The Kremlin Letter (32 page)

“I doubt it. Had to move heaven and Texas just to wrangle the paper itself.” He stopped abruptly and grabbed Rone by the arm. “It's a funny thing,” he began softly, “but suddenly I miss the others. I wish to Christ they were alive right now.”

“You'd have to split the money,” Rone reminded him coldly.

“The money be damned. They were a good lot. They should be in on this.”

“Sentiment doesn't become you.”

“Well I am sorry and I ain't ashamed to admit it. Especially 'bout that little girl of yours.”

“Can't you keep that mouth of yours shut?”

“Sure thing.”

They were at a corner two blocks from the laboratory when Ward stopped. “You go on ahead and start packing us up. Just take enough to fill one grip. Leave everything else there.”

“And where are you going?”

“To pick up the goods.”

“The letter?”

“Yep. I'd ask you along, but my friend is a little jittery. I'll be back in fifteen minutes—then we split from Moscow.” He slapped Rone on the back and started off down the side street.

Rone watched him diminish into the shadows. Ward walked with a rolling gait. As the figure grew smaller Rone recognized it. It was the same hunched form he had seen run across the mall and up the church steps in Gethsemane; the same gray figure that had searched for the letter at the base of the statue in Nikolayev Square. Ward was the man with the flashlight.

37

Confrontations

Rone hurried through the darkened laboratory, rushed into the bedroom at the back, flicked on the light and went to the auxiliary receiving set. He snapped on the power and turned up the volume. Static crackled. He checked the tubes and wiring. They were operational. He traced the aerial up the wall to the small cut in the ceiling. It was loose. Rone gave a slight pull. The wire fell into his hands. The ends had not been frayed. The line had never been attached. The set could not have picked up the conversations in Kosnov's bedroom or anywhere else. There was only one place they could have been overheard.

Rone now knew that Ward had been in Potkin's apartment after the raid. It was he who had listened to Erika's make-believe conversation with the colonel informing him of still another Polakov contact. It was Ward who had gone to the statue to find the message, and it was Ward who had read the word “Wimpleton.” He had never bothered to follow Erika to the apartment, because he knew where Rone was all the time. The only reason he came was to check on the handwriting. Ward had insisted that Rone leave a note for Erika under the pretext they might need her in the future. Once he had seen both notes had been written by Rone he blithely announced that he knew Rone was behind the stunt because he overheard it on the auxiliary receiver. He took Rone back to the laboratory to prove it.

Rone opened the closet and reached up on the top shelf. The Luger was gone. He went to the desk and reached into the cubbyhole. There was no money. Ward would be back in ten minutes. Rone quickly threw a change of clothes into the grip, snapped off the light and started out through the laboratory. He reached the street door and turned the knob. It was locked. He jiggled it and searched through his pocket for a key.

“You seem in a hurry,” said a voice in the darkness.

Rone wheeled around as the lights snapped on. A man was on each of his arms. They wrenched them behind him and snapped his wrists into handcuffs. They returned to the center of the room. They fit the description Erika had given him of Kosnov's bodyguards. The tall blond one boosted himself onto the lab table and sat there with his legs swinging. The second, the bald Eurasian with the jet-black mustache and goatee, wore a square blue skullcap with elaborate white and red embroidery. He leaned cross-armed against the wall.

Colonel Kosnov stood stiffly in the middle of the room. Beside him sat a gaunt, nervous man.

“That's him,” he told Kosnov, raising a limpwristed arm in Rone's direction. “He was on the street today with your wife. He forced her into a car.”

“You are sure?” Kosnov asked.

“That is him.”

Kosnov motioned and the Eurasian led the man from the room. The colonel remained rigid as he studied Rone. “So this is Yorgi? How long have you known my wife?” The colonel slowly slipped on the blood-stained leather gloves.

“Your wife?” answered Rone. “I have no idea who you are let alone your wife. What is all this about? What right do you have to do this to me?”

Kosnov looked down into his gloved hands and opened and closed his fists. “How long has it been going on?”

“What are you talking about? Why are you here?”

