by Behn, Noel;
Before Rone could answer the fist smashed into his stomach. He dropped to his knees gasping for air as the boot crashed into the side of his face.
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Kosnov, stepping back. “She had a way of destruction about her. If you hadn’t done it I suppose someone else would have—in the end it might have been me.”
The colonel knelt down and jerked Rone’s head up by the hair. He spoke gently. “You see, my unfortunate friend, ultimately we all must play the dupe. Roles are cast and sides are chosen, masks and mantles donned, and logic abandoned. Emotion prevails. You are the lover; I the cuckold. You the assassin and I the avenger. I must hate and destroy you. Nothing will give me greater satisfaction.”
The boot drove into Rone’s face again, spinning him over on the floor. The blond bodyguard jumped down and lifted Rone to his feet. He motioned to Kosnov to look above the lab table. A small overhead crane hung from an iron rail on the ceiling. Kosnov nodded his approval.
The two bodyguards lifted Rone onto the table face down. He could hear the steel wire lower above him. He felt the hook lodge under his handcuffs. Rone tensed his arms and shoulders as the crane began to lift him upward. He felt his body rise in space and slowly revolve. He was lowered into a sitting position. The line was kept too taut for him to sit upright. He remained leaning forward.
“It’s a shame you didn’t have this little gadget at the apartment,” said Kosnov. “Shall we continue?”
A fist crashed into his face, splitting his nose and tearing his gums. The force of the blow snapped his head into the metal chain at his back. He could feel blood trickling down his neck and under his collar.
Another blow jabbed into his cheek and another into his jaw. He batted his eyes to keep them in focus. The pain of the punches and the ache of his suspended shoulder muscles was starting to mount. He prayed for unconsciousness.
“Little by little I will mangle your body until it looks like hers did. I will not leave a bone unbroken—not one.”
Kosnov cocked his arm back and shot it forward into Rone’s Adam’s apple. He felt the air rush out of him again and he began to suffocate. Nausea rose, his eyes and chest burned, tears streaked down his face as a fist jolted into his lips and teeth. A moment later Kosnov’s knuckles slammed into his right eye. Rone fought for breath. He felt his eye swell shut. He was wet with perspiration and blood. His body burned with pain.
A stinging ache tore through his ribs and surged into his fingers and toes.
“Lower him,” shouted Kosnov. “Lower him so we can kick his insides out through his ears.”
Rone hardly felt falling on the floor or Kosnov’s foot thundering into his stomach. Consciousness was slipping. He wondered why it took so long. He lay on his side, his head resting on the floor. He could see Kosnov’s feet only inches away. He saw the right foot move back. He knew it would catch him full in the mouth.
He tried to scream, but nothing came. The foot shot toward him. He jerked his head; it grazed by. Once again he tried to talk, to beg, to motion. He couldn’t. He knew that he could not take much more. He realized that soon he would be dying. He cursed his endurance, his stamina. What did it take to knock him into senselessness? Why must he witness his own execution?
The heel stomped down on the side of his face. He heard something crack or shatter, but he felt nothing. This was the first sign, the numbness, the painlessness was beginning to take hold—or was it death? With his one open eye Rone could see the colonel’s foot swing back again, farther than before. He was measuring, aiming. This might do it, Rone thought to himself. Then he heard the voice.
“I think that’s just about all the exercise you need, Colonel.” Kosnov spun around. The tall blond man slid off the table to his feet and grabbed for his gun. Rone strained his head backward and squinted through his bloodied eye. Ward was walking slowly toward them with his arms at his side.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to. I stroll down the street for a breath of air and you fellows come running in here and beat my roomie half to death.”
“Stay where you are,” warned Kosnov.
“Now why don’t you fellows just apologize, help my friend to his feet and get your asses out of here?” said Ward without stopping.
