Boris, standing with his back to the door, looked like the door.
“Mr. Drum,” Comrade Plekhanov said, “what am I going to do with you?”
“You can start by giving me back my passport,” I suggested hopefully.
Plekhanov ignored that. “What did you want with Galina Rodzianko? Did you wish to see her father? In Zagorsk? Is that where the others went? I assume one of them was Mr. Williams.”
I said nothing.
“Mr. Drum, why did you come to Moscow?”
“Ugolok Ameriki,” I said. “Two in a jeep.”
Plekhanov sighed. “What is it you want with Vasili Rodzianko? An interview?”
“I’m no reporter.”
“Foreign reporters have not been able to see him. He lives in seclusion at Zagorsk. Perhaps one of your American newspapers thought a private detective, a stubborn, capable man, could succeed where reporters have failed.”
“Why not?” I said.
For the first and only time, Plekhanov’s eyes got hard. “Because you put two Moscow militiamen in the hospital, Drum. One has a broken collar bone. The other will need a dozen stitches in his face. This—for an interview?”
He didn’t expect an answer, and I gave him none.
“The police will pick up your Mr. Williams in Zagorsk,” he said. “At Rodzianko’s dacha. Then what?”
“It looks like we don’t get the interview.”
“Don’t be flip with me, Mr. Drum,” Plekhanov admonished me apologetically. “Please don’t be flip.” He opened the manila file folder on the table and said: “Drum, Chester. Citizenship: U.S.A. Born thirty-two years ago in Baltimore, Maryland. Three years in the United States Army. You received a battlefield commission and a Distinguished Service Cross. After that, college. And two years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Married once, not now. No known relatives. Four years ago you cancelled the effectiveness of a Communist intelligence network in the United States. Three years ago you tangled with our agents in Saudi Arabia. Also three years ago, you caused us some trouble in Berlin. Last year you were instrumental in the, shall we say, neutralization of one of our best overseas couriers, a Scandinavian named Laxness.”
“Laxness,” I said, “was a paid professional killer.”
“Call him what you wish.” Plekhanov shut the folder of my dossier. “I say you are Laxness’ opposite number in the United States. I say you are an agent on a secret mission for your country.” The apologetic smile flitted across his face fleetingly, was gone. “I say, in the light of your past record and what has happened tonight, we have every right to haul you before a People’s Court for trial and punishment.”
I took a deep breath. It could have been bluff or I could have been treading on very thin ice. Plekhanov’s dossier had surprised me. I said: “Okay, go ahead. It will look great in Pravda and Izvestia for home consumption, but what about the foreign press, Comrade Plekhanov? I’m an employee of the American Exhibit in Moscow.”
“You are an American secret agent!” Plekhanov shouted, and then immediately looked contrite.
“Even assuming I am, what difference does that make? I’m still an employee of Ugolok Ameriki. Haul me before a People’s Court and what do you think will happen to your cultural exchange program? You couldn’t get the Fiji Islanders to set up shop in Moscow.”
Plekhanov said placatingly: “Tell me what your mission was and you are free to leave Moscow on the next plane.”
“I’m Chief of Security at Ugolok Ameriki.”
“Name, rank and serial number,” Plekhanov said chidingly. He leaned forward across the table. He was sweating. “We all make mistakes, Mr. Drum. You made one tonight. I have been in government service myself for many years. I have made mistakes. You see I still have my career. Protect yourself. That is my advice, Mr. Drum. Because when they detain Mr. Williams at Zagorsk, I don’t think he will be as strong as you.”
I reached into my pocket. Boris started across the room ponderously, but all I did was take out a pack of cigarettes and light one. Slowly and casually, but thinking: you led with your chin out three feet on a celery stalk of a neck, didn’t you? You walked right into it like a kid with a zip-gun trying to stop a tank. Because if they pick up Rodin in Zagorsk and Galina tells them who he claims to be, as Galina certainly will, it’s all finished. So why play it close to the vest here? Why look for a hard time?
But Plekhanov was worried. Which meant he didn’t know yet what our mission was.
“Perhaps Boris could make you talk, Mr. Drum?” Plekhanov asked mildly.
