Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  Detroit, Michigan

  In the sub-basement the pager sounded on the leather belt of the impostor. Two beeps escaped before he shut it off. The man grabbed his screwdriver, knowing he had little time to complete his work.

  9:32 P.M.

  Andy Clayton and Agent Hugh Long were standing side by side, facing the hotel. Long had been a boxer in the Navy and looked it. Andy wrapped both hands around the styrofoam coffee cup to warm them. As both men spoke, blue mist fled from their lips.

  Andy asked, “Well?”

  “They sealed it up.”

  “And?”

  “Rooms four-one-four and three-one-four were both registered to the same man, a Mr. Peter Trover.” Long shook his head. “Both empty.”

  “A switch?”

  “We checked the pairs. Everything is in order, but a maintenance man remembers letting a phone repairman in right around nine o’clock. Probably switched the incoming pairs.”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you want them to search it?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Hell no. We’ve done it on occasion.”

  “No,” Andy said, disappointed. “We don’t know who he is, or what he looks like. Forget it, Hugh. It’s useless.” Then, reconsidering, Andy asked, “How many guests?”

  “Seven hundred and sixty-three.”

  “No,” Andy affirmed.

  Long shrugged. “Just a thought.”

  “What did they say at the desk?”

  The two men crossed the street and continued walking. “The tie salesman convention has most of the rooms on nine, ten, and eleven. A writer’s conference has the second floor. One hundred and five guests registered in the last ninety minutes… all writers.”

  “We would have arranged it the same way. Well, thanks for trying.” Andy stopped walking and looked back at the huge hotel, which occupied most of the city block.

  Long asked, “What if we’d found him?”

  Andy looked curiously at the man. “We didn’t,” he said, thinking, I had it pictured. Borikowski holding a telephone, and me in the doorway of the hotel room, smiling—about to blow his head off.

  10:55 P.M.

  Leonid Borikowski answered the knock on 503 with a ten-dollar tip ready in his right hand. The waiter pushed the cart into the room, the white linen tablecloth brushing Borikowski’s suit as it passed. A bottle of Ultra Brut was submerged in crushed ice and wrapped with a napkin of matching linen; and a copy of the check lay beneath the base of the cut-glass vase, which held six long-stemmed red roses and greenery. He signed the check and handed the waiter the ten. Borikowski shut the door after the waiter and went about opening the bottle.

  Looking at his reflection in the champagne bucket, he was thankful to be alive and in good health and able to enjoy such extravagance.

  Although he was taking chances by staying the night in a fancy hotel, by ordering champagne and maintaining a high profile, he was enjoying it immensely. He could not remember ever having done anything like this. Ever. And that, he supposed, was why his superiors had devised such a plan. Just when your opponent thinks he knows you well, change. Yes. Change.

  Muffled by the closed bathroom door, he heard Lydia showering and he pictured her naked. He felt the twinges of an erection and chastised his adolescence.

  He knew the type. She wanted a promotion, better clothes. He warned himself not to touch her, not to allow her to seduce him, if that was what she had in mind. It would only cause trouble. Still, he kept imagining her lathering herself with soap, thinking how nice it would be to feel even a moment’s tenderness.

  A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened and her long, lean, freshly scrubbed body stood glowing in the doorway. A steamy mist escaped from behind her. She had borrowed a white button-down shirt from him and was wearing it like an open robe. Beneath it she wore a thin white slip that revealed an ample amount of bosom. She had the firm, round breasts of a young woman. Her shoulders were very square, her posture perfect, her hair damp and somehow sensual. She was smiling, and her chest moved in and out, up and down, in great waves. Her eyes seemed half-asleep.

  “Well? What do you think? Do I look like a bride to be?” she asked, knowing the answer, spinning on her toes like a model at the end of the ramp.

  Borikowski was not going to address that question. He pressed with both thumbs and launched the cork. It hit the ceiling, then ricocheted off a lamp, rebounded off the edge of a chair, and looped in spiraling arcs until it died in the center of the red carpet. A breath of white mist escaped from the mouth of the bottle.

