by Glenn Meade
“How did the interrogation go?” The Mongolian sounded tired. He had been up all night manning the telephones and communications equipment in the operations room.
“Not too good. Can you come over here, Pasha?”
“I’m on my way.”
Lukin put down the receiver. He rubbed his eyes and felt the tiredness take hold, flood his body. The woman had been unconscious in the military transporter to Moscow, despite the Ilyushin aircraft’s buffeting in bad weather, out cold from the sedative she had been given. But he had slept less than ten hours in almost three days. He felt exhausted, the words in the file a blur now. There was a cup of steaming coffee on the desk, and he picked it up, sipped, and swallowed.
The woman’s capture had been a small victory, but really the whole business had been a defeat. The Wolf had escaped. And Lukin didn’t like the look he had seen on Anna’s face when he questioned her. He knew from experience the kind who talked under interrogation, and she wasn’t one of them. Her resigned expression almost suggested a death wish.
She was afraid, of course, but everyone imprisoned in the Lubyanka was afraid. He sensed that if he tried to cajole her into talking it wouldn’t work. He decided the best approach with a woman like her was honesty. There was another way that might make her talk, and he shuddered thinking about it.
But he had to find the Wolf. Where was he? An order had gone out to army, militia, and KGB commanders within a hundred-mile radius of the forest to mount patrols and checkpoints in case he had evaded the dragnet. But so far nothing had turned up, despite a search lasting through the night. If the Wolf was headed toward Moscow, it made Lukin’s job more difficult. There were so many places a man could hide in a densely populated city.
Lukin again thought about the two missing pages in the Wolf’s file. Why had Beria not allowed him to see them? What was so secret? Something occurred to him. It was well known in Dzerzhinsky Square that Beria secretly despised Stalin and ultimately wanted to succeed him. If the Wolf achieved his goal, that might play into Beria’s hands. Perhaps he really wanted to impede Lukin’s efforts. If there was some clue in the missing pages that might help Lukin, then it was a dangerous game he was caught up in. The simplest way was to ask Beria for the pages and see what happened, but even that might be courting trouble.
The door opened, and Pasha entered. His uniform was crumpled and his eyes bloodshot.
Lukin said, “You look like you’ve been sleeping in a ditch.”
Pasha rubbed his neck and grinned. “No, just one of those bunks that divisional stores stuck us with—a ditch would probably be more comfortable.”
“Any word from the patrols and checkpoints?”
“They still haven’t found him. But something has to turn up soon—he can’t have vanished off the face of the earth. So the woman didn’t talk?”
“Not yet. I want you to arrange something for me.” He wrote a phone number on a slip of paper, handed it across, and explained to Pasha what he wanted him to do.
Pasha looked unhappy. “You’re sure about this, Yuri?”
“I’m afraid so. Beria wants to see me, and he’s going to want results fast.”
Pasha shrugged and left.
The telephone rang, and the major picked it up. “Lukin.”
“Yuri?” Nadia’s voice. “Is everything all right?”
Right now Lukin wanted to lie in his wife’s arms and sleep, drain the exhaustion from his body. He had been away three days. Three days that seemed like hours to him but must have seemed like weeks to Nadia because he hadn’t contacted her.
“Yes, everything’s fine, my love.”
“I called yesterday. They wouldn’t tell me anything. Where you were or when you’d be coming home.”
“The case I’m working on, it’s taking longer than I thought. How are you?”
“Missing you. Come home tonight for dinner. I know you when you’re like this. You get so involved. Please, Yuri. It’ll help you relax.”
“I can’t say, Nadia. You’d better not expect me.”
The line was silent for a long time. “I love you, Yuri.”
“I love you, too.” Then it clicked dead.
• • •
It was almost two o’clock when Lukin drove through the main gates of the Kremlin and parked in the Armory courtyard. Five minutes later he was ushered into Beria’s sumptuous office on the third floor by a Guards captain. Silk tapestries hung on the walls and the furniture was expensive Finnish oak. Beria sat behind his desk, and he looked up from some papers as Lukin entered. “Major, sit down.”
