by Glenn Meade
“Interesting. You never told me about her killing the guards.”
“If you’re still unsure about her, I’ll let you have the relevant details about her escape from her file.”
“Do that.”
“Any more questions?”
“Just tell me the odds on the plan working.”
Massey shook his head. “I can’t answer that. Nobody can. At best you succeed, at worst you die. There’s going to be no radio contact once you go in and you’ll both be on your own, apart from the safe houses I’ll set up. Your chances depend on yourselves and lady luck. And let’s just hope she smiles on you both, my friend.”
He saw a sudden look of doubt on Slanski’s face and said, “You’re still in?”
Slanski was silent for several moments. He looked out of the window. Without turning back he said, “On one condition: I have the final say on whether the woman’s in. You let me meet her as soon as she’s made up her mind.”
Massey thought for a moment. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” He picked up the file he had shown Slanski. “We’ve got a code name for the operation—Snow Wolf. But I keep the file, I’m afraid. It’s eyes only. No one but you, me, and the folks at the top get to see it. We’ll both go through all the details again later, so there won’t be any mistakes, but the file stays with me.”
He replaced the file in his briefcase, then removed another, placed it on the table, and slid it across. JOSEPH STALIN was written on the folder cover in blue ink. “In the meantime, you’d better read this.”
Slanski picked up the folder. “What is it?”
“Everything we know about Joseph Stalin. His background, his personality, his weaknesses, his strengths. Even medical data. His present security arrangements, as far as we can ascertain. The layout of the Kremlin and the dachas he uses. I want you to study it carefully. This isn’t an ordinary mission, Alex. You’re going to try to kill the devil incarnate. You know the rule—know your enemy the way you know yourself. Needless to say, you don’t show the file to anyone. Destroy it when you’ve memorized everything you need to.”
Slanski half smiled. “Then all things being equal, I guess there’s really only one more question.”
“What’s that?”
“When do I go in?”
“A month from now.”
13
* * *
NEW YORK
JANUARY 26
The apartment was on the top floor, and she came to the door as soon as Massey knocked.
“Hello, Anna.”
For a moment she hesitated, then a smile lit up her face. “Massey . . .!”
“You look surprised.”
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
She took him by the hand, led him inside, and closed the door. The apartment was a studio with a single bed, a table, and two rickety chairs. There were some winter roses in a vase by the window, and the view looked down to a liquor store below, Brooklyn and Queens in the distance.
The place didn’t look like much, but then Massey guessed Anna would have been happy with anything after her experience in the Gulag. She had done her best to make it pretty, but there were no family photographs on the walls and it made him feel sad, knowing how lonely she must have felt. He handed her the brown-wrapped parcel. “For you.”
She smiled and the surprise lit up her face. “I don’t understand. What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
She opened the brown paper. It was a box of Kuntz’s chocolates. The big brown eyes looked almost childlike as they met his face.
Massey said in Russian, “My way of saying hello again. One Russian to another. How have you been, Anna?”
“Good. And even better now that I’ve seen you again. Thank you for the present, Jake.”
“It’s nothing.” He looked at her figure. “Don’t get angry when I say this, but you’ve put on weight since Helsinki and it suits you.”
She laughed. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment.” She held up the box of chocolates. “And these are not going to help, but thank you again. I found an émigré store that sells really good Russian tea. Would you like some?”
“You read my mind. I’ll have it Russian-style.” He smiled. “Seven sugars but don’t stir.”
She laughed and went into the tiny kitchen.
• • •
They sat at the table. Massey sipped the tea and spoke in Russian.
“It’s good to see you smile, Anna. I guess last time we met you didn’t have much to smile about. I hear you have a job?”
“In a garment factory owned by a Polish-American. It’s a crazy place, but I like it. And the girls I work with are not how I thought American girls would be.”
“In what way?”
“They talk a lot more than Russian girls. And they laugh more. And eat more.” She smiled. “That’s why I put on weight.”
“I guess you must make big dresses, huh?”
She laughed. “Not that big.”
“Have you made many friends?”
“Some.”
Massey looked around the room. “Don’t you get lonely here all on your own?”
“Sometimes.” Anna shrugged. “It’s not so bad. But I’m so glad you came to see me, Jake.”
“Actually, it’s unofficial business, not pleasure.”
She put down her cup and looked across at him. “I don’t understand. I was told someone wanted to talk to me about my work permit. Is that why you’re here?”
For several moments Massey sat, not saying anything. When he finally spoke his voice was quiet and serious. “Anna, I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came to talk about something else.” When he saw the confusion on her face he said, “Will you do something for me, Anna? Will you just listen to what I have to say? Then we can talk some more. But for now, just listen.”
Anna hesitated, then nodded.
Massey stood up. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at her face. “First, I want you to understand one thing: What I have to tell you is strictly confidential. If you speak about it to anyone I can promise that your right to remain in this country will be revoked. You may even face court charges.” He saw the sudden look of fear on her face and said, “I’m sorry for being so blunt, Anna, but you’ll understand why when I’ve finished. I want to put a proposition to you. If you say no to what I propose, then I walk away from here and you never see me again and this conversation never took place. If you say yes, then we talk some more. Is that much clear?”
