I turn around, getting ready to run for my life, and I find a sharp-dressed man with a gun pointed at my face. I recognize him as one of the KGB goons I tangled with at Nessie’s. The one I assumed to be the leader. The same lug Trixie was chatting up, outside the drug store, on the night of the festival. The one Morris called Alexi Krashnov, I think.
My hands go up into the air.
The brim of his fedora is tipped low, shielding his eyes from the glare of the flashlight. His cigarette hangs limp from one corner of his grinning mouth, and it’s enough to let me know what’s he thinking.
He’s pleased with himself.
“I figured it would be only a matter of time before you came here,” Alexi says with that harsh Russian accent of his. “So I wait. And wait. My comrades…they say I’m crazy for staking this place out, but I knew you’d come. My father always taught me, while hunting bear, all you need is little honey and great deal of patience.” He waves the barrel of the gun in a circle. “Turn around.”
I can still hear the car engine speeding down the lane. It won’t be long before whoever it is gets here.
“Why? So you can shoot me in the back?”
He laughs. “I have no need to shoot you in the back, Captain. I can just as easily do it between your eyes.”
There’s a mental flash of Angelique lying dead on her bamboo floor, a round hole perfectly placed in the center of her forehead.
“So, it was you…”
I feel my blood begin to boil, but he interrupts before I can finish my accusation.
“I said, turn around.” He removes his cigarette from his lips with his free hand and nods his head in the direction of the approaching car. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
So the Ruskie doesn’t want to get caught here either. That’s interesting.
With no recourse, I do as he says and turn my back to him. He steps up close behind me, reaches his hand around, slipping into the interior of my jacket and pulling my .45 from its shoulder holster.
“There,” he says, stepping back again. “I just wanted to relieve you of your weapon.”
I obey, forcing my face to remain as neutral as possible. He obviously doesn’t know about the Russian-issued revolver I’ve scored from Lamont’s desk drawer. I aim to keep it that way for as long as possible.
“Now what?”
We hear car tires crunch to a stop along the gravel drive out by the fence’s gate. He nods to the Vault. “Get in,” he says. “Take a seat.”
I shudder as memories of the blood-crusted chair, and the torture that’s taken place there, spring to mind.
“And for God’s sake, turn off that light and be quiet.”
The man’s accent slips with that last comment. It sounds more Brooklyn than Russian.
“Go!” He cocks the hammer of his gun back to let me know he means business.
Once again, I comply, backing into the old storage room without a word. I can only watch as the man shuts the door on me. I can hear him just outside, fumbling with something metal, then the click of a lock being placed on the door’s latch.
Has Alexi replaced the padlock I broke? But why? Why not just turn me over to the police? They all seem to be in on it anyway.
A moment later, the alarm is shut down and the howling dogs calm down. I press my ear against the Vault’s door and hear the garage doors rumble open before several people storm inside. Shouts. Angry voices. Alexi’s thick accent has returned, as he’s questioned by someone. The voices get louder as they draw closer to the Vault. I hear keys in the padlock and my blood goes cold.
I pull the Nagant from my waistband and point it at the door. The gun has seven 7.62 millimeter rounds. Should be more than enough to take care of everyone outside. If my aim isn’t as lousy as it normally is. But even if it is, I’ll at least take a few of them out before I’m mowed down myself. It’s a crappy excuse for a consolation prize, but I’ll take it. Just a couple fewer Reds the world will have to deal with in the long run.
A fair trade, I think.
But whoever’s trying to open the door suddenly stops. I hear the key sliding out of the lock and the men continue their heated debate. Among the people out there, I can easily make out Alexi’s voice and another Russian. I think I can just make out Monday’s weaselly voice among the mix, as well as Governor Lagrange and Chief Armad.
It seems like the gang’s all here. So the big question is why they’re not all beating down the door to turn the screws to me, the same way they did the last tenant in this butcher shop.
Did Alexi’s accent really change? Or was that my imagination?
It’s a fair question. My heart is racing so fast, the blood is pounding in my ears, making sounds all cloudy—if that makes any sense. In the excitement, I could have easily just been hearing things. But the KGB man sure sounded like a New Yorker for a split second. Besides, how many communists would refer to God in such a cavalier manner? They’re state-mandated atheists, for crying out loud.
The men outside are still arguing, but their voices are drawing farther away. They’re moving back to the front of the warehouse now. I let out the breath I was unaware I was holding, but I’m careful not to relax too much. This ain’t over. Besides, even if the Governor, the Chief, and Monday beat tracks, that still leaves Alexi and his comrades to contend with.
I hear the garage door close, and I hold my breath again, listening for movement. No one speaks. No footsteps echo past the door. For a moment, I think I’m finally alone. Then, a key clinks into the padlock, and I hear it pop open. I step to the side of the door, keeping myself out of view, and I ready the gun I still have clutched in my hand.
The door creaks open, and the light of a flashlight sweeps into the vault.
“All right, Thacker,” Alexi says. “You can come out now.”
Keeping quiet, I don’t move an inch.
“Thacker?”
