Assault on the Empress

by Jerry Ahern

  Alyard removed the little pistol’s magazine, worked the slide back. No round had been cambered. “It takes a brave man to admit fear,” he told Stakowski to be more or less comforting. The PPK was in .380, 9mm Short in European parlance, the magazine containing only six rounds, solids. “Any more for this?” Alyard raised his eyebrows as he slapped the spine of the magazine against the palm of his hand and then shoved it up the butt.

  “No.”

  Alyard worked the slide, chambering a round, setting the safety to on. “Here. Work this lever on the slide and—”

  “No. You keep it. I never liked guns to begin with. Since this thing started I’ve seen enough shooting to last a lifetime.”

  “Not the gun, but the man behind it who’s good or evil, to like or dislike. All right. Anyway, where’s the stuff?”

  “Here.” Stakowski—unbelievably—just reached into the outside pocket of his sportcoat and took out a long, rather fat velvet maroon jewelry box, passing it over.

  Alyard dropped the little pistol into his right hip pocket and gingerly opened the jewelry box. It was lined with grey foam rubber inside, a french-fitted niche cut for an ampule approximately three inches in length and perhaps a half-inch in diameter. Rounded at one end, squared off with a screw-in cap at the other, the ampule was made of some heavy-seeming sort of glass. “What the hell does this stuff do? I mean, just in case I drop it or something, I’d like to know what symptoms to expect.”

  “I don’t know. But I know it’s fuckin’ deadly. There’s enough in there to kill off a small city, from what I was told.”

  Alyard looked once more at the ampule, then carefully closed the case. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t think of a better place for it than his pocket, so he put it there. “How many followed you?”

  “Three.”

  “Whose people?”

  “Albanian secret police, I think. I don’t know. Could have been KGB. I gotta get outa here. You got what I need?”

  Alyard crossed his legs, taking off his left shoe, twisting the heel, then turning it over. Three small, perfectly faceted blue-white stones tumbled into his palm. It would have been easy to give Stakowski only two, because Stakowski would have had no way of knowing what form his escape money would take. And Stakowski would most likely never get out of Albania alive. “These are for you. If you’re careful—I’ll give you the names of the right fences in Durazzo—you’ll have money to spare. There’s a lot of smuggling in Albania. It’s a long coast. You shouldn’t have trouble.” He was planning to use a smuggler himself to cross the Adriatic, but that was none of Stakowski’s business. He gave Stakowski the diamonds. This was a rich operation. “Here.” He reached into a breast pocket and took out a small notebook, careful to open the rings rather than rip out the sheets, handing them over to Stakowski. “The first five appointments are the names of the fences you can try. The last appointment breaks down into the name of the man you should contact when you feel things have cooled down. He can get you across the Adriatic, then. They said you knew Bright’s Shorthand Alphabet. Work the characters from back to front using numbers and then apply the numbers to the appointment names from the middle outward. If there’s an even number of characters, disregard the middle one to the right. Work left to right all the way through. Got it?”

  “Disregard the double on the right and work left to right all the way through. All right.”

  “Then you’ll need this.” Alyard went into his pockets again, taking out his wallet, giving the special packet of leks to Stakowski. “Should be enough dough to see you through until you can fence those stones. And take your gun back. You’re the one who’s more likely to need it.”

  “I don’t want it. Get rid of it yourself if you don’t want it.”

  Alyard nodded. Rather than making an issue of it, he could drop it in a trash can somewhere and, if Stakowski had led the KGB or the Albanian secret police to his door, however incriminating a gun might be, it might save his life, too. “Fine. Good luck, huh?”

  Alyard extended his hand.

  Stakowski took it, Stakowski’s hand clammy with sweat. “Thanks, man.”

  “Look me up when you get to Italy, huh?”

  “Yeah. Gotta. I owe you a drink.”

