“To come right to the point, we don’t really care whether he gives permission or not.” As Father Marty smiled and nodded, he reminded Valentine of one of those plaster dolls with bobbing heads that cowboys back home glued to the dashboards of their pickups.
213SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 10:07 P.M.Vienna
The circle of cloth was caught on the hedge between the walk and the palace wall. Gnedin was not sure what it was, but there was no litter of any kind in the area, which meant that anything they found could be significant.
Bailov saw the doctor staring up the wall. “What is it?”
“Maybe nothing,” Gnedin said, holding up the fabric. “I don’t even know what this is, but this whole area is clean.” Bailov examined the material while the doctor probed the wall with his hands. “This can be climbed,” he said. “Maybe somebody dropped something.” Before Bailov could reply Gnedin had moved up into the darkness.
214SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 10:17 P.M.Vienna
After accounting for every member of the cast, Sylvia and Talia came back down the hall and found a different policeman on the stairs smoking a cigarette. “What happened to the man you relieved?” Sylvia asked, showing him her credentials.
He shrugged.
“How long ago did you come on duty?” She showed him her ID card.
“This morning,” he said. “But it feels longer.”
“I mean here—this post.”
The man looked puzzled. “I’m not on a post. I’m taking a smoke break. We’re supposed to go outside to a special area, but it’s a long walk and I only have a few minutes.” ’
“What’s up the stairs?” she asked, looking past him.
“Everything above is sealed off. The only entrance open is at the far end of the building, and we have people there.”
She moved past him, hitched her dress above her knees and went up the stairs three at a time, with Talia close behind. At the top she tried a tall white door; when she pushed, it squeaked softly and opened several inches.
Talia caught her by the arm. “Stay here until I get help,” she whispered, and then ran down the stairs.
Sylvia slid through the door into the darkness, crossed a thick carpet runner to the far wall and crouched, pausing to remove her revolver from her purse.
Within minutes she saw Talia and Bailov beckoning her to come back. “That policeman came up here,” she whispered to them. “It must have been unlocked from the inside. When I talked to him earlier he said he was on a three-hour shift, but the man downstairs now says there’s no post here, that the upper levels are sealed and locked, that the only way up is at the other end of the palace and is heavily guarded. I think they’re up here.”
Talia crossed the hall first, then Bailov and Melko followed. Down the hall a door opened, spilling light onto the floral-patterned carpet and Gnedin stuck his head out. “Up here.” The room was narrow and unfurnished; a carpet had been rolled against one wall. Gnedin took them into a white marble bathroom. There was a large purse behind the toilet, and a police lieutenant’s uniform and long rope had been stuffed into it. The rope was attached to a small umbrella frame. “Steel,” the doctor said. He showed them how the cloth he had found in the hedge fit over the frame. “Grappling hook made to look like an umbrella.”
“The woman I saw was carrying a handbag like that,” Sylvia said.
“The window was closed but unlatched,” the doctor added. “It took me a while to climb up. It would have been faster for him.”
They went back into the hall, which was lit with small overhead lights every twenty meters.
“Where does it lead?” Talia asked.
Bailov pulled a diagram from his coat pocket and spread it on the floor. “More light,” he said and one flashed on over his shoulder. “Guards here,” he said, tapping his forefinger on the paper. “But they’re below. Everything above ground level is supposed to be sealed off.”
“What’s this?” Talia asked, pointing toward a stairwell.
“It’s on the other side of the ballroom,” Bailov said. There were two red circles inside the doors to the ballroom near where the stairs descended. “Security,” he added.
Talia traced the line of a corridor that ran parallel to the main hall, then dog-legged left. “And this?”
“Anteroom to the stage,” Gnedin said. “It’s not in use tonight. There’s one on the other side as well, which connects to the rehearsal rooms. The two areas aren’t connected, which allows the stage manager to move the acts in and out without traffic problems.”
“You two go below and cross the ballroom to here,” Bailov said to the women, pointing. “We’ll sweep this level and meet you there. If they’re up here and trying to get into that far rehearsal room we may be able to trap them between us.”
“Alive,” Talia whispered, grasping Bailov’s sleeve. “If possible.”
215SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 10:30 P.M.Vienna
Father Good had treated their exploration as if it were a fraternity prank, which suggested that his recall from Notre Dame had more to do with his judgment than anything else. He gave them flashlights, a hand-drawn map, some loops of electrical wire and a small sledge. “The wiring below is old,” he explained. “The current seems to attract rats—not in the tourist area, but farther in. The wires are set into the ceiling. The rats jump to it, or maybe they can walk the ceilings like flies. The point is that if the lights go off, don’t worry. Find a dead rodent and the break should be just above it.” He gave them a roll of electrical tape for splices.
“Where’s the switch?”
“Just beyond the tourist area. There are doors everywhere but don’t be alarmed. Look for the one with four crosses on the corners. It’s black, I think, or deep gray.” He drew an X at the approximate position.
“Why the sledge?” Valentine asked. They were standing in a cellar coated with coal dust.
