by Ben Bova
"It's all I need," Pavel said as he sat in the middle of the boat. "For now."
"Want a poncho? The sun's pretty strong here." He lifted another yellow slicker from a metal box at his feet.
Pavel shook his head. "I like the sun."
"You could get skin cancer, you know," he said as he unlooped the line and revved the motor. "Damned ultraviolet—ozone layer's been shot to hell by pollution."
With a grin, Pavel shouted over the motor's noise, "Let me enjoy one day of sunshine, at least. In Moscow we don't see the sun from September to May."
The man grinned back. "Suit yourself. Red."
As they bounced along the waves Pavel thought he was more in danger of drowning than sunstroke. The spray from the bow drenched him thoroughly. His shirt and slacks were soaked within minutes. Pavel sat there as mute as a sainted martyr, enduring it without a word.
I have heard of new agents receiving baptisms of fire, Pavel said to himself. This is more like the baptism of an ancient Christian.
"But I'm not an assassin," Pavel had blurted.
The director had smiled like a patient teacher upon hearing an obvious mistake from a prize pupil.
"You are," he corrected, "whatever we need you to be. You have been trained to perfection in all the martial arts. Your skills are excellent. Is your motivation lacking?"
Pavel suddenly saw an enormous pit yawning before him, black and bottomless.
"I am a faithful son of the Soviet Union and the Russian people," he repeated the rote line.
"That is good," said the director. "And if the Soviet Union and the Russian people require you to assassinate an enemy of the people, what will you do?"
"Strike without mercy," Pavel said automatically.
The director's smile broadened. "Of course."
"But . . ." The young man hesitated. ". . . Why?"
The director sighed heavily. "We are in a time of great upheavals, my young friend. Enormous upheavals, everywhere in the world. Even within the Soviet Union, changes are coming faster than they have since the glorious days of the Revolution."
Pavel had been taught all that in his political indoctrination classes. And the fact that his father was allowed to retire peacefully and seek therapy for his addiction, instead of being sent to some provincial outpost in disgrace, was a more concrete proof of the changes sweeping the Party and the nation.
"The Soviet Union helped to create the IPF and has led the way toward true disarmament," said the director almost wistfully. Then he added, "But this does not mean that we have entirely foresworn the use of force. There are situations where force is the only solution."
"And this American represents one of those situations?"
"All that it is necessary for you to know will be explained to you in your detailed mission briefings. For now, let me tell you that this capitalist warmonger Alexander is working some sort of scheme to undermine the regime in Libya. We are the friend and protector of the Libyan regime. We will protect our friend by getting rid of his enemy. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
The man in the poncho cut the motor. The world suddenly became silent; the drenching spray ceased. Pavel unconsciously ran a hand through his soaked hair.
"You don't get seasick, do you?" the man asked.
Shrugging, "I don't know. I've never been closer to the sea than one thousand kilometers."
The man laughed. "Hadn't thought of that."
With the water-slicked yellow poncho on him, there was not much of him that Pavel could see except for his face.
Hunched over as he was, it was difficult to tell what his true size was. He seemed rather broad in the shoulder. His face was square, with an almost sad, ironic smile that was nearly crooked enough to be called twisted. His eyes were gray, cold, yet they sparkled with what could only be a bitter kind of amusement. Altogether, his face was not unhandsome, but not truly handsome, either. He seemed big, perhaps close to two meters in height. Not a cowardly type. Yet he kept the poncho over him, claiming to be afraid of solar ultraviolet. A man of contradictions.
"Why are we stopped?" Pavel said. His English was of the American variety, as accentless as the typical Yankee news broadcaster.
"Security," said the man. "Out here we're safe from snoops who want to listen to what we say."
"I might be carrying recording equipment."
The man shrugged. "You might. But you're in my boat, and if you're going to work for me, you'll be on my turf for some time to come."
For a moment Pavel was speechless with surprise. "You are . . .?"
"Cole Alexander." He extended his right hand. "Pleased to meet you, Pavel."
