Sylvia and Valentine had talked to Schiller in the park, and she had seen Frash in the same place only an hour later; because of this she suspected that the banker had gone directly from them to Frash. Of course it was possible that it was a coincidence, but she thought this unlikely. Schiller and Frash must have worked out some sort of deal that only auditors would be able to detect.
Valentine could not cope with sitting in the American consulate while all of official Switzerland looked for Frash. Sylvia found him outside in the Jaguar. “Schiller’s still missing.”
There was no response. His eyes were red, his hair oily, his face rough with several days of whiskers. He stared out the window.
“I called the bank,” she continued. “I talked to the managing director and suggested he audit Schiller before word leaked out that there was a problem.”
“It won’t matter,” Valentine said. “The only time you ever see a fox is on his way out of the hen house. He’s moved on.”
“He can’t,” she said with less conviction than she meant to convey. “It will end here.”
“If you say so,” he said arching his back to stretch. He let out a long sigh and leaned his head back. “Guys like him always seem to find a way out.”
She fought an urge to argue. “I’m optimistic.”
“So was Jesus when they were nailing him to the cross,” Valentine said. “If optimism and enthusiasm counted for anything, we wouldn’t have to remember the Alamo.”
“So quit,” Sylvia snapped.
“Nope. I’ve always had a thing about finishing what I start.”
“Most people would say that’s a virtue.”
He rolled his head toward her. “Most people have never taken anything to the far end of the line,” he said grimly.
104WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1961, 3:00 P.M.Moscow
Yepishev stared at the telephone for a long time before trying again. The Americans wanted a meeting in Geneva on Sunday. It was an interesting choice. The International Red Cross was headquartered there, as was the International Labor Office, and the city had a regular flow of Russian diplomats. That they had asked for a meeting at all told him that they had a serious problem, and the selection of Geneva confirmed his suspicions. Neutral ground, neutral city, former home of the League of Nations, Geneva was a place where dangerous situations could be defused through talk. It was a choice that called for help, and he had agreed, then found it difficult to contact Bailov. With each unsuccessful attempt he grew more uneasy. Where was he? Why didn’t the man answer his phone so that he could wash his hands of the whole affair? The thought made him smile. Could one wash away treason so easily? I like you, Taras Ivanovich, but you’re testing me. He considered aborting the plan, but Bailov already knew about the American connection and no doubt had told his confederates, which meant that the secret was out. There was no choice but to see it through. The time for retreat had passed.
When the phone was finally answered he asked for Bailov and felt his pulse quicken. When he came on the line, he said, “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Not now,” Bailov said immediately. “Not on the phone. I want you to meet me.”
“This line is secure.”
“Can you say the same for my end?” He did not wait for an answer. “Go to the west end of the Borodinsky Bridge. I’ll join you in an hour.”
Yepishev replaced the receiver and slumped forward in his chair. Bailov’s voice had been firm but without emotion, his statements clipped but complete, exactly the way a commander talked in the swirling vortex of battle. Yepishev wondered if he would soon be drawn into the same maelstrom that was engulfing his younger comrade.
105WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1961, 3:50 P.M.Zurich
Sylvia stared at Schiller’s gray face and exploded left eye, then asked the morgue technician, “Was a bullet recovered?”
“Just pieces,” the man said apologetically. “You can never tell with a head wound. One time the projectile passes cleanly through, another time it enters at just the right angle and spins round and round in the curvature of the skull. More often it separates on impact. This one is more the rule than the exception.”
“We want the fragments,” she said in a tone that offered the man no alternative, but he was accustomed to dealing with the Swiss authorities and parried easily with an invocation of rules. “Only the police can release evidence,” he said with no hint of apology. “I have no authority.”
Shortly thereafter they encountered the head of homicide for the city and found him equally obstinate. “It is clear,” he said, “that Herr Schiller was in a locale where a gentleman of his station should not be. His watch has been removed, along with his billfold and his wedding ring, and his pockets were turned inside out. Like all cities, we have our problems, but Schiller was a banker and one of us and he should have known better.” The captain emphasized the word “banker” in the way that a parish priest might refer to his bishop. His meaning was clear; if a man such as Schiller put himself into the path of dangers that he knew about, then the outcome was on his own head.
“We need the bullet fragments,” Sylvia repeated.
“It is a sad thing,” the policeman said, “and a tragic loss, but this is not your affair. You have no jurisdiction over matters such as this.”
“I’ll remind you that your government has pledged its full cooperation.”
The captain shrugged. “Cooperation is a nebulous concept with no legal standing. Zurich is my venue, and I am empowered by the city to investigate and file criminal charges. I am responsible for evidence, and even the city would not dare intervene against my duly constituted authority.”
Sylvia looked at Valentine for help, but he was staring out the window, grinning. “There’s no need for confrontation,” she said, trying to conciliate him. “We’re trying to help. We want the same thing.”