  He poured.

  She inspected the flowers, touching each casually with the red-painted nails of her long fingers. They drank. His eyes ran down her in such a way that she felt as if he had touched her most personal spots. She blushed and thought she might giggle.

  It was just as she had hoped.

  Borikowski caught himself staring and looked away, feeling his loins stirring.

  He suggested they sit down.

  “You are beautiful. Honestly. Drink up. Champagne must be consumed before a half hour passes.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes. That’s what I’ve read. To tell you the truth I don’t get the chance that often to find out. DS agents are not as privileged as KGB agen—”

  “Not true. You should see my apartment. It is tiny. Bugs! Even rats! It’s terrible.”

  “Are you spying on me?” he asked pointedly.

  She had not expected such a question. “No. And I’m not KGB, I’m GRU.”

  “That’s not what I was—”

  “It’s the truth!” she said, indignant.

  “You’re reporting.”

  “Why would they have me do that? That’s ridiculous,” she said, lying. “Who cares if you believe me?” She took, a large swallow of champagne and he refilled both their glasses.

  “But you’re GRU; I’m DS. You’re Russian; I’m Bulgarian. You always spy on the other agencies.”

  “Yes. I see what you mean,” she offered, allowing him some ground. “Of course I will write a long report and someone in the Kremlin will no doubt read it and it will mention your code name. So yes, I see what you mean. So sorry.”

  He laughed and had to wipe off his lips. “So, I am right!”

  “Yes.” She returned his smile. “Oh! Wait just one minute! Lieutenant Sczlovlog asked me to bring you something,” she said, standing quickly and allowing the slip to ride up her leg.

  He watched her small derriere shift muscularly back and forth as she headed to the bathroom, hearing the unmistakable sound of slip against skin.

  She returned in seconds, and handed him a bottle of the finest Russian vodka.

  “My favorite.”

  She collected two hotel glasses and returned with them, allowing him to pour for her first. They toasted and drank the full two ounces he had poured for each of them. They drank another small amount and washed it down with champagne.

  She reached over and kissed him.

  He had somehow expected this, and they both smiled.

  “My turn for the shower,” he said awkwardly. “I feel as if I’ve been dipped in a vat of oil.” He motioned toward the champagne. “Please, help yourself.” Then he asked, “What about my face?”

  “Go ahead and shower.” She smiled. “Try and keep your face out of the water, if you can. It does not matter. I will have to touch it up for you anyway. Do what you like.”

  He left the bathroom door ajar to keep the conversation going. He removed the wig, eyebrows, and thin strips of tucking tape. “I’m curious about you.”

  “And I about you,” she replied honestly.

  “Why did you quit the dancing?”

  “I’ve told you. There never was any dancing. Only a dream of a dancer. There is some difference between the two.”

  He nodded, but of course she didn’t see it.

  “When I realized dancing was not possible for me… because of my father�
�s wishes… I studied foreign language. I joined the theater group in makeup. I painted dancer’s faces. Then my mother managed to place me in the GRU. She saved me.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, forgetting to close the door.

  He stepped into the spray of hot water and felt nearly two days wash from his skin. Then he heard her pull the bathroom door shut, leaving him to his steam. Try as he did, he could not stop thinking about her body.

  The vodka slowly melted though him and he experienced his first true moment of rest as he stood washing shampoo from his stubby scalp. This operation is going well now, he told himself, as he turned the water hotter still. I have a jump on the Americans and the advantage of surprise. Lydia did very well with the police, and I will recommend her—for whatever good it may do…

  The shower door opened. Lydia had removed his shirt, leaving her in just the glossy slip. A smile played on her face, something between a smirk and the all-knowing smile of Buddha.

  In the mirror he saw the long line of her back as she slid the slip up and over her head. His erection was immediate; he stood staring at her.

