by Paul Kenyon
Mursky gave him an infuriating smile. "First things first, comrade. You see, one of my clients is Lars Lindqvist, the movie director. I don't mind telling you because I'm sure you know already. Lindqvist thought he had a lead to Coin, but he suffered a puzzling loss of memory before he could tell me. I think the Americans got to him with one of their mind-control drugs. I painstakingly traced his movements over quite a period of time and satisfied myself as to the identity of Coin. I checked the Coin file in Moscow, and everything fits."
"I see," Alexey said slowly. "Does Lindqvist know too?"
"That fool? He's forgotten everything, down to the first incident that aroused his suspicions. He has no inkling that he ever thought that one of his decadent acquaintances was Coin. And I certainly have no intention of reminding him."
"Who is Coin?"
"A very rich American woman named the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini."
"Thank you, comrade." Alexey reached in his pocket and took out his cigarette fighter. He raised it to his face and pushed the stud. There was a faint crack, like someone snapping his fingers.
Mursky looked astonished. A neat round dot appeared in the center of his forehead. After a moment it began to ooze blood. He fell face first to the desk top.
Alexey snatched the folder off the desk before Mursky's body hit it. He riffled through the loose pages, nodding from time to time. Then he put it into the wastebasket and set fire to it. He waited until it had burned completely, then stirred the ashes.
An American proverb came to him. Something about a penny saved.
He looked around the office to make sure he'd left no trace of his visit. His GRU superiors thought he was in Stockholm. Mursky's death would be blamed either on the Americans or one of Mursky's own clients. Clients tended to be unstable, especially if they were being blackmailed.
He descended the stairs and slipped out of the building. In a few moments he was lost in the evening crowd, a tall, fair-haired man who might have been a sailor on shore leave.
* * *
The little red Porsche whizzed down the Via Guicciardini, scaring the hell out of pedestrians and bicycle traffic. The driver was a striking beauty whose long black hair whipped behind her in the wind. She used her horn freely, Italian style, treating the more stubborn traffic to a rude gesture or a colorful epithet framed by her exquisitely shaped lips.
A young overdressed man in a yellow Fiat tried to bluff her. She pulled out to pass him, horn blaring, missing his side by millimeters. He turned pale and twisted the wheel. "Vada al diavolo!" the black-haired vision yelled as she passed. He jammed on the brake, but wasn't able to avoid a produce cart. Melons spilled over the cobblestones, and a moment later a little old man was at the driver's window of the Fiat, shaking a brown fist.
The Baroness gave a tinkling laugh and drove on. The clear Tuscan air was fresh and invigorating. It was a beautiful day to shop for a pair of sandals.
She pulled up with a squeal of brakes near the entrance of the Ponte Vecchio. A uniformed carabiniere started toward her, shouting that she couldn't park her car there. She threw him a flashing smile and hurried toward the bridge.
The Ponte Vecchio's shopping arcade was jammed with tourists and Florentines, picking over the enamels and leather goods and jewelry. She pushed her way through the crowd, a tall slim figure in a bright cotton dress, a straw bag slung over one bare shoulder.
She thought she'd try Mario's booth first. He looked up and smiled when he saw her. "Ah, Baronessa!" he said, "Che cosa desidera?"
She was looking over Mario's selection of magnificently gold-tooled sandals when a long shadow fell across the display. "I beg your pardon," a British voice said behind her, "but aren't you a photographer's model?"
She turned around to deal with him. It was a tall good-looking man in an expensive mod-style sports jacket and open shirt.
"Alexey!" she said with a start.
"Hullo, Baroness," he said, smiling at her.
"Have you defected, darling?" she said.
"Not a chance. I'm on leave. One week. I thought I'd spend it with you."
"Wouldn't we be taking a chance, darling? Neither of our organizations would like it."
"We're both used to taking chances. And the hell with organizations!"
She tossed the sandals she was holding to Mario. "Wrap them up and send them to the villa," she said in Italian. She took Alexey's arm and began leading him toward the parked Porsche.
"They offered me a vacation on the Black Sea," Alexey was saying. "But I told them I'd rather spend a week in Western Europe. They trust me."
"Should they?"
"No."
"Should I?"
He grinned. "Probably not."
"Then what makes you think I'd let you spend your week with me?"
He slipped an arm around her waist. "An old American proverb. Something about a penny earned."
She turned an amused face toward him. "You're right, darling," she said. "The hell with organizations." She took his hand and together they hurried toward the waiting Porsche.