Kosnov stepped back and drew his automatic. He fired twice. Ward continued walking. He fired again. Ward shook his head and smiled. The colonel looked down at his gun as a shot rang out behind him. Rone brought his head forward. The blond bodyguard slumped forward dead. He looked over to the expressionless Eurasian. Slight traces of smoke rose from the pistol in his hand.
Kosnov took another step backward. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“An old fan of yours. A very old fan.”
Kosnov raced to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it and shouted for his men. No one answered. He shouted again.
“Won’t do any good, Colonel. I sent them all home.”
“Grodin? Grodin is behind this, isn’t he?” Kosnov demanded venomously.
“This is just between you and me.”
“Why?”
Rone had slowly eased himself into a sitting position. He was dizzy and weak. He had to squint to see. The numbness was leaving. Spasms of pain were mounting. He saw the colonel staring quizzically at Ward.
“I know you, don’t I?” he said almost pleasantly.
“Our paths might have crossed,” answered Ward.
“I would assume there is no way of reaching an agreement with you?” Kosnov asked, gaining more composure.
“Not a chance.”
Kosnov nodded to himself. “You went to great lengths. Was it necessary to involve the girl?”
“You are a hard man to get alone. You’re too cautious. I needed you a little bit off balance.”
“The rape and murder of a man’s wife often has just that effect.”
“I was hoping it would.”
The colonel relaxed. He threw away his gun and looked down at Rone and the dead bodyguard. “And which one of these candidates will be the lover I fought to the death?”
“Take your pick.”
“Who did the clothes in the apartment belong to?”
“The dead one,” answered Ward.
“Then ultimately I am to be assassinated with his gun?”
“Ultimately,” Ward agreed, “but that might be a while in coming. You see, Colonel, you and I have a lot of grievances to talk over, a lot of old corpses to dig up and chat about. We had a lot of mutual friends—once. I don’t suppose you remember Vedder?”
“The Pole?”
“That’s one of them. Then there was Gustav Zeiff, and Marcel Mara. Hallaren, the British agent you interviewed. It was two weeks for him, wasn’t it?”
Kosnov frowned and pinched his lips between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and listened.
“It’s an endless list, Colonel old buddy. Da Silva, Gottlieb, Korda, Julian and of course your latest piece of handiwork, Polakov.”
“I know you from somewhere.”
Ward’s face tightened into a scowl. He picked up the blond bodyguard’s gun. “I know everything you did to every one of those men. I’ve tried to imagine the pain, the torment, you put each one through. If it is possible for one man to make retribution for the misery of many it will happen now.”
Ward fired. Kosnov’s left knee shattered back under him and he plummeted forward onto the floor.
“That’s how you began with Korda, if I’m not mistaken,” said Ward.
Rone’s head was spinning. His body throbbed and burned. His pain was intolerable. His breath came hard. He tried to clutch to consciousness. He tried to see. He tried to listen. Ward was still visible to him. He stood above the writhing form of Kosnov.
“Remember Zeiff?” he heard Ward say. “Remember how you forced acid down his throat? Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him scream. You like to make people scream, Colonel. Well, I’ve got a little something for you.”
R
one slipped sideways to the floor. The pain and throbbing seemed to disappear. He had the feeling of coolness, of peace, of rest. He could faintly remember the sensation of being lifted by his shoulder and legs. He thought he remembered Kosnov crying, “No, no, it isn’t! It can’t be!” He half knew he was being taken down a flight of stairs. Then he heard the scream. He remembered that. It was Kosnov’s scream. Even in his stupor it was the most terrifying sound he had ever heard.
38
Sanctuary
Rone was lying in the back seat of the car when he regained consciousness. One eye was swollen shut. Through the other he could see the back of a bald head and skullcap—the driver. The car swerved. Rone fell forward onto the body of Kosnov. Little was left of the face. The Eurasian did not turn around as Rone pushed himself back onto the seat. He tried to muster his strength. He opened and closed his hands. They were weak. His arms felt limp.