  Her stomach was very flat, her young breasts firm and their dark nipples taut. She had extremely thin arms and a narrow waist, and sturdy, athletic legs. Her feet were long but slight, with delicate toes. Between her legs there was no pubic hair, just absolutely smooth-shaven skin. And for this reason she appeared both the temptress and the little girl.

  Her eyes were hypnotic.

  She stepped into the water with him, and he reached out for her. But she dropped slowly to her knees, kissing his chest, and below.

  Her lips were soft and her knowledge great, and Borikowski had to take hold of the shower’s spigot to keep from falling.

  She led him down onto the bathroom floor so that he lay on top of her; they kissed passionately. She moved beneath him and helped him to enter her.

  Borikowski arched his back and looked into her eyes. He returned her smile and whispered, “We’re insane.” She nodded, and then her eyes closed tightly, drops of water on her face like tears of joy.

  They both smiled for a long time. And then she screamed.

  11:05 P.M.

  Columbus Grove, Ohio

  Dr. Eric Stuhlberg was wearing his yarmulke when she let herself in through the front door. He was kneeling before the yahrzeit candle, saying kaddish. She could see him through the thin slit left between the sliding doors, his blue hair typically spun atop his head like cotton candy, his shoulders slightly drooped. No windows were open, it was so cold outside, but even so the candle’s flame danced yellow atop the wax stick, and she wondered why it moved. Because this house is full of drafts, she thought to herself, chilled by seeing him so religious, knowing the ceremony was to honor her parents: his brother and his brother’s wife, who were no longer. No doubt he was unhappy she had not joined him. She knew she should have; she felt bad about being late and now looking in on the privacy of his moment. She took off her coat and hung it by the door on a tall wrought-iron stand that hosted thin, bent, metal leaves.

  He came out a few minutes later. He grew shorter every day, or so it seemed to her. “I heard you come in,” he told her, looking into her eyes. It was obvious he had been crying. “You sit. In there.” He pointed. “I will join you.”

  “I’m sor—”

  “Hush. Don’t try. Please. May they rest in peace. Sit. I’ll join you.” He took hold of the thick wooden banister and it creaked as he pulled on it for support, climbing the stairs as if it might be his last effort in life. He looked so old and frail, she thought, her eyes following his arduous climb. His feet were slippered, and he had on white socks.

  When he joined her, he poured them both a glass of dark purple wine and they took small sips. She looked at the hundreds of lines in his face and wondered if they were from age, worry, or weather. Perhaps all three. Lord knows he’d seen his share of the world, of hate, of oppression, of genius, and was still alive to talk about it.

  But he wasn’t talking.

  He was staring at the coffee table with his milky blue eyes and, for all she knew, was counting the lines in the wood to determine the tabletop’s age. He was like that. Long trances. She supposed he was a genius. Everyone who knew him called him a genius—the country’s leading expert in DNA cell fusion. She called him “Uncle.”

  “Uncle, it’s just that it makes me so sad.”

  “They were your parents. You owe them respect. You children… so quickly you think you grow independent. You pretend you are not Jewish.”

  “I’m not Jewish.”

  His eyes penetrated the dim light in the sitting room, cutting the air with a discontent as apparent as the gold ring upon his finger. “You are Jewish. You will always be Jewish. It is in your blood. Because you do not go to the temple means nothing. You cannot use that as an excuse. You should be ashamed.”

  “No God would let them die like that. I don’t care what anyone says. Either there’s no God, or he’s lost his ability to… to think straight.”

  He rocked his head from side to side. “We will sing together now. And please, do not ever speak this way in front of me again. I have failed my brother Yes. Do not shake your head, Ellen. He would curse me a thousand times if he had heard you say that. You must learn to respect the past, my dear. Not run from it. That is what my brother, your father, would have wanted. Instead you take your mother’s name and cast away your father’s religion. May you someday be forgiven.”

  “I love you, Uncle.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know you do. And I love you, child. You are my blood. You are my… We should sing. Enough of this. Let us sing.”

  “But it’s late. I’m tired.”

  “Tomorrow night you’re at that theater. Tonight you are here. We sing.” Eric Stuhlberg closed his eyes and began to hum an ancient melody. Ellen Bauer joined him.

