The telephone rang. He snatched the handset and said, “Yes.”
“Mr. Bannerman, sir?”
“Paul is fine, Yuri. What happened?”
“You have scrambler, yes?”
“Yes.” He pressed two more buttons. “Yuri, I'm recording this call and Susan is listening Do you object?”
“Not to the first. But for Miss Lesko, subject is unpleasant.”
Susan folded her arms to show that she was going nowhere.
In for a pound, thought Bannerman. “She can deal with it. Go ahead.”
“News is not good. Carla killed this man, Aldo.”
Bannerman groaned within himself.
“Best I give background? Is important.”
“Go on.”
Yuri took a breath. “This morning is a lawn party at Willem Brugg's house. Is for Sunday brunch. Carla is invited. She comes with Aldo Corsini. I am also invited. I go with Maria. Willem tells me that Corsini is asking many questions about General Belkin and about Lesko. I tell this to Carla but she says it is harmless. She says that since the wedding, Aldo has become a .. ” He searched for the word. “It is an Americanism for aficionado.”
“Groupie?”
“Ah, yes. Groupie. She says for a week now all he talks about are you and your people who he met at the wedding. Such fascinating people, dangerous people, who tell wonderful stories, all true. He is especially . . . enthralled? Enthralled by tales of Carla. So suddenly at the party, he asks her to be his wife.”
“Wait.” Bannerman shook his head as if to clear it. “He proposed marriage? To Carla?”
A brief silence. Then, quietly, “Carla is not a handsome woman?”
“Of course she is, Yuri. Go on.”
The wedding strikes again, thought Bannerman.
“Carla does not say yes or no. At first she thinks that he has sipped too much champagne with orange juice but she is very pleased all the same. In a little while she asks him to take her home because her . . . blood is up?”
“I understand.”
“He is reluctant to leave so soon but Carla prevails. He drives her to this boathouse where she lives but he does not wish to enter. Always he goes in but this time he has headache. Carla insists. He says maybe for five minutes. She opens more champagne, gives aspirin. She wants to make love and now she makes overtures. Forgive me. I cannot relate this if I must be delicate.”
“It's okay, Yuri. What happened?”
“Carla tries to embrace him. He resists her, saying that he must shower first. But his cleanliness is not foremost in Carla's mind. She throws off her dress. She begins to open his trousers. He tries to get away but she persists. She tears the buttons off his shirt and—”
“Urn .. . Yuri. How would you know all this?”
“Carla told me.”
“She described, in detail, her attempt to arouse Aldo?”
“It was so I would understand how she . . . I may finish, please?”
“Go on.”
“She tears his shirt, he pushes her away. But not before she sees wires.”
Bannerman closed his eyes. ”A transmitter?”
“Yes. Very short range. I found recording device in his automobile.”
“What happened with Corsini?”
“Carla says he tries to explain. That this is his hobby. Is groupie, remember. Carla does not believe, says get out. At last he tells her that he can become rich. He will share everything with her because he loves her. She spits at him. He strikes her.”
”Uh-oh.”
“She responds with champagne bottle. Broken glass. Very big mess.”
“Where is Carla now?”
“Number you called is my Maria's house. Maria is performing in concert. Carla is there but she cannot stay
because Maria must not know of this. I will take her to Bern, my flat. Tonight, if you ask it, I will go back to Carla's boat-house, clean up.”
Bannerman hesitated.
“There will be no debt.” Yuri sighed. “Carla has been my friend.”
Bannerman can think of no alternative. No use involving the Bruggs.
“Thank you,” he said. “Have you played Corsini's tape?”
The Russian grunted. “When Carla is near, he makes charming conversation. When she is not, he asks about Lesko wedding trip. He asks different people in different ways so that he learns something here, something there. When he is alone, he summarizes, I think. He speaks softly into the microphone he wears.”
“Saying what, exactly?”
