No Survivors

by Tom Cain

  He stopped at a Géant big-box store outside town to buy basic provisions, outdoor clothing, and camping gear, including binoculars and some heavy-duty hiking boots. Then he drove up into the hills. These Georgian gangsters had certainly picked a spectacular location for their hideout in the foothills of the Maritime Alps, a landscape of jagged slopes scattered with pines and oaks, and scoured by spectacular gorges, where switchback roads and absurdly picturesque villages clung to the sides of precipitous cliffs.

  The most direct way to the house was off the main road between Vence and Grasse, and up through the village of Tourrettes itself. But Carver went the scenic route, skirting the side of the Puy de Tourrettes, until the pavement gave way to a dirt road, and then a track impassable even by a car with four-wheel-drive. He parked the Audi, put on his knapsack, and started hiking toward a point on the mountain directly above the house, making the final approach on his belly until he found the ideal spot for his observation post.

  Down below him, he could see the people he had come to rob. Their voices drifted up to him on the breeze, along with the barking of their dogs. They had not spotted him.

  Carver got out his binoculars. Now all he had to do was watch, and wait.

  That, and work out how the hell he was going to steal Kurt Vermulen’s precious document.

  60

  “Man, that’s a sight to behold now, ain’t it?”

  Early morning, East River Park, and a steady stream of joggers was taking the path down from Twenty-third Street to the South Street Seaport and back, under the Williamsburg, Manhattan, and Brooklyn bridges, past the Fulton Fish Market. This was New York City and people were too bound up in themselves to spare a glance for the three men standing by the railings, ignoring the views across the river, watching the girls go by.

  “Makes me wish I were thirty years younger,” Waylon McCabe went on as a hot young blonde trotted by, her taut thighs and peachy backside sheathed in black running tights. “Hell, even ten years’d do me.”

  He turned to one of the other men, who was balding, his overdeveloped muscles now melting into fat, a brown leather jacket open to reveal a spreading paunch. His name was Clinton Tulane and he had been a military instructor back in the days when McCabe was providing assistance to West African guerrillas. Tulane had helped him out then, just as he’d helped out a whole lot of other people, from Sarajevo to El Salvador. That was how he knew Dusan Darko, though that was not the name under which the man in the black overcoat with the lank, greasy hair had entered the United States. When you were a Serbian warlord, wanted across the Western world for crimes against humanity, it paid to travel incognito.

  “You can leave us now, Clint,” said McCabe. “It’s been real good of you to make this introduction. But me ’n’ Mr. Darko here gotta talk business, and it’s kinda private.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tulane, any resentment at his exclusion more than covered by the wad of hundred-dollar bills now nestled in his jacket pocket.

  McCabe waited long enough to let Tulane get out of earshot, then fixed his attention on the other man.

  “So, Mr. Darko, Clint tells me you’re a man of some influence in your country—is that so?”

  Darko shrugged as if to suggest that he was, indeed, influential, but too modest to say so out loud.

  “So supposing I wanted to enter your country by air, find a place to land and refuel, pick up a package, and leave without anyone hasslin’ me—you could make that happen?”

  “But of course . . . for a price. You understand, people would need to be paid. But it is possible, certainly.”

  “Uh-huh, I get it. And you got men under your command, fightin’ men?”

  Darko stood a little straighter.

  “My men have fought alongside me for seven years. Against Croats. Against Bosnians. Now against Albanian scum. These men are lions—like the partisans who fought against the Nazis, they cannot be defeated.”

  McCabe did his best to keep a straight face. He didn’t need any lessons on fighting from some greasy wop who was second cousin to a Gypsy.

  “Well, that’s just fine, Mr. Darko. Let me tell you what I have in mind. . . .”

  61

  Carver didn’t know what any of the wildflowers covering the hillside were, but he was glad of their rich, herbal scent. He’d been watching the house for forty-eight hours. During that time he’d drunk water, eaten chocolate, nuts, and dried fruit, and crapped into a sandwich bag before burying it in the earth behind his hideout. He’d also refined his plans for getting the document out of the house.