  “You got it right there.” Alyard walked Stakowski to the compartment door, let him out and glanced up and down the corridor as he did. There was a woman with an ill-fitting grey coat, grey-steaked brown hair partially covered with a babushka. Alyard closed the door….

  The train was slowing already and Ephraim Vots—it had been Volshinski once—started running, sticking his fedora down low over his eyes so it wouldn’t catch in the wind and sail off. Wave after wave of arctic fronts had been bombarding Europe since late fall, and by now he was used to the constant cold temperatures and snow. In the British Isles, he had heard, there was even now a terrible blizzard. He had liked Great Britain, serving out almost exactly halfway through a standard-length “illegal” tour there but having to get out when the project he had been working for just over three years went suddenly very sour. Instead of a rebuke, he had been given a promotion. Once he had no longer been an illegal, he had divorced his wife. To have done so before would have made him seem suspicious to his superiors and invited disaster. He saw his two children when he could, had been with them in Moscow when the man from Derzhinsky Square had come telling him that he was needed. Then a solitary flight to Albania and the rapid determination that the viral agent had been gotten out of the research complex. But the only personnel close enough to be of any use had been Albanian secret police, the English term assholes the best way to describe their ability level. And the man and the ampule of the viral agent had been lost. Then there had been a gunfight and the fellow Wilton Vironcek (whom he an hour afterward had found out had been a double worked by the GRU against U.S. Central Intelligence) had been killed and the damned viral agent lost again. This time to a man Vols had seen several times in Moscow, David Stakowski, the CIA resident.

  The rear door of the last car was opening and Vols quickened his pace. The Western concept of jogging for physical fitness was certainly paying off tonight. He reached the rear car and jumped, hands coming for his hands, and he was on the platform, losing his footing for an instant on the slippery metal, but then catching himself. “I am all right,” he said, at last seeing the face. He had thought the hands had felt strangely soft.

  It was Anna, a half dozen last names supplied over the years, but the first name all he was ever certain enough to use. “Ephraim.”

  He embraced her briefly, already feeling the sweat starting under his heavy winter coat from the exertion of the run. “Is Stakowski aboard?”

  “He has transferred the ampule to another man. The conductor says he travels under a Swiss passport and is named Thomas Rheinhold. I think he is American.”

  “Let’s see then.”

  She opened the door and there was a wide shaft of yellow white light and he stepped through after her, closing the door behind him, trying to force out the sound of the metal wheels clacking over the metal rails. Vols opened his coat. He looked at Anna. He laughed. “You look twenty years older.”

  She laughed, retying her floral-print scarf under her chin. “The dye in my hair washes out. Maybe I can show you after this business. And the coat is three sizes too large.”

  “I must get this infernal thing back to Moscow after it’s over. Can you come to Moscow?”

  “I could.”

  “Come, then. I can show you how to make a Christmas tree. It won’t be that long.”

  “You?”

  “When I was in the West, I picked up some of their customs. The religious festival aside, it’s a wonderful excuse for a winter vacation for a few days.”

  “All right.”

  “Who’s watching him?”

  “Two of the three men you sent, Ivan and Piotr. I sent Vassily to keep an eye on Stakowski.”

  “Good girl.” None of the names were real, but then
Anna probably wasn’t her real name either. He detested confusion, so had told her his real name the first time they had shared a bed together.

  “Don’t you have some girl in Moscow?”

  “I have several girls in Moscow, but none of them like you. Believe me or not, but it is true.”

  “Should I trust a man who is skilled in disinformation techniques?”

  “Yes.” He smiled.

  “I think so, too.” She smiled. “Come on.”

  He started after her down the corridor and they passed through three cars until they reached the one she said the dubious Swiss businessman was aboard. She knocked on a compartment door and it opened. It was Piotr, as Anna called him. Anna stepped inside, Vols after her, Piotr putting away his revolver. Certain officers in the KGB and their respective functionaries, at the discretion of the officer, were allowed considerable latitude in their selection of items of personal equipment. Vols was one of these and allowed his men the same privilege. So much of Russian equipment was inferior to the best available in the West.