She was still looking at him, uncertainty on her face, and Massey said gently, “Don’t be afraid. Whatever your answer is, it in no way affects your right to remain in America. But I want to make it clear that you speak to no one about this conversation.”
She nodded slowly. “I understand.”
“Good. Now we’ve got that part out of the way.” He sat down and took his time before he began. “Anna . . .The people I work for, they need a woman to be part of a very sensitive mission.”
She stared back at him. “What sort of mission? You mean something to do with the military?”
Massey shook his head and half smiled. “Not the military, Anna. And I can’t tell you who right now. But let’s just say these people plan to send a man, an American, into Russia. Moscow to be precise. They need a woman to accompany him, someone who’s recently been in the Soviet Union. Someone who knows her way around and wouldn’t feel or look out of place. This woman would have to act as the man’s wife. It would be dangerous and difficult, and there’s no guarantee she’d come back.”
“I don’t understand. What has this got to do with me?”
“The people I spoke about want you to be that woman.”
Massey studied her face. She looked frightened. For several long moments she stared back at him. “I don’t understand. You’re asking me to go to Moscow?”
“I know it sounds crazy. What you escaped from doesn’t bear thinking about. To ask you to g
o back again is like asking you to return to hell. But not for nothing, Anna. Like I said, there’s something these people can do for you in return.”
She looked at Massey, totally dumbstruck, then she said, “What?”
“Get you your daughter back.”
Massey watched her reaction. It was as if a painful, terrible wound had opened. Her face drained of color, and she didn’t speak for several moments, the dark eyes probing Massey’s face.
“Anna, I told you before this conversation began all I needed to know after I put the proposition to you was do we keep talking, or do I walk away from here and we never see each other again?”
She stared at him, and Massey saw the wet eyes. “You didn’t lie when you said you can get Sasha out of Russia? You can really do that? You can bring her to America?”
“It can be done, Anna. You’ll just have to trust me.” He stood up slowly. “Do you want a little time to think about what I’ve said? If you like I can take a walk and come back in an hour.”
She stared back at him. For several moments she sat there, tears at the edges of her dark eyes. “No, I want to hear what you have to say.”
Massey put a hand gently on her shoulder and said, “How about I fix us some more tea? Then we can talk this over.”
• • •
She sat listening intently without touching her fresh tea. When Massey had finished she asked, “How long would I be in Russia?”
“At the outside, ten days. But that’s not something I can guarantee. We’ll do our best to keep it as brief as possible. But it will be dangerous, Anna. Make no mistake. I’d be lying if I told you otherwise.”
“What is this man going to do in Moscow?”
“Kill someone.” Massey said the words so matter-of-factly he thought she would be shocked, but she didn’t react, her face blank.
“Who?”
“That’s not something you need to know.”
“Then am I allowed to ask why?”
“You don’t need to know the answer to that question, either. But you’ll be long gone from Moscow before it happens.” He paused. “Anna, I’ll be honest with you: you may not come back. But that’s a risk you’re going to have to take to get your daughter back.”
She hesitated a moment. “Why did you come to me?”
Massey smiled. “I guess the people I speak for think you have all the right qualifications for the job. You speak Russian and you know the country.”
“You didn’t tell me how you’d get my daughter out. You didn’t tell me how you’d find her.”
Massey shook his head. “And I can’t. Not until I know you agree to go along with what I’ve proposed. But what we do know will help. She’s in an orphanage, probably in Moscow. We have contacts in Moscow through the émigré organizations. Underground groups and dissidents. People who could help us find your daughter. It’s not going to be easy, but if you go along with this then you’ll have my word the deal will be kept. Not only that, but I’ll arrange new identities for you and Sasha and whatever you’ll need materially to start a new life together afresh.”
The tears had stopped, but Massey saw a look like grief on her face. He guessed she had tried hard to put her daughter from her mind but had found it impossible. “Maybe things are moving a little too fast for you right now. And I guess my vagueness hasn’t helped, but as I said, I can’t tell you any more until I know where I stand.”
He wrote down a phone number on a slip of paper. “You need to be alone to think this through. I’m staying at the Carlton off Lexington Avenue. Room 107. You can contact me there when you make up your mind. There’s someone at the hotel I want you to meet. He’ll have the final decision whether you go to Moscow or not. But call me tonight one way or the other.”
As Massey left the note on the table Anna shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I’ve already thought about it. The answer is yes.”
• • •
Slanski sat in the room on the eighth floor of the hotel off Lexington Avenue, sipping a Scotch. He heard the footsteps outside, then the door opened and he saw Massey standing in the doorway.
A woman stood beside him. She was very beautiful. She had high cheekbones and dark hair. She wore a simple, inexpensive black dress that emphasized her figure, and he couldn’t help but admire the splendid curves of her body.