Still nothing.
A hand holding a gun very similar to my own sweeps through the door and points in my general direction. I duck down, careful not to make a sound.
“I know you’re in here. There’s no way you could get out.”
He steps through the door, only to find my gun pointed at his head.
“Hiya, Red,” I say, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “You can lower your gun now.”
“How did…” He lowers his weapon, then he nods in understanding. “So, you found Mr. Kingston’s… How do you Americans say it? His piece? His rod?”
“You’d only say that if your name was Edward G. Robinson.” I stand up to face him. “But then, you’d know that, given that you’re American yourself.”
He makes a good show of acting surprised by my accusation, but I see right through it.
“Don’t even try,” I say, taking a step away from him for a better vantage point of the warehouse behind him. Just as I thought. No one else is in the building. “What are you? CIA? FBI?” I give his gun a nod. “Oh, and you can drop that piece now. You’re not going to get the chance to use it anytime soon.”
His gun clatters to the floor.
“I do not know what you…” He starts to deny it, but I shake my head.
“Don’t even try to lie.” I gesture with my gun, silently ordering him to back out of the Vault’s door. He does so, and I follow him into the warehouse area. “You’re good. I’ll give you that. Your accent is nearly flawless.” I keep directing him backward with the barrel of my gun. “Except when you get a little excited. Then, you slip back to your Brooklyn roots.” I pause. “Let me guess, your folks were Russian immigrants. You grew up hearing and speaking the language.”
He stares at me for a long moment, as if trying to figure out how to best handle my interrogation, then finally, he just shrugs in resignation.
“You got me,” he says, completely dropping the fake accent. “And I work for the FBI. On direct orders from Director Hoover.”
His admission floors me. Anyone who’s got old J. Edgar’s ear is someone to take
very seriously.
“Did you get rid of everyone?” I ask out of the blue. “Are they coming back?”
He shakes his head. “They won’t be coming back tonight. I told them I’d accidentally set off the alarm while doing surveillance for you. They weren’t happy about it, but they believed me. Left me here to keep watch until dawn.”
Satisfied with his answer, I nod over to the desks. “Well, then, how about you and I taking a load off and having ourselves a little chat, shall we?”
16
“What I’m about to tell you can’t go any further than this building,” the G-Man says.
I’ve just realized I don’t know his real name, and I highly doubt I ever will. I nod my understanding.
“Sure,” I say. “All I’m interested in is finding a way to clear my name.”
“That, my friend, might be more difficult to do than you think.” He sits back in the office chair. I allow him to light up a cigarette, and he takes a long pull from it before continuing. “Even I don’t know who killed Angelique Lagrange.”
That catches me by surprise.
“You mean, you guys didn’t do it? I’ve been going on the notion than the KGB was behind the murder all this time.”
He shakes his head. “Neither Vladimir nor I had anything to do with it,” he says, exhaling a stream of smoke through his nostrils. “But there are other KGB agents here on the island that could have done it.”
“Like who?”
“I’m not sure. That’s what I’m here to find out.”
I lean back in my chair and give him a good look over. The man is perfectly nondescript. Average height. Average build. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark suit with a white hat. Perfect look for a spy, but I’m not sure I’m buying his story.
“Okay, maybe you need to start from the beginning. What’s your connection to all this? How’d you get involved?”
“That’s classified. I’m not authorized to share that with you.”
“I’m the guy with the gun.” The barrel is pointed directly at his gut. “Make an exception. With everything going on with me right now, I’m not in much of a mood for the cloak and dagger routine.”
He grinds his cigarette butt in the ashtray on his desk and exhales up into the air. “Okay, but by telling you all this, you’re agreeing to be part of the operation. All of it. ’Til the end.”
“In my current predicament, I’m not sure the ‘end’ is all that far away. Go for it.”
“Your funeral,” he says, lighting up another smoke. “It started with the arrest of the real Alexi Krashnov at the Washington National Airport a year and a half ago. We had word he’d come to the U.S. planning on meeting with some Soviet sympathizers to help organize a series of revolutions in the Caribbean islands. We busted him before he even made it out the doors. And, after a few weeks of some of Hoover’s hospitality, he decided to open up and share everything we wanted to know.”
I shudder, considering J. Edgar’s warm and friendly disposition. I kind of feel sorry for the KGB mook.
“Once we had key intel and learned that none of his Western contacts had ever seen Alexi’s face, Director Hoover reached out to me and asked me to assume his identity and proceed with the real Alexi’s itinerary as planned. Along the way, I met up with several sleeper agents living inside the United States, and eventually I made my way to Cuba, where I was assigned to work with Vladimir Petrovic and Boris Usilov, who you met at the bar the other night.”
“And no one suspected you of being an American spy?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Everything was going great until Morris Grant showed up in Cuba. We were supposed to receive correspondence from our contact here on St. Noel. A list of highly interested individuals who live in the Caribbean, who were open to a communist revolution. It was the holy grail for me. The whole reason I was sent on my mission to begin with. If I could get my hands on that list, we could shut down these revolts before they even got started.”