Lukin pulled back a chair. Beria looked over. “I believe congratulations of a sort are in order.”
“Thank you, comrade.”
Beria reached over to a cigar box on the desk and selected one. He frowned. “But you let the man slip from your grasp. Not good at all. You disappoint me, Lukin. Has the woman talked?”
“Not yet, comrade.”
Beria’s eyebrows rose as he lit the cigar. “But you interrogated her?”
“This morning.”
“Considering the seriousness of the matter I thought even some slight progress would have been made by now. In the old days we used to be able to break women within hours. They’re much more susceptible to torture, especially the threat of rape.”
Lukin suppressed an urge to look away in disgust. “It will take a little time. She was injured, as my report explains—”
“I read the report,” Beria interrupted sharply. “You failed to capture the American not once, not twice, but three times. I expected more from you, Lukin.”
“I can assure you I’ll find him, Comrade Beria.”
“To do that you must have some idea where he is. Do you?”
Lukin hesitated. “I believe he’s still in the forest area, hiding out. In that kind of weather and terrain he can’t have gone far. Over a thousand men are searching the area as we speak. I’ve also alerted regional KGB commanders and requested roadblocks be set up on all major and minor roads in the area. All public and private transport will be searched. It’s only a matter of time before the Wolf turns up, dead or alive.”
“I hope that’s so, Lukin. For your sake.” Beria fingered a pen on his desk, the fat fingers playing with it a moment, then he said, “But so far you haven’t exactly inspired confidence. Perhaps I should interrogate the woman myself. I think it’s time to take off the gloves, don’t you? A little violence to soften her. I know you think it’s easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar, but you see, we old hands do have a way in these matters.”
Lukin looked at him. He could see the gleam in Beria’s eye as a grin played on his face. The images Lukin had seen on the movie screen flashed before his mind, and he felt sick. “With respect, I don’t believe simple torture is going to work in her case. I don’t believe she’ll respond to it. I need just a little time to gain her trust and confidence. The best way to do that is to deal with her alone. Just she and I.”
“But will she talk then?”
“I believe so.”
Beria toyed with his pen, as if trying to decide. He sighed. “Very well. We play it your way for now. I’ll give you forty-eight hours to make her talk and to find the man. After that, if you haven’t succeeded, you hand her over to me, and Romulka will deal with her and take over the case. You’re dismissed. That is all.”
When Lukin hesitated, Beria stared at him. “What’s the matter, Lukin? Is there something on your mind?”
“I have a request to make.”
“And what request is that?”
“I couldn’t fail to notice there were two pages missing from the Wolf’s file. I’m certain Comrade Beria had good reason not to include those pages in my copy. However, it strikes me that all information concerning the Wolf should be made available to me. It may help me apprehend him.”
Beria half smiled. “You’re quite right about the pages, Lukin. But you already had the chance to catch the Wolf and failed, three times, w
ithout the supposed benefit of the pages you speak of. Believe me, you have all the information relevant to your mission. Your request is denied. You may leave.”
Lukin stood and walked to the door.
“Lukin.”
He turned back. The black piggish eyes stared at him.
“I believe you and Romulka had a slight disagreement yesterday. Try to remember, you’re working together, not as adversaries. See that it doesn’t happen again. And something else you should know: Romulka is bringing the Frenchman, Lebel, to Moscow, arriving this afternoon. I think it best that Romulka deal with him alone. He’s much more experienced in these matters.”
He paused and puffed on his cigar. “Forty-eight hours. Not a second more. Don’t fail me, Lukin.”
39
* * *
MOSCOW
FEBRUARY 28, 8:30 A.M.
The underground train thundered into the Kiev Station with the sound of a thousand pounding hammers and squealed to a halt. As the doors rolled open, Slanski stepped out onto the platform.
