Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  The bravest, the dissidents, thought aloud.

  Leo's uncle, come to think of it, had been one of them. Her uncle Urs, not Leo, had told her a little about him. Impressively accomplished. An Academician in both science and literature. Nikolai? Yes ... Nikolai Belkin. Arrested and offered a choice between exile and a public confession of his error. Chose the latter. Kept to himself after that. Elena wasn't sure that she'd blame him, given the circumstances of the time but Leo, according to Uncle Urs, was not so generous. Spoke of him with contempt. Uncle Urs was never clear why. It was not as if Leo was on such high ground himself.

  But she dismissed the question from her mind. The subject at hand was complex enough without dredging up family skeletons.

  The odd dissident aside, the mass of Soviet citizens were thought to be passive, thoroughly indoctrinated, politically inert. Boris Yeltsin knew better. He had listened to them. More to the point, Leo Belkin knows better. The men and women who stood against the tanks will never again stand silent. And the KGB, most assuredly, will not turn them into zombies. The statues have not stopped coming down.

  “Leo . . .” Elena was still struggling with this. “Your charge is that some within the KGB are in league with the drug traffickers . . .”

  “Not just drugs. All smuggling. Whole country is for sale.”

  She waved this aside. “And that their motive is to anesthetize the masses?”

  “Not a motive, Elena. But it's one of the justifications.”

  “What is another justification?”

  “I've told you. Let it grow. Infiltrate and control it. Promise to destroy it when the time is right.”

  “But this, you think, will never happen. They will not destroy it.”

  He shook his head. “Too much money, Elena. Same as in the West.”

  “Leo . . .” She searched for a tactful way to phrase her next question. She found none. “In all the KGB, are you the only officer who believes that this is happening?”

  His eyes took a chill. He shook his head. “No. I am not.”

  “Then why is no action taken?”

  “You can ask that of any bureaucracy, Elena. Can you imagine one, anywhere, that is free of corruption? And yet genuine purges are few and far between because a bureaucracy, under attack, develops a bunker mentality. This is not so much to protect the guilty. It is because for every thief who is the target of an investigation, there are twenty more who are at least technically guilty of complicity or are open to a charge of dereliction. So what do they tell you? It is an internal matter, they say. We are looking into it. We will police ourselves.”

  “Fine. Why don't you let them?”

  He shook his head stubbornly. His eyes had turned inward.

  Elena saw the answer in them. Leo had been letting them for too much of his life. She could understand that, she supposed. But it was an unhealthy frame of mind. That of a vigilante.

  “These renegades, Leo. What would you do if you had their names?”

  “For now? Just put them in the computer. Begin to gather evidence.”

  “Which computer? The Zurich program?”

  “Yes.”

  Elena frowned. The Zurich program had little to do with evidence. It had to do with retribution.

  “And how would you get the names? Surely you don't expect them to reveal themselves just because the three of us turn up in Moscow.”

  He hesitated, choosing his words. “We . . . might have caused a stir,” he said. ”I am not quite alone in this, Elena. There are people who will tell me what sort of questions are asked. Perhaps even what instructions are given.”

  She stared at him. “What people?”

  “Men who . . . believe as I do.”

  She sagged inwardly. Good KGB, bad KGB, and now a shadow KGB.

  “Leo . . .”

  “The discussion is academic. We are not going.”

  “But you are? By yourself?”

  ”I have some leave coming. Yes.”

  “Then all three of us will go. You will make good on your gift.”

  “Another time, Elena. Not now.”

  She reached into her purse and found a notebook. She chewed her lip. “There's the question of what to pack. What will I need, aside from plenty of Marlboros?”

  Belkin started to shake his head. Resolutely. But he stopped. He started to refuse her. Firmly. But the words died on his lips.

  “You'll. . . help me?” he said at last.

  She shook her head. “Not on this.”

  Disappointment. Then relief. Relief won out. Then came vexation.

  “Then why, Elena? What's the point?”

  ”I think to keep you out of trouble, Leo.”