  The property was arranged so that all the social areas were on the southern, downhill side, to maximize the views across the hazy, gray-green hills of Provence to the glittering waters of the Riviera. Everything practical was hidden away out of sight. So the driveway up to the house was over by the right-hand perimeter of the grounds, from Carver’s perspective, looking down from above. There was a small drop-off area by the front door to the house, but the actual parking was to the rear, so that cars would be kept out of sight. There was no garage, but a massive seven-seater Mitsubishi Shogun was sitting under a metal-framed, plastic-roofed awning.

  Up against the back wall of the house, a lean-to was filled with logs for the fireplace, which was, according to the architect’s plans, the dominant feature of the main living room. Farther along, on the far side of a rear door that led into the kitchen, two red one-hundred-pound canisters of propane, as high as a man’s shoulder, supplied gas for the stove.

  There was still work to do on the area between the house and the rear perimeter. The low brick wall enclosing the parking area was unfinished and much of the ground was still covered with builders’ debris: rubble, discarded bits of woodwork, empty cans, even a small cement mixer. Someone, however, had cleared a space for the high chain-link fences that kept the two dogs caged until they were let loose for the night.

  The place had six human inhabitants: four male and two female. The weather had stayed warm, and around about midday the men had staggered outside for a busy day of drinking, smoking, and leering at the bimbos lying by the pool, trying to turn their fake tans into the real thing. It hadn’t taken Carver long to work out which one was Baladze. The cock-of-the-walk way he carried himself, the fawning obedience of the men, and the shrieks of female laughter made it obvious who was the alpha male.

  Carver had passed the time working out names for the people who would soon come under his attack. He toyed with soap-opera characters, historical figures, even Jesus and his apostles. In the end he went with Beatles. Baladze he code-named John, the original leader of the band. The man who looked like his second-in-command, a pot-bellied greaser with dirty-blond hair, was therefore Paul. A younger, skinny underling with long dark hair was a natural for George. That left Ringo for the fourth gang member. He had the grossly overdeveloped muscles, the furious expression, and the Pizza Hut complexion of a man who sprinkles steroids on his breakfast cereal and spends too much time alone with his dumbbells. The pelt of wiry black hair across his shoulders wasn’t too pleasant, either.

  The women were easy. One was a brunette, the other a blonde, Yoko and Linda, all the way.

  During daylight hours, either George or Ringo was on duty as a guard down by the gate to the property. Whoever had the first morning shift had to get up early and put the dogs back in their cage before he went down to his post. The only visitor seemed to be the local baker, whose van turned up midmorning. Judging by the quantities of food and drink that the driver carried in through the back door to the kitchen, along with his loaves of breads, pizzas, cakes, and pies, he’d got some kind of deal to keep the place fully provisioned.

  There was a barbecue on the terrace and Paul had been given the job of grilling steaks and kebabs every evening. Aside from that, the domestic chores were left for the women, who were multitasking as the men’s housemaids, cooks, eye candy, and sex toys. Carver could imagine describing the scene to Alix. He didn’t know exactly how she’d
respond, but whatever she said, it would be knowing, cynical, and spiked with bone-dry black humor. He wondered how often she’d been treated like one of those women, but didn’t dwell on that, preferring to concentrate on the future. Not long now, and he’d see her again. Just kiss Vermulen good-bye and they could both give the life up for good.

  On the afternoon of the second day, Carver decided he’d seen enough. He’d do the job tomorrow. Tonight he’d find a hotel room and get a decent night’s sleep, a hot shower, and a square meal. But before that he had to pick up Vermulen’s package from the poste restante in Vence, then go shopping. He’d written another list of what he needed: sugar, linseed oil, food coloring, wax earplugs, and a bunch of other stuff, from paint brushes to meat pâté. It would mean visiting a few different shops.