Alexander's grip was strong. Pavel said slowly, "I didn't expect you to meet me personally." He was thinking, I could crush his windpipe and push him overboard. The job would be done. But in the bobbing little boat he was not certain of his leverage or his footing.
"You present a problem to me, Pavel," Cole Alexander was saying. "My Russian contacts made it quite clear that your government wants you on my team. Otherwise I'll have real trouble with the Russkies. I figure that at the very least you're a spy who's supposed to tell the Kremlin what I'm going to do in Libya. At the most, you've been sent out here to murder me."
Pavel kept his face rigid, trying to hide his emotions.
Alexander grinned his crooked grin again. "If you're an assassin, this would be a good place to give it a try. Think you can take me?"
"You are making a joke."
Alexander shrugged. "You're damned near twenty-five years younger than I. That's a lot of time; a lot of booze and women. On the other hand, I'm bigger than you. What do you weigh?"
"Sixty-eight kilos."
"I'm about ninety kilos."
"I am faster than you," Pavel said.
"In a foot race, sure. What about your hand speed?"
Pavel cocked his head to one side. It would not be wise to boast.
Alexander dug a hand inside the poncho and came out with a silver coin. "An American half-dollar. Worth about three cents these days."
He motioned Pavel to move back to the bow of the tiny Zodiac, then placed the coin on the midships bench where Pavel had been sitting.
"Hands on knees." Alexander demonstrated as he spoke.
"I'll count to three. First one to reach the coin keeps it."
Pavel put his hands on his knees and listened to the American count. This is ridiculous, he thought. A typical American macho contest. It's a wonder he didn't challenge me to a duel with six-shooters.
"Three!"
Pavel felt Alexander's hand atop his the instant his own fingers closed around the coin.
"Damn!" Alexander exclaimed. "You are fast. First time anybody's ever taken money oflF me that way."
Pavel offered the coin back to him, but Alexander laughingly insisted he keep it. Holding it in his palm, watching the sunlight glitter off it, Pavel began to wonder if Alexander had deliberately allowed him to win. He is a very clever man, Pavel thought. Even by losing he makes me respectful of him. No wonder the director fears him so.
"Now then," Alexander resumed, "about my problem. If I don't take you in, I suppose your government will try to blow me out of the water and make it look like an accident. So you're in. But don't think you're getting out until we've finished the job we're on now. And don't think you can get word back to Moscow about what we're doing. You'll be watched very carefully."
Pavel nodded, not to show agreement but to show that he understood the situation. What Alexander did not know was that it was not necessary for Pavel to make contact with Moscow or anyone at all. And what Alexander does not know, Pavel thought, could eventually kill him.
"It is an extremely delicate situation," the chief briefing officer had told Pavel.
They had been meeting each day for more than a week, stuffing information and indoctrination into Pavel's aching head. The regular working hours of the day were spent inside the offices and conference rooms of the brief
ing team. Pavel had to carry on his physical training and normal exercises at night, alone in the gymnasium in the basement of the ministry building. He slept little, and the strain was beginning to make him edgy.
The chief briefing officer was wise enough to recognize Pavel's growing tenseness. She had invited him to dinner at her apartment. It was a large and luxurious flat in one of Moscow's best apartment blocks: a beautiful living room decorated with oriental carpets and precious works of art, a finely equipped kitchen, and a frilly but comfortable bedroom with a large bed covered by a tiger skin.
"It's only imitation," the chief briefing officer had told him when she showed him through the place. "But it keeps me warm and cozy."
Her father was a high Party official, a "Young Turk" when Gorbachev had taken over the Kremlin; one of the older generation desperately clinging to his power now. She was at least ten years Pavel's senior, but she was still attractive in his eyes. Almost his own height, a bit stocky, her bosom seemed to strain at her red blouse. Her face had a slightly oriental cast to it that made her seem exotic in the light of the artificial fire glowing electrically in the artificial fireplace.
