Florian used up two towels, then folded a small towel for a makeshift bandage, but blood was still seeping through. He felt panicky and tried to remember Yelena’s precise instructions. A glance at his watch told him that he had wasted half an hour. He would never be able to follow the plan to the letter now.
He brought in a heavy tarpaulin sack from the kitchen and struggled to stuff the dead man, the tweed jacket and the rest of the leftover clothes inside it. He then tried to shift the bag, but it was too heavy. He felt weak. It might have been due to the shock or the loss of blood. He knew he would not be able to lift the sack. So he dragged it along, through the door, bumping it down stair by stair. He opened the door of the car, which he had parked, luckily, right at the foot of the stairs in the courtyard.
In the twilight, an old woman was approaching. She noticed Florian’s blood-soaked bandage. The horror in her eyes reminded him of the Scotsman, and he was on the verge of pulling his gun and shooting her. But instinct compelled her to look elsewhere fast. She scurried away, pretending not to have seen anything. Florian continued his battle with the heavy sack. He pulled and kicked and shoved it into the car at last. His feet were trembling from the effort. Heavy drops of blood were thudding on the door handle, the ground, the steering wheel as he made his way to the driver’s seat.
It was 4:50. The tumor of panic grew and grew in his throat. Rust must be at the airport, about to join the line confronting the passport checkers. By now, Florian was supposed to have finished dumping his unconscious victim. Unconscious, not dead. And according to the timetable, he should have been well on his way back to the apartment, where things would have to be rearranged. Only rearranged, as planned, not cleaned of monstrous bloodstains. But time was running out. Florian knew he would have to improvise, and that had never been his strong point. It worried him.
He drove along the canal, away from the Nevsky, and stopped at a park, adjoining a steeply humped bridge. A couple of schoolgirls were crossing the canal. They stopped to giggle. Their full thighs sticking out of the short skirts of their uniform caught Florian’s eyes. It’s the wrong time, he reprimanded himself, but the flesh held his attention. Another two minutes had been wasted. At last they moved on. He dragged the sack out of the car and pushed it off the embankment. It fell onto the narrow ledge of concrete at water level. He jumped after it and pulled it under the foot of the bridge. Again he had to wait for people to pass. Blood was oozing from the sack and also through the bandage on his nose. He heard the engine of a small boat. The sound was approaching. Could be police. He did not feel like giving them long explanations. He crawled under the bridge and lay down on the sack. He would have sworn that the Scotsman was still squirming under his weight. The boat stopped, with its engine idling, somewhere beyond the bend of the canal.
*
The line in the airport was snaking slowly toward the passport controller’s cubicle. Rust tried to look bored. He had Mac’s passport in his hand and felt compelled to open and study it just once more. He resisted the urge despite his overbearing conviction that he would not remember even the name correctly if asked.
The guard took his passport without looking at him. The noise of papers shifted and flicked. Rust could not see what the guard was doing. What if the photograph and copy of Mac’s visa were not there? Excuse me, sir, will you step aside for a moment, please? No, he would not say sir. He might not say please either. Facing downward, the guard looked left, right, left again. He was comparing things. A glance up at Rust. Just as Yelena had predicted. He was looking for features of similarity. The passport appeared in the narrow gap under the window. A half-grunt — and Rust was to move on. Easy.
He had thirty-four long minutes to kill before he would have to enter the duty-free Beryozka shop and buy a random selection of souvenirs. Pity I can’t call my father and say at least goodbye, he thought as he passed a bank of public telephones. Out of order — out of order — out of order. Probably they had never even been connected. They were there only to look good. Because airports were supposed to have public telephones. Potemkin’s not dead yet, he concluded and walked over to the bar.
“A brandy, please.”
“No brandy.” The barman gave him an elaborate, leather-bound menu card.
Rust scanned the long list. “It says brandy — here.”
“No brandy.” The barman shrugged his shoulders. “No brandy, no whiskey, no wine. Nothing. Only beer today. Export beer.”
“I’ll have a beer then.”
The barman poured it from a bottle which had already been opened. The liquid failed to fill the glass. The man opened another bottle and topped it up. “Here you are, sir. Anything else?”
Rust forked out $3 and waited for his fifty cents change.
“Sorry. No American money.” The barman offered him a choice of Russian, East German, Danish and various African currencies. Rust did not want to argue. He noticed a man in a blue raincoat watching the scene at the bar. Rust pretended to pay no attention to him as he pocketed a few strange coins and walked away. The man was still keeping his eyes on the barman, his thumb and forefinger smoothing away his thick short mustache incessantly.
*
The dead Scotsman seemed to refuse to get out of the tarpaulin sack. Florian had to fight him every inch of the way. The effort made his nose bleed faster again. He tore a strip off Rust’s shirt for a second bandage, but it kept slipping off until he tied it at the back of his head, covering the entire lower half of his face bandit-style. He remembered the list of his duties and checked Rust’s papers in Mac’s pockets. Yes, everything was there. With a bit of luck, the body under the bridge would not be found for at least a couple of hours. That would give Rust plenty of time to get away.
