by Behn, Noel;
“And what do I get out of it?”
“Delivery to the West.”
“Why?”
“My country is not as obsessed with the ridiculous war of information and deceit as are many others. At the same time we are not unaware of its importance. We, like the others, have a certain degree of prestige we prefer to maintain in such matters. Also our position with the Russians is not as sensitive as those of certain of our neighbors and so-called allies. We can gamble. I am willing to gamble with you. Tell me who you are and what it is you wanted to relay to the Americans and we will get you out of Moscow and into the West.”
Rone was fully clothed, “What if I’m an impostor? What if I’m not, but don’t know anything?”
“That is the risk we take. It will not be the first time I have played the fool.”
Rone searched through his pockets. They were empty. Grano pointed to a dresser drawer. Rone opened it and found his personal possessions.
“I’ll save you the embarrassment of being taken,” he told the Italian. “I know nothing.”
“We could also arrange for money,” Grano added.
Rone went through his things. He flattened out a slip of crumpled paper. On it was the address Erika had given him.
“Yes,” Grano said, “a sizable amount of money could be arranged.”
“I’m a French embryologist,” Rone told him. “How much is that worth to you?”
“And how much is your own life worth to you?”
“I’ll be going now,” Rone told him. “Which way out?”
Grano stood up and slapped his arms against his sides. “Wait until dark. We don’t want bloodstains on our marble. We can get you a few blocks away. In the meantime, think about what I have said.”
“It won’t do any good,” Rone answered.
Grano slid his finger along the pencil mustache. “Your gun is in the bottom drawer. It may be of some assistance.”
SECTION SIX
39
The Escape Route
The waiter paid no attention to him. Nor did the students at the adjoining table. All were watching the exotic girl with black braided hair mimic her internal medicine instructor. Rone also smiled. He could not tell if she was Chinese or Mongolian. He finished his dish of sweet cream and sipped the glass of hot tea.
Rone looked at the address and instructions again. Erika had told him this was Polakov’s escape route. Rone wondered why Polakov had never used it. Maybe he had been caught before he could. Rone could not question it. It was his only chance. Ward and the others would be looking for him. As Grano had warned him, the others were Russians.
The Oriental girl’s impersonations had put the next table into hysterics. Rone paid his check and trudged slowly out to the street. He did not have far to go.
The shadows of the University buildings loomed ahead of him. The stiffness was leaving. He still ached, but he could walk with more authority. He turned the corner and saw the building described in the instructions. The main structure went up ten stories. Two wings spread from either side. In the middle was the passageway.
Rone walked through and came out into a courtyard. He followed the diagonal path until he reached the iron fence. He turned in the third gate, eased himself down the five steps, passed the infirmary entrance and went to the back of the building. He knocked on the gray metal door three times. He waited exactly a minute and knocked three more times. He heard footsteps approach from within, then stop. Another minute elapsed. He knocked again. The footsteps began once more. Rone automatically put his hand in his pocket and gripped the gun.
The door slowly swung open. The figure of a large man was outlined in the entranceway.
“I was told you could help me,” said Rone.
“Who told you?” asked the figure in perfect Russian.
“A friend of Polakov’s.” Rone could see two more figures standing farther down the hallway.
“You knew him?”
“I knew his wife.”
“Come in.”
The door closed behind him and the lights snapped on.
“We have been waiting for you, Yorgi,” said the Kitai, revealing his two metal front teeth.
Charles Rone did not hesitate. He pulled the gun from his pocket and fired point-blank. The Kitai spun back against the wall and slid, arms outstretched, to the floor. The two Chinese down the hall turned and began running. Rone hit them both. He threw open the door and ran into the courtyard. He did not stop until he was back near the restaurant. He leaned against the tree to catch his breath.
“That bitch,” he told himself. “That damn bitch tried to have me killed.”
He walked five blocks before he found a phone booth. Rone remembered the number. He put in the coins and dialed.
“Comrade Bresnavitch,” he demanded.
“He is sleeping,” replied the voice on the other end.
“Wake him,” said Rone.
“That’s impossible.”
“Wake him. Tell him that a French embryologist wants to talk to him—a friend of Colonel Kosnov’s.”
There was a pause. Rone heard the phone being set down.
“This is Comrade Bresnavitch,” announced a voice several moments later.
“This is Yorgi,” said Rone. “I know that the merchandise was intended for you. I also know where it is and whose name is on it. I know where the money is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You have twenty minutes to meet me by the statue in the square. If you are not there I will pass the information on to other parties.”
“What statue?” Bresnavitch demanded.
“You have twenty minutes. Come by yourself. Just twenty minutes.” Rone hung up.
The Zim pulled alongside Nikolayev Square and parked. Bresnavitch sat behind the wheel. Rone watched from the shrubbery. He waited another ten minutes. No other cars came into the area. He saw no one on the street. He walked to the car and got into the back seat. He pressed the gun against the back of Bresnavitch’s head and said, “Drive. Keep both hands on the wheel.”
