No Survivors sc-2

by Tom Cain

  The women were easy. One was a brunette, the other a blonde, Yoko and Linda, all the way.

  During daylight hours, either George or Ringo was on duty as a guard down by the gate to the property. Whoever had the first morning shift had to get up early and put the dogs back in their cage before he went down to his post. The only visitor seemed to be the local baker, whose van turned up midmorning. Judging by the quantities of food and drink that the driver carried in through the back door to the kitchen, along with his loaves of breads, pizzas, cakes, and pies, he’d got some kind of deal to keep the place fully provisioned.

  There was a barbecue on the terrace and Paul had been given the job of grilling steaks and kebabs every evening. Aside from that, the domestic chores were left for the women, who were multitasking as the men’s housemaids, cooks, eye candy, and sex toys. Carver could imagine describing the scene to Alix. He didn’t know exactly how she’d respond, but whatever she said, it would be knowing, cynical, and spiked with bone-dry black humor. He wondered how often she’d been treated like one of those women, but didn’t dwell on that, preferring to concentrate on the future. Not long now, and he’d see her again. Just kiss Vermulen good-bye and they could both give the life up for good.

  On the afternoon of the second day, Carver decided he’d seen enough. He’d do the job tomorrow. Tonight he’d find a hotel room and get a decent night’s sleep, a hot shower, and a square meal. But before that he had to pick up Vermulen’s package from the poste restante in Vence, then go shopping. He’d written another list of what he needed: sugar, linseed oil, food coloring, wax earplugs, and a bunch of other stuff, from paint brushes to meat pâté. It would mean visiting a few different shops.

  And there was one final item: fish-tank oxygenating tablets. He made a mental note to himself: Don’t forget the pet shop.

  62

  “Please, Mr. Novak, have as much as you want. I am a woman, I must watch my figure. But I like to see a man enjoying his food.”

  Olga Zhukovskaya looked encouragingly at the legendary hors d’oeuvres trolley of Vienna ’s Drei Husaren restaurant. The trolley held more than thirty seasonal dishes, from calves’ brains to caviar.

  Sadly for the waiter in his striped waistcoat, standing attentively beside the trolley, Pavel Novak did not have much of an appetite. Nor was he in any mood to appreciate the homely luxury of the Library, the smaller of the sixty-five-year-old restaurant’s two dining rooms. Under normal circumstances, he would have felt soothed and contented among its shelves filled with ancient hardbacks, its baskets of spring daffodils, the stone statues in niches on the wall, and the restful tones of the wooden paneling and dark-green dining chairs. But not when his worst nightmares were coming to life before him.

  The very fact that he and Zhukovskaya were speaking Russian was enough to bring back his darkest memories. For almost fifteen years he had worked to overthrow the rule of the Soviet Union, passing secret information to the West. In all that time, he felt sure he had escaped detection. And now, more than eight years after the Velvet Revolution that had brought freedom to his Czech homeland, the Russians had finally caught up with him.

  When he had received the phone call inviting him to dinner, he had known exactly who Zhukovskaya was, and what she represented. He had accepted because there seemed no point in refusing or trying to escape. If they were after him, they would catch him. If they were not, he had nothing to lose from meeting one of the legends of the Soviet spy trade. His fatalism, however, did not make him any less nervous.

  Zhukovskaya, of course, was fully aware of Novak’s unease. She had enjoyed it, even toyed with it for a while, before deciding to put him out of his misery. She, too, would lose her appetite if she had to watch this miserable weasel with his pathetically drooping mustache sweating with fear before her eyes. There was no point coming to one of the finest restaurants in Vienna, where food is taken as seriously as in any French or Italian city, and then being unable to enjoy the menu.

  “Are you worried, or fearful of what might happen to you? Please, these are not the old days. We are not Stalinists anymore.”

  Novak relaxed a fraction. He managed to order some chicken in jelly.

  “Good,” said Zhukovskaya, “and for the main course I recommend the tafelspitz-boiled beef, hashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and apple sauce-they say it is the best in Vienna. But of course, you know that, being a local. So, let us not talk business while we eat. Let’s tell stories about the good old days… when you worked for the Americans.”

  It was all Novak could do not to spit his mouthful of chicken all over the table. He chewed and swallowed his food, trying all the while to think of a reply.

  Zhukovskaya continued.

  “Come on-how incompetent did you think we were? Of course we knew. But it suited our purposes to let you live. You were a trusted source because you truly believed that the information you were passing on was genuine. But I’m afraid that much of it was not. We made sure of that. So, far from harming us, as you must have hoped, you were actually doing the Soviet Union a great service by misleading our enemies… Oh, look, your wineglass is empty. Perhaps the sommelier will get you some more.”

  Finally, Novak was able to speak.

  “When did you know?”

  “Well, I was just a junior officer back then, so I was not informed until much later. But my superiors were aware of your treachery from the moment you made your first, nervous approach to the Americans.”

  “My God… how deeply did you penetrate the DIA?”

  “We were able to blackmail a few officers; we paid others. One or two worked for us for ideological reasons. But the total was not great, fewer than a dozen. Your handler, Vermulen, was always completely loyal to his country. Both you and he were absolutely sincere in what you were doing. That was important to us.”