But it was her face that held him, a face he instantly reacted to. Something in those dark Slavic eyes that suggested a curious mixture of strength and remorse. It seemed like a long time before his eyes left her face and Massey said, “Alex, meet Anna Khorev.”
Anna stood staring at the man. There were a few moments of hesitation, and then she saw his eyes take her in. It was as if they bored into her very soul, terribly frightening and terribly reassuring both at once, and it seemed he was trying to make up his mind about something.
Then he glanced at Massey, and as he looked back at Anna he suddenly smiled broadly, raised his glass in a toast, and said in Russian, “I guess it’s welcome to the club.”
• • •
The two men sitting in the black Packard across the street from the hotel had followed the yellow cab from Manhattan’s East Side.
As Massey and Anna had climbed out, the man in the passenger seat had rolled down the window and steadied the Leica.
The light was bad, but there was a wash from the blaze of lights at the front of the building and the man got two shots of the couple as they got out of the cab, another three as they went up the steps into the hotel.
14
* * *
NEW YORK
JANUARY 27, 8 P.M.
The man who called himself Kurt Braun had his eyes on the young woman’s shapely figure as she leaned over to place his double Scotch on the table. It was stunning in the low-cut top, even in the dim lighting of the dingy bar on Manhattan’s Lower East Side docks.
“That’ll be a dollar, sir.”
Braun smiled at the waitress as he peeled off two singles from the wad he took from his pocket. “Keep the change. You look like you’re new here.”
“Thanks, mister. I started Friday.”
“Where do you come from?”
She smiled back. “Danville, Illinois. You ever hear of it?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Maybe that ain’t such a bad thing.”
Braun grinned and glanced around the bar. The private club Lombardi ran as a sideline was doing good business. It was only eight, but the place was buzzing already. Friday night and every young tough from the docks and visiting sailors were coming in for drinks and a look at the talent. A record was on in the background, Kay Kyser and his orchestra playing “On a Slow Boat to China.”
He looked back at the waitress. “Do me a favor and tell Vince that Kurt Braun is here.”
“Sure.”
She walked away, and Braun watched her retreating figure in the tight skirt before he looked around the bar. A couple dozen men were in the place, and a handful of waitresses were working the tables. They were dressed cheaply in flashy clothes, and wore too much makeup.
It was five minutes later when Lombardi’s bodyguard, Vince, came to the table. Broad and well built, he had a nose that looked as if it had been flattened into his face with a sledgehammer. The man hadn’t a hint of grace in his body, and there was a bulge under his left arm where Braun knew the holstered pistol was.
The two men looked at each other a moment, like prizefighters sizing each other up, before Vince spoke. “Carlo is waiting upstairs. He said to go right on up.”
Braun finished his Scotch and stood.
• • •
The sign in scratched gold lettering on the door of the second floor above the club said LONGSHOREMEN’S UNION.C. LOMBARDI—DISTRICT CHIEF.
Carlo Lombardi was a small, fat Sicilian in his middle forties with a pencil-thin mustache. As his title suggested, he ran the Manhattan Lower East Side dockland as if it were his private territory, and besides the club downs
tairs he had numerous business interests, including a share in the profits from three local brothels that serviced visiting merchant sailors. Despite his harmless appearance, Lombardi had a reputation for violence, especially with a knife. The only vanity he allowed himself was occasionally combing his hair to cover the pink scalp that erupted like an angry rash through the hair.
A smart hick in the bar had once joked that Lombardi combed his hair with a wet sponge, and Lombardi had taken pleasure in waiting for him in an alleyway a block away, sticking a knife in his eyeball and twisting till the dung-kicking hick screamed like a stuck pig. No one slighted Carlo Lombardi and walked away unhurt.
He heard the knock as Vince opened the door to admit Braun.
The visitor looked small beside Lombardi’s muscular bodyguard, but he had a livid red scar on his left cheek and an air of menace about him that suggested he was equally dangerous.
“Mr. Braun to see you, Mr. Lombardi.”
“Leave us, Vince.”
The door closed and Lombardi came around slowly from behind his cluttered desk to greet his visitor. The office blinds were drawn, cutting out the view of the East River and docks beyond the window, but the light was on overhead, and when Lombardi had shaken the man’s hand, he said gruffly, “You wanna drink?”
“Scotch.”
Lombardi poured two Scotches from a chrome cabinet by the window and threw in some ice cubes. He came back and handed Braun his drink before he sat down. “You want the story on the broad?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You mind if I ask a personal question? What the heck is up? You got me watching her for months now. She does nothin’. ”
Braun sipped his Scotch, sat back in his chair, and said sharply, “Just give me the story, Lombardi. That’s why you get paid.”
Lombardi sighed, reached toward a drawer, and pulled out a large brown envelope, clusters of gold rings on his fat fingers. As he looked back up he smiled and said, “The new girl downstairs, you see her?”
“I saw her.”
Lombardi smiled. “She’s only a farmer’s daughter, but she sure knows how to act like a hoe, get it?”