Traffic was light. Stone and Marvin Krebs passed the time in “weather-talk,” as Stone called it. Mindless chatter.
Marvin had been with the Old Man for over thirty years, and he knew more about Stone’s private life than just about anyone—the two heart attacks of a few years before, his hospitalization for exhaustion, and the day Stone’s wife had died—her death triggered by the loss of their son.
While Marvin waited in the reception area of the giant National Security Agency, Stone was being escorted down a wing of the building by a gray-eyed woman with an incredible waistline, pug nose, and freckles. Her dull, broom-straw hair hung short. Stone could not remember her name.
As they reached a guarded doorway, the woman asked, “How’s the coffee?” referring to the fresh cup in his hand.
He sipped it. “Oh yes, quite nice. You made this?”
“Yes.”
“Not bad for a computer expert,” he added, winking. He dug deeply for a polite smile, feeling his total exhaustion, and handed her the cup, explaining, “Allow me to get out my card.”
“My pleasure. And in case you’ve forgotten… my name’s Toni.”
Stone nodded, as if he had not forgotten. He inserted a gold plastic card into a gunmetal gray box mounted by the door and rested his hand on top. A light passed beneath it, taking a palm print. The door swished open. He gently took his coffee from her, remembered his card, and entered.
An optical device allowed only one entry at a time, so the door closed behind him.
Inside reposed the world’s largest intelligence agency computer. Extravagant security guarded the room, including uniformed Marines. The guards had always bothered Stone. Still did. He thought, Any person, and most certainly experts, should be allowed to work in peace.
Considering the hour, the room appeared frightfully busy. Stone shivered. He did not know if the chill was from the powerful air conditioning or because of the imposing power this room commanded. It was part of the New World, the New System, and he wasn’t sure if he approved.
A moment later the security door admitted Toni. She pulled a cardigan sweater reserved for visitors off a nearby peg and offered it to Stone. He accepted.
She led him to the far corner, where a video recorder was hooked up to a television and also to the computer—screen glowing. Stone instructed her to break open the sealed package and load the cassette.
They watched.
He studied the man on the screen thoughtfully. Pensively. The first time Toni began to speak, he cut her off by requesting another viewing.
Toni obliged, but this time, surrounding Borikowski with a computer-generated box of light, she stayed with his motions. In the next replay the small box of light was now enlarged and filled the full screen, showing Borikowski in close-up. The quality of the picture astonished Stone. What will be next? he wondered. For some reason, he hoped he would never find out.
They watched it four times, the last time at a slightly slower speed. Stone fiddled with his hands nervously, eyes glued to the screen, missing nothing, trying his best to duplicate the thoughts of the man pictured in front of him. The dog. The woman. His apparent calm. The interception. The kill…
The tape finished, but Stone continued to stare at the screen. Toni waited patiently.
“What do your machines say?” he inquired dryly.
“No positive ID so far.”
He smiled a secret smile.
“I have a list…” she offered hesitantly, made nervous by his expression.
“No, dear. No list. You’ve done fine.”
Stone requested and received a private room with a phone. He dialed a number carefully, waited to hear the man’s voice, and spoke the code. When the initial exchange finished, Stone added his message. He received an acknowledgment and hung up.
Andy Clayton would be waiting at a highway turnout along the Potomac.
Since Stone was already with Marvin, he decided to use the limo. He could not help but be reminded of his last visit to Chevy Chase several months earlier. Andy Clayton had acted distant and cold, and Stone had been very worried about the man. After an initial conversation, which had tended toward argument, Andy had said, “I don’t understand why I’m still inactive. I’m like a prisoner here.”
“Now, Andy,” Stone had begun. “It’s just not like that.”
“I’m useless here!” Andy had actually yelled at Stone—and for the first time ever. “Listen, I may have lost touch for a while. But that was months ago! I was upset! Fair is fair—”
“This has nothing to do with fair, Andy,” Stone had snapped in interruption. “Fair has nothing to do with anything. This simply is.”
Now, months later, with Andy Clayton’s situation not much different, Stone watched the snow hit the windshield. Miserable weather.
***
The drive took Andy twenty minutes.
Following procedure, he waited alongside the limousine. Marvelous Marvin—as Andy called him—pulled himself out of the car and closed his door. They shook hands firmly. Before opening the back door, Marvin warned, “He’s tired, Andy. Take it easy on the man.”
Andy nodded, hunched his big shoulders, and ducked inside. Plexiglass divided the interior, isolating the driver. The back seat, where Stone and Andy sat, was dark and quiet.
“Nasty weather,” Stone offered as an opener.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve got something that I think you might be interested in.”
“In what way, sir?”
“That has yet to be defined,” Stone said truthfully. He thought, You’re the only agent within a five-hour flight from here who could possibly help to identify the man. If I’m wrong, you’re back to Chevy Chase and your report. If I’m right…
2:43 A.M.
Montreal, Canada
Leonid Borikowski climbed the scuffed and rusted staircase to the door that he had jammed open with a pencil a few hours before, his mind still working out the details of his new schedule. He would have to catch a train tonight, something he didn’t look forward to. Mounties would be everywhere.
