Assignment - Suicide (4 page)

He was concerned about the girl. Valya’s attitude was clear;
she regarded him as an enemy, a Westerner, and she was an unwilling ally. He
knew nothing about her; he had not been briefed as to the people he had to work
with. She had carried off the first test well, thinking fast, acting with
speed and decision to deceive the MVD search party, and she had not cracked at
all until it was finished.

Yet he did not trust her. Enmity crackled in the air between
them, silent and tight as a bowstring, evident in her cold, beautiful profile
and in the way she carefully avoided any cooperation beyond what was necessary.

He lit a cigarette. “Why are you doing this for me? If you
feel you are a traitor, Valya, why should you help me?”

“One must weigh good against evil. We are not perfect here.
We strive for the future, and every now and then one of us goes astray. I am
doing what I think is best."

“How far will you go to help me?”

"As far as needed, and no more.”

“You speak in riddles. Either you are with me or against
me."

“Must everything be white or black?” she asked coldly. “You
need not fear me. I will warn you when I have gone as far as I can go. We do
not trust each other, but now we must work together, and a certain amount of
reliance, one upon the other, is necessary if we are to live.” She turned the
Pobeda expertly into a wider street of broad asphalt that glistened under
startlingly bright lamps. More cars were in evidence on the wide avenue that
arrowed between massive piles of new apartment houses. “I do not know how much
time we will have to talk later," Valya said quietly. “So perhaps you had
better tell me how it began for you.“

“To check my story?” Durell asked.

“Why not?"

“All right. But I expect the same from you. Frankly, I did
not expect to find someone like you mixed up in this. I thought it would
be Luke Marshall at the
dacha
, not a
Russian girl berating herself for playing the role of a traitor." He
paused, but she said nothing. and he went on briefly to tell her about
Sukinin, the Russian agent, and how Sukinin had been killed trying to reach
him. “We do not believe Sukinin’s death was either accident or coincidence.”

“No, it was not either," the girl murmured. “Sukinin
was a very dear friend." She spoke without emotion. “Please continue.”

He told her what Sukinin's statement had contained,
concerning the two underground parties, and the threat from someone named Z.
His voice sharpened. “Does any of this mean something to you?”

“Oh, yes. But Marshall will tell you. It will be better if you
hear it from your countryman.”

“Well, that was about it,” Durell said. “Sukinin stressed
the fact that time was essential to stop this man Z from precipitating a war.
Nevertheless, my people were skeptical. We still are. Bluntly, it was decided
that this might be a trap, since we've had no reports from Marshall for over a
month. He was checking on the progress made over here on the intercontinental
missiles, and frankly we found it difficult to believe Sukinin’s report of your
underground movement. There has never been any serious hint of organized
resistance to the regime, and it excited us very much. Trap or no trap,
something had to be done about it.”

Her eyes slid sidewise to consider him. “And so you came
here, knowing it might be a trap? You are a brave man or foolhardy of perhaps
only a greedy man. Undoubtedly you were promised a large bonus if your mission
here is successful."

Durell said wryly: “A bonus from my masters?”

“Of course."

“There will be no bonus, Valya. I wish We weren’t worlds
apart, so we could understand each other. You call me an enemy; you hate us and
we fear you. But we will never start a war against you. Surely you know that.”

“You have been preparing to destroy us for a long time,” she
said sharply. “It is common knowledge, so please do not lie about it.“

“That’s what you read in your newspapers,” Durell said, “The
West wants peace gust as you want peace, but it must be just and honorable.”

‘She shook her, head impatiently. “There is no point in
discussing this. You are full of lies.”

“But can’t we reach a temporary understanding while we’re
working together?” Durell suggested.