Rone picked the route. Bresnavitch said nothing.
“You were Polakov’s contact,” Rone told him as they drove. “The two of you cooked up the letter idea together. It was intended for you, but not for the reasons Polakov told the West. You had no intention of gaining anti-Chinese support with it. You wanted it to blackmail Khrushchev. It was addressed to him. Only the letter was never delivered to you.”
Bresnavitch remained silent.
“I know who has it and what happened. I’ve written the whole thing down. There are four copies. Two are in Moscow. If I don’t pick them up within a day they will be forwarded to two members of the Central Committee. Two men you are not exactly on the best of terms with. Two other letters are already in the West. I have a week to pick those up or they become common knowledge. So if anything happens to me it also happens to you.
“Here is what I want. Passage out of Russia for me and the other American, Ward. If you don’t already know where he is, you’d better find him by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I want all arrangements made by then. You wait at your house. I’ll telephone and tell you where to meet me.
“Until then I want free movement in Moscow. I’m going to move around openly. If I’m picked up, that’s your problem. If I’m killed the letters go on their way.”
“Can you recover the document?” Bresnavitch finally asked.
“You’ll find out tomorrow. Now drive toward your house. I’m keeping the car. When you get home call the Ukrayna Hotel and make a reservation under the name of my French passport, the passports you arranged for Ward and myself. I’ll stay there—at your expense.”
A few minutes later Aleksei I. Bresnavitch stopped the car and got out.
40
Confirmation
It took Rone twenty minutes to reach the Ukrayna Hotel on Dorogomilovskaya Quai.
“Ah yes,” said the delighted clerk. “Comrade Bresnavitch
has just talked to us about you. Everything is ready.”
The man reached under the desk and Rone automatically put his hand on the gun in his pocket. The clerk pushed a booklet in his direction.
“This tells you all about the Ukrayna,” he explained proudly. “We have twenty-eight stories, you know.”
“Do you have a room with a telephone and bath?” Rone demanded.
“We have one thousand and twenty-six rooms, and everyone not only has a bath and telephone, but a radio as well. We also have automatic shoeshining machines. It’s all in the booklet.”
Rone slept soundly. His nine-o’clock wake-up call came at nine-fifteen. He soaked in the tub until nine-thirty, shaved with a razor provided by the hotel, dressed, placed the Intourist vouchers the clerk had given him in his pocket, and went downstairs for breakfast.
He was back in the suite at ten to call Bresnavitch.
“Let me talk to the American,” he demanded.
“Certainly,” Bresnavitch answered at the other end.
There was a pause before Rone heard Ward’s voice, “Nephew, I hear tell you’re living like you was on foreign aid.”
“Stop the clowning,” Rone ordered. “Now listen carefully. I owe you an apology, so I’m giving it to you now. I thought you had been working with them from the beginning. I know that I was wrong. They picked you up in the raid and you did what you had to to stay alive. Bresnavitch doesn’t have the letter. I know where it is. I think I can get us out of this alive.”
“I sure as hell hope so. The climate’s a little thick where I’m sitting.”
“Do you know if they made our travel arrangements?”
“I saw the tickets.”
“I have several things to do,” Rone confided. “Tell Bresnavitch to stay where he is. I’ll call again in an hour and tell you where to meet me.”
“Anything you say, Nephew. You’re running the show now.”
Rone hung up. He went to the bed, lay down, turned on the radio and lit a cigarette. Forty minutes later he took the elevator to the lobby, got into the Zim and drove to Bresnavitch’s house.
Rone was led to the upstairs study. Bresnavitch, Grodin and Ward were waiting.
“Now, my audacious Yorgi,” Bresnavitch glowered, “let us hear what it is you have to say.”
Rone eased back into the leather armchair.
“I’ll start by telling you what was in the four letters I wrote.” He spoke directly to Bresnavitch. “I began by tracing your early association with Polakov. How the two of you unloaded certain of the paintings that were in your custody. From there I go to the evolution of the idea to destroy Khrushchev with the trumped-up letter. I follow each step. How Polakov came up with the idea of leaking out information to the West for money. This got their confidence. They began relying on it. Then it was shut off temporarily, which whetted their appetites even more. Next Polakov approached them with the plan to provide written evidence of your strength with them. You did a good job. At least one high Western official was convinced you not only planned to take over the Kremlin, but attack Lop Nor as well. Anyway, you got the letter—I mean, Polakov got the letter.”
“Is that all?” asked Bresnavitch.
“I think it will be enough to hold your enemies. I did, of course, point out in detail that your intention had always been blackmail rather than action.”
“And just how did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“You have always been anti-Chinese. You openly challenged Red China years ago. Having that opinion verified through the Lop Nor agreement was ridiculous. What would it gain you? The other anti-Chinese politicians were already in your camp. No, Comrade Bresnavitch, what you had to do was shake up the pro-Chinese elements. Once they thought Khrushchev was planning an attack they would do your dirty work for you. Nikita would be out and in the confusion you felt that your group could get in. Time worked against you. Khrushchev was deposed sooner than you had thought, and by a middle-of-the-road group. This all happened while you were waiting for Polakov to arrive with the letter.