  And there was one final item: fish-tank oxygenating tablets. He made a mental note to himself: Don’t forget the pet shop.

  62

  “Please, Mr. Novak, have as much as you want. I am a woman, I must watch my figure. But I like to see a man enjoying his food.”

  Olga Zhukovskaya looked encouragingly at the legendary hors d’oeuvres trolley of Vienna’s Drei Husaren restaurant. The trolley held more than thirty seasonal dishes, from calves’ brains to caviar.

  Sadly for the waiter in his striped waistcoat, standing attentively beside the trolley, Pavel Novak did not have much of an appetite. Nor was he in any mood to appreciate the homely luxury of the Library, the smaller of the sixty-five-year-old restaurant’s two dining rooms. Under normal circumstances, he would have felt soothed and contented among its shelves filled with ancient hardbacks, its baskets of spring daffodils, the stone statues in niches on the wall, and the restful tones of the wooden paneling and dark-green dining chairs. But not when his worst nightmares were coming to life before him.

  The very fact that he and Zhukovskaya were speaking Russian was enough to bring back his darkest memories. For almost fifteen years he had worked to overthrow the rule of the Soviet Union, passing secret information to the West. In all that time, he felt sure he had escaped detection. And now, more than eight years after the Velvet Revolution that had brought freedom to his Czech homeland, the Russians had finally caught up with him.

  When he had received the phone call inviting him to dinner, he had known exactly who Zhukovskaya was, and what she represented. He had accepted because there seemed no point in refusing or trying to escape. If they were after him, they would catch him. If they were not, he had nothing to lose from meeting one of the legends of the Soviet spy trade. His fatalism, however, did not make him any less nervous.

  Zhukovskaya, of course, was fully aware of Novak’s unease. She had enjoyed it, even toyed with it for a while, before deciding to put him out of his misery. She, too, would lose her appetite if she had to watch this miserable weasel with his pathetically drooping mustache sweating with fear before her eyes. There was no point coming to one of the finest restaurants in Vienna, where food is taken as seriously as in any French or Italian city, and then being unable to enjoy the menu.

  “Are you worried, or fearful of what might happen to you? Please, these are not the old days. We are not Stalinists anymore.”

  Novak relaxed a fraction. He managed to order some chicken in jelly.

  “Good,” said Zhukovskaya, “and for the main course I recommend the tafelspitz—boiled beef, hashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and apple sauce—they say it is the best in Vienna. But of course, you know that, being a local. So, let us not talk business while we eat. Let’s tell stories about the good old days . . . when you worked for the Americans.”

  It was all Novak could do not to spit his mouthful of chicken all over the table. He chewed and swallowed his food, trying all the while to think of a reply.

  Zhukovskaya continued.

  “Come on—how incompetent did you think we were? Of course we knew. But it suited our purposes to let you live. You were a trusted source because you truly believed that the information you were passing on was genuine. But I’m afraid that much of it was not. We made sure of that. So, far from harming us, as you must have hoped, you were actually doing the Soviet Union a great service by misleading our enemies. . . . Oh, look, your wineglass is empty. Perhaps the sommelier will get you some more.”

  Finally, Novak was able to speak.

  “When did you know?”

  “Well, I was just a junior officer back then, so I was not informed until much later. But my superiors were aware of your treachery from the moment you made your first, nervous approach to the Americans.”

  “My God . . . how deeply did you penetrate the DIA?”

  “We were able to blackmail a few officers; we paid others. One or two worked for us for ideological reasons. But the total was not great, fewer than a dozen. Your handler, Vermulen, was always completely loyal to his country. Both you and he were absolutely sincere in what you were doing. That was important to us.”

  “So why do you want to see me now?”

  Zhukovskaya pushed away her half-eaten portion of caviar.

  “All right, then, if you prefer, we can do business and then eat. Perhaps that is better, after all. So . . . what were you discussing with Vermulen at the opera?”

