Stop worrying about Chalice, he told himself. She'll do it, and she'll do it right. Just let him see that sign, climbing at night forbidden. She'll open up those wide eyes of hers and let her nostrils flare. She'll take a deep breath and make herself shiver. She'll thrust out that magnificent bosom. Then she'll say something like "Oh, Eddie, do you think you could do it? Wouldn't that be dangerous?"
He chuckled, and shook his head—half in wonder at the power of this particular woman, half at man's eternal gullibility.
And you? Are you so different? Could she do the same to you?
He considered for a moment, bringing to the question the habits of a lifetime of cold and unemotional analysis.
No, he decided. I admire the woman for many reasons, and in many ways she shakes me and moves me. In bed she is superb. And there's the other thing. But I am not obsessed with her, and he is.
That's the difference between us, Mancuso and me, two totally different types. He is entirely American, with all the brashness, naivete, and romanticism that the word connotes. And I? I am, God help me, a Europeanized Russian. The worst kind. Older in race and in time than Mancuso, bored, perhaps a touch cynical (a touch!), and just about as romantic as my profession allows me to be. Amend that; Mancuso has the same profession. Very well, as romantic as a steel puddler in Kharkov. Amend further. As romantic as an elderly lecher with a severe case of satyriasis.
He smiled in the darkness, pleased with the wordplay in English. He was fluent in seven languages, and conversant with three more. Mancuso, he knew, spoke only English and the bastardized Italian of the New York City streets. He thought of himself as being well read and witty, while Mancuso's reading was limited to magazines printed in the simplest of prose. He was a master at chess; Mancuso was a fumbler. He was an expert skier; Mancuso was an enthusiastic amateur.
The list ran on in his head. In every field in which Vasily was adept and accomplished, Eddie Mancuso fell far behind him. Every field except the invention of UKD's. There the man was an untrained genius, but in every other area he seemed unfailingly second rate. It puzzled him that Chalice could be involved with such a man, and indeed, one time in Barcelona he had risked asking her about it. Her response had been an annoyed snort, and then:
"That's a hell of a question to ask me right now. Take your hand off my ass."
With a sigh, he had obeyed; and then he rose to walk across the room and pull open the draperies of their fourth-floor suite. Across the plaza from the Hotel Colon bulked the Gothic mass of the old cathedral. Below in the streets hummed the busyness of Barcelona at Christmastime, the broad steps of the cathedral crowded with the stalls of vendors selling trees and ornaments, candles, and cookies and sweets, meet me in Barcelona for Christmas. A typical summons from Chalice. That was the way she popped into and out of his life: through telegrams addressed to his Swiss bank. Christmas in Barcelona, Easter in Nassau, a weekend in Dublin, once no more than an evening in New York. Only a Russian of the nomenklatura could sustain such an affair, he thought wryly. One of the few fringe benefits of my trade. He turned back to face the low, damask-covered sofa where she sat, her clothing disarrayed, her hair slightly tangled.
"Forgive me," he said, with more than a hint of mockery. "I had not expected such reticence."
She tossed her head, leonine hair flying. "Your timing was wrong. We were all set to adjourn to the bedroom and then you start asking me questions about the other man in my life."
"One of the others."
"There aren't that many," she said with a smile that denied her annoyance. "Basically, just you and Eddie."
"Basically. I like that word."
The taut smile stayed on her face. "The two of you are enough for any woman to handle."
"You still have not answered my question. Indulge me."
She looked at him sharply. "If you're looking for a blow-by- blow comparison, you're not going to get it."
"No, something else. I'm not just curious. I'm interested. From all you tell me about him he is so . . . well, what I mean to say is, he isn't . . ."
"He isn't you," she said flatly. "That's what you mean to say, and you're right. He isn't anything like you. He isn't well educated and he isn't witty. He isn't smooth and he isn't diplomatic. He isn't sophisticated. He treats a woman with an old-fashioned, clumsy courtesy. Do you understand what I mean? If you wanted to send me flowers, you would search until you found one perfect dahlia. Eddie would order up six dozen roses. You see?"