  “So, Piotr. You have been listening to him?” There was a suction-cupped listening device on the wall at his left.

  “The fellow has not said a word. But, of course, he is alone now,” and Piotr smiled. “But the funny thing is he seems to be breathing very hard.”

  “Yes. It is harder to deal with crazies, isn’t it. Where’s your friend?”

  “The compartment on the other side. I don’t think Ivan would have heard anything either.”

  Vols lit a cigarette, threw down his winter coat and took the pistol from the coat pocket, then stuffed it in the waistband of his trousers under the front of his sweater. “And you couldn’t get it going in time to hear what was said between him and Stakowski?”

  “No, Comrade Major.”

  “Let me have a listen.” He walked over and took the earphones from Piotr. The sounds of heavy breathing were odd, but perhaps the fellow they were monitoring had had as little sleep as he. Vols had ordered that all conversations for the mission be in English since very few Albanian secret police personnel understood English and he didn’t wish complications. “Where are the Albanians?” He surrendered the earphones to Piotr.

  “I gave them some money to buy a bottle of vodka and told them to guard the first car so the Americans couldn’t—” Piotr started to laugh “—couldn’t reach the engine compartment and—what is the word—hijack!—couldn’t hijack the train.”

  “You are insane, but it is a humorous idea at that.”

  “What will we do?” Anna asked, taking off her coat, leaving on the scarf. Underneath the coat, it was the old Anna. Great figure, breasts upthrusting proudly against the heavy sweater, the perfect swell at the hips beneath the trim waist, the gorgeous legs the coat had all but hidden.

  “I think we talk with Mr. Stakowski. Is Vassily in radio contact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reach him, Piotr. Find out where Stakowski is.”

  Piotr started working the hand-held radio. Anna started back into her old-lady coat, Vols helping her with it. “Thank you.”

  “You stay here with the listening device, Piotr. Anna and I will talk with Mr. Stakowski.”

  “He is in the second car. But remember, Comrade Major, the Albanians are in the first car.”

  Vols nodded and started out of the compartment, entering the corridor first, holding the door for Anna, then closing it behind them. He looked at the door to the compartment where the so-called Swiss businessman was as they passed it, tugged at his sweater to make certain the Walther P-5 was covered sufficiently, and followed Anna into the next car, through it, on to the next car, where there were no compartments, only seats, most of which were unoccupied, none of the few riders seemingly awake, then through it.

  “This is the second car, Ephraim,” she told him as she stopped on the platform between cars. He froze with the wind blowing, almost envying Anna the ugly-looking coat.

  “Go in first, walk past him and find someplace to sit. I’ll follow you in a minute.”

  “Be careful. He should be armed.”

  “I’ll be careful. He’s a fancy gatherer and nothing more, not a field agent. Go on.”

  She went inside, Ephraim Vols hanging back, hugging his arms across his chest against the bite of the wind. He looked at his watch. In less than an hour, they’d be in Durazzo station. He was tempted to find out what he could from Stakowski and then let the courier Stakowski had given it to off the train, follow him and pick the time and place to recover the viral material. He certainly had enough men (and, of course, Anna) to meet the task.

  “Fuck it,” he said in English, tired of waiting in the cold and wrenching open the door, going inside, the suddenness of the warmth almost stifling to him.

  He saw Stakowski, seated alone, wearing a trench coat, both hands in the coat pockets. One of the hands could be holding a gun, he told himself.

  Anna sat beside an old woman, chatting it seemed from the movement of their lips. Vassily was nowhere to be seen, logically at the other end of the car on the outside. Poor fellow.

  Vols decided to try the soft approach. He left his hands at his sides and walked straight up the aisle, toward Stakowski, the American not yet looking up. Vols stopped right in front of him, smiled and said, “David! Of all things!”

