

As Lukin glanced out at the frozen, desertedstreets, the passenger sitting alone in the back leaned forward.

"Comrade Major Lukin, may I see thearrest list?"

Captain Boris Vukashin was somewhatyounger than Lukin, and had been assigned to his office only a week before.Lukin handed over the clipboard as the interior light in the back flicked onbehind him.

Vukashin said after a few moments,"It says here the doctors are all Kremlin physicians. And to judge by thenames, at least five are Jewish. It's about time we got firm with theseJews."

Lukin turned around. There was a smirk onVukashin's face. He had sharp features and a thin, cruel mouth that suggested abrutal manner, and Lukin had taken an instant dislike to the man.

"Six, actually," he replied."Not that it matters whether they're Jews or not. And for yourinformation, Vukashin, they haven't been tried and found guilty of anythingyet."