Behind him, another interruption. A knocking on the door. Borovik ignored it.
He knew that it was Podolsk. He had seen him coming from two streets away, head up, arms stiff, hands made into fists. The look of a man spoiling for a fight. He was coming; no doubt, to say why he had disobeyed instructions. Why he was not at the Savoy.
That matter could wait. It seemed not so important now. More important was his poor mother. He had promised her, her photo at least, that soon he would have the man who had tortured and beheaded her youngest son. And now, before he could keep it, that promise was broken.
He had jumped the gun. He realized that.
If he had taken the time to think, he would have realized that Corsini was not the man for such a job. Not alone, certainly. Nor did he want Corsini, even if he got lucky, to put a bullet behind the ear of Mama's Boy. He wanted Mama's Boy alive.
He would have found a way to bring him back to Moscow. Not to this building perhaps. But there are other basements. Bannerman would be strapped to a table. His mother would come. He would let her see him in the beginning, let her slap his face, and he would have let her see him once more at the end. She would not have wanted to watch in between.
The door opened. He heard a clearing of the throat.
“Get out, Podolsk,” he said quietly.
“Suit yourself,” came the answer. “I'm going home.”
The smaller man snorted, still not turning.
Except for that insolent tone, Borovik was tempted to let him go before he made an even greater mess of everything. He had completely botched a simple surveillance. He had allowed some German's computer to be stolen right in front of him. He had even failed to find that woman who met the Belkin party in the middle of Red Square. In that one wide-open area he can't find a tall woman wearing a long purple coat with green pants.
Now he is here to defend himself. He is actually defiant. He is going to complain about how they showed themselves from the beginning, how one of them stole a computer, how another one decided to take the evening off.
All this should come as a surprise? These men are gangsters. They are thieves. If you don't watch a thief, he will steal. This is why you put an officer in charge of them in the first place.
Borovik kissed his mother's picture. He returned it to his desk, then glanced up at Podolsk, who was still standing there, jaw set.
“Where is Kerensky now?” he asked.
No answer. Podolsk was staring at the desk.
”I asked you
Podolsk pointed. “Is that my communicator? My code book?”
“It is not your communicator. You work for me. Therefore, it is my communicator. Where is Kerensky?”
“Out there,” Podolsk said through his teeth. “He's going to stand outside Detsky Mir, all night if he has to, waiting for his brother to show up. He's going to get that machine back, give it to the doorman, and then he's going to forget that he ever heard the name of Leo Belkin.”
A half smile from Borovik. His Stalin smile.
“And so will I,” Podolsk added. “I'm finished with this Belkin nonsense.”
Now Borovik blinked. He made a show of looking around his office as if searching for a clue to what had brought about this boldness.
”A lottery ticket?” he asked. “While you were out, you found some more winning tickets?”
Podolsk said nothing.
“While you were out, you moved all of your relatives to the West? The CIA has promised you a penthouse in New York and a Cadillac?”
Podolsk ignored the sarcasm. His eyes were on the communicator, his frown deepening. Next to it was a pink folder marked Sovermenno Sekretno—Top Secret.
“You've . . . heard from Barca,” he said.
The Stalin smile faded. He nodded toward the folder. “I've heard from the Sicilian. Barca is dead.”
Podolsk stood stunned. Then, “How? By whom?”
“Bannerman's slut. The Benedict woman.”
His color rising, Podolsk reached for the folder. Borovik did not stop him. He opened it and read the partially encrypted message from the Sicilian. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.
“It came in just this way? By satellite?”
A sigh. First that captain, thought Borovik, and now this one.
Podolsk could have wept. “This went out through the atmosphere? This?”
“Yes,” Borovik bellowed. “Now shut up about it.”
Podolsk, nonetheless, read it aloud, “barca cat. by BLADE. AT BLADE HOUSE, ZU. SUGGEST BLUE BLADE NOW. CAN DO. AM IN POSITION.”
Borovik sagged. No heart, this one. Cold fish. Barca is dead, and all he can think about is form.