  And because ... why else?

  Elena asked this of herself.

  Is it merely curiosity?

  Or is it because I think that between now and the time we get to Russia, poor Leo might decide to tell me the truth?

  Cause a stir. That was the phrase he used.

  But his eyes clouded over when he said it. She had a sense, then and there, that he was seeing a face in his mind. That he knew perfectly well who he hoped to stir up.

  Yes, she will go to Russia with him.

  But why?

  Be honest, Elena.

  For all that you love your new life, it does seem a bit bloodless from time to time, doesn't it. Too many board meetings. Too many lawyers.

  A little excitement. A little intrigue.

  Lesko could probably do with a bit of it himself.

  29

  The lobby of the Savoy was in an uproar.

  It was the prostitutes versus the Finns.

  A party of seven Japanese had returned from a trade conference at the Russian White House. There had been many vodka toasts at lunch and still more at the end of the day. They were in high spirits.

  Somewhere between the White House and the Savoy, the seven Japanese men had come across two Russian hookers, both blondes, both petite, whom they were now attempting to smuggle up to their suites. They had dressed the two prostitutes in long dark topcoats and Homburg hats and formed a tight cordon around them as they made their way to the elevator. Giggles, not those of the prostitutes, gave the Japanese businessmen away.

  The Finnish night manager spotted two pairs of un-trousered legs and stepped from behind the desk, confronting the Japanese and insisting that the girls must leave at once. The Japanese lowered their heads and ran for it, half for the elevator and half for a flight of stairs that led only to a small casino.

  Two sheep ranchers from New Zealand, weathered faces, easy grins, ambled out of the bar to watch. Beer glasses in hand, they tried to start a bidding war for the services of the two putanoîchkas while hooting the stiff-necked manager. Another Finn, wearing a red carnation, came out to enlist the aid of the burly Russian doorman whom he was now berating on the assumption that he had taken a bribe from the Japanese.

  In all this confusion, Viktor Podolsk saw a chance to step behind the desk and steal a look at the message which had come in for General Belkin some twenty minutes earlier. He had heard the name “Yuri” repeated aloud. He presumed the caller to be Major Yuri Rykov, Belkin's aide, and had questioned the Finnish manager as to its nature and origin. The Finn had refused to betray it, KGB or no KBG. It was enough that the day manager had given one of Podolsk's technicians prior access to the rooms assigned to the Belkin party. This access would not extend to private mail and messages if the night manager had any say in it.

  As the Finn tried to keep the elevator doors from closing, Podolsk found the message. There were two, actually. The second was unsigned. It read Confirmed. K36-8 PM. He will be there.

  It seemed to be a confirmation of their dinner reservation. K36, if he remembered their itinerary correctly, was the restaurant at number 36 Kropotkinskaya. Looks as if someone else is meeting them there. Not surprising. Belkin is bound to have friends in Moscow, but why wouldn't he leave his name? Why not '7 will be there?”

  The
Yuri message was no more enlightening. It read Call me. Very urgent. The call was made from Bern. Probably from the embassy there. Podolsk memorized the number. He would check it later. In the meantime, Podolsk allowed himself to hope that some crisis had developed that would require that Belkin return to Bern immediately. That way, perhaps this lunacy could end before any real damage was done.

  Podolsk replaced the message slips and stepped from behind the desk. But too late. The recalcitrant night manager had turned, spotting him, and was making a little pink fist. The Japanese seized the moment and the elevator doors slammed shut.

  The doorman was now at the foot of the casino stairs shouting, “Valutki! Snaroo'zhi!''—Hookers! Outside! This caused a groan of despair from the Finn, who did not feel that it elevated the tone of the dispute.:

  Podolsk ignored all this. He crossed the lobby, pausing to pick up some scattered newspapers as if he were staff, and returned to his post at the concierge desk where the fat German salesman, back from Detsky Mir with the toys he had bought for his children, was zipping them into one of his bags.

  Suddenly, the German became agitated.

