One guy, younger than the others, wore a Russian fur hat but a good one. Looked like silver fox. Two others, Lesko's age, were wearing narrow brim fedoras and looked like they stepped out of those May Day newsreels.
The sixth, who seemed to be the host, was maybe in his seventies. Speaking English. Russian accent. Had a voice like a bell. It carried. He was telling the others that their table was downstairs.
Lesko turned away but he could see them in Elena's mirror. They checked their coats and the two fedoras but the Arabs kept their ... kaffïyehs, right? The older guy kept his hat as well. Walked to the stairs still wearing it. Theyoungest one did a double take at Lesko's back, a little squint as if he were trying to place him. The usual. He shrugged it off and kept going.
As far as Lesko was concerned, the guy leading the way won the hat contest.
His was a tam-o'-shanter. Red plaid. With a little pompom on it.
41
“Elena has endometriosis.”
Bannerman, in the aisle seat, had just closed his eyes. The Swissair flight was over Newfoundland. Dinner trays had been cleared. Susan had barely touched her food.
Now she turned away, looking out into the twilight. With her right hand, she made a quick erasure motion. The gesture said that she wished she hadn't spoken.
Bannerman sat up. “That's…a problem with her uterus?” he asked, sitting up.
She hesitated, finally nodding.
“Susan, what are you telling me?”
She looked at him. “How would you know about endometriosis?”
“Janet Herzog had it,” he told her. “Maybe four years ago. It required a radical hysterectomy.”
Susan nodded. “So will Elena's. This baby is her only shot.”
Bannerman's mind, for some reason, flashed back to this morning when they learned of Aldo Corsini's interest in the Russian honeymoon. Susan had asked him if he thought Elena was in any danger. Elena, not her father. He had not thought much of it at the time, supposing that she felt her father could take care of himself.
“How long have you known this?'' he asked.
More hesitation. “Since last November.”
Before she conceived, he realized. And when Susan went over for a visit. And then those conspiratorial conversations ever since.
“Are you saying that she shouldn't be traveling?”
Susan grimaced, then shook her head. “Her doctor said she could. It's a good, solid pregnancy. It's not as if she's gone bungee-jumping.”
That sounded right, Bannerman supposed. Elena, if anything, would have been just as active at home. She'd been skiing as recently as Easter. And she swam laps or used a Nordic Track every day, as much so that she could enjoy eating as to stay fit.
“What's the risk to Elena,” he asked, “in delaying the surgery?”
Susan tossed a hand. “It could turn into endometrial cancer. But she says the surgery would catch all that anyway. As for the pregnancy, she'll have more pain than she would otherwise, especially in the last trimester. And giving birth will be hard on her.”
His frown deepened. “And then there's her age.”
Susan said nothing.
“All this to give your father a child?”
“She loves him, Bannerman. And she wants one.”
This last had an edge on it. He let it lie.
“Paul?”
”Yes.”·
“Are you going to tell me what arrangements you've made. You, Anton, and Molly?”
An edge here as well, although not as sharp.
“Susan .. .“He lowered his voice. “Anton has alerted the appropriate people. He's asked them to assist as needed. I'll never tell you who, exactly, or where, how, or for what purpose. There are two reasons for this.”
“Need to know.” She nodded.
“Need not to compromise them,” he corrected her. ”I have no right—understand this—no right to tell you.”
She softened. She took his hand. ”I understand. I really do.”
“But you still feel left out.”
“Paul, I'm a person. I'm human. But I'm also part of you. I want you to feel—understand this—-feel that you can tell me anything. But that doesn't mean I need you to. Or expect you to.”
He grunted inwardly.
Certainly clears that up, he thought.
He had a sense that she was holding something back about Elena. And that the leap into the subject of what he holds back from her was a try at justifying it. But Susan would freeze up if he pushed it. She already seemed sorry that she'd opened the box. He thought he'd try to lighten the mood.
“Want to hear the second reason?”
“Never mind. I was being petulant. I'm over it.”
A soft smile. “You'll like the second reason better.”
Her hand, on his, withdrew just a bit. A sign that she knew she was about to be managed.
“Okay. What is it?”
”I don't know much more than you do.”
She patted his hand, took hers away. “Give me a break, Bannerman.”
“It's true.”
“Bull. . . shit.” Enunciated crisply. British accent.