I looked at the hulking giant. My mouth was suddenly dry. “He could try.”
Plekhanov glanced at Boris, at me, at the portrait of Lenin—maybe for inspiration. “You are a stubborn man, Mr. Drum. Fortunately for you, we have no Star Chamber here. A pity, because Boris is an expert at persuasion. But would I be wrong in assuming that if Boris attempted persuasion you would become more stubborn than ever?”
As it turned out, that was a loaded question. Schooled in dialectics, Plekhanov would phrase it exactly that way. And I gave the wrong answer. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”
Plekhanov nodded slowly, then tossed my passport across the table at me. He spoke to Boris in Russian. Boris balled a melon-sized fist and blinked his tiny eyes.
“Very well, Mr. Drum,” Plekhanov said wearily. “You’re free to go.” He gave me a sad, apologetic look and scribbled out a pass that would get me past the guards. Boris opened the door for me. He wore a black chauffeur’s uniform and a black visored cap. I’m six-one, but my eyes were on a level with his tree trunk of a neck when I passed him. He had a faintly acrid smell, like swamp water.
The interview had ended abruptly and unexpectedly, and I emerged from it in pretty good shape, though I couldn’t figure out why. I went out like cock-of-the-walk past three sets of armed guards. The gate clanged shut behind me, and I stood for a moment on the hill that might have been Lubianka Hill, in front of the fortress of a building that might have been Lubianka Prison. Then I tore up my pass and watched the pieces flutter to the sidewalk, and started walking.
In that way at least the Russian Secret Police were like cops anywhere in the world. They’d taken me in under guard in a police van. They were through with me. I could find my way back to the Metropole on foot or on a broomstick, on all fours or in a jet plane; it was all the same to them.
Chapter Eighteen
A lambent green false dawn had brightened the northern and eastern sky by the time I reached Gorky Street, using the red stars over the Kremlin wall as my guidepost.
At this hour, Moscow’s streets were almost deserted. I passed a few drunks, two men staggering arm in arm and stopping to make lewd gestures at a white-smocked dumpy woman sweeping her way past the corner of Gorky and Pushkin Streets with her besom of twigs, another man swaying before the window of a photographer’s shop, looking in, an old man sitting on the curb and vomiting onto his own lap.
I had spotted the marquee of the Metropole, four blocks ahead of me, when I realized I was being followed. I had stopped under a lamppost to light a cigarette. I heard a quick tattoo of footsteps behind me, then nothing. Looking back, I saw a shadow flatten itself against the storefronts along Gorky Street, half a block behind me. I started walking again. A drunk? Hiding from what? Moscow’s sidewalks were given over to vodka hangovers at this hour. I stopped suddenly, flipping the cigarette away. The same brisk, businesslike footsteps sounded behind me, then silence. But the footsteps were too purposeful for a drunk’s, and their cadence matched mine.
Three blocks. I lengthened my stride. The sidewalk between me and the Metropole, except for the sentry boxes and the pairs of militiamen lounging in front of them, was now deserted. Three cross streets, a half-dozen lampposts, a half-dozen sentry boxes.
I reached the first street. Crossed it. A sentry box held down the far side. The false dawn had faded. A half hour or so and it would be light. Right now it was night-dark again.
A figure detached itself from the sentry box—a uniformed militiaman with the butt of his machine pistol under his right arm. “Ktaw vee takoy!” he barked at me, holding his left hand out. He wanted to see my identification papers. The footsteps were coming up fast behind us now. The militiaman was trying his hardest not to smirk. He was enjoying himself. A phone, I thought. There’d be a phone in the sentry box. He’d been told to stop me. Calls to a dozen or so sentry boxes around the Metropole, and they’d have me.
Calls from where? Lubianka Street?
When the footsteps were almost on top of us, the militiaman asked for my papers again. I remembered Plekhanov’s words. Fortunately for you, we have no Star Chamber here. A pity, because Boris is an expert at persuasion.
I whirled suddenly, expecting to see Boris climbing the curb behind me. I saw a uniformed militiaman, could just make out the bandage hiding the right side of his face. He was either the one I’d slugged with the machine pistol or someone bandaged the way that one would have been bandaged.