“That may be so, but I know my duty. You have no authority to seize evidence, and I have no intention of giving it to you. I believe that this leaves us with nothing further to discuss.”
She moved to block the door. “I don’t mean to challenge your authority,” she said, “but we need to establish connections.” The policeman’s stubbornness made the hair on her neck stand up, but she understood what was going on. The city council had instructed him to stonewall them until the bank could finish its audit. It all boiled down to money and the protection of private interests.
“I am well aware of your interest,” he said. “Perhaps I can even sympathize professionally. You have lost a suspect, and now you ask us to do what you could not. Very well: consider it done, but we shall do it our way and in our own time and we will tolerate no interference. If the suspect is in Switzerland he will be found, but there is no evidence to connect him to Schiller. I know my business, young woman, and I suggest that you let me get on with it.”
Valentine was still grinning mindlessly when Sylvia turned to him. “Do you think you might render some assistance here?”
He seemed surprised. “Me?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Should this be assistance with finesse or without?”
“Think in terms of speed,” Sylvia said.
Valentine nodded, turned to the captain and draped a big arm over the smaller man’s shoulder. “She’s a woman,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “Ours is men’s work.” The captain glanced at Sylvia, then smiled just before Valentine slammed him against the wall and pinned him with his feet off the floor. “The problem with women is that they’re too damned polite,” he told the wide-eyed captain. “Men know how to cut through the shit and get to the point.” He turned to smile at Sylvia. “And here’s today’s point. In the States we say that there are two ways to do things: the hard way and the easy way. We want to borrow the bullet fragments. We promise to return them. We will sign all the paperwork you require and pledge the souls of our firstborn children. Now, the easy thing for you to do is to blink your eyes real fast to tell me that this is a deal. The hard
way is for you to keep playing tough-cop and make me break both your collarbones. That’s for a start. And I would remind you that even under Swiss law two witnesses carry more weight than one, so all we ask is a little cooperation. Now, what will it be?”
The captain blinked wildly, his face blue from lack of oxygen. Valentine let him drop, rifled his briefcase and flipped a plastic bag to Sylvia, then jerked the man to his feet and dusted him off with several friendly, open-handed whacks on the chest and shoulders.
When they were outside Valentine put his arm around her. “And you thought I couldn’t be persuasive.”
“I didn’t like that crack about men’s work.”
“Did we get the fragments?”
She pulled away from him. “Would you have broken his collarbones?”
He grinned. “The first law of poker is never to show your hand unless you have to.”
She got into the driver’s seat of the Jaguar. “This is a poker game to you?”
Valentine crossed his arms and leaned back. “Getting to be a pretty damned good one, I’d say.”
106WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1961, 4:30 P.M.Moscow
Yepishev stood stiffly in the center of the group, his eyes downcast, not wanting to see them individually.
“Tell them,” Bailov said softly.
“The Americans claim that Lumbas was passing rocket information to them and that he was murdered in Belgrade in November.”
“How do you know this?” Talia asked.
“Some years ago I proposed to a counterpart in the CIA that a day might come when our sides might want to meet privately and unofficially—in the shadows, one might say.”
“This happens often?”
“It’s the first time,” Yepishev said.
“Why would they tell us?” Gnedin asked.
“I’m not clairvoyant,” the GRU general said.
“Don’t be modest,” Bailov said. “You’ve watched the Americans for years, competed against them, and know them better than any of us.”
“It’s said that Russia cannot be comprehended with pure intellect,” Yepishev said. “To know Russia is to feel it, to have it flow through your veins. It’s the same with them.”
“What this one spouts we’ll need shovels to pick up,” Melko grumbled, but Yepishev ignored him.
“The Americans say that Lumbas was theirs, and that our . . .”—he paused to find the right words—“. . . our fellow countrymen murdered him. They say that they want to talk, but I see their reasoning as follows: if Lumbas was theirs alone and we discovered it, why did we not take him into custody and interrogate him thoroughly? If he had been my responsibility I would have clamped his balls in a vise and squeezed them for a year. When I was finished I would know precisely what damage he had done, and then I would have to decide whether to shoot the bastard or turn him. This presupposes that he was theirs. But what if Lumbas was mine from the outset and they only thought he was theirs? That changes everything. If he were ours and only pretending to be theirs and we suspected that they had discovered the truth, then his death might have more value to us than his continued existence.” Yepishev paused. “But only if he were mine from the start, and only if he had no other value.”
“The Americans think that we gave them Lumbas deliberately?” Talia asked.
“They’re neither stupid nor naive,” Yepishev cautioned. “If you were them, how would you read it?” The Special Operations Group was silent. “The meeting will be on Sunday in Geneva,” he continued. “I accepted on your behalf, but whether or not you keep the appointment is up to you. They will see to all the arrangements, which means that you must trust them. They have a place on the lake close to the airport. I’ll give Bailov the directions if you wish.”
Talia stood directly in front of him. “If it were you, would you go?”