“Scout's honor.”
She shook her head. ”I know you, Bannerman. You've got this thing covered up, down, and sideways by now.”
“How would I do that? I don't know anything, Susan.”
She waited.
“Basically, all I've done is describe the situation to Anton and Molly.” He looked at his watch. “By now, Anton has called anywhere from six to a dozen people in Europe and outlined it to them. Molly might or might not come. She might or might not send Billy.”
Susan closed one eye. “Who are these six to a dozen people?”
“Specifically? I don't know. But you probably saw all of them at the wedding.”
“How can you . . ” She shook her head as if to clear it. “How can you not have told them what to do?”
“There was no need. They're professionals, Susan. This is how they make their living.”
“Professionals,” she replied blankly.
“And friends of Carla's. With that in mind, what do you think is the first thing they'll do?”
“Go to Bern? Protect Yuri's place?”
“Very good. What else?”
“Go to Carla's house in Zurich. Help Yuri if he needs it.”
“And?”
“Go to Moscow?”
“Forget that. There's no need.”
“Okay, go to Genoa. Check out Aldo's boat. Look for names, addresses, old telephone bills. Look for a transmitter.”
“Now you're cooking. Let's have one more.”
She had to smile. “Meet you at the airport. No. Cover you at the airport.”
“Cover us.”
“Show themselves when we're clear. Somewhere, probably on the highway into Zurich, a car pulls up and honks. We both pull over. He...or she ... has a trunk full of weapons.”
“Which won't be needed.”
“But just in case.”
Bannerman spread his hands. “Do you think they needed to be told to do any of these things?”
She sat back, shaking her head. She said nothing for two or three minutes. Twice, she stifled a laugh. Mostly, she shook her head.
“Nice to have friends, isn't it,” she said at last.
“Paul?”
The cabin had been darkened for the movie. Bannerman was dozing again.
“Umm?”
“Sorry. You were asleep.”
He shook his head. “Just resting. What is it?”
“When Yuri called ... the last time?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Will you tell me why I had to leave the room?”
“That was ... a personal matter.”
“And you don't feel you can tell me about it.”
“Well . . .” He wiped one eye. “It's something that happened years ago. And it involved John Waldo. I probably shouldn't without his okay.”
”I se
e.”
He doesn't lie.
He had never lied to her, not once, as far as she knew. But he sure leaves a lot of blanks.
She had seen his eyes when she came in to say that Anton and Molly were waiting.
You can see some scary things in a person's eyes. Hatred. Madness. The eyes of the morally bankrupt—opportunists, muggers, lawyers—who see everyone else as a fish on a line. Or eyes that imagine you tied to a bed. But the creepiest of all is to look into someone's eyes and see nothing at all. Nobody home. At least no one you knew.
Paul's eyes were dead. Cold as stone.
“Susan?”
”Umm. Yes?”
“Is there something I should know about Elena? Other than her illness?”
“No.”
“No, meaning there's nothing? Or that I shouldn't ask.”
“It's a personal matter.”
“Oh.”
She shook her head. “This isn't tit for tat. There are personal matters and there are personal matters.”
“Sure. But if I—”
“Paul, honey. It's just none of your business.”
42
Elena was thoroughly confused.
First there was Leo's behavior.
He put her in mind of a girl she'd known when she was younger. Perfectly sensible in most other respects, this girl was the sort who imagined conversations in advance. If there was a boy, for example, to whom she was attracted, she would rehearse what she would say to him and how he would respond.
Of course, the conversation never went as she imagined it. The first digression would defeat her entirely.
It seemed much the same with Leo Belkin.
They had come down the stairs to the main dining room, Valentin leading, Leo following. Valentin, it seemed, would be dining with them after all. Leo paused on the third step up, scanning the room, hands on hips, a fierce gleam in his eye. He had the look of an actor expecting applause.
Here and there a head glanced up. Then down again. No one paid any particular notice. Leo seemed .... disappointed.
The tuxedoed maître d'hôtel had to clear his throat in order to direct Leo's attention to their reserved table, which was off to the left. After they were seated and a waiter took Valentin's wine to be chilled, Leo's eyes, no longer so triumphant, seemed drawn to the rectangular table that was directly in front of the fireplace. Six men, the group that had just arrived, sat around it.