He reached down and searched Kosnov’s clothes. He jerked his hand back as the. Eurasian turned and glanced at him.
“Is there much pain?” he asked impassively.
“I’ll get by,” answered Rone.
“Someone will look after you when we get there,” he told him over his shoulder.
Rone reached down and continued searching Kosnov. What he had hoped for was not there. The Eurasian’s gun had not been planted on the corpse. He continued going through the clothing.
The car came to a stop. The back door opened and the two men pulled out Kosnov’s body. Rone tried to raise himself up.
“Just stay where you are,” Ward told him, sticking his head into the car. “The less you see, Nephew, the better off you’ll be.” He slammed the door. “Go on ahead with him,” he told the Eurasian.
They had driven several minutes before Rone managed to sit up in the seat. He took long, deep breaths. The Eurasian kept his eyes on the road. Rone could see they were in the area of Nikolayev Square heading toward the Kremlin.
Rone slipped off his belt and held it in his lap. He exercised his fingers and rubbed his arms to increase the circulation. He tried to watch both the road and the driver with his one open eye. He took short breaths to ease the pain in his ribs and side. They were nearing a construction site. Rone knew exactly where he was now.
He reached down and tied a knot in the belt. He pulled it as taut as he could. The effort weakened him. He slid toward the door until he was directly behind the driver. He lunged forward, looped the belt over the Eurasian’s head, and jerked it back against his neck. Rone pushed his feet against the back of the seat and pulled the belt with all his strength. The driver’s head snapped back. His hands left the wheel and reached for the belt. Rone continued pulling. The car ran off the road and down along a culvert. Rone was thrown against the door as it tipped over.
The Eurasian was motionless. Rone reached over the front seat and took his gun. The car was on its side. He stood up and opened the door. Slowly he eased himself out of the car and started running as best he could into the construction site.
He slid down an excavation and stumbled along a water-filled ditch. He stopped and listened. There was no sound. He splashed forward until he reached a wooden ladder, arduously clambered up and crawled over a pile of fresh earth. He lay prone, twisted his body around and peered over the top toward the boulevard. He could see dark forms. Another car had stopped on the road.
Rone scrambled down the embankment. He made his way through the cement skeleton of a new building, crossed an unpaved road and staggered behind a wooden construction shack. His legs were giving out. His breath came in short, painful gasps. His nose had begun to bleed, and a cut on his neck had opened. He clung to a wooden window sill for balance. He looked around. He saw the outline of several large gravel trucks through the darkness. He started unsteadily for them. One leg buckled, toppling him over. He picked himself up and forced his body forward. He fell twice more before he reached them. He hid between two vehicles. He slid himself along a fender and reached up to the handle of the cab door. He raised himself onto the narrow running board. His arms were heavy with pain as he pulled himself over the cab. He knew he had little strength or consciousness left. He fell into the open truck body, landing face first in a pile of moist clay and dirt.
He stopped to listen. He heard a voice calling in the night. It was far away from him now. He burrowed weakly into the dirt, scooping it over his arms and legs. Then he collapsed.
Wet mud showered down over him. Rone wiped his face clean and looked up into the dangling jaws of a dirt scoop. It swung away. His body was almost completely buried. He dug his hands free and cleared breathing space between his face and the side of the truck. He heard the crane swing back over him and the bucket door squeak open. Once again mud thundered down.
He heard shouts. The Diesel engine of the truck whined to a start. The truck lumbered forward and turned onto a dirt road. Rone knew where he was going now. He had passed the trucks on his walks. He dug himself free and crawled to the opposite side of the truck. He raised himself upright. The truck turned again. They were on pavement. It wouldn’t be far. Just one more turn. Rone tried twice to pull himself onto the edge. The third time he made it. The truck turned. He fell to the street, got up and began running toward the gates. Anyone would do. He passed the startled guard, climbed the steps to the front door, burst into the embassy and once again collapsed.
