The Kremlin Letter (25 page)

“That is possible,” answered Kosnov, quite unconcerned.

“This fact interested us. We were able to get dossiers on the Highwayman and his associates, especially the man he worked for in the past, Sturdevant. We studied them quite thoroughly. Sturdevant seemed to have an interesting pattern. Every case he worked began with a diversionary move, a decoy if you like.”

“And you think that is what happened here?” said Kosnov. “While we were watching the Kara Sea other men snuck in and made off with the Caucasus?”

“We would like to hear what you have to say.”

“Your doctors could have been right,” answered Kosnov.

“Is that all?” Bresnavitch asked, somewhat surprised.

“That's all I can agree to, and I have some doubts there.”

“This is a rather dangerous attitude,” said Kazar. “It looks as if you were completely fooled.”

“Where is the proof?” Kosnov remained unbothered.

“In the facts as they stand,” Bresnavitch snapped. “A dead man was carried into this country. A perfect decoy to draw your attention to one specific area. A maneuver which is repeated throughout the operation of the Sturdevant organization.”

“May I see the report?” Kosnov asked. He read through it slowly. Then he snapped it closed. “First of all, the report states that the agent Rone died anywhere from one day to three days before the Highwayman. But it does not state when the Highwayman died. The truck was missing for five days in a blizzard. Rone could have been killed accidently after they landed. His body could have frozen while the other man tried to get a truck. If they entered the country by sea, Rone might have died on ship board and they might have decided to bring his body in anyway. Even then I'm not convinced. The theory of oxidation in burned frozen skin has never been clearly established.” Kosnov was bluffing on this point, but it seemed to be working. Bresnavitch and Kazar traded looks.

“We thought of all this in Vorkuta,” Kosnov continued. “We noticed that there was a difference in the degree each body was burned. Certainly a frozen one would burn slower than a warm one. But you must take into consideration the position of the two men in the truck. The vehicle fell almost two hundred feet into a snow-filled ravine. It came to rest in eight feet of snow on its side. Rone's body was thrown to the bottom. It lay on the floor. The other man was pinned behind the wheel above Rone. His door was thrown open. The fire broke out in the gas tanks under the cab and roared through the floorboards between the two men. Rone was below it and the Highwayman was directly in it. The open door above the Highwayman acted as a chimney. The flames swept up and around him and shot through the door out of the cab. In short, there was a difference in heat. It was hotter for the Highwayman than for Rone. The bodies would therefore burn differently.

“But something else enters the picture. The fire was
put
out. It didn't burn out. That is why there were at least some remains. The truck was lodged at the foot of the ravine against a solid wall of frozen snow. The flames shooting out of the cab melted the snow, and water poured down the hillside into the cab. Eventually so much fell that the fire went out. As the water began dripping into the cab it fell to the floor and collected in a pool around Rone. This is another reason why his body was not burned as badly as the other one. Rone had to be chopped out of a solid block of ice. Under these conditions it is quite conceivable that one man appears to have died much earlier than the other.”

This was complete fantasy on Kosnov's part, but it was convincing.

“Even if there was a time variation, it was of little importance,” the colonel continued sharply. “We knew the truck was missing five days before. Every road in the area was blocked at fifty-mile intervals. The wreck was found one hundred and ten miles from Kara along a forty-mile stretch, where there were no side roads. The temperature was almost constantly fifteen to twenty degrees below zero. Even if two dead bodies had been placed in the truck and rolled over the embankment, how would the perpetrators of such a stunt get away? They couldn't drive very far in the blizzard, and even if they did they would have to pass one of our checkpoints. But there was no traffic in that sector. None whatsoever. It was also impossible for anyone to leave the accident on foot without freezing to death. Even Eskimos couldn't have moved about in that storm.”

Bresnavitch and Kazar were showing the first signs of defeat. Colonel Kosnov did not let up.

“The other theory could be that the Highwayman intentionally sacrificed his life for a diversionary move. Diversionary for whom? He was second in command to Sturdevant. Sturdevant has been dead for ten years. Why would the leader of an organization give up his life?”