Over dinner she explained that, since the Soviet Union was one of the founding members of the International Peacekeeping Force, it was impossible for the USSR to overtly support Libya.
"When Colonel Qaddafi was finally assassinated, everyone thought that Libya would return to being a quiet country that produced oil instead of terrorists."
Pavel sipped his hot borscht and listened, trying to keep his eyes off her red blouse. One of the buttons had come undone and it gaped invitingly.
"But Rayyid is more rabid than Qaddafi ever was, as you know from your briefings. He is not the kind of man we would have chosen for an ally, but the inexorable forces of history have thrown us into the same bed—so to speak. Therefore, any attempt to undermine him must be stopped by us, with force, if necessary."
"But quietly," Pavel added, "so that the world does not know the Soviet Union has supported a madman."
She smiled at him. "Only the madman will know, and feel more dependent on us. And, of course, we will discreetly inform certain others who must be made to realize that the Soviet Union protects its friends—without the kind of stupid publicity that the Americans go in for."
"I can see why it is desirable to crush a band of mercenary soldiers," Pavel said, "but I still don't see why we support a nation that sends terrorists around the world. Wasn't Rayyid responsible for blowing up that Czech airliner last year? Two hundred people were killed!"
The chief briefing officer smiled again at Pavel. "Yes, it is true. And regrettable. But international politics is very complicated. Sometimes it is necessary, as I said, to get into bed with someone you do not love."
Pavel thought of the word whore, but did not speak it.
She saw that he was unconvinced. She spent the rest of the night explaining things to him. And he allowed her to, not daring to refuse and—later, when they were both wrapped in the imitation tiger skin—not wanting to refuse.
Alexander started the motor again and the little boat leaped across the waves once more. Just as the sun was starting to dry me out, Pavel thought sourly, squinting into the spray.
They rounded a cliff that tumbled from the wooded ridge line far above straight down into the blue sea. Pavel saw a seaplane tucked into the cove formed by a niche in the line of mountains.
"Home sweet home," shouted Alexander over the drone of the motor.
It was as beautiful a piece of work as anything Pavel had ever seen: the clean graceful lines of a racing yacht wedded to the lean swept-back wings of a jet airplane. Big engine pods bulked where the wings met the plane's body. The T-shaped tail leaned back at a rakish angle. The plane was painted sea-blue, although the underside of the wings were a lighter hue, the color of the sky, Pavel saw as they approached.
A hatch popped open halfway between the wings and tail, and two men tossed out a rope ladder. Alexander maneuvered the Zodiac to the ladder and hooked a line to it. He gestured Pavel into the plane, then clambered up the ladder after him.
"This is where I live," he told Pavel. "This is home, headquarters, and transportation all wrapped up in one."
Tapping a forefinger against Pavel's chest, he added, "Let me give you a piece of advice, friend: never stay in one place long enough for the tax collectors to find you!"
Pavel saw that they were in a utilitarian work area, bare metal walls curving over a scuffed and worn metal flooring.
It was tall enough for Alexander to stand erect. He was just under two meters, Pavel estimated. The two other men were deflating the Zodiac and bringing it aboard for stowage.
"My car . . ." he suddenly remembered.
"All taken care of, don't worry," Alexander said as he wormed out of his yellow slicker. He was wearing a turtleneck shirt and jeans. The uniform of a burglar, Pavel thought. His hair was youthfully thick and full, yet dead white. Another contradiction.
Crooking a finger for Pavel to follow him, Alexander strode to the forward hatch and went through. The next cabin almost took Pavel's breath away. It was what he had imagined, as a child, that a plutocrat's yacht would look like. Brass and polished wood. Comfortable cushioned armchairs—with lap belts. Round portholes. Small tables bolted to the deck, which was covered with a thick carpet of royal blue.
"I've got to go forward for a minute and talk to the pilot," said Alexander as Pavel took in all the luxury.
"Your bunk is the first hatch on the right, forward of this cabin. You might want to get into some dry clothes before we take off."