”I do not know because, to himself, he speaks Italian. But I hear 'Lesko'…. ‘Elena’... 'Belkin.' And in his manner, I hear satisfaction, I think.”
”I know some Italian. Can you play it for me?”
Now Yuri hesitated. “Here I have conflict. I must report first to General Belkin, then you with his permission.”
“Fair enough. Can you also get to your computers tonight? See what you have on Corsini before you call Moscow?”
“Yes. You do the same?”
“Immediately, yes.”
“We go to Bern now but, for computers, best I wait until embassy staff is gone home. I call General Belkin at perhaps eight p.m. Moscow time. Then I drive back and clean.”
Bern. Ninety minutes away, thought Bannerman. Yuri will be at this all night, leaving Carla alone. “Have Carla call me as soon as you get to your flat. What is her state of mind, Yuri?”
“Sad. Very sad. She thought this man cared for her.”
“Tell her that we all care for her. That we'll . . ” He stopped when he saw Susan wince and shake her head. He
knew the look. It said, You know zero about women, Bannerman.
”Um . . . Yuri?”
“Yes.”
“If there's anything I should know about that trip to Russia, tell me now.”
“Is . . . nothing. Truly.”
“Yuri?”
“Elena and Lesko are not endangered. This much I promise.”
Bannerman did not like the sound of that assurance. He was silent for a long moment, then broke the connection without saying good-bye. The breach of mariners was deliberate.
8
The Chaika continued on toward central Moscow.
Other than an occasional bust of some poet or other—and several pedestals whose statues had been removed—there were few monuments or points of interest to see after crossing the Inner Ring Road.
The area was residential but the apartment buildings here were older, more gracious, most dating to the czarist era. Elena spent the time watching people although she saw surprisingly few. Just the odd cluster of old men playing chess or dominos and a handful of women pushing strollers.
Valentin told her that every Muscovite tries to get out of the city on a Sunday. “Too much bigness,” he said. “In Moscow, everything is bigness because this is what Stalin liked. Must go to country to find your soul. Also to pick a few mushrooms.”
Prospekt Mira, meaning Peace, twice changes its name before ending at Lubyanka Square, formerly Dzerzhinski Square, named for the Pole who had founded the Soviet secret police. The television image of his statue coming down was still vivid in Lesko's mind. It did not strike him, all things considered, that the change to Lubyanka was much of an improvement. Berlin, he assumed, did not have an Auschwitz Square.
“We turn here,” said Valentin. “On right, comes now famous Lubyanka Prison. Was czarist prison before Communists. Many bad stories.”
Lesko twisted in his seat. He rolled the window down.
“Next building, joined to it, is longtime KGB headquarters. No so popular, even with KGB. To have an office here these days is almost punishment. You see it better when we get to Lubyanka Square.”
“Ah . .. our hotel is just ahead,” said Leo Belkin.
Valentin did not hear the hint. He rolled his own window down and gestured with his thumb. “Gray building on left is also KGB but is new KGB. In English, is now Ministry of Security. On right is old KGB, old Mosc
ow Center.”
Lesko turned further in his seat for a better look at the old one. He leaned out through the window, grimacing from the effort of his contortion, one hand holding his hair in place.
“You watch.” Valentin's hand made a circular gesture that took in the entire square. “This year...next year, Lubyanka Square becomes Sakharov Square, maybe even George Bush Square. Half of all street names in whole Soviet Union would be changed tomorrow except for confusion and expense.”
It would not have surprised Lesko if Valentin suddenly began talking about Jesus. For the moment, however, he was more interested in a building that he had always thought of as one big dungeon.
“Comes now hotel,” said Valentin. “Was once called Luxury Savoy, then Berlin Hotel, and now is Savoy again, this time run by Finns. Savoy's street name is also changed. Was once named for Stalin's henchman, Zhdanov, but now is …”'
Elena saw Belkin touch his arm. She assumed it was to settle him down, but Valentin peered ahead and then cut the wheel sharply to his right. The suddenness of the turn slammed Lesko's head against the Chaika's roof. One arm flailed. Elena grabbed him and pulled. She looked back. She saw two men who had been loitering on the sidewalk outside the hotel. They had suddenly become animated. One of them was jabbing a finger toward the departing Chaika.
