by Glenn Meade
As Lukin stared up at the man’s face he felt a terrible overpowering rage. “You know what your trouble is, Romulka? You and your type are the scum of the KGB. Cowards, all of you. And like all cowards you get pleasure inflicting pain. You brute, you haven’t an ounce of pity in you. You want to know where the woman is? Here’s your answer.” He threw his drink in Romulka’s face.
Romulka flung away his glass in a rage and reached over and grabbed Lukin by the collar, twisting him around in the chair. A fist smashed into Lukin’s face, and he was flung back.
As he crashed onto the floor Romulka was already moving in for the kill. For a big man he moved fast, but not fast enough.
Lukin stumbled to his feet, all senses alert now. He ducked right as Romulka punched the air. Lukin saw his chance and swung his hand up, and the metal hook impaled itself in Romulka’s forearm.
Romulka’s eyes snapped open, and he screamed in agony. Lukin pulled him in like a baited fish, and his knee smashed into the man’s groin. Romulka yelled in pain as Lukin pulled out the hook, and blood spurted on the carpet.
Romulka fell to the floor, still screaming, and a couple of army captains rushed forward to break up the fight. Lukin roared, “Leave him!” The men took one look at the rage on Lukin’s face and stopped in their tracks.
Romulka stared back up, murder in his eyes, pain twisting his face. “Understand one thing, Lukin—I’m going to find the Wolf. Do you hear me? I’m going to succeed, and you’ll have failed. And then you’re finished, Lukin! Dead!”
Lukin took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the metal hook. “And you understand this—I see you within two paces and so help me, I’ll kill you.”
He noticed the entire room had gone deathly silent. Faces gaped at him and a few stern-faced elderly officers scowled their disapproval. But no one moved, and from the looks on their faces they obviously thought he was deranged.
Lukin turned to the two officers. “I suggest you call a doctor before the colonel here ruins the carpet.” Then he turned and strode out the door.
• • •
When Lebel came around he started to cry. The pain in his groin was unbearable, and the sickening feeling of nausea still hadn’t left him. Suddenly a bucket of water was splashed in his face, and Romulka’s voice roared, “Wake up, Jew! Wake up!”
Lebel spluttered behind the wet gag as Romulka leaned over the table. He looked pale and in a savage mood. Lebel noticed a bloodied bandage on his forearm. “You’re being stupid, Lebel, don’t you think? A simple question is all you have to answer. Who is helping your friends in Moscow? You tell me how I find them, and I release you. Not only that but I’ll do you a favor: I promise your friends won’t be hurt. It’s the American I’m after. The American and his female companion. No one else concerns me.”
Sweat and water ran down Lebel’s face and he mumbled behind the gag. Romulka tore it off. “You have something to say?”
“You idiot . . .you’re . . .making . . .a mistake . . .”
There was a murderous look in Romulka’s face. “Have it your way.”
Lebel felt the implement being attached between his legs again, tightened, and the pain again shot through his spine, only this time more intensely. His screams rang around the walls, and tears flooded his eyes.
It was too much . . .Too much to bear. His tortured cry rang around the cell. “No . . .!”
Romulka shouted to one of the men, “Get the scopolamine.”
The man came back from the table with a syringe filled with a yellowish liquid, and Romulka said to Lebel, “The truth drug. Either way you’re going to talk, Lebel, but let’s just see how much more pain you can stand, shall we?” Romulka turned the screw more tightly, and the pain increased until it flooded Lebel’s body from head to toe.
He screamed again. He couldn’t bear it. He tried to tell Romulka he would talk, tell him everything, anything to stop the pain, and then he passed out again.
• • •
It was eleven thirty when they reached the street. There was no street lighting, and Massey had to strain his eyes to see the van parked at the end of the road. The glass was frosted over, but he saw that patches had been scraped away so that the driver could see out. The Ukrainian tapped on the side window. “Open up, Sergei, it’s me.”