“But this is . . .” As Podolsk stammered, in search of words, he noticed that something else was written on a sheet under the Sicilian's message. He looked. It was in Borovik's hand. It read, blue blade, want blade cat. leave head, repeat, LEAVE BLADE HEAD, BLADE HOUSE, ZU, PLAIN SIGHT.
He thinks this is code, Podolsk screamed in his mind. Wait.
“What is head?” he asked. ”I don't know head.” “Head is head and it's none of your business.” “This means what? Kill Carla Benedict and leave her head dangling from the doorknob?”
Borovik pursed his lips. He had not thought to specify. Was it too late, he wondered, to say leave it on the hood of her car.
Viktor Podolsk felt lightheaded. A part of him wanted to laugh, a part wanted to scream, but a third part warned him to be careful. This is so incomprehensibly stupid that it cannot be genuine. Could Borovik be setting him up? Using his communicator? Signing off with his designator?
Think.
The Sicilian must surely know better than to send a message like this by satellite. But the Sicilian had clearly sent it.
And as for Borovik, for all that his mind is diseased, he is not a complete fool. Could he not know that a child could read this? To intercept such a message is a cryptanalyst's fantasy. It brightens his day. He waves it to the others in the decrypting room and says, “You will not believe this one.” They all have a good laugh about it. They leave it pinned to a bulletin board.
The Americans, surely the Swiss, must be keeping track of Carla Benedict. All they would need is one key—the knowledge that Barca is Corsini—and most of the rest of it falls into place. Barca is Corsini. Corsini is with Carla Benedict. Carla must be blade and zu must be Zurich. It isn't Zu-luland. The only confusion would involve the meaning of head. No one would believe that head meant head.
The telephone rang. The olive-colored one.
Good. It gave him time.
Think.
Do they know that Corsini is Barca?
Prudent assumption is yes. Surely, Carla must. Otherwise, why would she kill him? The question is how much more she got out of him, and what other names.
Borovik took the call. He answered, Podolsk noticed, in an irritable manner. On that phone, this was unusual. Normally he was respectful in case the call was from someone important.
But his manner changed at once. Suddenly, there was surprise, deference, perhaps even a hint of fear. Borovik had forced a smile. He was apologizing, saying that he thought it was Captain . . . something ... calling back. The name, like the apology, was mumbled. Podolsk could not catch it.
All at once he was Borovik the toady again. Podolsk had seen it a hundred times. If he outranks you, his foot is on your neck. If you outrank him, his tongue is on your boots.
The subject at hand seemed to be Barca. And then that exchange of messages. Suddenly, Borovik winced. He turned away so that Podolsk could not see his face, but he was too late. Podolsk could hear the other voice each time it rose to an angry or sarcastic shout. Borovik said nothing for fully half a minute. His color was rising rapidly. No question, thought Podolsk, that he's being reprimanded. But by whom?
“General Belkin?” he heard Borovik ask, his voice the soul of innocence.
Another shout. He cringed. Then, defiantly, “Yes. Of course I know who you mean. W
hy should I play dumb?”
But his color was rising rapidly.
Next, he said, “You say don't go near him so I don't go near him. But the way he's been acting the past two years, I still think .. .”
Podolsk heard rising inflections, the sound of questions, sharply asked. When Borovik spoke again, his tone was downcast, his voice barely audible.
”I assumed ... you meant none of our own people should go near him. I asked ... as a favor ... for someone else to keep an eye on Belkin.”
The voice on the other end seemed to go silent for a moment. Then more questions followed.
“Chicago Brigade, yes. May I ask how you knew that?”
It was Podolsk's impression that the voice did not answer. Then came a change of subject because Borovik replied, “The signal to Zurich had nothing to do with Belkin. We have a small problem there and I am taking care of it.”
Another question. .
“No.” ·
Borovik was squirming.
“My dead brother has nothing to do with this,” Podolsk heard him say. “Least of all does Mama's Boy.”
Podolsk rolled his eyes.
More questions.
