The Kremlin Letter (30 page)

“If it had been up to me I would have told you from the beginning. There were others. I had superiors.”

“And you'll have them in the future. There'll always be someone higher up or something lower down that makes you change your story. It has to be. That's the world you live in. I believe that you'd
like
to mean what you're saying, but it's too late for both of us. For me because—maybe because I've seen too much of it. I don't want it any more, not now. And for you because you are too good at the other. You have a bright future, Yorgi. In the end you'll make the Polakovs or Kosnovs or any others I've met take notice. You have all the trappings of a great, great spy. Take it from someone who has known the best.”

“I'll get you out of here. I'll take you to America.”

Erika broke into a broad smile and shook her head. “An American? You're an American?” She laughed. “It certainly isn't my day, is it?”

“I'll arrange for you to come to America,” Rone repeated.

“Poor Yorgi, stop when you're ahead. The image is crumbling fast. Leave me some memories at least.

“Did it ever occur to you that to some people the United States is not Utopia? You see, I don't
like
America—I've seen the Americans in action. I learned first-hand.”

“Would you rather stay in Russia?”

“I'm not much for the war and its memories. It happened and that was that. But I'm going to tell you a little story—just a page or two out of my long and eventful life. Not for sympathy or judgment, but just as a little comparison between Russia and America.

“When the war ended I was four years old. The Americans occupied the village I was living in. On the first day of the occupation a group of American soldiers came to our house and took my mother, my two older sisters and myself into the basement. I watched as they raped them for six days. Oh, don't look so horrified, Yorgi, it's happened since time began. The Germans have done it, so have the French and English and every other nationality—America had to grow up sometime.

“Anyway, it was finally decided that the town was really in the Soviet zone, so the Americans moved out and the Russians moved in. Once again the soldiers came to the house and raped my sisters and my mother. They kept them there about as long as the Americans did. But there was a difference—and whether you know it or not, there can be a difference in rape. The Russians were kinder to us. After they finished all they had to offer was their soup. Not that they wouldn't have given us other things if they had had them, but they didn't. Soup was the only thing they possessed that was of any value to us. So the Russian soldiers, the rapists, went for their meal of soup and instead of eating it themselves they brought it to us. When the Americans finished they threw candy and tins of food on the floor and walked off. So you see, my American Yorgi, don't ask me to make comparisons between the Russians and Americans.”

Rone was not pleased with the story. “I'm sorry it happened.”

“I could have lived without it myself.” Erika started into the other room. “Don't worry, I won't betray you. You can stay here if you want and I'll get you whatever I can. I just don't want to see you any more.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to.”

“Ah, that sounds more like the man I don't know.”

“Your bedroom is tapped.”

Erika flushed.

“We were using Potkin's apartment. The receiving equipment is there. Whoever is involved probably listened in and found out the bug was on you and Kosnov.”

“That's their problem.” Erika started for the door. Rone grabbed her and spun her toward him. She tried to get away. He shoved her into a chair.

“You can think or feel whatever you like. I'm sorry I hurt you—I'm even more sorry I disillusioned you. But you might as well get certain things clear. Polakov and probably all of my men are dead—all for the same reason. And it looks like you, the colonel and I might join them. Maybe you don't care what happens to me or yourself or Kosnov, but you owe a little something to Polakov. All of these lives have been lost because of someone else: the real enemy. He's played both ends against the middle. Kosnov didn't kill Polakov—he was betrayed by someone you called the Bellman. He sold out Polakov and he probably had a hand in what happened to my group. The chances are he'll be after the three of us now. Well, I want to get to him first—as sort of a memorial to the men I lost. I don't think you have anything to lose by paying a little tribute to Polakov as well—from what I've heard he went out on a limb a couple of times for you.”

“Yorgi, you're a fool. What is worse, you're a romantic fool. No one betrays anyone in this bizarre little game of yours. Your time runs out, and that's all there is to it. Polakov wasn't betrayed. He was taking risks, risks he shouldn't have taken, to get me money. He wanted to quit, to spend his remaining years with me. He thought up a way to make all the money either of us would need. It's what he wanted to do. He failed, he's dead.”

“Get the colonel to stay,” Rone insisted.

“Why? So he can be killed too? At least he loves me.”

“If he goes on that trip he'll be walking back to death. So will you. Whoever the Bellman is, he probably thinks you know his identity. With Kosnov gone, what becomes of you?”

“I finally die.”

“Then go,” Rone said defiantly. “Get the hell out of here and do whatever you want.”

Erika stepped to the door. She opened it and turned back to look at her Yorgi. “What is it you want?”

“Tell him about the Bellman. Tell him in the bedroom where the microphone is hidden,” said Rone. “Say that a man approached you who once knew Polakov. Say that this man told you that Polakov had two contacts here in Moscow. Say that the second contact has information on how “The Bellman” sold out Polakov. If the colonel asks where the man is, tell him he will be mailing the information to the colonel—for fifty thousand rubles. He will send the colonel a sample sometime this week He will then get in touch with the colonel. That should take the pressure off all of us for a few days. Stay close to the house and don't come here until Friday. When you do make sure you're not followed.”

On Friday Erika returned to tell Rone she had done what he had asked. Kosnov had remained in Moscow and was expecting the envelope. Erika stood through the whole conversation. When Rone suggested she sit down she refused. When he tried to kiss her she let him do so without responding. He told her to come back on Sunday. Then she left.

33

Nikolayev Square

In retrospect, the very nature of the raid obviated the colonel's participation. Kosnov's department was as large and modern an apparatus as any in the world. Men and equipment were no particular problem for him. The Third Department was capable of striking in ten, twenty, fifty different areas of Russia, let alone Moscow, simultaneously. The raid Rone witnessed was on a very small scale. He had seen only four cars and perhaps ten men. The area had not been cordoned off. There were no road blocks, no shots. Gunfire would draw attention. Whose attention? Kosnov's?