It was about as subtle as a charge of TNT. First the expected anger. You put two Moscow militiamen in the hospital, Drum. Then the build-up to a false sense of security. Fortunately for you, we have no Star Chamber here. Then one of the militiamen I’d put in the hospital, or his double, shows up following me. On a dark street corner in the predawn darkness with his sentry-box buddy barring my way with a machine pistol.
I knew then I was in for a beating. Plekhanov’s final question, the dialectic question, came back to me, and I even knew why I was in for a beating. Not particularly subtle, but TNT doesn’t have to be subtle to be effective.
Turning again, I sprinted down the dark narrow street to my left. The machine pistols? They wouldn’t use them. They hadn’t followed me here to kill me. If I could stay ahead of them around the block and reach the Metropole—where there were lights and foreign guests to hear the ruckus—still ahead of them, I’d be all right.
Shouting behind me. I took a dozen running steps. A lamppost down the block threw its long skeletal shadow at me. Then all at once another shadow loomed.
A giant of a man stood in my path.
Boris.
I was running too fast to stop. Boris’ arms stretched out wide. From fingertips to fingertips Boris was now as wide as he was tall. Seven feet of him from head to foot and from side to side. And acromegalics are incredibly strong.
Still running, I brought my right fist up from the knees. It hit his jaw. I felt an electric shock from hand to shoulder socket. I have never hit a man harder, and I had momentum behind me. Boris staggered back. His head clanged against the lamppost.
He bounced back. Maybe his knees wobbled. If they did, it was only for a split second. I tried to get around him. An enormous hand caught my arm. A hundred and ninety pounds of me were swung like an apache dancer and thrown like a TV wrestler. I landed with a jolt at the base of the lamppost.
Boris tried to stomp me. I rolled clear, and he kicked the lamppost. He grunted. Except for his breathing, that was the only sound I ever heard him make.
I got to my feet. Tried to run for it again.
The bandaged militiaman tripped me.
Then Boris went to work.
He grabbed me by the nape of the neck, lifted me, shook me. I swung at his face. He didn’t bother to protect it. I heard and felt the splat of fists on flesh. Blood streamed from his nose. Aside from that, it was like hitting a tree. Only this tree hit back. He let go of me and cuffed the side of my neck lazily. The sidewalk swooped up at me. I chewed on it for a while. A crane came and raised me. A pile driver went to work on my midsection. I felt it the first few times. Then it receded to where it didn’t seem to hurt. It was happening to two other guys.
I stood with my back nailed to the lamppost, watching, listening to the businesslike thud, thud, thud of Boris’ hamshank fists, to the puffing steam engine of his breath, watching his little eyes blink rapidly a few inches from my face as he crouched, intent on his work, and wondering when in hell those two other guys would fall.
Boris’ face seemed to get bigger and smaller. I waved a hand at it languidly, a very large hand and then a baby’s hand and then no hand at all. I slid down a little ways. I was sitting at the base of the lamppost looking for Boris.
I didn’t see him. I didn’t hear him, or anything. The street was deserted. I got to one knee. I even got one shoe planted firmly on the sidewalk. It was nailed there. I went down slowly, to my hands and knees. My nose was about three inches from the curb. I thought of the old drunk vomiting onto his lap on Gorky Street. I gagged. He hadn’t been drunk. He had met Boris. My cheek came to rest on the curb. It was cool and damp. I let it prop my head up. Then it moved, and my chin was dangling over the gutter.
I was alone—and then not alone. The acrid swamp-water smell of Boris assailed my nostrils. I felt my head lifted, and the smell went away because I couldn’t breathe. I gagged again, in earnest now. Something wet dribbled on my chin. Then that too went away and I lay half on, half off the last curb of the last city at earth’s dying day.
That was the nice thing about Moscow. Came the early summer dawn and the three A.M. vodka-stand curfew and they let you get drunk in peace.