“Had she told you it was over?” Kosnov was walking slowly toward him, still staring into his hands. “Had she taunted you? Debased you?” He stopped in front of Rone and locked his arms behind his back. He jutted out his chin, but still he could not look up. “Did she force you to grovel?”

Before Rone could answer the fist smashed into his stomach. He dropped to his knees gasping for air as the boot crashed into the side of his face.

“It doesn't really matter,” said Kosnov, stepping back. “She had a way of destruction about her. If you hadn't done it I suppose someone else would have—in the end it might have been me.”

The colonel knelt down and jerked Rone's head up by the hair. He spoke gently. “You see, my unfortunate friend, ultimately we all must play the dupe. Roles are cast and sides are chosen, masks and mantles donned, and logic abandoned. Emotion prevails. You are the lover; I the cuckold. You the assassin and I the avenger. I must hate and destroy you. Nothing will give me greater satisfaction.”

The boot drove into Rone's face again, spinning him over on the floor. The blond bodyguard jumped down and lifted Rone to his feet. He motioned to Kosnov to look above the lab table. A small overhead crane hung from an iron rail on the ceiling. Kosnov nodded his approval.

The two bodyguards lifted Rone onto the table face down. He could hear the steel wire lower above him. He felt the hook lodge under his handcuffs. Rone tensed his arms and shoulders as the crane began to lift him upward. He felt his body rise in space and slowly revolve. He was lowered into a sitting position. The line was kept too taut for him to sit upright. He remained leaning forward.

“It's a shame you didn't have this little gadget at the apartment,” said Kosnov. “Shall we continue?”

A fist crashed into his face, splitting his nose and tearing his gums. The force of the blow snapped his head into the metal chain at his back. He could feel blood trickling down his neck and under his collar.

Another blow jabbed into his cheek and another into his jaw. He batted his eyes to keep them in focus. The pain of the punches and the ache of his suspended shoulder muscles was starting to mount. He prayed for unconsciousness.

“Little by little I will mangle your body until it looks like hers did. I will not leave a bone unbroken—not one.”

Kosnov cocked his arm back and shot it forward into Rone's Adam's apple. He felt the air rush out of him again and he began to suffocate. Nausea rose, his eyes and chest burned, tears streaked down his face as a fist jolted into his lips and teeth. A moment later Kosnov's knuckles slammed into his right eye. Rone fought for breath. He felt his eye swell shut. He was wet with perspiration and blood. His body burned with pain.

A stinging ache tore through his ribs and surged into his fingers and toes.

“Lower him,” shouted Kosnov. “Lower him so we can kick his insides out through his ears.”

Rone hardly felt falling on the floor or Kosnov's foot thundering into his stomach. Consciousness was slipping. He wondered why it took so long. He lay on his side, his head resting on the floor. He could see Kosnov's feet only inches away. He saw the right foot move back. He knew it would catch him full in the mouth.

He tried to scream, but nothing came. The foot shot toward him. He jerked his head; it grazed by. Once again he tried to talk, to beg, to motion. He couldn't. He knew that he could not take much more. He realized that soon he would be dying. He cursed his endurance, his stamina. What did it take to knock him into senselessness? Why must he witness his own execution?

The heel stomped down on the side of his face. He heard something crack or shatter, but he felt nothing. This was the first sign, the numbness, the painlessness was beginning to take hold—or was it death? With his one open eye Rone could see the colonel's foot swing back again, farther than before. He was measuring, aiming. This might do it, Rone thought to himself. Then he heard the voice.

“I think that's just about all the exercise you need, Colonel.” Kosnov spun around. The tall blond man slid off the table to his feet and grabbed for his gun. Rone strained his head backward and squinted through his bloodied eye. Ward was walking slowly toward them with his arms at his side.

“I don't know what the world is coming to. I stroll down the street for a breath of air and you fellows come running in here and beat my roomie half to death.”

“Stay where you are,” warned Kosnov.

“Now why don't you fellows just apologize, help my friend to his feet and get your asses out of here?” said Ward without stopping.