No, someone else was behind the raid, but Rone would have to make sure.

Erika arrived on Sunday. She had taken a circuitous route, changing subways three times and taking two buses. She was sure she hadn't been followed. She sat down without taking her coat off.

“The colonel and I have changed our bedroom,” she announced.

“That's up to you.” Rone stood at the window and looked down at the street. “What's the name of that little park down there?”

“Nikolayev Square.”

“Tonight, when you are certain the colonel is in another part of the house, I want you to go into your old bedroom and pretend you are talking to him. I want the people who are listening at the receiver to think he is there. They must think you are talking to him. Say that the man telephoned while he was out. He has received the money and is happy. The man will leave a message for the colonel. It will be the first in a series. He will identify himself—or at least his code name. He will leave it in an envelope in the base of the statue in Nikolayev Square. You or the colonel should go there tomorrow after ten and get it. Say that the man said the code name will explain many things to the colonel. Do you have gloves?”

“Not with me,” answered Erika.

“There are some in the bedroom bureau,” Rone told her. “Put them on and take this envelope,” he said, handing it to her. “Put it somewhere under the statue when you leave. Then tomorrow at ten-thirty come back to the statue, search for the letter, find it and go right back home. When you get there, burn it.”

“What's inside?” asked Erika.

“Just one word: Wimpleton.”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing,” answered Rone. “Nothing at all.”

“Is that all?”

“That's all.”

“Then I'll go.”

“Do that,” he told her.

Erika stared at him. The warmth of the past flickered slightly.

“When do you want me to return?” she asked.

“You don't have to.”

“And you?”

“I'll be all right. The apartment will be vacant by the time your mother-in-law returns.”

Erika looked down at the letter in her hand. She reached into her purse, took out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it. She handed it to Rone with some money. “Take this. I don't know how far the money will get you, but this address might help. It was Polakov's escape route. He made me memorize it. I don't know where it leads or who is concerned. All I know is that he told me to use it if everything else failed.”

“But everything has failed. Why give it to me?”

“I still have the colonel. You have nothing.” She turned and walked from the room.

As she was leaving, Rone said to her, “Try to have the conversation between ten and eleven tonight.”

He stood at the window and watched Erika walk into the park. She went to the statue and sat on the base, as if to adjust her shoe. Rone saw her slip the envelope into a crevice. She looked up in his direction and left. He took up his vigil at the window just before ten o'clock that evening. There were no lights in the park. The sky was clear. A three-quarter moon shone. Rone checked his watch just before eleven. They should know by now. When he looked at the time again it was two
A
.
M
. No one had come.

“Maybe they're thinking it over,” Rone told himself. At four o'clock he grew edgy. It was only an hour and a half until dawn. He doubted if they would appear in daylight. If they didn't, it was Kosnov after all. At a quarter to five Rone spotted a figure standing at the far side of the square. He seemed to appear out of nowhere. The man ambled casually toward the statue. For a short time the stone figure blocked Rone's view. The man came into sight again. He was examining the structure. There was something familiar about him, either his walk or his bearing. Rone couldn't place it. Even from a distance he appeared too tall for Potkin. It might be Grodin. It wasn't Kosnov. The man slowly circled the statue. He stopped from time to time and leaned closer, then moved on. He finally made his way around to Rone's side. Rone saw that he had a small pocket flashlight. The tiny beam skipped over the weathered stone and zigzagged its way down to the base. It illuminated the crevice and stopped. The light was switched off and the figure kneeled down. It rose again and walked back to the far end of the park. Rone saw the silhouette of a car, its lights off, draw up slowly beside the figure. The man got into the back seat. There was a flash of dark-red light from the rear-door window. Rone knew they must be photographing the letter with an infrared bulb. The car remained there for almost five minutes. Fingerprints, Rone speculated. Finally, the unknown man left the car and walked back to the statue. He replaced the letter, returned to the vehicle and drove off.

Rone slept until ten in the morning. He got out of bed, fixed himself some coffee and went to the window. At ten-thirty Erika arrived at the statue, circled around it, supposedly looking for the letter, and finally discovered it. Rone was pleased with her acting. He watched her trim figure leave the park, then went back to bed.

34

The Embryologists

Rone was awakened by a banging on the door. He looked at his watch. It was three in the afternoon. He walked cautiously across the front room. He moved closer to the door.

“Yorgi,” boomed Ward's voice. “Open the goddam door.”

“I had one hell of a time finding you,” he told Rone once he was inside.

“How did you?”

Ward grinned. “I just followed Nephew Yorgi's piece of ass, that's all. She led me one hell of a chase, too, what with her getting off and on subways, streetcars and buses, but I finally made it.”

“How did you know they hadn't caught me?”

“I was on the street the night you tried to save B.A. I wanted to get some more heroin out of the apartment before you had your confession. I noticed some guys hanging around, so I swung around the long way. That's when I saw you hijack the car. Pretty neat trick, Nephew, pretty neat indeed.”

“They picked up Janis,” Rone told him.

“How the hell did they find out?” Ward asked without much concern.

“Your friend Potkin,” Rone announced coldly. “I saw him drive by with Grodin. If you'd done what I suggested all of this might have been avoided.”

“Guess you're right, but the two of us are awfully rich right now. Those three bodies were worth almost four hundred thousand.”

“How the hell can you talk about money?”

“That's what we were in it for,” Ward said innocently.

“As I remember we got half on account and half on delivery.”

“Don't worry, we'll deliver,” Ward said.