Like most of Moscow’s Metro stations, the Kiev was an absurdly ornate construction: an underground palace of glittering chandeliers and marble walls, decorated with bronze reliefs and red flags hanging from the ceiling. The station was packed with early morning commuters, and the air reeked of stale food and tobacco and sweating bodies. As Slanski stood trying to get his bearings, he felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around.
A young Tartar wearing a blue militia coat over his uniform stood holding a cigarette in his hand as his slanted eyes stared at Slanski. “You have a light, comrade?”
Slanski hesitated, then shook his head. “Nyet.”
The Tartar grumbled and moved away into the crowd.
The militiaman had startled him. He stood for several moments, sweating, trying to regain his composure as people swarmed past. He was on unfamiliar territory, and the noise and the crowds made him feel uneasy. He saw the steep escalators at either end of the platform and took one to the top.
There was no letup in the crowds when he reached ground level. The station entrance hall teemed with milling bodies. He saw a number of military uniforms in the crowd, mostly army officers carrying briefcases as they hurried briskly to and fro, but they paid him no attention.
Slanski saw a public toilet across the hall, and he went inside. The place was filthy and stank to heaven, but there was a washbasin and a cracked mirror on the wall. He looked at his face. As he ran the water he thought, I look terrible.
His eyes were red and swollen from lack of sleep. Disheveled and unshaven and covered in grime, Slanski still wore the coat Vladimir had given him. But he had abandoned the motorbike in a remote wood outside the suburb of Tatarovo, buried the suitcases, the helmet, and the goggles a distance away, using his hands to dig in the hard-packed snow. He had worn the extra clothes to keep out the cold on the motorbike, and now the garments were stuck to him with sweat. He had walked a mile to the nearest train station at Tatarovo before transferring to the Metro.
Slanski ached for sleep. He had been driving for almost fifteen solid hours through forest and on minor roads, having to avoid at least half a dozen checkpoints in the first two hours alone.
The fear of what might have happened to Anna had left him depressed, and he tried desperately to keep the black mood from crowding in on him. But it refused to go away. Was she still alive? Had Lukin caught her? He hoped for her sake she had bitten the pill, even though that thought made him more despondent, but he remembered looking back at the last moment, recognizing Lukin, and seeing him lunge at her. Somehow the major had survived the helicopter crash. How, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the man was alive and determined to catch them.
If Anna was alive, he dreaded to think what Lukin might do to her, and suddenly a terrible surge of hate flooded him. He wanted to kill Major Lukin. Kill him with vengeance.
The door to the toilet opened. A sergeant in army uniform came in and began to use the urinal. After a few moments the man glanced over idly.
Slanski finished washing and stepped out into the station hall again. He glanced back, but the sergeant hadn’t followed him. He noticed a number of militia and army personnel moving through the crowd, but none of them seemed remotely interested.
He left the station quickly and walked two blocks to Kutuzovsky Prospect, the charge of people and traffic in the morning rush hour almost overwhelming. It took him almost ten minutes to find the right bus stop on the prospect, and he looked behind him before he climbed on board but saw no one watching or following him.
• • •
The sign above the wrought-iron gates said STATE ORPHANAGE NUMBER 57. DISTRICT OF SABUROVO.
Lukin showed his pass to the attendant in the lodge and drove the BMW in through the gates. Pasha sat beside him in the car. He looked uncomfortable. “You mind going in alone, Yuri? These places always give me the creeps.”
“Me, too. But as you wish.”
When Lukin halted outside the grim four-story red-brick building and climbed out, he saw the massive front doors open. A middle-aged woman wearing a white doctor’s coat came slowly down the steps. Her face was a picture of stern authority, and her cold eyes studied him before she held out a limp hand. “Major Lukin, I presume? I’m the orphanage matron.”