  “Nothing. I have not seen Vermulen in years. And I do not particularly like opera.”

  A pained expression crossed Zhukovskaya’s face.

  “Once again, Mr. Novak, I must make the same request: Please do not underestimate us. You attended a performance of Don Giovanni at the opera house here in Vienna. You spoke to Vermulen in the bar before the performance. So I will ask you now, why did you meet? What did you discuss? What communication have you had since? And I will repeat, if you are open with me, we can all behave like civilized people. If you are not . . . well, let’s not spoil our dinner thinking about that.”

  Novak was indifferent to her threat. So far as he was concerned, he was already a dead man. The one noble act he had undertaken in his life, his personal campaign against the Communist occupation of his country, had been exposed as a sham. Far from helping the cause of freedom, he had probably harmed it. Now his feeble attempt to prevent the list of bombs from falling into the wrong hands was unraveling in front of his eyes.

  He supposed he could make a grand, sacrificial gesture. He could refuse to say anything, and let this Russian witch try to beat the truth out of him. Perhaps he could hold out for long enough to enable Vermulen to do what he had to. But that resistance would require effort and mental energy to sustain and he was suddenly and painfully aware that he had no further capacity for that kind of effort. Why bother to maintain the pretense any longer?

  Novak summoned the sommelier.

  “I would like a bottle of red Bordeaux, something to remember for a lifetime. The price is irrelevant.”

  The sommelier, well aware who was paying for this meal, glanced at Zhukovskaya. She gave a fractional nod of assent before he answered Novak’s request.

  “In that case, mein herr, I would suggest the 1982 La Mission Haut-Brion. A magnificent vintage from one of the great châteaus. I think you will find it an almost spiritual experience.”

  A tired smile played briefly over Novak’s face.

  “Spiritual, eh? Then the Haut-Brion will be perfect.”

  Zhukovskaya did not hurry him as he tasted the wine, signaled his approval, savored the intensity and complexity of its aroma, then took his first few sips. She understood as well as he did what was happening.

  When he had finished his first glass, Novak began to talk. He described how he had been approached by Bagrat Baladze, who was trying to sell the list of missing bombs; how he had gone in turn to Vermulen, hoping to get the list to the Americans; how he had provided him with the location of the list and the means to obtain it.

  When he had finished, Zhukovskaya reached across the table and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Thank you,” she said with quiet sincerity. “Now enjoy the rest of your meal.”

  Her smil
e was unexpectedly charming, so feminine, almost flirtatious as she added, “And your spiritual wine!”

  Somehow, perhaps because the burden of his secret had been lifted, or simply because the Bordeaux was a magical elixir, Novak was able to enjoy his dinner. He and Zhukovskaya made the conversation of two middle-aged people who had shared similar experiences over many years and observed the same absurdities. He was a man with a gift for a funny anecdote; she was a woman who was happy to laugh at his humor.

  At the end of the meal, Zhukovskaya was as civilized, as kulturny, to use the Russian phrase, as she had promised. With great politeness, she asked him to hand over his cell phone. She also told him that there was about to be a problem with the telephone lines running in and out of his apartment building. He could not, in other words, alert anyone to what he had just told her. She informed him that he would be given a lift back to his home, and his wife.

  “Please,” she said, “make this easy for both of us.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Pavel Novak let himself in through his front door, crossed the hall, and stepped into the elevator, an ornate metal cage that had run up through the middle of the building’s spiral staircase for the better part of a century. He stopped on the fifth floor and went into his apartment. His wife was asleep in their bedroom. He kissed her face and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear.

  She gave a sleepy little murmur of reply.

  Novak looked at her with the love that a man has for a woman who has shared his life for almost three decades, a love in which youthful passion has given way to a far deeper blend of affection, knowledge, and mutual forgiveness. He laid his hand briefly on her shoulder, then he left the room.