The driver’s door opened and a young man peered out, his icy breath fogging the air. He looked almost frozen to death, despite the fact that he was wearing a heavy coat and hat and a scarf covering the lower half of his face. “About time, Kapitän!”
Massey and the Ukrainian slid into the freezing cab. When the driver recognized Massey he said, “What the devil?” When he had got over the shock, he said to Massey, “You going to tell me what’s happening?”
“Later. What’s the situation?”
“They’re still in there. They haven’t moved so far as I can tell. The dacha’s the third on the left.”
Massey rubbed a patch in the icy window. He saw the dark outline of houses across the street and counted off the third one, a bank of trees in front. He turned to the driver and explained everything he had told his companion. Massey would go in alone first. If he wasn’t out in half an hour or the men heard shooting they were to enter the house back and front and finish the job.
As the driver checked the action of his weapon and screwed on the silencer, Massey said, “I want you to cover the rear.”
The young man grinned. “No problem. Anything to get out of Moscow.”
Massey looked at the red-haired man. “You stay out front and keep under cover in the front garden. If anyone other than me comes out you both know what to do.”
“You’re sure you don’t need help inside?”
Massey shook his head. “Just understand one thing: the man will be armed, and he’s very dangerous. So be careful.”
The red-haired man grinned. “Whatever you say, Americanski. But we were SS, remember? We know how to handle ourselves. Right, Sergei?”
“As the kapitän says.”
“For your sakes I hope you’re right,” said Massey. He looked back toward the dacha. There was no way out for Slanski if he tried to leave. And if Massey himself failed, then the two men would end it. He checked the silenced Tokarev. His hands were shaking, and a sudden nausea in the pit of his stomach made him want to vomit.
The driver said, “Hey, are you okay, Americanski?”
Massey nodded and took a deep breath. They synchronized their watches, and Massey said, “Okay, let’s go.”
The three of them stepped from the car.
• • •
Lukin sat in the operations room leafing frantically through the lists of car registrations. He had been stupid to do what he did to Romulka. But his rage had been so overpowering he couldn’t help himself. He tried to concentrate on the papers in front of him.
By law and for internal security, all public and private transport vehicles in the Soviet Union were registered with the militia and the KGB 2nd Directorate. Vehicle licenses and ownership were strictly controlled and both were automatically refused to those convicted of serious criminal and political crimes, so Lukin had disregarded the lists of dissidents.
He had gone to the registrations office and showed the officer in charge his letter from Beria, and ten minutes later the man had come back with a ten-page list of Skoda owner registrations for Moscow. It had taken Lukin another fifteen minutes to find a couple of likely suspects. There were a dozen gray Skodas registered to women owners. Lukin considered that it was also likely the car could be registered in the woman’s husband’s name if she was married, but two female owners stood out on the lists.
One was named Olga Prinatin. Lukin knew she was a famous ballerina with the Bolshoi, and her description was nothing like the one Rizov had given him. Another woman, named Irena Dezov, also had a gray Skoda registered in her name. Her address was in the Ramenki District, southwest of Moscow. He knew the area. It was a place where many senior army officers had weekend da
chas. The kind of place Nadia could have been held.
As Lukin noted all the other brief details in the file, he felt his pulse quicken. A widow, Irena Dezov was aged thirty-eight, and there was a photograph that showed a handsome dark-haired woman. He could check further on her background in the 2nd Directorate records office and see if he could come up with anything that suggested her motive. But some instinct told him he was on the right track.
As he scrambled to his feet, the door opened. Pasha came in. His face still looked gaunt and pale. Lukin said, “Why aren’t you at home? I want you to keep out of this. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“I wanted to see if you were okay.” He hesitated. “And I need to talk. Something’s come up.” He saw the notebook in Lukin’s hand. “What have you got there?” When Lukin explained about the woman, Pasha smiled. “Maybe you’ve struck gold. You think Alex Slanski could be using her place as a safe house?”
“It’s all I’ve got, Pasha.”