“The man with General Belkin is named Raymond Lesko,” Borovik said in response to one or more of them. “He is an American, the husband of the Brugg woman, otherwise he is nobody important. As for a younger man, the only young man I know about is Belkin's driver.”
Silence. Then, “Yes, they were at GUM this evening. In the crowds, our man lost track of them. Excuse me, but why do you ask?”
Podolsk waited.
“Man is named Sasha Kerensky, yes.”
A nod.
“Yes, Kerensky brothers. They . . ” Borovik stopped himself. “Excuse me, but how is it that you know his name?”
Podolsk saw Borovik stiffen.
“Dead? But how? In what manner?”
Podolsk, even through his own numbed surprise, thought that this was an odd question to ask. The image of a decapitated head flashed through his mind, unbidden. He listened closely, trying to hear all that he could, praying, above all, that Borovik would forget himself and address the caller by name.
Suddenly, Borovik became aware of him. He half turned, jabbing a finger at the door, telling Podolsk to use it. Podolsk hesitated. He took his communicator and his code-book from the desk but he made no other move. Borovik glared at him, mouthing Get out. Podolsk shook his head. His eyes said, Not this time, Borovik. They said, I will not leave just so you can tell your handlers that whatever happened to that oaf, it happened because Major Viktor Podolsk failed to follow your instructions.
Borovik turned away, his expression one of helpless rage—but only for a moment. The voice, and whatever it was saying, soon caused the blood to drain from his face. He listened, bent over as if in pain. Now and then he tried to interrupt, his manner servile, attempting to mollify, but each sound he uttered was cut off by the voice.
An unusual voice, thought Podolsk. Sharp but melodic. No Moscow drawl from what he could hear of it, but no recognizable accent either. The voice, when shouting, had an almost-operatic timbre. It seemed to him that he had heard it before, but he could not begin to place it. Suddenly, with a loud clatter, it was gone. Borovik now found his own voice. He began speaking, for Podolsk's benefit, over a line that was now as dead as Sasha Kerensky.
“No, you listen,” he began. “No, no, Minister. You will shut up and listen.”
The charade was mercifully brief. Just enough to let Podolsk know who still was boss and that he was talking to a minister of the republic who certainly did not exist. He hung up on this ghost.
Podolsk wanted desperately to leave.
He wanted to find another window to the open sky so that he could countermand that stupid order. Even now, in Borovik's office, he was working the communicator with his thumb on the chance that the signal might go through. The Sicilian's code. Then the code for abort. Then Borovik's sign-off. But he could not leave without knowing, at least asking, what had happened to Sasha. Borovik would smell a rat at once.
“The American killed him,” said Borovik as if in answer. “The policeman named Lesko.” He had turned once more to stare out into the night. “Lesko and Belkin's driver. They beat him to death outside GUM.”
Podolsk was too astonished to speak.
“First he mocks me,” said Borovik distantly. “He drives past my window and he gestures ... so.” He mimed Lesko's salute from Belkin's Chaika. “He knows that, meanwhile, Barca is dead or dying. Before he is one hour more in Moscow, he murders Sasha Kerensky.”
“Ah ... who says so, General Borovik, sir?”
The Stalin doll almost answered. He motioned toward the olive phone but he caught himself.
“He was seen.” The voice was still small. “He left his photograph on Kerensky's chest. He left all their photographs.”
Podolsk shook his head. To him, this was inconceivable.
“How many others, Podolsk?” He stood up, moving to his window.
A helpless shrug. “How many others . . . what?”
“This was coordinated,” he said. “Barca in Zurich. Sasha under my nose. Both at the same hour. How many of the others, Podolsk? How many more are dead?”
“The American …” Podolsk struggled to grasp all this. To find some footing. “He has been arrested?”
Borovik shook his head. ”I am ... asked ... to do nothing. I will wait.”
“Ah ... but you think I should signal the others. See if they respond. Tell them, meantime, to lie low.”
Now he nodded. “Quickly, Podolsk. Do that now.”
Podolsk turned toward the door.
”I don't see Kerensky,” said Borovik.
“He's there.” Or should be. “In the doorway of Detsky Mir.”