Florian stood up, and his nose started throbbing. In blind fury, he kicked the corpse and it slipped into the water. Fuming and swearing, Florian grabbed it by the ankle to pull it back, but the idling engine began to purr harder somewhere out of sight. The boat might appear in the bend within seconds. He had to let the damned Scotsman float away. The boat was approaching now. Inevitably, it would pass the corpse. Florian climbed up the embankment, ran to the car and tried to force a racing start out of the old workhorse.
At 5:27, the small motorboat hit something in the water. The two workmen on board peered in horror at the corpse. Using a hook, they pulled it to the concrete ledge and satisfied themselves that yes, it was a corpse. For five minutes they argued what they should do. If they reported their find to the militia, it would be known that they had left their job, repairing the landing stage farther up the canal, too early. They might also be accused of having something to do with the death of the man. No, it was much safer to wash the blood off their hands and return to their worksite as fast as possible. If they met someone on their way, they would report the body; if not, they would just forget about it.
At 5:45, Florian drove into the courtyard. The place was deserted, but instinct warned him that somehow it was too quiet. I’m too jittery, that’s all, he reassured himself. He parked the car again at the foot of the stairs. He turned off the engine, but silence did not follow. A car was coming through the arch of the gate. It stopped. Something moved at the far end of the yard, behind the fountain. He recognized the old woman who had seen him on his way out with the blood-soaked bandage. He should have shot her, he knew. Now it was too late. She stood there, trembling, and nodding toward his car. Two militiamen appeared behind her. Florian started the engine and threw the lever into reverse, but remembered that the gate was blocked by that other car, from which now the two plainclothes-men emerged.
Florian stuffed four fingers in his mouth and began to chew eagerly. He had never been blessed by vivid imagination. But he had the talent for recalling details. Right now, his instructions from Yelena flashed through his mind. And the sight of that corpse in the canal. And the state of the apartment above. And all the information he would give away if he was questioned. Too bad. He coul
d do nothing about that. Even Yelena would understand. She would forgive him. But then he remembered all the interrogations he had conducted or witnessed. The smells and the sounds and the eyes. And the toenails. And the teeth. He pulled out his gun. The militiamen saw it and dived for cover. Florian screwed the barrel into the soft underside of his jaw and pulled the trigger. The explosion spattered the inside of the car with blood, brain and fragments of skull.
The militiamen were glad that their plainclothes colleagues were at the scene. They could leave it to them to handle the body, search in vain for any documents in the pockets and examine the weapon. And it was the gun that startled them most. A 7.15 Tokarev. The heavy service revolver. Its registration number could be traced, no doubt, but it might raise rather than answer questions. Except that the gun introduced a cheerful prospect, too. For now the case would have to be reported to the KGB right away, and the police could take the more comfortable back seat.
*
At 5:55 precisely, forty-five minutes before takeoff, Rust walked into the airport Beryozka shop. He picked up some lacquered cups, pretended to ponder over the price, then replaced them on the shelf. The cashier’s desk at the exit came into his view. Three uniformed girls were on duty there. One checked the passenger’s purchase, another took the money, and the third put the items in a plastic bag which she sealed with metal stitches. The third girl looked up. It was Yelena. For a second, her eyes held his, then she turned to her next customer.
Rust took an amber necklace, an art book about the Hermitage, two bottles of pepper vodka, some souvenir matches and a box of the best cigars, which he recognized as third-rate Cubans. He then joined the waiting line at the exit. The girl checking his selection dictated the prices to the cashier, then handed each item to Yelena, who slipped them into a plastic bag. He paid, and while he waited for his change, he tried to catch Yelena’s eyes, but she was too busy sealing the bag. Again he noticed the man who kept fingering his thick mustache, standing now just outside the glass panel behind the cashier. Yelena held out the bag, Rust reached for it, and their hands touched.
“It’s the thirteenth dot on page thirty-one,” she whispered and smiled as if wishing him a safe journey while the cash register opened with a clank.
Rust walked out of the shop and, feeling the man’s eyes on his back, sat down on a bench, hoping that he appeared sufficiently bored. Although Mac’s briefcase was only half full, he decided not to squeeze the plastic bag into it. Better to carry it in full sight of everybody. Yelena had warned. He put the bag next to him on the bench and felt its contents while doing so. Yes, there was a box in it, containing chocolates, presumably, and another small package he had not selected. Must be a pocket dictionary. After a couple of minutes, he looked around, checked his watch as if contemplating how much time he had, then strolled lazily across the room toward the bathrooms. He saw that the man in the raincoat was following him.
*
The canal police found the documents in the dead man’s pocket. Helm Rust. From Florida. It rang alarm bells. An American corpse was not just any ordinary corpse. There was a whole set of precisely laid-down procedures to follow, and the officer knew there must be no mistakes. So he made some notes before calling the station. The body had been seen floating in the canal at approximately 17:35 P.M. by two printers on their way to work; police had reached the scene at 17:47; the body had been pulled out of the water at 17:51; the identity of the victim had been ascertained at 17:53 — details were now ready for reporting to the station. The officer in charge walked back to his boat to radio headquarters. He told the desk sergeant to call the KGB Tourist Department right away. It would show that he was fully familiar with the procedures. He was told to stand by and wait for instructions.