  11:05 P.M.

  Detroit, Michigan

  In his hotel room, Andy answered the phone. “Here.”

  Stone’s voice said, “Item one: I think we’ve blown his cover. Item two: A message has been delivered here, for you. I don’t like that. It reads, and I quote: ‘We meet tonight at Perry Park, eleven-thirty. Nicky.’ Unquote. Be extremely careful. It may have been seeded.”

  Terry Stone hung up.

  Andy knew that Stone distrusted and disliked the former intelligence man, Nicholas Testler, mostly—Andy had decided—because the man had gone off on his own, disassociating himself from organized intelligence activities: “a stray,” as such agents were often referred to. But to Andy, Testler was merely a man to keep a careful eye on while one gained sensitive information. Testler’s information had always been accurate and timely. This, no one could argue.

  Granted, Testler was something of an enigma. As an ideologue he favored democracies, and to Andy’s knowledge, had never relayed misinformation to the West’s intelligence community. His past involved the British, Canadians, Americans, and Koreans. Code names Pidge, Widgeon, Black Dove had all been his at one point. He had been assigned to the Soviet desk of the Canadian Security Service for nearly a decade, gaining a number of international intelligence contacts, before resigning and setting up business as an independent “consultant.”

  So now he worked for money instead of stars and stripes. A Terry Stone would never understand this; but to Andy, retirement made sense. Testler, like so many other agents, probably had a sizable nest egg stashed somewhere, and dabbled in espionage only rarely, perhaps to feel the excitement again, or to stack the deck against the “enemy”—whoever that was—or to pick up a thousand dollars’ spending change, or to impress the ladies.

  One point in Testler’s favor was that the SIA needed help. Even the Old Man knew that.

  11:32 P.M.

  The cab pulled to a stop two blocks from Perry Park. Andy pushed all these thoughts from his mind and focused on only this moment—right here, right now—excitement ste
aling him away like a narcotic, filling him with a dangerous sense of urgency.

  It was moments like these that Andy lived for.

  That Testler knew Andy was in Detroit meant the SIA leak had turned into a flood. It increased the risk factor. It increased Andy’s enjoyment.

  He entered Perry Park from Cheney Street because Warren Avenue was filled with noisy traffic. He tasted the sweet of the cold night air and felt a stinging numbness steal into the tips of his fingers. A brisk wind magnified the punishment. He pushed away the continual drone of cars, hearing only two distinct sounds: first, his own shoes clapping against the sidewalk; and second, nearby, a house door closing—the knocker gently thumping the wood.

  He saw nothing but darkness ahead of him. A wraithlike silence closed in. He stepped forward slowly and at full attention. His pistol and attached silencer made a clumsy package at his side. Then, behind him, a car raced down Cheney Street and yelped to a stop.

  Andy spun around….

  He ducked low and edged to his right until obscured by a small tree and hidden in its shadow.

  The driver’s window lowered, but the face within the car remained a silhouette. A voice shouted, “Sour! It’s gone sour!” and Andy recognized it as Testler’s. “Hurry! Get in!”

  Andy looked around. “Shit!” he said, realizing his vulnerability.

  “Hurry!” Testler encouraged again.

  But instead, Andy ran deeper into the park. The only light came from a few footlamps that followed the snaking sidewalk through the park.

  He stooped, running a zigzag, and now heard everything: airplanes far overhead; cars close by; a ship’s lonely hoot on Lake St. Clair. Faster, he ran through the park. Testler’s car had rounded the block, and Andy watched it speed away.

  Then, from the corner of his eye, he discerned movement. Yes! It was a man crouched low, over by the jungle gym. Andy withdrew his pistol, but before he even aimed, a stainless steel cartridge—a hypodermic dart—slammed into, and lodged in, the bark of the tree next to him. The distraction allowed his target to duck behind a cement hippopotamus and disappear.

  Then, from behind him, he heard the clicking of metal as a rifle was being reloaded.