"I see exactly. What I do not see is why you remain with him."
"Because, you damn fool, he's a sweet and wonderful guy. He's simple, and uncomplicated, and in many ways innocent, and maybe there's a part of me that needs someone like that. Don't ever ask me to choose between you. I want you both. Just the way it is now."
He inclined his head in a mocking salute. "A friendly providence gave me the intelligence to be content with what I have. But what about Eddie? What if he knew about us? Would he be content?"
"Don't even joke about that." The idea seemed both to alarm and amuse her. "He'd die if he knew. No, I said that the wrong way around. Not die, but kill. If he found out about us he'd kill. First you, then me."
"Very primitive emotions—your simple, courteous, sentimental American!"
"Yes. And I guess that's the answer to your question. In a case like that, you'd laugh and he'd cry. Then you'd sigh—and he'd kill."
Would he indeed? The Russian wondered as he sat in the darkness, waiting. He shifted his position on the narrow rough stone plateau that formed the top of the pyramid.
Would he really kill for such a reason? The killing part would be easy, of course. He owns so many lives already. Not with his two hands, but those lives are his, all right. Just as mine belong to me. But that was all business, and this ... to do something like that out of passion? It seems incredible, but as Chalice says, we are two different men. In any event, necessity now rules— and we shall soon see.
He knew first from the creaking of the chain—a faint sound, for the links were taut, but it carried in the silence of the night. For a time that was the only sound, and long before he heard any other he was able to see in the blackness below a shape of darker blackness moving up the steps of the pyramid, moving cautiously but firmly. The silence puzzled him, for he had expected to hear the scuff of shoes on stone, and then he realized that Mancuso was climbing barefooted. The Russian waited patiently as the blob of darkness coalesced into a wiry body working hand over hand up the chain, agile feet following. Then Mancuso was up and over the top, standing to stretch cramped muscles. Vasily watched from the other side of the small plateau, masked in shadow. Then he said softly:
"Well, Eddie? Silent upon a peak in Darien?"
Eddie tensed, took one step back, and crouched. He whispered, "What's that?"
"Keats, Eddie."
"I don't know anyone named Keats."
Vasily sighed. "I should have known better."
"How do you know my name, Keats?"
"Please, my name is not Keats."
"Then what is it?"
"Sit down. You must be tired from the climb."
The crouched figure did not move. "I'll stand. Start talking, and start with the name."
"Gladly. But I don't want any rash reactions when you hear it, and so I'll tell you first that I'm unarmed and I mean you no harm. Do you understand?"
"I hear you."
"Then hear this, and think about it. If I had wanted to, I could have taken you when you came over the top. One push, and you would have been splinters and jelly a hundred feet down. True enough?"
"I still hear you. Go ahead."
"My name is Vasily Borgneff."
"Madronne," Eddie murmured. He was silent for a moment. "So Macy's finally meets Gimbels."
"Gimbels? I would have said Bloomingdale's, myself. Yes, Macy's meets Bloomingdale's. Much better."
Eddie lowered himself gingerly and sat with his legs crossed, hands clamped
on the stone. "Borgneff. . . I'll be damned. I never thought it could happen. What is this, a truce? You want to defect? I'm the wrong guy to talk to, I'll tell you straight out."
"Call it a conference—a conference to test out a theory of mine. A truce is for enemies. We've never been enemies, Eddie."
"Okay, I buy that. But the people we work for aren't exactly kissing cousins."
Vasily dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Politics. Ideology. We're not politicians. You and I are specialists. No more, no less."
"You could call it that."
"Good. Then this is a conference between specialists, without reference to ideologies. Communist, capitalist, Russian, American, that has nothing to do with us. You agree?"
"I've never been a flag-waver. I work for the money." "Excellent. We have a common ground. Now we may go on."
"Then get going. You're taking long enough. What's the point of all this?"