Lukin ignored the woman’s hand and showed her his ID. Her hard stare registered the affront, and she inspected his ID card closely before she looked back at him. “I must say the request your comrade lieutenant made was most unusual. No doubt you have the written authority I require.”
“I think that ought to cover everything.” Lukin handed her the signed letter from Beria.
The woman’s tone changed immediately. “Why . . .of course, Comrade Major.”
“My time is rather limited. The child, if you please.”
“Follow me.” The matron went back up the steps, opened one of the massive doors, and stepped inside. A smell of carbolic soap and stale food wafted out of the building.
As Lukin followed the matron, some instinct made him look up. At a window on the second floor, two scrawny-faced young boys stared down wide-eyed at the green BMW with Pasha sitting inside. Their faces had the look of caged and frightened animals. When they saw Lukin notice them they vanished from the window.
Lukin felt a shiver down his spine as he followed the matron inside.
• • •
The dacha was in the Ramenki District, five miles from Moscow.
Slanski got off the bus two stops early and walked the last five minutes down a secluded birch-lined road until he found the address. The wooden house was big, two-story, and painted green. It was set in its own large grounds surrounded by tall birch trees. Several other dachas stood nearby, lining either side of the road, but judging by the shuttered windows they were deserted. A narrow pathway led up to the dacha, and there was a large woodshed off to the right toward the back.
Slanski watched the place for five minutes, walking up and down the empty street. Because of everything that had happened he was two days early, and he wondered if the woman was home. The shutters were open, but he saw no movement behind the curtained windows. He decided to risk knocking on the front door.
He walked up the pathway and knocked hard. Moments later the door opened, and a woman appeared. He recognized her from Massey’s description. She looked at him cautiously. “Yes?”
“Madame Dezov?”
“Yes?”
“I’m a friend of Henri’s. You were expecting me.”
The woman went visibly pale. She studied Slanski for several moments, then looked out nervously into the street. “Come inside.”
She led him into a large kitchen at the back. There was a stove lit in one corner, and beyond the kitchen window Slanski saw a long, broad garden dotted with withered fruit trees and bare vegetable plots. The woman said anxiously, “You’re here two days early. And there were supposed to be two of you. I was expecting a man and a woman.”
> Slanski looked at her. She was undeniably handsome. She wore nail varnish, and the long nails were perfectly manicured, her eyebrows plucked and darkened. He noticed she wore no wedding ring. “I’m afraid there was a problem. My friend didn’t make it.”
The woman asked hesitantly, “What happened?”
Slanski told her but didn’t go into detail or mention Lukin. He saw the look of fear on the woman’s face and said, “Don’t worry, she knew nothing about you.”
“Are you certain?”
“You have my word you’re safe.”
Slanski looked at the woman. He realized she was more nervous than he thought, and that made him suspicious. He noticed the concentration camp numbers tattooed in blue ink on her wrist, then saw a framed photograph on the wall. It showed a man in a colonel’s uniform. A hard and ugly face that looked as though it had been beaten with rifle butts. “Who’s that?”
“My husband, Viktor. He was killed during the war.”
“I’m sorry.”
The woman laughed, then looked at the photograph with contempt. “Don’t be. The man was a pig. I wouldn’t have cut him down if he was hanging. I only keep his picture there to remind myself how lucky I am without him. Every anniversary I get drunk and spit at it. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Sit down. I’ll make you something.” The woman busied herself cutting several thick slices of bread and sweaty goat’s cheese. As Slanski ate ravenously she heated a pot of soup on the stove, then poured them each a glass of vodka and joined him at the table. “You look like you’ve gone ten rounds in a boxing ring.”
“I guess that’s close enough.”
“Eat and drink some more. Then I’ll heat some water for you to wash and shave.” The woman wrinkled her nose. “You smell worse than a cattle train. Give me your jacket and shirt for a start. There are some old things of Viktor’s somewhere that should fit you.”
“Where would the KGB have taken my friend in Moscow?”