Even his "bunk" was a well-appointed private compartment, small as a telephone booth yet comfortable, with a foldout desk and a display screen built into the foot of the bed. I should be able to tap into his computer files, Pavel told himself, given a bit of time.
As he dropped his bag on the bunk and unzipped it, the plane's engines roared to life. The compartment shuddered.
Through the porthole Pavel could see that they were turning seaward.
"All personnel, please take seats and strap in. Take off in three minutes."
Pavel tucked his bag in the drawer beneath the bunk, lay down and buckled the safety strap across his middle and was asleep by the time the plane lifted off the water.
It was still daylight when he awoke. Pavel showered and shaved in the coffin-sized bathroom, marveling that he had such facilities all to himself. He dressed in his spare outfit, a loose-fitting maroon shirt and Western jeans, not unlike those Alexander wore. He had only one pair of sneakers: snug and silent.
He went out into the passageway and counted eight sleeping compartments. From his memory of the plane's exterior, he judged that there was another big compartment forward, before the control deck. He went through the open hatch and back into the wardroom where he had last seen Alexander.
The two men who had pulled in the boat were sitting there at a table laden with sandwiches and coffee cups. The young woman sitting with them noticed Pavel.
"Might as well come over and have some chow."
She was small, rather plain-looking, with red hair cut short, almost boyishly. A freckled face with a small stub of a nose. Her face looked somewhat suspicious as Pavel approached; he saw that her brown eyes watched him carefully.
"I'm Kelly," she said, getting up and offering her hand.
"Pavel Krahsnii," he said, making himself smile at her.
"And these two chow hounds are Chris Barker and Nicco Mavroulis."
They mumbled greetings without rising from their seats.
Pavel nodded to them.
"Better eat while you can," said Kelly. "Briefing in ten minutes. And in nine minutes these guys will have gone through all the sandwiches."
Pavel took the chair next to Kelly and reached for one of the sandwiches. He noticed that the table was covered with a real cloth spread.
"I haven't the faintest idea of what's going on here," he said. "I've just arri
ved."
"We know. The boss is worried that you're a spy from the Kremlin. He thinks the best way to prevent you from doing us any damage is to put you to work right away while we keep a close eye on you."
Pavel took a bite of the sandwich, tasting nothing as he assessed the situation. Six eyes were staring at him, none of them friendly.
"The three of you will"—he tried to recall the phrase exactly—"keep a close eye on me?"
"Mostly me," Kelly said. "These guys have plenty of other work to do. The boss doesn't let anybody have much free time."
"The boss is Alexander?"
"You better believe it!" answered Kelly.
Deciding to disarm them with a measured amount of candor, Pavel munched thoughtfully on his sandwich for a few moments more, then said, "The boss is perfectly correct. I am a spy. My government is concerned about your activities and I have been sent to observe what you are doing firsthand."
"I knew it," said Mavroulis. He was dark and hairy, with thick ringlets almost down to his eyebrows and a day's growth of black stubble on his chin. Heavy in the shoulders and chest, like a wrestler. He glared at Pavel.
The other one. Barker, looked English. Light brown hair, almost blond, with calm blue eyes and a faint smile. The kind who could slit your throat while apologizing for it.
"Why does Moscow have any interest in our little operation?" he asked in a high nasal voice. "We don't threaten the superpowers in any way."
Pavel made a small shrug. "Perhaps they fear that you threaten one of our friends."
"Libya," said Kelly. It was a flat statement, toneless.
"Is that where we are going?" Pavel asked.
"We'll find out," she replied, glancing at her wrist, "in eight minutes."
Pavel took another bite of his sandwich.
Kelly forced a smile. "Coffee or tea?" she asked as innocently as a child.
Alexander himself conducted the briefing, which confirmed in Pavel's mind that his band of mercenaries was actually quite small. Perhaps every one of them is aboard this airplane, he thought. Perhaps an accident could wipe them all out of existence.