"It's really quite simple. I am going to save your life. Does that sound terribly dramatic?"
Eddie chuckled. "Yes. Considering who you work for, and who I work for, and considering the business we're both in—it sure does."
"I'm glad. It was meant to sound that way. Because if my theory is correct, you are going to save my life as well."
"Stop blowing bubble gum, Borgneff. Put your cards on the table."
"Very well, but bear with me. Now I must tell you a story."
Vasily spoke tersely and quietly, almost as if to avoid being overheard, although they were as alone as two men could be under the fragile quarter moon and in the shadow of the face of the rain god. He told the story simply, as one professional to another, telling Eddie exactly what had happened on the Devil's Ridge at Grindelwald. When he had finished, he looked inquiringly at Eddie for comment.
"Cute," said Eddie. "A very nice touch. I'll have to remember that one."
"No," Vasily protested. "It was crude, and I was lucky. And this is not a critique, and I am not asking for compliments. I've told you my story. Now ... let me hear yours."
Coldly, precisely, Eddie said, "What makes you think I have a story to tell?"
"Your people have tried to extract you just as mine have tried it on me. Tried and failed. I know that for a fact, but now I must know the details."
"Exactly what facts do you know, and how did you get them?"
"There will be time for that later. For now, accept my request on faith."
"That's a heap of faith you're asking for."
"Believe me, my friend, I am trying to save our lives."
"I'm going to have a hell of a lot of questions to ask later on," Eddie said, but in the same quiet tones that the Russian had used, he told Vasily what had happened in his Manhattan apartment.
"Saxitoxin-D," said Vasily, musing. "How interesting. I developed that strain myself eight years ago."
"I had a barrel of it in my lab back in sixty-four."
Vasily inclined his head. "I was unaware. Of course, I bow to the master." Then, in a brisker tone, "So, now we know each other's secrets. We are both on the run. The next question is why. Why are our own organizations trying to kill us? Any theories?"
"Simple. I want out."
"You asked for retirement?"
"No, that's the damnedest part of it." Puzzled, Eddie stood up suddenly and began to step off the few paces around the plateau. "I knew they'd never allow it, so I didn't bother asking. I figured the only way to get out would be to ..." He hesitated, looking at the Russian obliquely.
Vasily nodded his encouragement. "Please go on. It will not sound absurd to me. You see, I am faced with the same problem."
"Absurd. Yeah, that's the word for it, all right. It was okay just thinking about it, but to say it out loud . . . absurd. Okay, in plain language, I figured that the only way for me to get out clean would be to extract the entire O Group."
"The Five Group in my case."
"You mean you figured it the same way?"
"What else? It was the only satisfactory solution."
"You're swift. But it's good to know that there's one other cold-blooded bastard in this world."
"Those who live by the sword ..." Vasily shrugged, and the words trailed away. "As a matter of professional curiosity, would you mind telling me your plans for the extraction?"
"My plans? Zilch," Eddie said flatly. "Zero. I have no plans. I said that I thought about it. I didn't say that I was going to try it."
"And what stops you?"
Eddie whirled on him, pirouetting gracefully. "Christ, haven't you figured it out yet? Look, we each came up with the same idea at the same time. Early retirement. Plenty of bread in the bank, the world's big, papers are a snap to get hold of. Now, I know damn well you didn't put an ad in Pravda to tell your people about it, and neither did I. But your people found out about you, and my people found out about me. How? Have you thought about that?"
"I have," Vasily said softly. "But I want you to tell me."
"It's the fucking computer, that's what it is. CYBER, or whatever you call it in Moscow."
"We also call it CYBER."
"Then you agree with me?"
"Of course. Regrettably, my conclusions are the same as yours. The Moscow CYBER can predict every move I make, up to a point. Your CYBER can do the same for you."
"Which is why I have no plans," said Eddie. "I'm screwed, and so are you."
"What odds do you calculate?"
"None. Look, before I figured CYBER into the picture I knew I had long odds to beat, real long odds, but I was willing to give it a try. But not with the computer working against me. That makes it a suicide mission."
