by Glenn Meade
His wallet lay on the table. His name was Dimitri Popov, which told Arkashin nothing except he was Russian or Ukrainian. No doubt one of the émigrés the Americans used. There was a hypodermic syringe on the table and a vial of scopolamine, the truth drug, Arkashin’s last resort. As he reached for them he heard the knock on the door and turned, slightly alarmed. He was about to reach for the Walther pistol on the coffee table when he heard the voice.
“I really wouldn’t, unless you want to lose your fingers.”
The blond man who stood behind him held a silenced Tokarev pistol in his hand, and the window that led to the fire escape was open, the curtain blowing in the breeze. Arkashin paled when he recognized Slanski.
“Just drop the gun on the table, then be a good boy and open the front door, nice and easy.”
Arkashin did as he was told, placing the Walther on the table, breaking out in a cold sweat as he crossed to the door. His face dropped when he saw who stood there.
As Massey came in, Slanski said quietly, “Jake, I think you’d better take a look at who our friend’s got in the bedroom.”
Massey sat in the chair opposite Arkashin and said in a hard voice, “You’d better tell me what the devil is going on here, and fast.”
Arkashin smiled nervously. “I could very well ask the same. It would be interesting to know what you’re up to. But I ought to tell you I’m an accredited diplomat with the UN Soviet Mission and as such immune from law.”
“Wrong. It makes your situation all the more difficult, so cut the bull, Arkashin.” Massey held up the gun in his hand and clicked back the hammer. “Five seconds, and I’m counting.”
Just then Slanski came back into the room supporting a dazed-looking Popov. When the big Ukrainian saw Arkashin his eyes blazed. “If you don’t pull the trigger, Jake, I will.”
Massey said to him, “Tell me what happened.”
Popov wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth and pointed to Arkashin. “Our friend here’s after the woman. They’ve been tailing her. After I left the cabin some of his men fooled me into stopping my car and knocked me unconscious. Then they brought me here and tried to get me to talk. His name’s Arkashin.”
Slanski tossed a handful of maps and photographs on the table. “These were in the bedroom. It looks like Arkashin’s got a keen interest in photography. And in us.”
Massey looked at the photographs. Some of them were of Anna alone, others of him and Anna and Slanski together coming out of a hotel and at the Boston railway station. The maps were of New Hampshire, and he noticed the markings that circled the lake.
Massey turned pale and looked over at Arkashin. “Where’s your friend Braun?”
Arkashin said gruffly, “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”
Massey crossed to him and put the gun against his forehead and said, “That might be true or not, but if you don’t, so help me, I’m going to punch a hole in you so big you could run a train through it.”
“I really don’t think that would be wise or necessary.”
“I couldn’t care less for your immunity, Arkashin. And it doesn’t apply. What you’re involved in here is kidnapping. That’s a serious federal offense. So talk before I lose my patience and this thing goes off.”
Arkashin sighed and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You understand, we couldn’t let the woman get away just like that.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“The embassy had orders from Moscow.”
Suddenly everything was clear to Massey and he stepped closer. “How did you know where to find her?”
“We tailed her from Helsinki. We’ve been following her since she arrived in this country.”
Massey was silent, then he said, “Why? She’s a nobody.”
Arkashin smiled faintly. “Where people like you and me are concerned, we don’t question an order, Massey. We simply do what our masters tell us.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your activities are well known to us. Finding out your identity from the photographs wasn’t difficult.”
Massey’s face flushed angrily. “Where’s Braun?”
When Arkashin hesitated, Slanski pushed the silenced Tokarev hard into his temple until the man’s eyes opened wide in terror.
“Gone to get the woman.”
“Alone?”
Arkashin shrugged. “Does it matter now? You won’t be able to stop him.”
“What’s he going to do with her?”
“Put her on a Soviet boat in New York Harbor.”
“How long has Braun been gone?”
When Arkashin didn’t reply, Slanski struck him hard across the face with the pistol, drawing blood.
Arkashin staggered back. When he had recovered he wiped blood from his nose. “That wasn’t necessary.”
Slanski’s face was white with rage, and he gestured to Popov and said, “It’ll get a lot worse if I let my friend here repay you for what you did to him. When did Braun leave?”
Arkashin glanced nervously at Popov, then said, “He left for Boston two hours ago by train.”
Slanski said to Popov, “Take him inside and tie him up. Good and tight. So he can’t move or talk.”
“With pleasure. And then I’m going to beat him to pulp.”
Massey glared at the Russian. “After this you won’t see daylight for a long time, Arkashin. Assisting an illegal resident, intent to murder, kidnapping, carrying an illegal weapon. And I’m sure there’s more your immunity won’t cover. You’re finished.”
Arkashin turned noticeably pale.
As Popov moved toward him, Arkashin grabbed for the Walther on the table. When Popov reached to wrench it from him the gun went off, hitting the Ukrainian in the face. As Popov was flung back, Slanski fired once, hitting Arkashin in the heart.
Massey turned white as he went to feel Popov’s pulse. “It’s bad . . . he’s dead.”