“Forgive, please,” said Valentin. “Too soon for hotel. I show you more big.”
Elena whispered into Lesko's ear. His expression darkened, but he only nodded.
After two short blocks, Valentin made a second right turn. He was pointing now at a colonnaded building, creamy pink with white detail, that would have seemed more at home in Paris than in Moscow.
“Bolshoi Theater,” he said, with pleasure that now seemed forced. “Bolshoi means big. Is also best ballet, best opera, best place to meet nice young girls. I tell you why?”
“Love to hear it,” said Lesko bloodlessly.
“Tickets,” Valentin explained, “cost only few rubles but are impossible for ordinary Muscovites to get. Easier for tourists but they pay much more. Also still easy for KGB. I buy two and I come early to the Bolshoi. Many people are waiting. They hope that someone has extra ticket to sell. I look for prettiest girl and I offer my ticket as gift. I do not take rubles for it. Better to sit with her, maybe later get gift in return.”
Belkin winced. He turned toward the back seat. “It is not as it sounds, Elena. In Russia, a gift is always answered with another gift. This girl, for example, will bring Valentin to a jazz club she knows about or she will bake something for him. She is not expected to . . . ah .. ”
Valentin was mortified. “No, no,” he waved a finger. “These are nice girls. Very serious about music, very knowledgeable. You must not think . . .”
Belkin put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “In two nights,” he said gently, “our guests will see for themselves. I have arranged tickets. You are invited to join us.”
Valentin gasped. “To see Boris Gudenov?”
“Boris Gudenov.” Belkin nodded. “Go now. Drive.”
‘To Red Square,” he suggested brightly. “We show you Red Square?”
“I'd like that.” Elena smiled.
She sat back, urging Lesko, through a touch, to do the same. Whatever happened back at the hotel, she decided, was clearly less important to young Valentin than the prospect of going to the opera. And of far less moment than having his respect for Russian women called into question.
Relax, Lesko.
It was probably nothing.
9
‘They mocked me.”
Borovik was still at the window. Still hugging himself. In one hand he held a pair of binoculars.
“Ah ... who mocked you, General?”
“The driver pointed toward this window. And then the one called Lesko looked up here. He saluted me.”
Viktor Podolsk could only guess what this meant. The driver pointed? What KGB driver would not point out Moscow Center to a guest? .
As for the rest of it, he knew that the car had not stopped. That a sudden decision had been made to bypass the Savoy. But first, the American must have turned to look at this building. This was natural. Same way Soviet tourists in Washington go to look at the FBI building. He wondered if Hoover ever saw them doing this and said, “They mock me.” Very possibly, he thought.
“Podolsk?” '
”I am here.”
Podolsk had been staring at the general's desk. He saw several photographs of Mama's Boy. All had been mutilated.
“He put his hand up ... so.” Borovik touched his left temple. “And when they sped off, he threw it down ... so.” The general made a chopping gesture.
Podolsk could not be certain, of course, but the first might have been a shielding of the eyes. The second, if the car turned sharply, might be explained by the laws of physics. That either was a calculated insult seemed unlikely. The general's window was only one of perhaps two hundred.
“Come here, Podolsk.” He held out the binoculars. “Look down at the Savoy.”
The major stepped to his side.
“Do you see Kerensky?”
“Yes. And two others.”
“Should you see Kerensky and his two others?”
Podolsk sighed. “Sir, they are not professionals.” Worse, they were amateurs behaving as they imagine professionals to behave. Nothing could be more conspicuous. ”I will . . . go and speak to him.”
“What of Barca?”
“Still no word.”
“Have you tried his hotel?”