"Then what will you do? Run for the rest of your life?"
"What choice do I have?"
"The choice I am about to offer you." For the first time Vasily stood, stretching himself, towering over the shorter man. "You're right—it would be a suicide mission. For you. But not for me."
Eddie cocked his head to one side. He was silent for a long moment. He seemed to be listening to some distant music heard faintly. He smiled tightly and said, "Go on."
"The CYBER at Williamsburg is programmed against you, not me. All I would need from you is information. For example, the profiles of the four remaining members of the O Group. Give me that and I will do the job for you. It will take time and careful planning, but I can do it. No one, in fact, could do this particular job better."
Eddie nodded slowly. "And all I have to do is the same job for you."
"Yes, at Zhukovka."
"Me? Go there? How could I do it? You must be kidding."
"There are always problems. They will be solved."
"I'm the problem," Eddie said glumly. "I never . . ." But even as he started to say it, he realized that it was no longer a fact. He had killed a man. Kelly, who would have killed him. And Colonel Parker, Erikson, Arteaga, Rakow—all were dedicated to the same end. There was an enemy, and it was no longer faceless.
"When I left New York, I lost my lab." He frowned. "I've got nothing."
"You have what is in here," Vasily said, tapping his forehead. "And so do I. Money is no problem. We both have that."
"And a base?"
"Here in Mexico. I know a place." He waited a moment, then said, "Do you have an alternative?"
"None I like. But I've got plenty of questions."
"Ask them."
Eddie asked, and Vasily answered. He spent the next half hour feeding him facts about the dachniki at Zhukovka, detailing strengths and weaknesses, profiling individual members of the unit, and suggesting methods for their elimination. He spoke quietly but persuasively, presenting his plan the way a gifted salesman would present a product. At the end of the half hour he said:
"There's more, of course. That's just the beginning. It would take me weeks to brief you properly."
"And I would do the same for you?"
"Yes. An elegant solution to an inelegant problem. Will you do it?"
Afte
r the slightest pause, Eddie said, "It's the craziest thing I ever heard, but it's the best shot there is. I've got to take it. Yeah, you've got yourself a partner."
"Excellent. In that case, shall we descend? There is much to discuss."
The Russian walked to the western side of the pyramid and stared down into the darkness. He grasped the chain and went over the edge. He took three quick steps down and stopped. With his head still visible, he said, "Follow me down. Step carefully in the dark."
They went down in tandem, Vasily first and Eddie close behind, each holding on to the chain and feeling cautiously for footholds. The chain was wet, slippery with the moisture of the night; the stones were slick as well. The darkness now was absolute, the light of the stars extinguished by the bulk of the looming pyramid. Vasily had taken no more than a dozen steps when he suddenly stopped. Eddie closed up, above and behind him, close enough to touch.
"Keep going, don't freeze," Eddie said.
"It's not that. I just remembered that you had some questions you wanted to ask me."
"You better believe it. How did you know I'd be up here tonight? How did you know what happened in New York?"
"Do you really want to know the answers?"
"Don't bother," he said grimly, "I figured it out myself. You bought the girl. You're smart, Borgneff. I hope you paid her plenty."
"I paid Chalice nothing. Nothing at all."
Eddie snorted. "Sure, she did it for love."
"Why not?" Vasily tightened his grip on the chain and braced his feet. "After all, I am her lover."
The silence was so complete that it screamed in the night, hummed in the air, quivered between them like a struck string.
"Chalice?" There was a touch of wonder in Eddie's voice.
"I've known her for almost a year. Not as long as you have, but long enough."
Again the screaming silence. Then Eddie said, "You're a heavy gambler, aren't you?"
Vasily chuckled. "I have that reputation. It is a particularly Russian vice. Mine is a severe case."
"You're rolling high stakes now."
"The highest."
"One push, one kick, and you're gone. Blown away. Dust."
"I'm in your hands."
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 6