  “So why do you want to see me now?”

  Zhukovskaya pushed away her half-eaten portion of caviar.

  “All right, then, if you prefer, we can do business and then eat. Perhaps that is better, after all. So… what were you discussing with Vermulen at the opera?”

  “Nothing. I have not seen Vermulen in years. And I do not particularly like opera.”

  A pained expression crossed Zhukovskaya’s face.

  “Once again, Mr. Novak, I must make the same request: Please do not underestimate us. You attended a performance of Don Giovanni at the opera house here in Vienna. You spoke to Vermulen in the bar before the performance. So I will ask you now, why did you meet? What did you discuss? What communication have you had since? And I will repeat, if you are open with me, we can all behave like civilized people. If you are not… well, let’s not spoil our dinner thinking about that.”

  Novak was indifferent to her threat. So far as he was concerned, he was already a dead man. The one noble act he had undertaken in his life, his personal campaign against the Communist occupation of his country, had been exposed as a sham. Far from helping the cause of freedom, he had probably harmed it. Now his feeble attempt to prevent the list of bombs from falling into the wrong hands was unraveling in front of his eyes.

  He supposed he could make a grand, sacrificial gesture. He could refuse to say anything, and let this Russian witch try to beat the truth out of him. Perhaps he could hold out for long enough to enable Vermulen to do what he had to. But that resistance would require effort and mental energy to sustain and he was suddenly and painfully aware that he had no further capacity for that kind of effort. Why bother to maintain the pretense any longer?

  Novak summoned the sommelier.

  “I would like a bottle of red Bordeaux, something to remember for a lifetime. The price is irrelevant.”

  The sommelier, well aware who was paying for this meal, glanced at Zhukovskaya. She gave a fractional nod of assent before he answered Novak’s request.

  “In that case, mein herr, I would suggest the 1982 La Mission Haut-Brion. A magnificent vintage from one of the great châteaus. I think you will f
ind it an almost spiritual experience.”

  A tired smile played briefly over Novak’s face.

  “Spiritual, eh? Then the Haut-Brion will be perfect.”

  Zhukovskaya did not hurry him as he tasted the wine, signaled his approval, savored the intensity and complexity of its aroma, then took his first few sips. She understood as well as he did what was happening.

  When he had finished his first glass, Novak began to talk. He described how he had been approached by Bagrat Baladze, who was trying to sell the list of missing bombs; how he had gone in turn to Vermulen, hoping to get the list to the Americans; how he had provided him with the location of the list and the means to obtain it.

  When he had finished, Zhukovskaya reached across the table and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Thank you,” she said with quiet sincerity. “Now enjoy the rest of your meal.”

  Her smile was unexpectedly charming, so feminine, almost flirtatious as she added, “And your spiritual wine!”

  Somehow, perhaps because the burden of his secret had been lifted, or simply because the Bordeaux was a magical elixir, Novak was able to enjoy his dinner. He and Zhukovskaya made the conversation of two middle-aged people who had shared similar experiences over many years and observed the same absurdities. He was a man with a gift for a funny anecdote; she was a woman who was happy to laugh at his humor.

  At the end of the meal, Zhukovskaya was as civilized, as kulturny, to use the Russian phrase, as she had promised. With great politeness, she asked him to hand over his cell phone. She also told him that there was about to be a problem with the telephone lines running in and out of his apartment building. He could not, in other words, alert anyone to what he had just told her. She informed him that he would be given a lift back to his home, and his wife.

  “Please,” she said, “make this easy for both of us.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Pavel Novak let himself in through his front door, crossed the hall, and stepped into the elevator, an ornate metal cage that had run up through the middle of the building’s spiral staircase for the better part of a century. He stopped on the fifth floor and went into his apartment. His wife was asleep in their bedroom. He kissed her face and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear.

  She gave a sleepy little murmur of reply.

  Novak looked at her with the love that a man has for a woman who has shared his life for almost three decades, a love in which youthful passion has given way to a far deeper blend of affection, knowledge, and mutual forgiveness. He laid his hand briefly on her shoulder, then he left the room.

  He walked up to the top of the building and out through the door that led to the roof. He walked to the edge, looked around him at the lights and rooftops of Vienna, took one last, deep breath, and stepped out into the void.

  63

  Last thing at night, Carver called Grantham in London.

  “It’s going down tomorrow,” he said. “Sometime in the afternoon.”

  “Do you have any idea yet what you’re after?”

  “Not yet. All the client told me was he was hoping to retrieve some kind of document in a sealed envelope. He didn’t tell me what was in the document that was so valuable. He just said, and I quote, that it was ‘vital to the future peace of the world.’ ”

  “He what…?”

  Whatever Grantham was expecting, it wasn’t that.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Carver. “I thought it sounded pretty crazy, too. And that wasn’t the half of it. He’s got this obsession that we’re like the Romans, just as the empire was collapsing, with barbarians at the gate. Only the barbarians aren’t Huns and Vandals; they’re Islamic terrorists, trying to take over the world.”