Slanski came back from Arkashin’s body sprawled on the floor, the Russian’s clothes bloodied from the wound in his chest. “Arkashin, too. Jake, this is getting muddier by the minute. What now?”
“We get out of here fast. Leave everything as it is. I’ll figure out what to do later.”
Slanski said softly, “We’re never going to get to the lake in time. It’s six hours away by car, and Arkashin’s people have a head start.”
“Then let’s get going.”
Massey was already moving toward the fire escape when Slanski gripped his arm and said, “Wait!” He crossed to the table and picked up one of the maps. There was sweat on his face as he looked back at Massey and said, “There may be a quicker way. But it’s just a chance.”
NEW HAMPSHIRE
Carlo Lombardi hated the countryside. He was used to the smell of gas fumes and smog—chirping birds and trees weren’t really his thing. He wrinkled his nose as Vince rolled down the Packard’s window and the blast of cold fresh air swept in. “Put the darn thing up. What you trying to do? Kill me?”
Vince did as he was told as Braun sat silently in the back. They had come off the highway ten minutes ago, Lombardi doing the driving after picking up Braun from Boston station. The quaint New England wooden houses flashed past, but Lombardi wasn’t impressed.
“What’s the story with the hick with the beard?”
Braun flicked him a look. “He’s Arkashin’s problem now. How much farther?”
“Another hour.”
Lombardi turned to Vince. “You know the plan: anybody gets in the way you blast them. You got the pieces?”
Vince reached down and hefted up a canvas bag. He reached in and removed three handguns, two sawed-off shotguns, and an M1 carbine. Lombardi said, “Hey, what the heck you expecting? Bears?”
Vince shrugged. “You said there could be trouble. You never know.”
Lombardi turned to Braun seated in the backseat and smiled. “I’ll say this for the kid—he comes prepared.”
• • •
Va
ssily stepped out of the boat and helped Anna onto the wooden walkway. They had spent an hour fishing on the lake and caught three large trout, and as they walked back up to the cabin together Anna said, “Tell me about the photograph in the cabin. Is it of Alex’s family?”
“His father and mother, brother and sister. He told you about them?”
“Enough to make a guess about the photograph.”
“Then he must like you, Anna.”
“Why do you say that?”
Vassily looked at her knowingly for a moment, then said, “Alex never talks about them. I think you must have found a chink in his armor.”
She smiled. “When I came up here the first day I have to admit I found him difficult.”
Vassily laughed. “That’s nothing compared to the first day he came here.”
“What was he like?”
“Like a wild little wolf cub. Impossible to tame. He’d refuse to eat or talk. Just wanted to be on his own, like he had a pain so deep in his heart no one could reach.”
“But you reached it.”
Vassily shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’s ever reached it. And I don’t think anyone ever will.”
“So why did you let him stay?”
They approached the cabin, and Vassily put down the fishing things and the trout and sat on the veranda. “I knew he’d been through a bad time and didn’t trust anyone but himself. He needed distraction, and he needed a father. I did what I could and taught him about the woods and about hunting. I don’t know of anyone who could survive better in those woods than Alex, even me. It took his mind off things, and he gradually settled in. And after everything that had happened to him he needed space, not people around him.”
“What happened to his parents?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Vassily thought for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Anna, some things a man is allowed to keep private. If Alex wanted to tell you, he would have. You’ll have to let him tell you that story himself. Now, why don’t you fetch some kindling for the stove and I’ll cook these fish?”
Anna stepped off the veranda. She looked back at him as she brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Vassily?”
“What?”
“I like you. I like you very much.”
Vassily smiled before she turned away. Then he stood up and went inside. At the window he hesitated and saw her disappear into the woods. Then he went into the kitchen to gut the fish.
• • •
An hour later Lombardi saw the sign on the road, TRESPASSERS KEEP OUT!, and turned the Packard onto the snowed-under dirt track. Fifty yards farther along they saw the lake in the distance. Lombardi pulled in, and Vince and Braun were already climbing out as he switched off the engine.
Braun nodded down toward the cabin and looked at Lombardi. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Sweet, ain’t it? Just like Uncle Tom’s cabin. Ready when you are.”
Vince handed out the weapons, and Lombardi checked that he had the knife in his waistband, then said, “Okay, let’s get this thing over with. And Vince, try not to sound like a bear coming through the woods, understand?”
Braun said, “I’ll take the back way, you two take the front. And be careful.”
• • •
Vassily saw the two men come out of the woods as he stood at the kitchen window. They were fifty yards away, and one carried a shotgun and the other a carbine as they moved toward the front of the cabin. He put down the gutting knife and wiped his hands before picking up the Winchester rifle.
He stepped out onto the veranda and said to the men, “Didn’t you see the sign? You’re on private property. Turn around and go back the way you came.”
The fatter of the two strangers appeared to be in charge, the one with the thin mustache. The younger man beside him was nervously fingering his carbine.
The fat man smiled and moved closer. “Hey, take it easy. We got lost. Maybe you can help us.”
Vassily raised the Winchester and said, “Not another step, or I’ll help you to the cemetery. I said you’re on private property.”
The fat man said boldly, “Put down the rifle, old man. That way you won’t get hurt.”