The two printers were anxious to move on, because if they were late for their night shift they would be penalized heavily. But the officer was in no hurry. Although he had taken their names and addresses, and had checked and double-checked their identities, it was safer to have witnesses on hand. For who knows? These two might have tried to rob the American and called the police when something went wrong, causing them to panic.
At 17:56, the boat radio came to life. It was a call from the Leningrad KGB directly. The orders were simple: hold witnesses, hold everything, keep passersby away, don’t touch the body — wait for a KGB unit already on its way.
*
“Excuse me, please.” The man in the raincoat struggled with the English word. “You … English?”
Rust almost protested that he was American, but checked his instinct and nodded. “Yeah. Sort of. Scottish, in fact.” He hoped that this would explain his accent, too.
The man produced an identity card. “Captain Barch, Economic Crimes Department.” He bowed stiffly. “Can I see your papers, please?”
“Of course.” Rust gave him the passport. “Do you mind if I … ” He gestured toward the urinals.
“Please, please.” He stood close to Rust, studied the passport, page by page, then returned to the photograph. “Tooth pain, Mr. McGregor?”
“Mm.” Rust covered his swollen face, then turned to wash his hands.
“You tourist in USSR?”
“No, I was working here, me lad.” He was glad that only this captain was there to hear his poor imitation of an accent. “Working here, understand? I’ve brought you a few good milking machines.”
“Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr. McGregor. Now will you help me, please?”
“Of course. What can I do?”
Above their heads, a speaker began to emit some noise. It was the distorted voice of a woman. Although most of the words came through garbled, the message was clear: Rust’s flight was being called. But it was in Russian. And he had to be careful not to react: Barch might know that McGregor did not speak the language.
“Are you on the London flight, please?”
“Yes, why?”
The noise now began to resemble English, calling the flight to London via Helsinki and Copenhagen.
“I may have to ask you to … to, how shall I say? Not to fly away? We have the best doctors for tooth pain.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I … we … we investigate economic theft, yes? And I think people at the bar and in the shop theft things from the nation.”
“And how can I help you with that?”
“Can I please look at your bag? The things you’ve bought in the shop?”
“Why not? But be quick, because I don’t want to miss the flight.” He handed over the plastic bag. Yelena would not be foolish enough to put Arthur Foster’s American passport or other naked documents in the bag, and the microdot would be invisible.
While the captain began to open the stitches, Rust stepped back a little. In the limited space to maneuver, he would have to hit the man hard the first moment of apparent trouble. His back touched the door.
The captain emptied the bag, placing all its contents on the floor. Two bottles of pepper vodka, an amber necklace, a box of cigars, a book on the Hermitage, a box of chocolates, a slim set of souvenir matches, and a multilingual restaurant dictionary. He wagged his finger triumphantly. “You see? They thief! I told you.”
“But it’s mine. I didn’t steal anything.”
“No? Here’s the list from the machine. Look — you paid for five things and you have here seven things. Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they added them up. I mean, the two bottles as one item and the two boxes as just one other item.”
“Item? Maybe, maybe. But perhaps they just took it and gave it to you. As a present? Or you pay them under counter for it? Ugh? Maybe?”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I picked these things, they put them in the bag, and I paid what the bill showed. If they made a wee mistake, it’s your problem. If they’re thieves, it’s still your problem. But I must go now. Your government would not be pleased to hear that you held me up w
ith groundless accusations. I’m a distinguished visitor. They asked me to come back and bring more milking machines.”
The captain began to sweat. He obviously knew the risk. But he also knew that after weeks and weeks of patient watching, he had at last cracked the system, and that he was now holding both the evidence and a key witness if not a culprit. He replaced the bottles and souvenirs in the plastic bag. “How much did you pay for all this, Mr. McGregor?”
“Have a look. It’s on the bill.”
“How much?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember?” Captain Barch felt like jumping with joy. The suspect had said he could not remember the price! Who on earth had ever heard of anyone who forgot how much he had paid for such gifts and souvenirs of considerable scarcity value? “You must wait in here, Mr. McGregor.”
“Why?”
“I must call a colleague. We must take a — what do you call it?”
“Statement?”
“Yes, statement. Thank you. Please, stand over there.” Rust did not move from the door. “But I’ll miss my flight.”
“We hope that will not be necessary. Because we have the proof!” He raised the plastic bag. “It’s here!”
By now Rust knew that it was only a matter of time, that he would have to run or fight for it. But he couldn’t run with the captain holding the bag and chasing him. “I shall report your behavior to your government.” Rust chose to look worried and defenceless. “I shall have to tell them that you’ve made some impertinent and groundless accusations.” It worked. He could tell. It was the captain’s turn to look more and more worried.
In the Company of Spies Page 19