“There’s something you ought to know. I just saw Romulka getting into a Zis out in the courtyard. He seemed in a hurry, and there was another car following behind with some nasty-looking heavies, armed to the teeth. I phoned the cellars. Apparently, the Frenchman’s in a bad state, and the prison doctor had to give him a shot of morphine.”
Lukin whitened.
Pasha said, “Looks like maybe Romulka was right, and Lebel’s cracked or been drugged up to the eyeballs with scopolamine to make him talk. What are you going to do?”
Lukin reached for his belt and holster and hurriedly buckled it on. “Follow them, and see what direction they’re going in. If it’s toward Ramenki, as I suspect, I’ll try and get to the woman’s address before Romulka does. If it’s not, I’m in trouble. There’s no time to check her background further. Give me those car keys, man, quick!”
“You’re going alone?”
“I’m going to take a couple of men along,” Lukin lied.
“And what happens if Anna Khorev’s there? How do you explain that?”
“That’s my problem. But you’re out of it, Pasha. That’s an order.”
“You forget, I’m on sick leave. I don’t have to take orders.”
“Pasha, for once do as you’re told.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” Pasha hesitated, his face suddenly bleak. “What do we do if we find Slanski?”
“Heaven knows.”
“If Romulka gets his hands on him and the woman, they’re finished. So are we.”
Lukin was suddenly gripped by a terrible feeling of confusion and panic. The whole business was a mess, and he didn’t know exactly what he was going to do once he reached the woman’s address, if she was the right one. He didn’t want Pasha to come with him, but he knew it was pointless arguing and he didn’t have the time. The man was disobeying him more out of loyalty than any disrespect. Lukin said, “I’ve got a better idea. Where’s Lebel now?”
“In the prison surgery. The doctor’s still patching him up.”
“Get Lebel, and bring him up to the courtyard. We’re taking him with us. I could be wrong about Irena Dezov. Let’s see if he can tell us what he told Romulka.”
“According to one of the guards he’s barely able to walk.”
“Then get him some more morphine from the doctor. Do whatever you have to, but just get the Frenchman.” He handed Beria’s letter to Pasha. “And if anyone questions you show them that.”
He picked up his car keys from the desk and was already moving toward the door. “Let’s get going. Romulka’s got a head start.”
48
* * *
It took Massey five minutes to thread his way through the woods to the rear of the dacha, and when he came out of the trees he found himself at the end of a large garden with withered fruit trees covered in snow. The shutters on the dacha’s windows were open, but all the windows were closed and no light showed behind the curtains. He could make out what looked like an open woodshed off to the left with a car parked in it.
He moved forward, staying in the shadows, to a small flagstone patio at the rear. He tried the back door, turning the handle gently. It was unlocked. He pushed. The door creaked a little, then opened quietly on its hinges. The room inside was in pitch darkness. Massey stood for several moments, tensed for a reaction, aware of the sweat on his face as he listened for any sound within the house or for something to happen.
Nothing. The silence rang like thunder in his ears.
He stepped inside. There was a strong smell of cooked food. From the location of the room and the smell he guessed he was in the kitchen. He flicked on his flashlight. The room was large and basic: a table and some chairs and some pots and kitchen utensils. He saw a hallway ahead, a door halfway down. A yellow crack of light spilled out from under the door. He moved carefully toward the light, his heart beating in his ribs.
When he reached the door, he hesitated and listened again. Silence. He cocked the Tokarev.
Click. In the stillness the faint noise sounded like an explosion. He tensed. Again, he waited for a reaction.
Nothing.
He took a deep breath, then pushed in the door and stepped quickly into the room. As he sought a target, he felt the cold tip of a gun against his neck. He froze, then tried to look around as someone stepped from behind the door.
Slanski’s voice said, “I wouldn’t, Jake. Now how about you drop the gun. I think we need to talk.”
• • •
As the BMW drove over Lutznikovski Bridge toward October Square, Lukin wiped the perspiration from his face and checked his watch.