“But we don't know if it was the Highwayman,” Bresnavitch said.

“Potkin gave us the information. And Potkin is usually very accurate.

“Now as to the factor of Sturdevant's so-called pattern. He had no pattern. Our records on him were compiled only after World War II. We had some information on him before, but it was destroyed. He sometimes worked alone and sometimes with a small group of men, but there was no pattern. He often used diversionary methods. Other times he did not. If we could have established his
modus operandi
he wouldn't have lasted as long as he did. I know his record very well. To my recollection he never sacrificed a single man in what we would consider a decoy move.”

“Ladies, do come join us,” said Bresnavitch, rising. Grodin's and Kazar's wives and Erika entered the room. After they were settled, Bresnavitch turned to Erika.

“Your husband has been telling us of a most fascinating spy by the name of Sturdevant, but I assume you already know all about him.”

“No, I don't,” said Erika.

“If I am not mistaken, it was your husband who was his downfall. Let me see if I can remember. It was quite some time ago. This fellow Sturdevant was running wild through East Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia. We were all very concerned about it at the time. Sturdevant's men were very hard to flush out. But the colonel did it.”

“Do tell us about it,” urged Kazar's wife.

“It was a long time ago,” said Kosnov. “I'm not sure of the details.”

“As I remember,” Bresnavitch offered, “you knew that three of his men were in a small Polish village, wasn't that it?”

“I think so,” said Kosnov.

“And the problem you faced was determining which of the twenty-three hundred people were the three you wanted. The colonel rounded up the entire population and began to interrogate and execute each of them one by one. It seems one of Sturdevant's men got a little squeamish at the sight of children being killed and made a run for it. When the colonel's men closed in he tried to kill himself, but the poison didn't work for some reason. They struck it quite rich. The man was a unit leader who had information about the entire operation. From there on it was easy. How many villages did you wipe out before you found the men?”

“I can't remember.” Kosnov watched Erika. She was beginning to tremble.

“Well, once the colonel had the agent he made him talk as only he can. Did you use chemicals or physical persuasion?”

“I don't remember,” answered Kosnov.

“What was it you used on that Polakov fellow?” asked Bresnavitch, watching both Kosnov and Erika. “Wasn't it acid? I've been told it's like pouring molten lead down a man's throat. One can go insane from the pain. How many days was Polakov able to hold up under torture like that?”

Erika got up and left the room. Grodin's wife went after her.

Kosnov started to rise but Bresnavitch detained him. “Now, now, Colonel. She'll get over it. After all, a wife has a right to know what her husband contributes to society. What did you use on Sturdevant's men that he swore to kill you?”

“I can't remember. Please excuse me.” Kosnov rose and walked into the other room. Grodin's wife told him that Erika did not feel well and had gone home. Kosnov grabbed his, coat and left the house without saying goodbye.

“I met this Sturdevant fellow once,” Bresnavitch told the gathering. “That is, I talked to him over the telephone. He was giving us quite a lot of trouble in the early fifties. So much so that we wanted him on our side. Somehow we received word that he was to be thrown out of Western intelligence. I went to Paris and arrangements were made for a telephone conversation. I told him what we had found out and offered him a good job with us—Kosnov's job, to be exact—only we were willing to pay Sturdevant much more. He was quite polite in his refusal.” Bresnavitch sipped his drink. “It was only sheer luck the colonel caught those men of his—sheer luck.”

Erika ran the first three blocks from Bresnavitch's home. She crossed a park and headed for the basement where she had danced before. She changed her mind and started off in the other direction for the restaurants Polakov had frequented. Tears streamed down her face. She moved along a side street and then onto another. She knew it was somewhere in the neighborhood.

She finally found the restaurant and went inside. Several tables of men and women were scattered through the dimly lit room. She recognized the waiter.

“You remember me, don't you? I used to come here quite often.”