For a moment he detected a fleeting softness in the
lines of her proud, bitter mouth. But it was only momentary, and she did not
reply. They were nearing the central city now, an area of vast palaces and
monuments, the city of Peter the Great, Lenin, and the October Revolution.
Built along the banks of the icy Neva, its atmosphere reminded Durell of Rome
and Paris. The girl scarcely glanced at the equestrian statue of Peter the
Great, founder of the city, but Durell studied the floodlighted monument that
was the work of Falconet, the French sculptor. There was a lunging strength in
the horse as it surged westward with only two hoofs linking its flight
through the sky to the rose granite base. The image of the czar, with his left
hand uplifted to point westward, was strong and powerful. In a moment the
monument was behind them, and Durell settled back thoughtfully. They were in
the heart of the fortress city now, a bastion built upon wild swamp and
Wasteland, founded centuries ago. The river, three times the width of the
Seine, was a swollen, dark torrent carrying ice and debris toward the Gulf of
Finland. Palaces built in the last two centuries bordered the rushing stream,
together with quays of black and pink granite. Ahead was the floodlighted
spire of the Soviet Admiralty.

The girl swung into the tide of traffic on the
Nevsky
Prospekt—the Champs-Elysees of Leningrad. The massive
avenue bisected the city from the Neva to the manufacturing suburbs. The broad
sidewalks were crowded. It was only a few minutes after eleven in the evening.
At every corner, a blue-capped
politseyski
directed the rush of traffic, the trolley-buses and
cars, helped by red and green signal lights much like those of Manhattan. Broad
yellow lines indicated crosswalks for the pedestrians.

The girl swung off the Nevsky Prospekt into another avenue.
“The ballet will soon be over and we will meet Mikhail backstage. Mikhail is to
be trusted. Your friend, Marshall, was also a friend of Mikhail’s, and Mikhail
will take us to him."

“Can’t we go to Marshall direct?”

She shook her head. “I would not know the way. We must be
careful, naturally. Mikhail will help us find your associate—-and
afterward, we will do as Marshall says, whatever must be done.”

“You implied Luke was in bad shape,” Durell said. “Is he
ill, or is he injured?”

“Both. One as the result of the other. He has pneumonia as
the result of a bullet wound. You must understand the danger, because they
already know of us.” Durell followed her nod at the giant posters of the
current leaders of the Politburo, banners that fluttered in the chill wind that
swept the city from the Neva. Flags, slogans, placards and posters were being
erected all over the city in preparation for the May Day festivities to take
place the next week. The girl said: “If we are caught, it is prison or death.
For you, a bullet in the brain. A little care is desirable,
da
?”

She swung the car between two monumental palaces guarded by
uniformed soldiers with rifles outside the ornate iron gates. Within two
more blocks the bright facade of the main avenues yielded to a bumpy,
cobblestone street of drab houses where only a few lights gleamed. She turned
the Pobeda into a still narrower lane, where sagging wooden fences leaned over
puddles of mud and ice. A moment later she pulled the car into a clearing
fenced in by rubble, and braked to a halt.

“We must not be late. Mikhail would worry. We will walk back
to the opera house—and let me do the talking. Mikhail is sensitive. He is in
love with me, which is why he is in this business with us.”

Durell returned to the main street with her. The cutting
wind made him grateful for the fur hat and boots she had given him. Yet he felt
peculiarly vulnerable as they merged with the crowd on the wide avenue. The
girl tucked her arm in his as they walked. The clothing of the passers-by was
adequate but shabby in contrast to the magnificence of the reconstructed buildings
that lined the way. Yellow and red trolley-buses clanged and swept smoothly
along the vast street. There was a high percentage of military uniforms in the
crowd.

He resisted an impulse to look back to see if they were
followed. The girl’s pressure on his arm hurried him along. She walked with a
long, free stride that matched his own, and the wind whipped and flapped
their coats as they crossed the open corners with the surge of the crowds.
Valya did not possess his discipline. Every now and then she turned her head
quickly, and the set of her mouth was tight and strained.

The crowds were being disgorged from the Grand Opera House
as they neared the area. Floodlights played in varicolored beams on the vast,
columned face of the building. The press of people grew thicker.

“This way," Valya murmured.

She turned down the side of the building and edged her way
against the human tide into a smaller doorway that yielded to a wide, marble
hallway. A side door abruptly led them from this into an oasis of empty
silence.