Eleven thirty. There was a groan in the backseat from Lebel. The Frenchman was out of it, his eyes closed. Lukin had put handcuffs on him, but the man was going nowhere, still dazed after the drugs. The doctor had given them some extra morphine, but by the look of it Lebel was already drugged up to the eyeballs. According to the doctor, the combination of the scopolamine and morphine acted as a strong painkiller but caused drowsiness, and Lukin wondered if taking the Frenchman along had been a waste of time.
Now Pasha looked out beyond the windshield. “At this rate we’ll be lucky to make Ramenki before sunrise.”
For some reason the late-night traffic was slow and thick over the bridge. Suddenly it had ground to a halt in both directions. “Something’s wrong up ahead.” October Square lay at the far end of the bridge. There seemed to be a pileup of traffic, and drivers were climbing out of their cars. Lukin had no siren, and Romulka already had a five-minute head start. He hit the brakes and Pasha went to step out of the car, but Lukin beat him to it. “Stay here. I’ll find out what’s going on.”
Lukin ran toward the pileup. Up ahead he saw that a delivery truck had skidded across the bridge, and the traffic toward October Square was blocked. Tire tracks slashed across the slushy surface and the scene was chaotic. He saw a pedestrian walking past on the footpath, head down against the freezing cold, and he roared at the man, “What’s wrong up there?”
The man looked back at the tangle of traffic and shrugged. “A truck’s blocking the way. A couple of cars came too fast over the bridge, and the truck had to swerve to avoid them.”
Lukin saw no sign of Romulka’s Zis. The colonel must have caused the pileup and driven on. He raced back to the BMW. When he climbed in he slammed his fist on the steering wheel in frustration.
Pasha said, “What’s up?”
Lukin told him. Pasha said, “That’s all we need. We’ll never catch up with Romulka now.”
Lukin ran his hand over his face and tried to think. Below the sweep of the bridge lay the entrance to Gorky Park, its expanse stretching along the bank of the frozen Moscow River. Farther on, in the hollow below the bridge, he saw the towering shape of the Warsaw Hotel. There was a narrow road off to the right of the hotel that Lukin knew finally came out onto Lenin Prospect. It was throwing him off course by minutes, but it was the only way he could escape the pileup. He said to Pasha, “Hold on to your hat.
This is where it starts to get interesting.”
He shifted into gear, pulled out of the line of traffic, and bumped onto the sidewalk, lights on and horn blaring as he headed down toward the park.
• • •
Massey sat in a chair, the Tokarev pointed at him. He looked steadily at Slanski. “It’s over, Alex, whichever way you look at it. Lebel’s been taken by the KGB, and it can’t be long before he talks. And that can only mean one thing—the boys in black are going to pay this place a visit.”
“If you think I’m giving up now, Jake, you’re crazy.”
“I told you it’s over. Why be a fool?”
There was a slight smile on Slanski’s face but no trace of humor in his voice. “Instinct, if you like. A lifetime of bad habits. Besides, it would be a sorry waste of an opportunity.”
Massey shook his head. “You’re throwing away your life and the lives of Anna and Irena.”
“Washington didn’t send you all this way just to have a talk. You came here to put a bullet in me, didn’t you, Jake?” Massey was silent, but Slanski saw the reaction on his face. “Could you do that? Kill Anna and me?”
“If I have to,” Massey said flatly.
“The look in your eyes says different. You don’t want to do it, Jake.”
“There’s a bigger picture at stake. It’s not just your lives. Moscow will want you both alive. And once they have their evidence they’ll have enough reason to start a war.”
“What you mean is, heads will roll in Washington if this goes wrong.” Slanski stood. “You didn’t come here alone, did you?”
Massey said quietly, “The dacha is covered, front and back. There’s no way out.”
Slanski thought for a moment, then asked, “What proof has Moscow got that I’m here to kill Stalin?”
“They’ve got proof, I told you. And they’ll use it once they find you.”