The waiter studied her and then nodded. “Get me something to smoke,” she demanded. “You know what I mean. Or even something stronger. I'm in great pain. I must forget.”

The waiter stood staring at her for a moment and then crossed the room to a table where three women and a man sat. He whispered something to the man. The man peered over at Erika. He walked slowly to her table and sat down. “Can I be of any service?”

“I need something strong to smoke.”

“I see.”

“And I want a man,” Erika suddenly said. “I want a real man as well.”

“It will be arranged,” promised Janis.

SECTION FOUR

27

Erika

It was early afternoon. Sun filtered into the small room Janis had arranged for them. Rone lay on his back smoking. Erika was asleep, her blond head nestled against his shoulder, her arm thrust across his chest. She breathed easily. She had told Rone she had not slept soundly since her first husband died. Now once again she could relax. She could sleep. They had been together every afternoon since that first night Janis had brought him to her a week ago. Every afternoon their love-making had grown longer, more torrid, more tender. And each time she would fall into a deep complete sleep when they had finished.

Rone looked down at Erika's sleeping face and laughed to himself. He ran his fingers lightly along her forehead and down her cheeks. He thought back to their first meeting, to Janis bringing him into the apartment, to the expression on Erika's face as she smoked hashish with the other girls, to the look in her eyes when she first saw Rone.…

“How do you like him?” Janis asked her proudly.

Erika did not answer. Rone was standing in the middle of the apartment. At first she just stared. Then with the cigarette dangling from her lips she circled around him at a distance.

“Have him sit over there until I'm ready,” she told Janis. She returned to the laughing prostitutes. After three cigarettes she ordered everyone to leave but Rone. She leaned against the wall studying him. “Whore,” she ordered, “come here.”

Rone stood up and crossed the room. He stopped in front of her. “How much do you charge?” she asked.

“Twenty-five rubles,” Rone said.

“Twenty-five rubles for what?”

“No one complains.”

“You have a bad nose,” Erika noted. “And your chin juts out too far. I don't like your ears.”

“Then I'll go,” Rone stated.

“I'll give you fifteen.”

“My price is twenty-five—in advance.”

“And what do you charge men?” Erika sneered.

“That is for others. I specialize in women.”

“Old, fat, ugly ones, eh?”

“All women are beautiful if you know how to look at them.”

“And am I beautiful?”

“You'll do.”

“Oh, will I, now. I suppose your own girl is prettier than I am?”

“She is more polite.”

“But is she more
beautiful?
”

“No.”

“Ah,” Erika sighed. “That's a good little whore. Here's your money.” Erika threw the rubles on the floor in front of her. “Kiss my feet,” she demanded.

“Your shoes are on.”

“Then kiss my shoes.”

Rone put his lips to her shoes. As he did she kicked her foot forward, catching him in the neck with the pointed toe. Rone gagged and dropped on all fours, his head hanging down between his arms. He remained in that position until he recovered. When he looked up Erika was sitting clutching her elbows.

“Now it's your turn to hurt me,” she said. “We will reenact that old, old game called woman and man—victim and tormentor—only
we
will play it honestly. Let me explain. There is no beauty but destruction. There is no feeling in love—only in pain and suffering. If you hit me I might feel something. That sole surviving nerve may feel a twinge, ever so slight, but I will know that I'm
alive
—that I can be loved. Help to destroy me—and I will love you for it. Go ahead. Hit, hit hard.” Erika looked into his eyes with supplication.

Rone's open hand landed across her face and toppled her out of the chair. Blood trickled from her mouth. She nodded her approval. “You are beginning to learn. Hit me again.”

Rone hesitated, then he slapped her again. She asked to be kicked, but Rone refused.

“But you're the whore—the slave,” Erika pointed out. “You must do as I command.”

“Find someone else.”

“Oh, my little priest doesn't like the game of life. We will find something else to do. Stand in the middle of the room. Ah, that's a good little whore. Now take off your jacket—slowly—take it off very slowly. Now your shirt. Slowly, now. Very, very slowly.”