“Your concern, comrade, was not so much who had the letter as it was who knew about it. You thought it was Kosnov, but it wasn’t until you caught Ward that you found what we had already learned: The colonel had no part of it. The danger was that he might find out. So you eliminated that danger—both he and Erika were killed. Theoretically that should have cleaned your skirts, but then I came along. Now you have to deal with me. You have to make sure you get what I have written down.”
“You appear very confident,” said Bresnavitch.
“I am. I know who the Bellman is. That’s what I’m trading you for our freedom.”
“I want the document itself.”
“You’ll get the identity of the Bellman and where the letter is. That’s all I’m offering.”
“Even if I agree, what assurance do you have that I’ll keep my word?”
“When I explain what I have to, there will be no reason for you not to.”
“You’re asking me to buy a pig in a poke.”
“Then refuse me,” Rone said calmly. He could see Ward shifting restlessly in his seat.
Bresnavitch and Grodin exchanged glances. Bresnavitch got up and walked to the desk. He returned with an envelope.
“Here are tickets, passports and all the papers you need.” He flashed a smile. “You have my word as well. It’s worth it just to watch your performance.”
“When can we leave?”
“The plane departs Moscow in five hours.”
“Do you want the long or short version?”
“The unabridged edition, by all means. You must admit I’ve paid handsomely for it.”
“The Bellman was Polakov himself,” Rone began.
“Originally you and Polakov had agreed to charge the West for information. Your motive was to gain their confidence. Polakov was to receive the lion’s share of the money to handle the transaction. Not that the money didn’t have interest for you. If the scheme backfired you might have to leave Russia on short notice. That’s why part of the payments went to you.
“For Polakov it was a matter of professional reimbursement until he met Erika and fell in love. You see, the Pepper Pot had decided to retire. This took money. As time passed, his motivation changed. He wanted to milk all he could out of the operation.”
“How do you know?” asked Ward.
“Uncle Morris paid me a visit just before the raid. They found Polakov’s bank accounts. What happened was rather simple.” At first Polakov started dividing the money unevenly in his favor. There would be no way to check on him, since he made the deposits and reported the total price to Comrade Bresnavitch here. At the beginning all the payments were deposited in a Swiss Bank.”
Rone turned to Bresnavitch. “Did the West demand that you continue supplying them with information after they had agreed to write the letter?”
Bresnavitch blanched.
“It was our understanding,” Grodin broke in, “that Polakov’s contact was to continue supplying information.”
“But Polakov had told the West that once they agreed to writing the agreement the information would stop. It did. They received no more from that time on. However, five more parcels were delivered from the Moscow contact to Polakov, if I’m not mistaken.”
“We believe that five is the number,” Grodin concurred.
“You see,” Rone began, “the turning “point came when Polakov bumped into an old associate from his narcotics-peddling days, Chu Chang. Chang explained that Red China was interested in information. Admittedly they were new to cash-and-carry espionage, but they had money and that was exactly what Polakov was after. He began selling the same information to the Chinese that he was supplying to the West. He opened a special account in Tangier to bank the Peking money.
“It was no mistake that he cut the West off from those last parcels of information and gave them only to China. He was setting them up. Polakov had decided to peddle the letter to the highe
st bidder—and he had another new customer in mind: Kosnov.
“The colonel met with him in Paris and Moscow. Polakov was cautious. All he would let Kosnov know was that the Chinese wanted it and, of course, that it was a very explosive document.
“You see, Comrade Bresnavitch, Polakov held that letter for almost ten days before selling it. He was pushing the price and stalling you. In the end he would probably have told you that the West had refused to write it at the last minute. You would have had no way of knowing they hadn’t.”
“Who bought it?” demanded Bresnavitch.
“The Chinese.”
Bresnavitch sat frozen. Slowly his lips began to twitch. Then he roared with laughter. “It is too funny. It is just too funny.”
“Because they paid for it and now Khrushchev is out?” asked Rone.
“Not at all, not at all,” said Bresnavitch, tears streaming down his face. “You must understand the Chinese mind. They will never trust any of us again. It is the first step. Don’t you see? I’ve gotten what I wanted all along, but it happened by mistake. It’s too funny. They will do my work for me.”
“It could also start a war,” Rone reminded him.
Bresnavitch laughed. “The sooner it comes, the better off Russia will be—and the rest of the world, for that matter.”
41
The Price of Silence
“You mean to tell me, Nephew,” said Ward as he was shaving in Rone’s bathroom at the Ukrayna Hotel, “that all that money is just sitting in some African bank?”
“It could be more than two million dollars.”
“Two million dollars,” Ward yelled. “There must be some damn way to get our hands on it.”
“You shouldn’t have killed Erika.”
Ward came out of the bathroom half shaven. “You gotta believe me, Nephew, it was a mistake.”