Assignment - Suicide (8 page)

Durell had slept a little on the plane, but it had been a
watchful dozing, and he felt the drag of exhaustion in his muscles as he slowed
his pace near the white loom of the Embassy building. The street was wide and
quiet, with a little park across from Spasso House, an old residence of French
style flanking the huge estate. He felt irritated at Valya for her
insistence on coming with him. Her meek surrender to his decision to go to the
Embassy did not delude him. There was an opaque reserve in her eyes, a sense of
patient, expectant waiting.

“Be careful,” she said at last. “We are being watched. Do
not cross the street here; walk to the next corner." She tucked her hand
in his arm and laughed so that her laughter could be heard along the broad
sidewalk, as if he had said something very amusing. She spoke loudly to him
about a play being presented at the Bolshoi Theatre.

“Where are they?" Durell asked, his lips thin.

"In that doorway. And here. As we go by.”

The width of Arbat Street was peculiarly deserted compared
to the avenues they had crossed. It was as if the American building were
deliberately shunned by the local citizenry which was probably true, Durell
thought wryly, since it was dangerous for the ordinary Soviet man to be associated
with any Westerner. They passed the deeply recessed doorway of an ornate, dark
mansion diagonally across from the Embassy building. Two dim, bulky shadows
stood against the glass doors within the marble entry. Durell felt their eyes
touch him and the girl, return to him and follow him until he passed.

“We‘ll try the back entrance,” Durell murmured.

“It will be the same. I am sure Kronev telephoned from
Leningrad. He is a cold and efficient man. He’ is terrible."

Durell turned left at the corner, the girl matching his
stride. Her blonde hair gleamed in the lights from the tall windows of Spasso
House. The wide streets were mostly dark now, but the street lamps of Moscow
were more than adequate for the springtime dusk. A chill wind began to whip along
the clean, empty avenues of the vicinity. A small Moskva car was parked nearby
and two other men sat in it, talking and smoking. Their eyes followed Durell
and Valya to the corner. Two more here, in another doorway. They took no
chances and worked in pairs.

The lights from the Embassy windows were tantalizing.
Somewhere in there Alex Holbrook was waiting for word from him. He wondered
what would happen if he suddenly made a break for it, dashing across the street
to the tall gates where the US. Marine guard stood at stiff, alert attention.
He passed a heavy Zis limousine where more shadows sat, waiting. The motor of
the car idled softly in the dusk. The street was very wide. He knew very well
what would happen if he ran for it.

They had almost circled the Embassy, and he saw no loophole
in the cordon of silent Watchers surrounding the elegant building. He knew that
if he reappeared on the first side of the Embassy and was seen again by
the watchers there, he would become immediately suspect.

"Be careful,” Valya said again. “Come this way.”

She led him down a side street, away from the Embassy.

Durell had no choice but to follow. The wind felt cold and
cutting on his angry face.

“Give up for now,” Valya urged. “Please! It is
suicide."

He said angrily: “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Where
is Mikhail, by the way? Why aren’t you concerned about him?”

“Mikhail can take care of himself. It was necessary that we
separate at Vnoukovo."

“How do I know these are Kronev’s men? They could just as
easily be members of your underground outfit.”

“Yes, they could be. But they are not.”

“Mikhail could have alerted them.”

She paused suddenly on the street. The wind tugged at wisps
of her braided, honey-colored hair. He saw that her impatience matched his own,
and he recognized a strength in her that might well be as great as his, in some
ways. “Durell, at some point you must learn to trust someone,” she said. “One
of us, and I believe both of us, must accept the other on simple faith. You
must trust me. I understand what you want to do. I know your duty requires that
you reach your countrymen in the Embassy. But I do not want to see you die. It
would be a waste. I am almost fond of you.” Her lips curled in a wry smile.
“For an American, you are not so terrible. You would die trying to reach the
Embassy tonight. Believe me.”

“And you don’t want me there, anyway.” he pointed out.

“I am not sure. I have been thinking of it all day. You may
be right; your way may be the only way. But I have not decided about it yet.”