“Send him home, Podolsk.”
The major glanced skyward, thanking his stars. But then he frowned.
“Sir . . . this news will be hard on him. He might not be so easy to control.”
For a long moment, Borovik gave no answer. He sat rocking, his fingers steepled against his lips, staring into space.
“Tell him .. ” His eyes cleared. He wet his lips. “Tell him to come here, call me from the lobby. I will go down and speak to him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Podolsk, his brain reeling, stepped through the office door.
” What would Stalin do ? ”
His mother asked this question from her photograph.
He nodded slowly, wistfully, in reply.
“This Sasha . . . he was a nice boy?”
Borovik rocked his head. But again he nodded, not wishing to disappoint her.
“I'm surprised they didn 't cut off his head as well.”
He grunted. He had half expected to hear that they had.
His mother was weeping.
“They shouldn't get away with this,” she told him, gathering herself. “Arkadi Kulik or no Arkadi Kulik.”
He wanted to tell her to be patient. But he knew what she would say. For nine years now, she has been patient. Nine years is enough.
He would talk to Kerensky. Now they both had scores to settle.
36
The Sicilian stood in darkness. He was cursing himself.
He had looked out the window when the car turned in off the road. It flashed its high beams as it approached the house. The glare caught him full in the face. He could not have been seen, he felt sure, because he had looked out through curtains. But his night vision was ruined all the same.
It was Aldo's car. No doubt of it. As it passed to the side of the house, he could see that a woman was driving and that the passenger seat was empty. It was as he'd guessed. Carla had acted alone. Even now, she did not come with help. It was all the more likely, therefore, that his other guess was correct as well. She'd been out hunting him.
The Sicilian's hand brushed over the communicator that was hooked to his belt. He gave it a squeeze of appreciation. Borovik's sig
nal had been childishly coded but at least it was not ambiguous.
Kill her.
For what she did to Aldo. And before she kills you.
The business about her head was not so unambiguous, but he had decided to take it literally. Hack it off. Leave it in plain sight. This, he assumed, is meant to instill fear in whoever walks in here and finds her. The Sicilian had misgivings about it. His primary concern was that such a thing had the look of a signature. Someone else's. Not his own. It would be hard enough, without that, to convince certain people that it was he who'd taken Carla Benedict. With a knife. On her own ground. Even if he had Carla's knife to show for it.
But he would do it. Afterward, he might do a little cutting of his own. Perhaps the thumb from her right hand. Too bad that she's not known for a tattoo. As for the head, he supposed that he could leave it on a shelf in her refrigerator. He had seen that done in films. Filmmakers understand dramatic impact.
On the other hand, however, it might be days before someone thinks to open her refrigerator and, besides, Borovik had specified plain sight. Best to stick it in a flower pot and leave it facing the front door. Or perhaps on her kitchen stove, in a frying pan, with the burner turned on low. That way, they could just follow their noses to the surprise of their lives. Another way would be to ...
The Sicilian grimaced. Stop that, he told himself. You're getting as bad as Borovik.
The car was now out of sight. He could hear only the crunch of gravel as it pulled to the side of the house and stopped by the outside staircase. The engine went silent. He heard one door open and then close very quietly. Now, on the wooden stairs, he heard two steps taken, one loud squeak, and then no more steps. He realized that she had stopped, possibly to remove her shoes.
Why the sudden caution? Had she seen him after all?
No, he decided. This might be normal for her. It's why she has lived so long.
The Sicilian, also in stocking feet, eased his way back toward her kitchen. It was where he decided he would wait for her. Behind the front door would be foolish. It would be the first place she would check before entering. She would switch on the light, watch, and wait, look for signs of disturbance. She might even have memorized the pattern of the broken glass. She would then enter. She would lock the door behind her. Then she would walk through the apartment switching on all the other lights. The kitchen would be last because her bedroom and bathroom would be first. Women always expect trouble from bedrooms and from behind shower curtains. Never from kitchens. The Sicilian had heard this from someone. He hoped it was not from Aldo.
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