  Stakowski looked up. “Vots—”

  “We’ve met a few times. I hadn’t thought you’d remember. May I join you? I’m traveling with some friends.” He sat down opposite Stakowski, reached into his trouser pockets and found cigarettes and a lighter, the American watching him intently, fear etched in his eyes.

  “I don’t have it.”

  Vols smiled as he exhaled. “Now that’s a silly thing to say, David. I mean, really. What if I were just traveling with some friends and didn’t know anything about the little ampule you got from Voroncek? Wilton was a clumsy spy, as I’m sure you’d agree. But he had a certain audacity. Which almost paid off for you and your people. But, I’ll tell you what, David. You tell me all you can about the Swiss businessman or whoever he is that you gave the thing to, and I’ll let you off the train with an hour’s head start. I can’t promise you more than that, actually. Bit sticky for me at that, if you get my meaning. But, for old times’ sake, I’m willing to extend myself.”

  Stakowski’s voice trembled when he replied. “Go to hell!”

  “That’s the spirit, David! Now, between you and me, I’m not really an atheist as I should be. I believe in God, Heaven, and, well, in my line of work, I certainly hope there isn’t a hell. But I’m willing to risk a hell after death. But, the question before you, David, is, are you willing to risk a hell before death? Because we can make that. I mean, not me. I’m not into extracting information from people. But let me tell you, some of my associates are bloody rough on uncooperative sorts. Talk and you get that hour’s start, David. And if you do get caught, I’ll go to bat for you and pull some strings in the right places and make certain they just swap you back for someone right away. One of our johnnies is always getting caught at something or another in your country. So, what about it?”

  Stakowski didn’t speak.

  Vols laughed. “Damn! You drive a hard bargain. All right! You win!” The cigarette was between his lips and he spread both palms outward toward Stakowski.

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you where to get a boat—tonight. Or this morning, I should say, that’ll spirit you to safety right across the Adriatic up to San Marino where you were going in the first place. But, you’ve got to promise you’ll never breathe a word of my complicity in the thing. It’d be bloody awful for me when it came time for May Day bonuses!” And he laughed. Stakowski laughed. “Well, what do you say, David?”

  “What’ll happen to Alyard?”

  “That the fellow’s name?”

  “Thomas Alyard.”

  “Well, we’ll make a big flap over it, of course, but he’ll be traded out rather quickly. Instead of you. What abo
ut it? We have an understanding?”

  David Stakowski’s eyes looked on the verge of tears and there as a puerile smile on his face. “You mean what you say, Vols?”

  “Yes, I do. And I’ll tell you something else. There’re Albanian secret police on this train. I could tell you horror stories about their incompetence, believe me. The fact of the matter, basically, is that all of us are rational. You, me, this chap—Thomas Alyard?”

  “Yes.”

  “CIA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. But you see,” Vols said, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned slightly forward, smoke exhaling through his nostrils, “this ampule of virus or whatever. I mean, my people will be careful with it. Just as yours would be. But I hear it’s rather nasty stuff, if you get my meaning. Shouldn’t want these Albanian secret police fellows to get their hands on it. Bunch of positive twits. They’d probably open the bloody thing and, well, it might well be over for everyone on this train and for some miles around. Ugghh,” and he shivered, not faking the reaction.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Good man.” Vols nodded. “Right then.” He decided on asking something easily enough verifiable. “What name is this Alyard chap traveling under?”

  “Thomas Rheinhold. Swiss, as I said.”

  “And what’s his status. I mean, is he a reasonable sort of fellow? Is he armed?”

  David Stakowski’s face soured. “I armed him. I picked up a gun when I took the ampule off Voroncek. I mean, you know I’m not that kinda guy, Vols. But I was scared.”

  “Shouldn’t blame you a bit, David. But what about this gun?”

  “I gave it to Alyard. He didn’t want it, but I made him take it. ”