His glance searched the girl’s face. He wanted to believe
her. And she was right about reaching a point where some things had to be taken
on faith. Abruptly he took her arm and guided her back toward the bright
streets radiating from Red Square. “Let’s find that Uzbek
stolovaya
and have some
shislak
or rice
pilaf
, eh?”

She laughed with the relief of a child reprieved from
punishment. “I am truly starving. While we eat, we can decide what to do."

The clientele of Muscovites in the restaurant she led him to
exhibited a vivacity and conversational appetite that would have shocked those
of a ‘Nest European establishment. A hub-bub of spontaneous voices reached
across the tables. Durell saw that more than one party usually shared the same
table, and he sought out one of the few designed for just two. A stocky,
middle-aged waitress took their order from the Spartan menu, and Durell looked
about the room until he spotted a telephone in an alcove at the rear.

In Moscow there was no officially published telephone directory,
but there was a number in his mind which he had committed to memory in McFee’s
office, in Washington. He took several kopeks from his pocket and asked the
operator to connect him with the number. While he waited, he saw with some
surprise a large color-television screen recessed in a wall across the
restaurant, broadcasting a soccer game from Dynamo Stadium. He waited. If all
went well, his call would connect him with an Embassy phone that was rarely
used. Alex Holbrook would be ready for him. The line would probably be
monitored, but if he could just alert the staff in time—

A burst of raucous laughter came from a nearby table crowded
with Kazak men who seemed in the process of celebrating something. Their table
was littered with dishes and bottles of vodka and Crimean champagne.

The operator's voice said: “Are you sure you have the
correct number, citizen?"

“Yes. Please hurry.”

“I always do my best, citizen.”

He felt as conspicuous as a bayou duck before a blind in the
open booth, although none of the diners in the stolovaya seemed to pay
attention to him. He looked across the crowded tables to the nook where he had
left Valya.
 
She sat with her hands
cupped under her chin, but she was not Watching him. Her glance was fixed
on the street entrance, and Durell looked that way. A tall, broad-shouldered
man in a dark coat and gray fur hat came in. He stood there scanning the
tables, only his eyes moving in his broad, flat face. Beyond the
restaurant windows, Durell could see the crowds on the sidewalk under the
bright streetlights, the occasional swift passage of a car, and the ornate
buildings a cool draft of air from the street door as it was opened across the
way. The man in the doorway finally met Durell’s glance and quickly
looked away, drew off a glove, studied his hand with interest, and put the
glove back on again.

“Operator,” he said.

“I am ringing now, citizen.”

He heard the signal buzzing in the phone. His mind rolled
hack to McFee‘s office in Washington.
Contact
Alex Holbrook !here—nobody else. His cover job is as a C-5 clerk. He’ll know
what to do for you. Alex will be briefed on Operation Dart.

A voice with a rich Southern accent said: “United States
Embassy. Who is calling, please?”

“I want to speak to Mr. Holbrook,” Durell said in English.

“Who? Please speak louder.”

Durell looked at the nearby table of revelers. Their drunken
shouting and laughter made it difficult to hear, and the roars from the TV set
did not help, either. He did not dare raise his voice while he was speaking
English. “Holbrook—Alex Holbrook. It’s urgent and he’s expecting me. Tell him
it's Dart calling.”

“Who?”

“Dart. Just Dart! He’ll understand. God damn it, will you
hurry?"

“Just a moment,” the voice said icily.

There were clicks and
buzzings
on
the line. Durell looked at the man in the restaurant doorway. He had not moved.
He did not look at Durell. Valya was still at her table. He thought she seemed
a little pale, her Slavic face turned away from him to study the man in the
doorway.

A woman’s voice rattled on the phone: “Are you the party
calling Mr. Holbrook? Please identify yourself, sir.”

“Dart,” Durell said.

“Is that all?”

“He’ll understand. Please get him at once. This is a
priority call.”

“Mr. Holbrook has gone to a reception at the British
Embassy. One moment, please. I’ll try to get him there."

He felt angry and impatient at the supercilious voice. He
started to argue, then realized she was no longer on the wire. There were more
clicks, a long buzzing sound, then a steady
tick-tick-tick
that came with soft regularity, beating in the ear-piece. He knew at once that
the line was being tapped. He began to sweat. It was hot in the stolovaya. Then
he sensed a cool draft of air from the street door as it was opened again. A
second man had joined the big watcher in the doorway.