  He snapped his fingers in the direction of Podolsk's face and, his voice rising, was pointing at a spot on the carpet. Podolsk spoke little German, but the salesman seemed to be indicating that one of his bags was missing.

  Podolsk's reaction, less than solicitous, now infuriated the German. His voice, already loud, rose to a bellow. ”Du. Wo ist . . . something, something . . . meine rechenmas-chine . .. something, something . . . gestehlen``

  Podolsk thought he understood the sense of it. An adding machine of some sort had been stolen. If so, the German was now saying, it was stolen from under the nose of the man who had been given ”funf Deutschemark.” for keeping an eye on those bags—if not by Podolsk himself.

  The Finn with the red carnation hurried over, hands raised, trying to calm him. Very difficult, thought Podolsk, to calm a German once he makes up his mind to yell. To make matters worse, General Belkin and his party chose this moment to enter the hotel lobby.

  Podolsk averted his face.

  The first Finn, the night manager, rushed from behind the reception desk to greet Belkin's party and to steer them past the angry scene near the door. Podolsk circled to his left, keeping the German between himself and the reception desk as Belkin's driver brought in their bags and they began the formalities of registration.

  The German took Podolsk's shiftiness as inattention to his complaint. Possibly even a sign of guilt. He poked Podolsk's chest with his finger. It was all Podolsk could do not to snap it in half, especially when the German, seeing that his own language was having only a modest effect, began calling on his knowledge of Russian epithets. At this, Belkin's driver turned to look. Podolsk lowered his head. He brought a hand to his mouth as added concealment.

  The ranting German was now addressing the lobby in general. He was using his hands to describe the size of his missing machine and he was pointing to the spot from which it had disappeared. Podolsk, although mortified, was at last beginning to comprehend what had happened.

  He had not noticed such a machine but now he knew why. That curious exchange of jackets, that show of being hot, came back to him. The German's machine had been hidden under Kerensky's smelly coat. The sausage-maker had indeed stolen it from under his nose. Podolsk glanced toward the Hermitage Bar, where Kerensky, thankfully out of sight, was no doubt watching all this with an expression of studied innocence. Podolsk spoke to the Finn in Russian.

  “This man is going to the airport?”

  The Finn glanced at his watch. “His flight is in two hours.”

  “And this machine . . . what is it?”

  ”A laptop computer. A Toshiba.”

  “Kindly tell him who I am. Tell him quietly.”

  The Finn hesitated. He had no great wish to have it thought that any part of the hotel staff consisted of KGB officers pretending to be Finns. But perhaps it would quiet the German. He obeyed, first touching a finger to his lips to show that he was speaking in confidence.

  The German blinked, momentarily silenced.

  “Now tell him that he will have his machine by the time his flight leaves Moscow. He has my word.”

  The Finn translated what he said.

  “Wort aus KGB?” the German spat scornfully, too loudly. This time Lesko turned to look.

  “Get him out of here,” Podolsk hissed to the Finn. He picked up two of the German's bags and carried them to the street. The Finn gathered the rest and followed. Next came the German, but not before a final snarl, in gutter Russian, of ”Yeb vas, KGB. Mudaki, KGB.” This was heard throughout the lobby. One of the New Zealanders sprayed a mouthful of beer. Both men cheered.

  The Finn rapped on the hood of the nearest taxi, ordering the driver to open his trunk. The driver was Yakov, Kerensky's cousin. He looked questioningly at Podolsk. Podolsk hesitated, then nodded. Best, he decided, to get all of them away from this hotel before they burn it down. The bags were loaded. He watched as the German, still cursing, pulled away in Yakov's borrowed taxi.

  The surveillance was now a disaster. It was his own fault. He should have refused to use these idiots. Borovik, even more, would have only himself to blame. To Podolsk, the only satisfaction would be the talk that he was about to have with Kerensky.