I nod, understanding what happened next. “But Morris intercepted the correspondence before you guys did.”
“Exactly.”
“So what was the problem? Morris is a US spy. He would have gotten the list to the right people. From my understanding, he only ended up sending it here to St. Noel when he got spooked by you and your pals.”
The G-Man sighs. “This is going to sound petty,” he says. “But the truth is, the FBI and CIA don’t exactly trust each other. And I personally don’t trust Morris Grant.”
“You know him?”
“A little. We crossed paths a few times, especially during the war. But despite the FBI’s feelings about the CIA, and my personal feelings about your friend, the higher ups with the KGB were more concerned than any of us. They ordered us to track the list down and the agent who had stolen it. I had no choice if I wanted to keep my cover intact.”
“Okay. So Morris finds a way off Cuba, but not before somehow getting the list to the port in Havana and arranging for me to smuggle it back here.” I shake my head, confused. “I don’t get it. Why not just ship it the same way to the U.S.? Why didn’t he just send it to Miami, where his bosses could just pick it up at the harbor? Why smuggle it back into the Caribbean?”
“That’s what’s had me stumped for a while now, too,” he says. “Makes no sense to me at all.”
I shrug that particular mystery off and continue. “Morris makes his way here, and you follow him a few days later, right?”
“At first, we had no idea where he’d gone. Then we got word from an agent on St. Noel that he’d been spotted.”
“Which agent? Kingston?”
He shakes his head. “No. Kingston apparently is pretty low level. Stationed here to keep tabs on the comings and goings of people here. I doubt it was him, though he might have notified his superior on the island about Morris’s arrival. He would have been in a perfect position to recognize him once he came ashore.”
So Lamont Kingston isn’t the only resident Russian spy on St. Noel?
I can’t wrap my head around it. It’s such a tiny island with a very small population. It’s difficult to imagine anybody being in league with the Reds. Then again, I’m still not sure I trust my new comrade. For all I know, this whole thing could be an elaborate scheme to learn if I have the list or not.
“So, who’s the head honcho on the island?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who’s in charge? I’m assuming it’s Governor Lagrange.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you fellas met with him the moment you came to the island. Because he seems to be all over this. Even ensured my cargo was impounded so it could be searched for the list.”
Alexi shakes his head. “You’d be wrong. We didn’t meet with Lagrange when we first arrived. I did. Privately.”
“I’m not sure I see the distinction.”
“Governor Lagrange is extremely anti-communist,” he explains. “He has sent numerous letters to the French government asking for assistance in regards to rumors he’s been hearing in the region. He’s been fighting a one-man war against the communists for the past seven years, in fact.”
“Anton Lagrange? Are you sure you’re not confusing him with his brother?”
The G-man smiles. “I’m certain. That’s why I went to meet with him. Besides you, he’s the only one on the island who knows my true purpose here. He’s been helping me every step of the way. And yes, he’s responsible for confiscating your contraband, but that was on my request.”
“And the torture chamber in there? Who’d you guys beat to a bloody pulp to find out where the list is?”
“That wasn’t us either. We were going to go through the crates on the night of Angelique Lagrange’s murder, but all hell broke loose after she was discovered.” His hands shook as he lit up another cigarette. The guy was obviously quite the chain smoker. “By the time we finally got to the Customs Office to have a look, we found the room just as you did.”
I’m not s
ure I believe him here, either. Sounds awfully convenient that he’s just as in the dark about this whole mess as I am.
“So, once again, who’s pulling the strings?” I ask. “Who’s the big man on this island’s KGB campus?”
“That’s just it. We don’t know. We receive our orders in coded messages delivered to our rooms at Nessie’s. We’ve never met the head agent here.”
The cynical part of me finds it hard to believe, but the side of my brain that knows how the system works gets it. It’s Intelligence 101. Never let the right hand know what the feet are doing while the left hand ties a bow in the hat for the head. The fewer people in the loop, the better it is for security of any operation.
Still though, it’s such a small island.
“Do you have any suspects for Mr. Big?”
He offers a brief nod.
“Well? Who’s at the top of that list?”
The G-Man fidgets in his chair, tapping the ash from his cigarette, and avoiding looking me in the face. I start to get a mental picture of something I don’t like, and I stand from my chair in protest.
“You don’t mean…”
“Yes,” He says. His voice is barely a whisper as he says it. “The bet among us was that you were the best option. Especially after you were discovered with the body of a French spy. My associates posited that she discovered your secret and tried to take you out with knockout drops, but you took her out before she could interrogate you.”
I sit back down, the wind taken out of my sails. The theory does make a certain kind of sense. I can see why anyone with the background information the KGB goons have might make the argument. Then again, I can make the same case for Morris.
“Besides me, any other suspects?”
“No one in particular. Then again, my associates aren’t as interested as I am in discovering his identity. They’re here for the list and that’s all they’re focused on.”
Once again, we’re right back to where we started. The blasted list. No matter what I do, I can’t get away from it. The list is the key.
But where is it?
Killypso Island Page 11