The door opened on complaining hinges; a pale bulb shadowed the hallway. A thin slat of ivory light lay across the hall, emanating from the partially open door to room thirty-one: the room adjacent to his.
Alerted, he approached cautiously, his fingers immediately touching the handle of his gun for reassurance. He walked past, ready. A voice called out, its range female, “Hello there. Bone-jooer.”
He wanted to pass by but he stopped and looked. She was not what he had expected. This was not her neighborhood. Not even close. She looked haughty and well bred. She might have been pretty once. Added years had stolen the charm, like cobwebs clinging to the eaves. A liquor bottle, more empty than full, sat beside a glass that held but one last sip.
She spoke with a faintly British accent. She was soused. “The booze is probably better than the company, but you are welcome to both. Won’t you please come in?” And then she added remorsefully, “Please?”
With his hand still resting on the butt of his weapon, he nodded, and continued to his room.
She tried again. “Please.”
He entered his room, switched on the light, and closed the door. The room was cold. The sound of cars stopping in the street caught his attention. He parted the fragile curtains and again they ripped.
Two small cars idled as four uniformed Mounties climbed out of each, one group of which approached another boardinghouse situated across the narrow street. Due to the hour, the boardinghouse’s front door was locked, so they pounded on the door and announced themselves with intimidating authority. “This is the police. You must open this door at once!” Lights appeared behind previously darkened windows. Finally the Mounties were admitted and ushered inside by an overweight man in a robe and stocking cap. From this vantage point, across the street and up one story, Borikowski could see down into the office, as the light came on. The manager took his seat behind a large desk. The Mountie
s remained standing. The manager answered some questions, his mouth moving without sound, his hands rubbing fatigue from his eyes. Then they handed him a photo and he shook his head no. But it became obvious that the Mounties intended to search the building, for the three left the office and did not reappear on the street. Instead, one by one, lights began to fill the opposing windows.
Two patrolmen from the other group suddenly appeared below in the alley. They peered through the windows of the bistro, and inspected a Peugeot that was parked in the alleyway.
Borikowski knew the routine well enough, though he was surprised at how quickly they had narrowed down the area. He hurried into the bathroom and used toilet paper to dry the sink, then flushed the paper. He touched both towels and took the only damp one into the room and placed it carefully under the mattress, where no one would look for it. Now, if the old Canuck had trouble turning them away, the Mounties would find no evidence of use.
He knew he had been gloveless while changing faces, so he wiped down the bathroom fixtures and surfaces, taking no chances.
But then, following a pounding on the door to the boardinghouse, he faintly heard the old Canuck arguing in a frantic French; and much too suddenly the two Mounties in the alley had noticed, and were heading toward, the rear staircase.
A rare panic took him. He could not remember if he had knocked the pencil from the hallway door. Suitcase in hand, he switched off the light and left the room, locking it. His panic increased: the door to the back fire escape was still propped open and he could hear footsteps coming up. Not only that, but now he could plainly hear a conversation going on in the lobby.
Was he cornered?
He quickly considered the alternatives: he could remain in this boardinghouse, relying on the face and papers of the mythical Dr. Franz Vogel, but that might mean questions and even possible detention—a situation he could ill afford; or he could attempt to remove the two policemen coming up the back stairs—kill them if need be—but their deaths, any trouble, would only confirm his presence in Montreal, which in turn would make an exit from the city even more difficult than it already promised to be. He would not further hinder this assignment. It was in enough trouble already.
Then it occurred to him.
She still sat exactly as before, glass in hand, eyes sad and distant. He stepped inside, intentionally leaving the door unlocked, and waited for her reaction. She was in a stupor. He placed his suitcase on a chair and opened it. Then he switched off the light.
As he approached her she turned to him and smiled, her eyes cloudy. A streetlamp’s light, filtered by the woven curtains, covered her in a gentle shading. She stood and dramatically helped her robe off her shoulders and onto the floor, leaving her in a busty nightgown.
Borikowski heard the footsteps stop and the hallway door squeak as it was opened. He was prepared to use the fire escape if she protested or resisted, but she did not. He walked over to her and took her relaxed head between his hands. She was feverishly warm. The rich smell of alcohol surrounded her.
His right fist caught her on the edge of her jaw with enough force to put away a middleweight. Her head snapped backward and he caught her mid-fall. Immediately, he carried her over to the bed, removed her nightgown, and placed her between the sheets. From the condition of her skin, he guessed she was in her late forties or early fifties.
He undressed quickly, placing the gun under the pillow, and then climbed above her, ready to perform. The actor.
When he heard the Mounties but one room away he began rocking the bed, his skin rubbing against hers. It had been quite some time since he had slept with a woman; and even unconscious, she was exciting him. His erection was immediate.
A knock on the door and an introduction: “Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Please open the door.” He had the bed shaking like a locomotive now, certain that the sound would carry into the hallway.