Yepishev answered quickly. “It’s not me.”
Bailov walked the Goat to the elevator. “You can find your own way from here?”
“We all must find our own way, Taras Ivanovich. Mind your tail feathers,” Yepishev said as the door slid closed between them.
When Bailov rejoined the others Petrov was standing in the center of the room, his eyes dark, his emaciated body trembling, his hand raised in Bailov’s direction. “You knew,” he croaked. “You knew and said nothing!”
Bailov felt light-headed. Petrov’s rage consumed the room, swallowed the very air and electrified it. “Yepishev has taken great risks for us. The meeting was not confirmed. I felt I owed him protection.”
“What do you owe us?” Petrov hissed.
“Competence,” Bailov shot back. “That, effort, my life if need be, but not the needless betrayal of a comrade.”
“You were different in the old days,” Petrov said.
“We were all different then,” Talia interceded.
“I say he has failed us,” Petrov snapped, glaring at her.
“I say he used judgment. He was caught between conflicting obligations and did the best he could.” She stepped to Bailov’s side. “In his place I would have done the same.”
Ezdovo joined his wife. “Me as well.”
Gnedin rose from his chair and joined the others. “The mission is all that matters,” he said. “Bailov has given us more than we had, and the Americans may tell us more. It was you who once told us that only results matter.”
“I said that?” Petrov said. He looked amused.
“Even in the camps,” Melko chimed in as he took his place among the group.
“You forgive this bastard too?”
The team members looked quickly to each other for support. “We all do,” Talia said with conviction.
“And you would meet the Americans in Geneva?”
“Yes.”
Petrov gathered his robe around him and sat down in a chair. “Trubkin?”
“He was important only as a connection to Lumbas,” Talia said. “But now we have another possible route to Lumbas. If the Americans are of no help, we can always go back to him.”
“Velak?”
“Another link, and perhaps a more important one, but we can’t assess him any further at this moment. We know he signed the orders that transferred Lumbas from Tyuratam.”
“Which suggests what?”
“Nothing until we know more about Lumbas, and only the Americans can help us with that.”
Petrov eyed Ezdovo. “You were assaulted.”
“It was a futile attempt,” Ezdovo reminded him.
“Half-assed,” Melko chimed in. “The Asian dumped his men in the Zone and then went his own way.”
“We can guess where he went,” Gnedin said. “The girl, her husband, her—”
“Children,” Talia said. “We have her husband’s files. She told Melko that they’re connected with the Odessa Military District, and we’ll follow that lead, but for now we concentrate on the Americans.”
“Who goes?”
“Me,” Talia said immediately, and then after looking at the others, “and Bailov.”
“You can’t trust him,” Petrov said.
“Like Yepishev, Bailov has studied the Americans. He’s GRU, which will give him more in common with the CIA contact than we can offer.”
“And what do the rest of this shiftless lot do while you’re in Geneva?”
“They wait.”
“That’s how you see it?”
“That’s how we see it,” Gnedin said.
“Then who am I to change your minds?” Petrov asked as his head drooped.
When the rest of the group was gone Gnedin helped his patient into bed and covered him with a blanket. Petrov’s eyes were closed, but Gnedin sensed that it was an act. “Did you get the result you expected?” he asked.
“Always,” Petrov said without opening his eyes.
107WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1961, 9:10 P.M.Zurich
The hotel was only a couple of years old but was already showing signs of stress from too many guests and too little maintenance. Valen
tine sat by a window and listened to the panes shudder as jet airliners wallowed down the glide slope toward the airport two kilometers away, passing directly overhead. He had the clippings from Paris spread around him, but the lines of print had become a blur and the image in his mind was a collage of expressionless faces with obliterated left eyes.
Sylvia returned to the hotel later than he had expected. She brushed past him, tossed her purse on the floor, kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the sofa. “I need a drink,” she said in a voice he could not quite peg. “A stiff one,” she added with her eyes closed.
A waiter with slicked-down black hair and a black uniform with frayed cuffs brought them a bottle of slivovitz and two plastic water glasses. Valentine filled them both to the brim and handed her one.
She held the plum brandy in her mouth like mouthwash, then swallowed it with a loud gulp. “Awful.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“Was I?” she said. “The fragments are on their way to the States.” She seemed to be in a fog and curiously detached. “The thing is,” she said wearily,” that the slugs from Paris and Lamoura don’t match. More,” she said, holding out her empty glass. “It’s not fair. All this time and no match. Both came from a 9 mm but not the same weapon, which pisses me off,” she added. “Does it piss you off?” she asked, looking him in the eyes. “Are you getting any of this?”
“One of us has to keep a cool head.”
“I don’t like to lose,” she said.
“Can’t win all the time.”
Sylvia gave him an overly sweet smile. “That’s crap. Only losers lose.”
“Very instructive.” Could she be hammered on so little slivovitz?
The Domino Conspiracy Page 40