It was Kronev.

The squat MVD man looked around the big room with a swift
objective sweep of pale eyes that appraised the diners with split-second
accuracy. Valya stood up, gathering her gloves and began to walk toward Durell.
Durell saw Kronev’s eyes fix on her with bright satisfaction, then his pale
glance lumped to him. Their eyes met. Recognition flared in the MVD man’s
stare. "

A man’s voice suddenly rattled in the telephone receiver.

“Hello, Dart. Sam? I’m. sorry it took so long old man—”

At that moment, Kronev started toward him.

Chapter Seven

SEVENTY FEET separated Durell and Valya from Kronev mid his
man in the doorway. Between them were the crowded, noisy tables occupied by the
Kazak clientele. Across the heads of the diners, Durell saw Kronev’s grinning
face shine with triumph. A loud burst of laughter came from the table nearest
the telephone alcove. Valya tugged at Durell’s sleeve.

“There is a back way. Come. It may be guarded, too.”

He followed the girl as she swung to the rear of the
restaurant, wondering how Kronev had tracked them to this exact spot. Perhaps
one of the watchers in the cordon around the Embassy had identified him;
or it could be Mikhail’s work, somehow. It didn‘t matter. He knew this was a
trap that would take a miracle to escape.

There was a double-leafed back door that led into the
kitchens of the
stolovaya
where the
waitresses came and went. Durell slapped the doors open and plunged through,
pulling Valya with him. A dim shout was flung after him, audible above
the clatter of tableware and conversations. A huge red-faced man blocked
Durell’s way into the kitchen. His chin dripped sweat.

“Citizen, it is not permitted—"

“Get out of my way!"

Durell straight-armed the giant into a steam table. A shrill
cry came from a Waitress nearby. From behind her came another shout of warning.

“Come on,” he gasped to Valya.

“The door—over there.”

He plunged toward it and the girl kept pace with him. A chef
swung at him with a cleaver, and missed, the blade hissing behind his head. A
whistle skirled in the main dining room. Sudden silence fell in the kitchen as
Durell reached the back door.

“Go ahead,” he snapped to the girl.

She darted through. He looked back and saw Kronev slap aside
the double doors to the dining room. A gun crashed. He swung and dived down a
short flight of steps to the back street.

Valya waited for him. Her face was stark and white.

“This way—to the Metro.”

The street behind the
stolovaya
was narrow and poorly lighted.
 
A car
blocked the far corner, and he halted, caught it the girl and ran the other
way. Kronev’s men had not been completely organized. The girl matched his pace
as they ran across the rough cobbles of the street. There was a lithe grace to
the way she ran. Behind them came the roar of a motor racing, and headlights
sliced through the gloom and pinned them against the dark brick wall they
followed. A gun crashed again. The bullet struck a spark from a piece of metal
in the brick wall. Valya suddenly staggered and Durell’s heart lurched, fearing
she was hit.

“To the left," she gasped,

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, saving her breath. The car was almost upon them
when they reached the corner. There was traffic on the wide avenue and crowds
on the sidewalk. The blue-uniformed
politseyski
across the way was standing in puzzlement. the
whistle between his teeth. People jumped aside as they ran around the corner.
The car that pursued them screamed out of the alleyway and halted with a
screech of brakes in the middle of the thoroughfare, rocking on its springs.
Three or four men tumbled out, abandoning the car in the center of the traffic flow.
The
politseyski
blew his whistle angrily and ran toward the car. Half a block ahead were the
lights of Moscow‘s famous subway system. The distance seemed endless.

A blast of American jive music, as incongruous here as a
Bronx cheer, suddenly reached Durell from a knot of grinning pedestrians midway
to their goal. Durell moved that way with Valya, walking with a long stride
that sliced through the people on the sidewalk, putting them between himself
and his pursuers. The music was Dixieland jazz, as true and authentic as
magnolias and corn pone. He could not see the musicians who were playing
outside the neon-lighted doorway of a restaurant similar to the one they had
just fled. The knot of grinning spectators clapped their hands to the
rhythm, obviously enjoying themselves.