As the Mounties opened the door for themselves, Borikowski saw his own profile—like that of a shadow boxer—spread across the wall, the rhythmic thrusts beneath the sheets very convincing. Above his outline, he saw the silhouettes of two uniforms. After a long moment, the door closed and the footsteps moved on. He forced three very loud grunts and then slowed the rocking to a stop. He rolled over and lay beside her, annoyed by his erection and his desire to have her.
The bed, the comfort, was too inviting. Knowing no trains would run at this late hour, he set the alarm on his watch to wake him, locked the door, and lay down beside her. Sleep came instantly.
***
Ninety minutes later, she still slept heavily. He dressed quickly and quietly.
When he entered the dark alley, suitcase in hand, he noticed the Peugeot coupe was still parked beside the bistro, its left front fender mangled. He went back up the stairs quietly and into the hotel, where he located a coat hanger. Within minutes he had the car running.
After a short drive, Montreal’s Central Station loomed beside him, its architecture strongly European in a city that confused its influences. He drove past and parked three blocks away. He tried to relax. In a few hours the terminal would come alive, crowded with the influx of day workers. In the confusion of rush hour, disguised as Franz Vogel, he would board a train bound for Detroit: the Passageway.
3:00 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
Lights advanced behind a line of stenciled numbers. The elevator doors grumbled open. Andy Clayton and Terry Stone passed through two security checks and were finally inside the Old Man’s office. Stone sat behind his desk; Andy sagged into one of the red-leather chairs.
“I received a call from Molière, RCMP,” Stone explained. “He asked us for an identity run on a videotape recorded at Dorval only hours ago. A rover was killed.”
“Molière… Molière… why does that ring a bell?”
“Privy Council, Solicitor General of the Security Service…”
“Older man, Foreign Legion type…”
“The same. According to a well-placed mole in the Soviet’s Canadian operation, Opal, they have achieved a high level of penetration in the Security Service. This worries us. The rumor is they may be after Molière. If we lose Molière, the walls may come tumbling down. He’s very important to us.”
Andy nodded, but still asked, “Why all the concern? Why me?” He felt increasingly nervous sitting across from Stone’s pallid face.
“I need you for confirmation. You’re qualified and close at hand—” Stone’s inflection implied he was in mid-sentence, but he stopped.
Andy’s brows came together over the bridge of his lumpy nose. He wanted to say, “Qualified?”
They viewed the tape together. As ordered, Toni waited at the National Security Agency some miles away, the computers of both facilities connected by a trunk line. She was there to help if necessary—and it was. Andy’s attention settled on the segment where the unknown agent withdrew the hatpin from the collar of his coat. Computer enhancement allowed a close-up of just the man’s fingers. Andy turned to Stone and announced, “I have a positive ID.”
Stone thanked Toni via his speaker phone and hung up. He left Borikowski’s enlarged hand frozen on the screen.
The two men settled back into the warm wood and leather of Stone’s office. The captain’s clock ticked, intruding.
“You’re certain it’s him?” Stone inquired, having mentioned no name.
“He hasn’t any use of his right index finger. Fires a gun using his middle finger. That much I know from experience. It’s definitely Dragonfly.”
“Coffee?” Stone asked, wanting some himself.
“Please.”
Stone rose and walked over to the coffee maker. “What do you think, Andy?” he asked, delivering the coffee.
“It’s him. No question. We haven’t had a chance to double him in quite some time… we both know that. From what you say about the Security Service, I would have guessed he was here to try for General Molière. But it’s more likely he’s in Canada to advise one of the t
errorist groups, which means he won’t be here long. They used him as an advisor in Beirut… among other things.” He paused. “I’d like the assignment, sir.”
“That’s one of my concerns….”
Andy waited.
Stone’s silver head rocked from side to side. “I’d like to try and double him. Of all my agents, you’re the most familiar with him. That leaves me little choice.” Stone paused deliberately. He wanted to underline his next comment. “Listen, I want you to remain objective.”
“Yes,” replied Andy.
Neither man smiled, but Andy was dancing inside.
Leonid Borikowski. Another chance.
5:54 A.M.
Washington, D.C./Montreal, Canada
A dusting of snow, whipped up by swirling winds, obscured the corner of the Air and Space Museum from Terry Stone’s office window. Snow meant trouble for Washington no matter how little the accumulation. Stone heard a click on the phone line and pushed the receiver closer to his ear.
In his greenhouse, which overlooked picturesque Old Montreal and the St. Lawrence, clad in a smoking jacket and wool-lined slippers as he moved among his gardenias, Gustav Molière sipped lightly on mineral water while tending to a dreadful case of spider mites. His manservant Pierre, amazed to see the General so alive at such an uncivilized hour, held the phone with an extended arm as if it were diseased. Pierre detested telephones.
“Terry Stone here, General. The line is scrambled.”
“Ah yes! I hope it is the good news, M’sieu Stone.”
“I wish it were. We have a positive identification.”
“Oui! Please to continue.”
“Interpol code: Dragonfly.”
A stray static buzz filled the line, silence on both ends.
In the greenhouse, Pierre had now taken over for the General and was waiting for approval to remove a yellowed leaf and withered bud. Molière nodded to Pierre and replied into the phone, “I should have known they might send Dragonfly.”
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