  “You’re joking.” Grantham gave a short, irritable sigh.

  “Well, you can argue that out with him. All I know is, I’ll be aiming to make the handover sometime in the early evening. The location is the Hotel du Cap, same as our lunch. I’ll give you the precise time tomorrow. Within fifteen minutes of that time, I aim to be walking out of the hotel with the woman and, if possible, the document. I told Vermulen I didn’t want any of his men there when the deal went down, but I can’t believe he’ll keep to that. He’ll want to protect his investment. So I’m going to need extraction-a car, maybe even a driver, someone good-and a safe house for the night.”

  Grantham gave a snort of disbelief. “Would you like me to lay on a private jet as well? You seemed to like those, as I recall.”

  “Or I could just give Vermulen’s goons the document in exchange for Alix…”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  64

  Even the powerful have bosses. And just as Olga Zhukovskaya could make her subordinates quake, so even she felt twinges of anxiety when calling her agency’s director in his bed to tell him bad news. She reported everything Novak had told her, stressing the urgency of the matter. In her view, the list of nuclear weapons and their precise whereabouts had to be recovered within twenty-four hours. After that, it could be lost forever.

  “We know the whereabouts of a document that is of enormous military and political significance to the Motherland,” she concluded. “We should make immediate plans to seize it.”

  The director had not survived a life of secrecy, infighting, and continual, often deadly regime changes by being rash or lacking in calculation. His immediate response was cautious.

  “Can we be sure that this list really exists, or has the significance Novak claimed? The deployment of those weapons was under KGB control, their locations are still known to us alone, and I am not aware of any documents missing from our files. I suppose, theoretically, that Defense Ministry operatives might have found a way of copying or stealing our documentation…” He paused to contemplate the disturbing possibility that another agency might have outwitted his own, however temporarily. “In any case, Novak was a traitor who became a profiteer. All good reasons to disbelieve anything he says.”

  “Quite so, Director. In any other circumstance I would agree with you on all counts. But I sat one meter from Novak when he was talking. I am certain that he was telling the truth.”

  “Feminine intuition?” sneered the director.

  “No, sir-twenty-five years of experience in the conduct of interrogations.”

  “Very well, let us assume, hypothetically, that this list is as dangerous as you claim. Another problem arises. It is located in a foreign, sovereign nation and we do not wish to provoke a diplomatic incident by undertaking a violent action against armed criminals, who would have the advantage of a defensible position.”

  Zhukovskaya countered that.

  “But, Director, we undertake violent actions on foreign countries all the time-”

  “So you proved-with regrettable lack of success-in Geneva recently,” her boss snapped. “Our coverup may have fooled local police and media, but do not suppose that our enemies were deceived. The operatives chosen were far too easily identifiable as our assets. In any case, we have a further difficulty. As you know, all government agencies are facing severe financial restrictions at the moment. We are no exception…”

  “It is very sad, Director,” Zhukovskaya murmured, keen to get him off his hobbyhorse and back to the matter in hand. “But I do not see the relevance here-”

  “The relevance, Deputy Director, is that I have no money to pay for the operation you propose. I have already funded an undercover operation on your behalf.”

  “Which has led to our discovery of Novak and his document-”

  “At the cost of sending men to America and Switzerland, arranging contacts across the whole of Europe, not to mention the American dollars spent on Miss Petrova’s cover, which apparently involved buying clothes no good Russian woman could afford, and primping herself in beauty parlors…”

  As the old man ranted, a smile slowly spread across Zhukovskaya’s face. She had just seen a way in which she could carry out the operation, recover the document, save the state money, create total deniabilit
y in the event of anything going wrong, and cause maximum embarrassment to the outmoded dinosaur who stood between her and the top job she craved.

  “Are your official instructions that I should not expend any agency resources on this matter?” she asked dutifully.

  “Indeed they are,” said the director. “And as for Miss Petrova, I must say that I am amazed that you are prepared to have anything to do with her, given her role in your husband’s death. If I were in your place, I should have taken great pleasure in killing her.”

  “Perhaps, in due course, I will. For now, though, I am happy to use her talents to advance our interests.”

  For the first time the director’s voice was laden with genuine admiration.

  “I must say, my dear, that is admirably cold-blooded, even for you.”

  GOOD FRIDAY

  65

  It was another perfect spring morning in Provence. Carver met the baker’s decrepit old van on the street, half a mile from the house, and thumbed a lift. Now it was chugging and clattering up to the gate. The gang member he had christened Ringo appeared in the driveway, signaling for them to stop. Up close, where the tufts of hair on his back and chest sprouted over the neck of his T-shirt, he looked even less appealing. But he was carrying a combat shotgun, and from the way he carried it, angled across his body-the stock nestled in the crook of his right arm, right hand on the trigger, the barrel pointing down-someone had trained him to use it properly.

  Ringo glared at the baker, ignoring the tradesman’s polite “Bonjour, m’sieur,” offering not even a grunt by way of acknowledgment that he recognized his face. He just pointed at the keys in the ignition and flicked his fingers, indicating that they should be handed over.