Kosnov stepped back and drew his automatic. He fired twice. Ward continued walking. He fired again. Ward shook his head and smiled. The colonel looked down at his gun as a shot rang out behind him. Rone brought his head forward. The blond bodyguard slumped forward dead. He looked over to the expressionless Eurasian. Slight traces of smoke rose from the pistol in his hand.

Kosnov took another step backward. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“An old fan of yours. A very old fan.”

Kosnov raced to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it and shouted for his men. No one answered. He shouted again.

“Won't do any good, Colonel. I sent them all home.”

“Grodin? Grodin is behind this, isn't he?” Kosnov demanded venomously.

“This is just between you and me.”

“Why?”

Rone had slowly eased himself into a sitting position. He was dizzy and weak. He had to squint to see. The numbness was leaving. Spasms of pain were mounting. He saw the colonel staring quizzically at Ward.

“I know you, don't I?” he said almost pleasantly.

“Our paths might have crossed,” answered Ward.

“I would assume there is no way of reaching an agreement with you?” Kosnov asked, gaining more composure.

“Not a chance.”

Kosnov nodded to himself. “You went to great lengths. Was it necessary to involve the girl?”

“You are a hard man to get alone. You're too cautious. I needed you a little bit off balance.”

“The rape and murder of a man's wife often has just that effect.”

“I was hoping it would.”

The colonel relaxed. He threw away his gun and looked down at Rone and the dead bodyguard. “And which one of these candidates will be the lover I fought to the death?”

“Take your pick.”

“Who did the clothes in the apartment belong to?”

“The dead one,” answered Ward.

“Then ultimately I am to be assassinated with his gun?”

“Ultimately,” Ward agreed, “but that might be a while in coming. You see, Colonel, you and I have a lot of grievances to talk over, a lot of old corpses to dig up and chat about. We had a lot of mutual friends—once. I don't suppose you remember Vedder?”

“The Pole?”

“That's one of them. Then there was Gustav Zeiff, and Marcel Mara. Hallaren, the British agent you interviewed. It was two weeks for him, wasn't it?”

Kosnov frowned and pinched his lips between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and listened.

“It's an endless list, Colonel old buddy. Da Silva, Gottlieb, Korda, Julian and of course your latest piece of handiwork, Polakov.”

“I know you from somewhere.”

Ward's face tightened into a scowl. He picked up the blond bodyguard's gun. “I know everything you did to every one of those men. I've tried to imagine the pain, the torment, you put each one through. If it is possible for one man to make retribution for the misery of many it will happen now.”

Ward fired. Kosnov's left knee shattered back under him and he plummeted forward onto the floor.

“That's how you began with Korda, if I'm not mistaken,” said Ward.

Rone's head was spinning. His body throbbed and burned. His pain was intolerable. His breath came hard. He tried to clutch to consciousness. He tried to see. He tried to listen. Ward was still visible to him. He stood above the writhing form of Kosnov.

“Remember Zeiff?” he heard Ward say. “Remember how you forced acid down his throat? Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him scream. You like to make people scream, Colonel. Well, I've got a little something for you.”

Rone slipped sideways to the floor. The pain and throbbing seemed to disappear. He had the feeling of coolness, of peace, of rest. He could faintly remember the sensation of being lifted by his shoulder and legs. He thought he remembered Kosnov crying, “No, no, it isn't! It can't be!” He half knew he was being taken down a flight of stairs. Then he heard the scream. He remembered that. It was Kosnov's scream. Even in his stupor it was the most terrifying sound he had ever heard.

38

Sanctuary

Rone was lying in the back seat of the car when he regained consciousness. One eye was swollen shut. Through the other he could see the back of a bald head and skullcap—the driver. The car swerved. Rone fell forward onto the body of Kosnov. Little was left of the face. The Eurasian did not turn around as Rone pushed himself back onto the seat. He tried to muster his strength. He opened and closed his hands. They were weak. His arms felt limp.

He reached down and searched Kosnov's clothes. He jerked his hand back as the. Eurasian turned and glanced at him.