Vassily hesitated. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“Just a friendly talk with the woman. Where is she?”
Vassily turned pale and cocked the Winchester’s hammer with his thumb. “Stop, fat man, or I kill you.”
“This is none of your business. Just bring out the woman, and no one gets hurt. We just want to talk with her.”
“Is that why you come here with guns?”
The fat man stepped closer.
Vassily aimed the Winchester. “Drop your weapons—now.”
“Yeah, says who?” Lombardi snapped.
The shotgun in his hands came up and exploded, and the shot hit Vassily in the right shoulder and he was flung back against the wall. As he fell onto the veranda the men were already moving toward him, and when he grabbed for the Winchester one of them kicked it away. He saw the flash of the blade as the fat man knelt over him. “Too slow, old man. Where’s the woman? Don’t mess with me. Where is she, or I cut your heart out, you red-faced hick?”
Halfway through the woods Anna heard the gunshot and her heart skipped. As she turned she saw the man off to her right and froze. He held a shotgun in his hands and at first she thought he was a hunter, but the shot had come from the direction of the cabin. When she saw the look on the man’s face she knew something wasn’t right.
The man raised the weapon at her and grinned. He had a livid red scar on his face. “Stay where you are.”
Anna halted, and as she looked at the man, confused, he came toward her and she saw the grin widen.
“Nice and easy now. We’re going to move back the way you came.”
Her first instinct was to turn and run, but when she started to move the man came after her and grabbed her by the hair. As she was spun around she lashed out with her foot. She kicked the man in the knee and he crumpled, dropping the shotgun, but when she tried to grab the weapon the man yanked her hair painfully hard and pulled her up. “You stupid cow!”
He struck her hard across the face, again and again, so hard she thought her jaw had broken, and then his fist struck her in the back of the neck and all she remembered after that was darkness.
22
* * *
The small harbor in the broad inlet sixty miles south of Boston known as Buzzards Bay was deserted. The man who walked across to the waterside hangar with Massey and Slanski was tall and thin, with sad eyes and a permanent six o’clock shadow. He had a dour face that suggested he found life an unpleasant experience, and his movements were heavy and unhurried. “You know, it’s really quite irregular, Mr. Slanski, especially in this weather. There ain’t no cloud, but that darned wind’s pretty near sharp enough to skin a dog.”
“I appreciate that, Abe.”
“What’s the big rush that you got to get up to the lake?”
“An emergency.”
Abe Barton looked out doubtfully at the sea and scratched his jaw. “Well, I ain’t too keen about taking off in those waves and coming back in darkness, but I guess on account of it’s an emergency I can oblige. I wouldn’t do it normally, mind.”
It had taken Slanski and Massey almost three hours to drive north to the bay and the tension showed on their faces.
The harbor town had no more than a dozen wooden houses built around it, and the hangar was at the far end of the seawall. There was a skid ramp for launching the flying boat into the water. The hangar doors were closed.
The flying boat worked out of the bay taking hunting and fishing parties up to northern New England in season, and Abe Barton was the pilot, mechanic, and caretaker. He unlocked the padlock to the hangar and rolled back the doors to reveal a bulbous-nosed Seabee single-engine flying boat inside. A tarpaulin covered the nose and Barton pulled it away. He rubb
ed his stubby jaw. “She’ll need to be refueled. There’s just enough in the tanks to warm her up.”
“How long will that take?”
“Ten minutes should do it. There’s fuel in the storeroom back up at the house.”
Slanski said impatiently, “Then I suggest we get moving. We’ll leave the car here.”
Barton sighed and crossed to the door. A couple of small two-wheel upright trolleys stood by the hangar door for carrying the fuel barrels and he dragged one out morosely.
When he had gone Slanski said to Massey, “It’s going to be dark in an hour. Landing on the lake in daylight is difficult enough if the water swell’s bad. In near darkness it’s pretty near impossible.”
Massey looked at the flying boat. “You’re sure Barton can fly this darned thing?”
“Judge for yourself. He knows the lake area pretty well.” Slanski nodded to another trolley in the corner. “We’d better give him a hand with the fuel or we’ll be here all day.”
Five minutes later they all came back, Barton dragging his trolley like a condemned man. Massey and Slanski quickly helped him load the fuel with the mechanical pump. When they had finally winched the Seabee into the water, Barton climbed into the cockpit and started the Franklin engine. It roared into life the first time.
• • •
Anna came awake with a throbbing headache. She was in the cabin, lying on her back on the floor. Vassily was beside her, tied in a chair.
She looked at him in horror. His skin was white and his eyes half closed, an ugly wound in his right shoulder, blood oozing from it, his face badly cut where he had been beaten. His head was slumped to one side, and a strange gurgling sound came from his lips. Anna screamed.
“Shut your mouth, lady.”
When she looked over she saw two men. One was the man with the scarred face from the woods. He sat in a chair by the window, smoking a cigarette, a shotgun across his knees as he stared at her silently. The second man, the one who had spoken, was short and fat and had a thin black mustache. He sat on the table, a slim knife in his hand as he picked at his nails with it and grinned. “So, you’re back in the land of the living?”