The room was cheerful. Rone sat up in bed sipping the rich Italian coffee.
“How long did I sleep?” he asked.
Amadeo Grano, vice-consul, moved one leg over the other, brushed a piece of lint from his black pinstripe, hooked his thumbs in his vest pocket and sat back in the winged chair.
“The better part of two days,” he answered in Oxford English. “How do you feel?”
“Stiff.”
“The doctors say it is nothing serious. If you consider two cracked ribs and a fractured cheekbone trivia, then you can agree with them.”
“Did you contact the American Embassy?”
“The day you arrived,” answered Grano. “You were barely conscious. Perhaps the information you gave us was, shall we say, confused?”
Rone paused. “What did the embassy say?”
“They have never heard of a Charles Rone.”
“Well, have them contact the United States Navy.”
“They have apparently contacted everyone they feel obliged to. There never was a Charles Rone in the Navy, nor do they have a record of issuing such a person a passport.”
“The idiots,” Rone snapped.
“I suggested that they send someone over to talk to you. They were rather curt in their refusal.”
“When can I go over there?”
“Once you leave us you are free to go wherever you like, but I doubt if the Americans will be of much help. They maintain that Charles Rone does not exist. From their attitude I must infer that you are an impostor—or at least not an American.”
“You hear my English—does that sound counterfeit?”
Grano stood up and brushed his fingertips quickly along his lapels. “While you were delirious you spoke in Russian,” he told Rone as he began pacing the room. “What is more, you were carrying a French passport. We have consulted the French Embassy and they tell us that even though the passport itself is authentic, one was never issued with the name or number yours bears.”
Grano stopped at the foot of the bed and turned toward Rone. He slapped his hands against his jacket pockets and then held them, palms up, as he spoke. “My dear friend, what am I to say? We even spoke with the British. No one seems to claim you. In fact, it is my impression that the Americans and British have gone out of their way to ignore you, but then again I have a tendency for the melodramatic. And we here also have a problem.”
Rone looked up at him.
“Try to understand the condition in Moscow. We are never sure. Asylum is the constant ruse of the infiltrator. It has been used from time immemorial.”
“What you’re saying,�
�� Rone interrupted, “is that you want me to go.”
“My dear friend,” Grano said, returning to the chair and crossing his legs. “You create an embarrassment. I do not know who you are or what it is you have to say, but I am aware that no one wants to listen. At least not in Moscow.”
“Is that what the American Embassy said?”
“The American Embassy said nothing; it is my interpretation of their silence you are hearing. If you are not an impostor, and there is every indication you are, then obviously you represent something they would rather forget. That is the way of diplomacy. Many things must be expendable to maintain one’s façade. I have a feeling you have been placed in that category.”
“If you give me my things I’ll go.”
“To where?”
“Obviously not to the British or American embassies.”
“We believe certain elements in Moscow are looking for you.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Were you connected with the Kosnov murder?”
“Never heard of the man. Just give me my clothes and I’ll go.”
“They are in the closet. We had them cleaned.”
Grano sat calmly in his chair lacing his fingers as Rone got out of bed and walked unsteadily across the room. He watched him begin dressing.
“You realize,” said Grano, “that you will never make it out of Moscow.”
“Maybe I like it here.” Rone’s shoulders and arms were stiff. His right knee bent with difficulty.
“Perhaps if you gave me the information, I could pass it on to the Americans.”
Rone turned toward him.
“It would save everyone embarrassment,” Grano pointed out.
“Which embassy suggested that?”
“None. It is a thought I have come up with completely on my own.”
“Forget it.” Rone eased himself into a chair and painfully bent down to put on his shoes. A new pair had been provided.
“If you are who I think you are, then bravery and integrity should come second to practicality. The facts are simple. You will never make it through Moscow. Someone is obviously looking for you. We know it, you know it, and three other embassies know it: They will do nothing. You are the sacrificial calf for their pretensions. If you like, we will work a deal with you.”