“You go up the coal chute from here. There’s a metal door into the side; it has a steel-bar lock, and there are more doors between here and the cathedral. The sledge will get you through. It’s an emergency route.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Not everything,” the priest said, suddenly turning serious. “I can’t imagine why you want to do this.”
Me either, Valentine thought as he and Ezdovo crawled on their bellies through a tunnel so small that their shoulders rubbed the walls.
216SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 10:50 P.M.Vienna
Talia and Sylvia tried to be unobtrusive as they made their way between the guests crammed together in the makeshift theater, but there was no way to avoid stepping on toes as they moved. Out of the corner of her eye Sylvia saw dancers at the corner of the stage spinning like ghosts, defying gravity.
When they reached the far side Talia flashed her ID at one of the two guards and went through the double doors; both women kicked off their shoes, took out their pistols and threaded silencers into place. The light in the area was poor, but there was enough to get a sense of the layout.
The Russian padded her way to the staging door, found it open, slid in and emerged a few seconds later shaking her head. Sylvia crossed the hall to the far side of the curving stairwell and started up cautiously. When she reached the top, she waved Talia up. “This doesn’t feel right,” Sylvia whispered. She lay just below the top step watching the darkened upper corridor ahead, with Talia several steps below her. Somewhere ahead there were doors, but it was impossible to see them clearly.
“What do you mean?” Talia asked.
“Too dark,” Sylvia said. “We might hit our people.”
“They’re prepared to take the risk,” Talia said coolly. “They’ll do what they have to, and we’ll do the same.” Suddenly she was overwhelmed with the need to know where her husband was.
They had gone over the schedule repeatedly. The idea was to strike late during the final act when the guests were most likely to be tired and thinking about how they were going to get out. It was critical,
Kasi had decided, to make the assault in one fluid move, with no stops along the way. The blueprints showed an alcove beyond the stairs, and here they lay, watching the place where the steps emerged. The girl seemed calm, but her breathing was shallow and fast. Nothing to worry about, Kasi reassured himself; the nerves will keep her alert. “Remember,” he whispered. “I’ll create the diversion. You walk onto the stage, go to the edge, pick out the target, empty the clip, drop the weapon and walk off the same way you came in. Understand?”
Lejla clutched his sleeve. “My father,” she said.
He heard the urgency in her voice, pulled her hand loose and touched the palm of his hand to her mouth. “Once we start down the stairs you have to keep going,” he told her. “No matter what happens, get to the stage and do what you’ve been trained to do.” He checked his watch.
“My father,” she repeated.
“He’ll soon be free,” Kasi said.
Sylvia was startled by the swishing sound behind her and immediately let herself slide down the carpet runner that covered the marble stairs. Talia had no idea what had caused her companion’s reaction, but as the American slid by she saw that she had her pistol in both hands pointing up the dark stairs. Taking the cue, she also moved down the stairs and ducked behind a post at the bottom.
The three Russians moved quickly through the upper halls, leapfrogging their way, taking turns on the point, hugging the walls, perspiring under the stress.
“The stairs should be through there,” Bailov said as they saw a massive double door looming ahead of them. It was ajar. Bailov signaled for Melko to go first and to the right. He would go next and to the left. Gnedin was to move to the door and sit tight unless he heard something.
As soon as Melko got through the door he saw a woman’s silhouette ahead and relaxed as he leaned against the wall. Was it Talia or the American? It was impossible to tell. It struck him as funny that though they were hunting for the Albanians they kept finding each other. It reminded him of the days when he had led the cops through Moscow; until Annochka betrayed him the closest they had ever gotten was the stale scent of a shit he had left hours before. He stepped toward the center of the hall. “So you didn’t find them either?” he called softly to the woman at the head of the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder and started down. Strange behavior, he thought, and took a step forward.
He had the night eyes of a cat, Shehu had always said of him. Kasi saw the sliver of light at the door and a dark form move through it, the voice calling with familiarity, unsuspecting. He froze immediately behind the girl; she was on her way down. Let her go; there’s time. Be calm.
Sylvia saw the figure on the stairs and heard the rustling of her dress. She seemed to float down the stairs, her eyes straight ahead, her face serene. A pretty girl, and young, the same one she had seen sign in. She was wearing a black dress like the opera singer’s. Had she herself ever been that young? The pistol grew heavier in her hands. You’ve never killed, she reminded herself. Some firsts were not worth waiting for. There wasn’t enough light for a good shot. No matter, she thought; she’ll come closer.
What was Melko thinking? Bailov saw the woman, immediately flicked his eyes left and right looking for the man, saw motion and lunged toward Melko, hoping he was not too late.
The head of the stairs lit with muzzle flashes. At least three, maybe more; it was impossible to count. A minor fireworks display without appreciable sound, only a whine of something nicking stone. The girl on the stairs paused and looked back. Sylvia started to get up but Talia flew past and crashed into the girl’s legs, toppling her, wrestling with her as they rolled down the stairs. Sylvia threw herself on them and began pounding with the butt of the revolver. She had no idea who or what she was hitting.