“Sir, that would violate—”
Borovik banged a fist against the window's frame. ”I was catching spies and traitors while your mother was still wiping your ass. Don't lecture me about tradecraft.”
“Sir . . .” This man, thought Podolsk, would not know tradecraft if it fell from the sky. He tried again. “Sir, he is not so very late. We know he is with the woman. In that circumstance, situations arise which can preclude—”
“You mean he is fucking. I wait while this Italian is fucking.”
Podolsk groaned inwardly. How can it be, he wondered, that this man is a major general? Who did he pay? Who is he still paying?
“You are, of course, correct,” said Podolsk. His cheek had developed a tic. ”I have sent a coded message to the Sicilian asking him to ... remind Barca of the time.”
“By transmitter?” Borovik lifted his chin.
“In code, yes.”
”I told you to use the communicator.”
“Sir ... that device is for emergencies.”
“That device is also always with him. His radio is who-knows-where. It could be hours before he—”
“Sir…the communicator only transmits flash codes. Such codes can say ‘Report’ or ‘Break off’ or Terminate.’ We have no flash code that says ‘Go find Barca and when Carla Benedict is not looking tell him to get out of bed and give us a call on a Swiss telephone.’ ”
Borovik stared at him coldly. That speech would cost Podolsk dearly one day.
“These codes. They can say 'Barca—Report-—Voice’?”
The major took a breath. “Yes.”
“Send that message, Major. Do it now.”
Podolsk backed away.
“And see to Kerensky.”
“At once.”
Borovik raised a finger. For a long moment he held it upright, then, slowly, pointed it toward the open window.
“That man ... the American.”
“Lesko, General?”
“He mocked me.”
“Yes, General.” Podolsk eased toward the door.
10
Aldo Corsini.
Bannerman typed the name onto his computer screen, hit the search key, and sat back. .
“Everyone in this file,” he told Susan, “is a contract agent. I have most of ours and a lot of theirs. Yuri's files would have it the other way around.”
“You think that's what he is?”
Bannerman shrugged. ”I
doubt it. Someone at the wedding would have known him. Besides, he talked about getting rich. Contract agents have a nice payday now and then, but they don't do it to get rich.”
“Then he wasn't a reporter, either. Same logic. Or a writer planning to do a story about people like you.”
”I hope not,” he said.
That possibility had not occurred to him. If that's all Corsini was, an investigative reporter, then his death was murder and he died for nothing. He would not have learned much that he could prove. Anything he'd write would be no more than gossip. Tall stories. Officially denied by any of the governments involved. But Bannerman tended to agree with Susan.
Yuri's manner still nagged at him, however. He had sounded calm enough on the telephone but he wasn't. Under stress, Yuri tends to forget his English which is otherwise quite good. He tends to drop his definite and indefinite articles. There are none in the Russian language.
Whatever had shaken him, Bannerman doubted that it was seeing Aldo's body. Yuri had seen big messes before. Tears might have done it. Carla's tears. She was special to Yuri. Or else Yuri might know more than he's saying. The computer drive made chugging sounds, opening drawers, slamming them shut.
Susan had watched as he took his computer disks from a safe, of sorts, that was one of Molly Farrell's creations. Molly had hollowed out Volumes 1 through 6 of an outdated Encyclopaedia Britannica and inserted a series of metal boxes, each with a simple combination lock of the type used on luggage. To Susan, this had not seemed such a terribly clever arrangement until Bannerman explained why she must never touch these volumes.
The trick was that the lock had to be opened while the volume was upright, an awkward and unnatural thing to do. If it was tilted more than thirty degrees from the vertical, or forced, or if the wrong combination were tried, a battery-powered magnetic device would scramble the disks. Originally, he told her, Molly had built in a small explosive charge, but he had no wish to maim a cleaning woman who decided that his encyclopedia needed dusting. The scrambled disks could always be recopied. Anton Zivic had the master.
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