Chapter Nineteen
Nifty,” a tired old voice croaked. “Real nifty. Comrade Plekhanov had a problem, all right. They couldn’t give you the full brain-washing treatment on Lubianka Street, the international situation being what it is. They couldn’t beat your mission out of you. That would have taken too long. But Plekhanov asked his dialectical question and you gave him the answer he wanted. Not that he really needed the question or your answer. He had the dossier which said how tough you are, didn’t he?”
The tired old voice was mine. I rolled over and climbed the lamppost until I could stand. A fat middle-aged man did a lurching roll and shuffle in front of my face. He gave me a broad wink and kept going. Had a little too much vodka, Comrade? You and me both—but I can hold my liquor.
I leaned against the lamppost and the tired old voice croaked again: “‘Would I be wrong in assuming that if Boris attempted persuasion you would become more stubborn than ever?’ Hah, you bastard. You’d be right as little silver raindrops, and didn’t you ever know it? So Boris took off after me and did what Boris could do so well. Now? Now I’m supposed to be stubborn and determined, but scared too. Now I’m supposed to go about my business. But now, also, Boris has put the fear of Boris in me, and while I will go about my business I will go about it with decreased efficiency, peering anxiously around street corners to see if friend Boris is lurking yonder. Stubborn but scared. A nifty combination. Sooner or later a stubborn but scared man will lead Boris to what he’s after. Which is exactly what you’re after. Which is what Comrade Plekhanov wants to find out.”
I said all that, out loud to the empty street. I felt as loquacious and light-headed as a drunk. Strangely, there was hardly any pain at all. Then I began to realize I felt too drunk not to be drunk.
Foxy too. Look around. He hasn’t touched your eyes. You can see. You’re a detective. Where’s the evidence?
The evidence lay, shattered, at the curb. It was a bottle of vodka. Boris or one of the militiamen had used it on me. The technique is simple: you hold the nose and the mouth opens to breathe, and then you pour. A state of semiconsciousness doesn’t interfere. It just adds an element of risk. The victim is liable to choke to death. I was lucky. I didn’t choke to death. I was also drunk. When I got to the Metropole, that’s what they would see. “A drunk,” I said, and went on, still out loud: “Shut up, stupid. Got a job to do. Going to the Metropole, that’s what. Paid for a bed there. Or Mike Rodin has. Logical drunk. First thing you need is some sleep, that’s what you need. Shut up. Let her roll.”
I leaned away from the lamppost. It seemed to reach out and pluck me back. I took a step. Another. My knees wandered off, left knee to the left, right knee to the right. I took a few deep breaths. I began to walk better, but it was not an improvement you wou
ld have noticed from across the street. My middle, where Boris had done his work, still didn’t hurt much. But it felt like lead.
On the corner, the militiaman smiled at me. A condescending smile. He might or might not have been the one who had asked for my papers. My watch, crystal broken but hands intact, said it was just past five A.M. I had been in Moscow twenty-three hours. Twenty-three hours and nothing’s happened to you, I thought. What’s the matter with you, Drum?
Doesn’t anything ever happen to you?
Chapter Twenty
The Metropole’s night porter was sitting in his cubbyhole reading yesterday’s Pravda when I came in. He gave me a knowing look. By then I was getting a little tired of knowing looks in Moscow.
“Good morning, Citizen Drum. Shall I perhaps assist you to your room?”
I shook my head. “Coffee. A pot full of it, hot and dark. Up in my room, okay?”
“No coffee before second breakfast. Tea perhaps? A pot of strong tea?”
I nodded, and headed for the elevator. Near it was a wall mirror, and I saw myself in it. My jacket was torn and stained, my eyes bloodshot. I had a bruise on my right cheek, where I’d struck it against the curb. I also looked haggard, but only a little desperate. All in all, I looked like the dregs of a bottle of hundred-proof vodka.
I rang for the elevator, saw the cable start to move in the open shaft.
“Citizen Drum?” the night porter called. “I have for you a cable.”
He brought it to me and waited, polishing the mirror with a rag, for me to open it. The elevator arrived. I got in, shut the gate and took myself up. When the night-porter’s disappointed face was on a level with my shoes, I opened the cable. It said:
Death Is My Comrade Page 12