Durell had the feeling he was trapped in a marble maze as
they hurried along. The girl apparently knew the building intimately, but her
feeling of urgency made him uneasy. They were on the third floor, having
climbed a flight of circular marble stairs within earshot of noisy dressing
rooms high above the stage when they heard hurried footsteps coming toward
them. Durell caught the girl’s arm and pulled her into a dark side corridor.
The man coming toward them was running. He slowed just before he reached the
intersection and Valya saw him.

“It’s Mikhail," she burst out, and pulled away from
Durell.

“Mikhail, what is it?”

The dancer paused and stared as they emerged from the
darkened corridor. He looked back over his shoulder, shook his head, and swallowed.
He made Durell think of a dark and slender steel blade. His pin-stripe gray
suit was far better than the average Durell had seen on the streets. He carried
a fedora and a Chesterfield coat. His face was thin, his nose narrow and
hawklike
, his black eyes immediately resentful of Durell
and then tender as he looked at the girl.

“Valya, they were waiting for me in my dressing room,” he
said. He was perspiring heavily. “Not the MVD—but men from Z. Darling,
something has gone very wrong. We must get out of here."

“Did they see you?" the girl asked.

“No, no. But I had to send someone for my clothes in my
dressing room.” He looked bleakly at Durell. “You are the man Marshall asked
for?”

Durell nodded. “Let‘s go see him.”

Mikhail wiped his narrow face with a silk handkerchief. His
hands were delicate and graceful. His dark eyes swung from Valya back to
Durell, suspiciously. “Did you have any difficulty?”

“The plane was shot doom and the pilot was killed. Just a
little difficulty." Durell felt angry for no reason he could define.
“The area is alerted. That’s a little trouble, too. As if they were expecting
me.”

Mikhail nodded. “That explains why they were waiting for me,
too. Sooner or later I will have to answer their questions. But I'll think of
something. After all, they are not really like the police."

They are worse," Valya said. "He would like to be
a new
vozhd
, a new dictator."

The dancer's eyes flickered a warning to the girl. "We
will stop him. Come along."

They stepped into the lighted corridor again. A man stood in
bulky silhouette at the far end from where they had come. Another suddenly
materialized at the opposite end of the empty, columned hallway. Their mission
was plain. Durell was effectively cut off from escape in either direction.

Chapter Four

A SHOUTED COMMAND echoed in garbled syllables down the
marble hall, distorted by the high-covered ceilings and the silent sculpture in
the wall niches. Durell grabbed the girl's hand and yanked her back into the
dark cross-corridor. Mikhail jumped gracefully after them, alarm in the
dancer’s narrow face. He jerked his head and they ran into the deeper shadows
behind the enormous stage.

Footsteps hammered after them. The girl slipped and dragged
at Durell’s hand. He pulled at her savagely and they tumbled down a. short flight
of steps. Mikhail was well in the lead. He did not help the girl and his manner
of flight reflected total fear. Durell cursed their bad luck. He
was dependent on these people to bring him to Luke Marshall; he could not
desert them. But he felt hampered by them, knowing the mistakes of an amateur
at this dangerous game. His questions had to be postponed. There was nothing to
think of now but their immediate safety. He did not even know who was after
them, or why they were running.

Mikhail knew his way through the dark maze. Once he
outstripped them and Durell dragged the girl to a halt, to listen and orient
himself. Echoing voices sounded dimly behind them, then faded. The girl drew in
a great, shuddering breath of air. She leaned heavily on Durell, her hand at
her throat.

“Which way did Mikhail go?” he whispered.

“He knows where I park my car. We can meet him there.”

“He runs fast,” Durell said dryly.

“Mikhail does this only for me. it is not to his taste."

“Is he a coward?"

“Some men are brave in other things besides physical
danger,” she said angrily. She straightened in the marble gloom. “Come
along."

They went at an easier pace after that, and suddenly Valya
opened a door and they found themselves on the street behind the opera house.
It was deserted, lighted at each corner. Durell looked each way, then took the
girl’s hand and ran across the open space to a narrower street that in turn
became a muddy lane. The wind was cold, blowing hard from over the river. His
sense of direction led him correctly. In a matter of a few minutes they
approached the girl’s Pobeda, hidden among the workers’ tenements a safe
distance from the Nevsky Prospekt. Mikhail was not there.