  He looked through the door to see if the lobby was clear. It wasn't. Belkin's party was still at the desk. They were handing their passports to the night manager, who was still glaring at him over their shoulders. As Podolsk watched, the night manager made a show of holding up two magnetized cards, room keys, and pretended to study them. With a flourish, he put them aside. Now, in a slow and deliberate manner, he chose two new keys. These he handed to Belkin and to Lesko.

  Podolsk groaned.

  They had been given new rooms. Clean rooms. The manager had been told that General Belkin would probably make such a request but he was to say that the hotel was fully booked. Belkin would have expected that answer. He would probably not have argued.

  Not that Podolsk ever thought that he would learn much of anything through eavesdropping on their private conversations. Not Belkin's, surely. On the contrary, his hope was that such conversations would help to convince Borovik that this visit is entirely innocent. Now Borovik would conclude . . . who knows what? That they have something to hide? That the Finns are in on it with them. Or worse, that everyone is mocking him again.

  A disaster, thought Podolsk. A circus gone amok.

  There was nothing to do but break off. Send Kerensky packing and go back to Moscow Center. With luck, he can be there when Barca or the Sicilian report in. Before Borovik can talk to them.

  Before he ruins everything.

  “What's a yeb vas? Lesko asked Belkin in the elevator.

  The Russian bellboy tried not to laugh.

  “An .. . expletive,” Belkin told him. “Not attractive.”

  “Anything like fuck you? Elena poked him. But Belkin sighed and nodded.

  Lesko mouthed the phrase, tasting it. “Okay. What's a mudaki?

  “Lesko . . .” Elena moved to pinch him.

  “Will you stop?” He covered his arm. “They appreciate it when you try to learn their language.”

  At this the bellboy's shoulders trembled. He showed signs of oxygen deprivation.

  “Hey, kid. What's a mudaki?

  The young man turned. His eyes were tearing. He looked at Elena as if for permission. She turned away to hide a smile.

  “Mudak means 'schmuck,' ” Belkin answered for the bellboy. “Mudaki is plural.”

  Lesko chewed on that one as well. Then, “The guy yelling. Who was he mad at?”

  Belkin hesitated. “Something about stolen luggage.”

  Lesko nodded as if satisfied.

  Nice hotel, he thought to himself. Has everything you'd find in New York. Hookers, luggage thieves, Japs in blue suits, and pissed-off guests. Except in New York you don't hear many Germans cursing out the
KGB.

  Belkin hadn't mentioned that part. Maybe he hoped that it had slipped past him because the initials sound a little different in German. Maybe he hoped that he wouldn't notice who the German was yelling at, either. Tall guy, blond hair, dark suit. Could have been one of the Finns who run the place except for his eyes. The guy had cop eyes. No mistake.

  Lots of messages in the eyes tonight.

  There was the frazzled Finn behind the desk whose eyes said yeb vas to the guy who was being yelled at and, when he got his attention, made a production out of switching our rooms around.

  There was Belkin, who never turned around but whose eyes, Lesko felt sure, had told Valentin to see what he could find out while we're up unpacking.

  There was also the look on Belkin's face when he checked his messages. Lesko saw Yuri's name on one of them. No big reaction to that one. Maybe mild annoyance. But the second one seemed to shake him up. No idea why. All Lesko could see was the letter K, some numbers, and a few words in Russian. Belkin breasted it very quickly. For a second there, his hand was shaking.

  Then there were Elena's eyes. Looking up at him. Giving him a little squeeze. Those eyes were saying thank you.

  Thank you for being patient. Thank you for trusting me. Be patient just a while longer.

  “At dinner,” was all she said. “We'll have a nice dinner.”

  Yeah, well. . .

  Lesko had an idea that he might be using his new Russian words before the night was over.

  30

  Yuri could see no other way. Next roadside phone, he would have to call Mama's Boy. Tell him everything.

  Already, a few kilometers back, he had tried once more to get through to General Belkin. Thirty minutes later, there was still no connection. Soviet communications system. Worst in the world. Ridiculous to think that his country would ever start a war. Troops in the field would be the last to hear about it.