Bailov heard Melko grunt as a slug struck him, and then the big man was down and both of them were firing at the muzzle flash ahead. Bailov fired, rolled left, fired again, rolled right and heard a silencer coughing from behind him as Gnedin moved up. There were no more muzzle flashes in front of them. He lay on the floor, breathing heavily.
“Shit,” Melko swore from somewhere in the darkness.
Gnedin ran past them, approached the body at the top of the stairs, kicked it and got no reaction. At the bottom of the steps Talia and Sylvia were sitting on someone.
“Clear up here,” he called softly.
“Everything’s under control here,” Talia answered. “Ours is alive.”
Gnedin felt the throat of the man beside him. “This one’s dead.”
217SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 10:52 P.M.Vienna
Dieter Hinz had no idea what had gotten into the police, but they were in a foul mood, and given the proximity of such important guests, in a dangerous state of mind. The American had said it would be risky and he had been right. He wondered how long he had been here but there was no way to tell; the security man had taken his watch.
He had done exactly as Valentine instructed and driven to Schönbrunn, where he had asked the police to fetch a woman called Sylvia Charles. He had parked a kilometer away and worked his way through an unruly crowd, which included plenty of loudmouths carrying placards and shouting political slogans. You could always count on Americans to find something to bitch about—at least when it was safe.
When he got to the main gate he had asked for the woman and had been told to go away. When he persisted, he was blindsided by a policeman, handcuffed by another and dragged face down to a truck. They struck him several times with a leather sap, threw him inside and slammed the door shut. The inside of the truck was dark and had a lingering stench of piss. Hinz’s knees were bloody, there were bits of gravel in his skin and the salty taste of blood in the back of his throat; his lower lip was split and swollen. All in all, not an auspicious way to to earn the money he had been promised. A number of times he had lain on his back and driven his feet into the thick rear door to create enough noise to get somebody’s attention, but only once had he gotten a reaction, and it was not the one he had hoped for: a brute in a white helmet had climbed inside and kicked him several times with steel-toed boots.
Pain notwithstanding, Hinz knew there was no permanent injury. The police might brutalize him, but they wouldn’t kill him; a corpse meant too much red tape. Circumstances be damned, he told himself. The American’s money would soothe a lot of hurt, and in any event he was blessed with a hard head and had always healed fast. He began kicking the door again.
218SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 11:20 P.M.Vienna
Melko was lying along a wall chewing the end of an unlit cigarette, a fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his midsection, his shirt off, his tattoos glowing in the low light. The Albanian was dead; he had been hit four times. The body was covered by plastic left by the painters in the upper-level room. The Albanian girl was unconscious, her eyes swollen shut, several lacerations taped closed by Gnedin. Sylvia’s pistol had done most of the damage. Talia had a swollen left eye as well and a small cut where she had been struck by the American’s revolver during the scuffle.
General Zakharov sat on an antique chair surveying the scene. He had arrived only minutes before, looked at the Albanians and sat down. The General Secretary, the president and their retinues had departed the palace none the wiser. Talia’s people had moved the dead and wounded and sealed off the area, and Spetsnaz men were already cleaning the hallway to remove any evidence.
Talia rubbed an ice cube on her eye. “They nearly got through,” she told Zakharov. “She was dressed as one of the singers—a nun, of all things. He got her through the security lines in a police uniform, brought her into the building and left. The upper doors were all locked from the inside; he climbed up the outside wall, opened the door from the inside and led her up. He changed into a tuxedo; we think she was going to make the assault through the rehearsal room.” Talia pointed at a small package on the floor. “Thermite with a three-second fuse. I think he probably planned to drop it as a diversion. Then the woman would come across the stage—�
�
“Think? You think?” Zakharov said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
Talia shot him a hard look. “Show him,” she told Bailov, who handed the general an envelope.
“It’s a rough seating chart,” he said. “It shows the front row.”
When Zakharov unfolded the drawing, a photograph slipped to the floor. He bent to pick it up and saw the smiling face of Nikita Khrushchev staring up at him.
“Each of them had a copy,” Talia said softly.
219SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1961, 12:23 A.M.Vienna
Hinz saw the outlines of people gathered over him, but couldn’t make out their features. His eyes were nearly swollen shut from the beatings, but his spirit was intact. Their attitude in standing between him and the American’s money had become a personal matter; they threatened to silence him permanently, but he kept insisting on seeing Miss Charles. As long as he had a voice the game was on, he reasoned.
Voices. “What’s going on here?” a woman asked.
“Claims he has to talk to a woman named Miss Charles.”
Melko eyed the muscle-bound policeman he had tangled with earlier. There was a bruise on the man’s neck. He avoided Melko’s grin and the bloodstain on his jacket. The man on the floor of the panel truck was a mess, not in any true danger, but they had really worked him over. A Russian cop would never mark a face like that, Melko thought; better to give a man hidden wounds. He had been on the receiving end in the camps often enough to know.
“We’ll take over,” Sylvia told an Austrian police sergeant. “I’m Miss Charles.”
“He’s our prisoner,” the man insisted.
The Domino Conspiracy Page 68