Their host, the man who affected a Scottish cap, sat with his back to their table. And to the stairway as well. The tam had been hung over the knob of his chair. It swayed when its owner, now in animated conversation, shifted his weight. The effect on Leo Belkin was nearly hypnotic. Lesko noticed this as well.
“You know that guy?” he asked.
A stammer. A quick shake of the head. And then a nod.
“That's a yes or a no?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. He began groping for his pipe.
“You want to say hello? Go ahead.”
This brought a glare as if Leo had been challenged. Elena knew that Lesko meant no such thing. Belkin retreated into the menu, cursing softly. It was here that he reminded Elena of the girl she once knew.
Valentin tried to relieve some of the awkwardness by reading from the menu. Belkin leaned and whispered in his ear. Abruptly, Valentin excused himself and took the maître d' aside. More whispering. Valentin writing down what the maître d' was saying. A waiter appeared, blocking Elena's view. He set down several plates of zakuski—assorted hors d'oeuvres—and a bottle of chilled vodka.
At the table by the fire, they were well into their vodka already, each man in turn offering toasts. Even the two Moslems. They seemed less than devout, thought Elena.
Belkin poured the vodka into tiny glasses. His hand shook. Some spilled on the tablecloth. Elena took the bottle. She finished pouring for him.
”I think it's time, Leo,” she told him.
He took a breath.
“Gomar Jost,” he said and drained his glass. Then, to Lesko, “That means 'bottoms up.' You must drink.”
Lesko fingered his glass but did not raise it. “Leo ...” he asked, frowning, “are you okay?”
Belkin sighed. He nodded. ”I need a moment. To gather myself.”
Valentin rejoined them. He handed a slip of paper to Belkin. Belkin read it. Elena could see, over his shoulder, that it looked like a scribbled list of names, almost certainlythose of the men at the other table. Leo was mouthing them as he read. He seemed to recognize some, was memorizing others. So many emotions could be seen on his face. Anger, certainly. Disgust. Contempt.
“Leo . . . enough.” Her voice was firm. “Are those your bad apples?”
His temple throbbed.
“And you expected what? To walk in here with me, with Lesko, and see them run for the exits?”
A hiss. “Don't mock me, Elena,'' he said, barely audibly.
“Okay.” Lesko rapped the table. Sharply. “Right now, straight out,” he said through his teeth, “what the hell are we doing here?”
At the table by the fire, the youngest of them had spooned caviar onto a sliver of bread and brought it to his mouth. He heard the sound made by Lesko's knuckles. He glanced over. Now he stared, blinking, disbelieving.
Her patience ended, Elena reached for Lesko's hand. Her eyes turned skyward as if to ask for strength. “We have come here to see Moscow,” she told her husband. “While we are at it, we were also to save Russia. But I think there is even more to it than that.”
Lesko's eyes became hooded. “Drugs, right?” He cocked his head toward the rectangular table. “Those guys are your local dealers?”
Belkin shook his head. It was more of a shiver.
“Hey!” Lesko rapped the table again. “Get hold of yourself, Leo. Talk to me.”
The young one looked again. Now he was leaning across the table toward the one whose back was to them. The man with the tam on his chair stiffened. The other two Russians frowned and they also leaned forward. The Arabs glanced first at each other, then over their shoulders toward the table near the stairs. At last, the older man brought a hand to his cheek. He turned, looking past his fingers as if they were camouflage.
He searched the faces at one table, then another. He found the two who the younger one was talking about, the two whose faces had seemed familiar when he saw them in the lobby. Now the older one understood why. He knew who they were. For there, sitting with them, was Leo Belkin.
He was stunned at first. But a look of defiance, of bravado, soon crept over his face. He turned away, back to his guests. He made a small joke to put them at ease. They did not smile. He made another. They began to relax. He raised a finger and beckoned them closer. He seemed to be telling them a story.
Belkin saw none of this. His eyes were on his hands.
“This . . . encounter,” he said, groping. ”I have seen it so many times ... in my mind ... that I...” He grimaced, berating himself. ”I don't know why this is happening.”
“That is precisely why,” Elena told him. “Who is that man, Leo?”
“He is ... scum.”
“More specifically, please. Start with his name.”
“Kulik. Arkadi Ivanovich Kulik.”
“And what is he to you?”
“He had my father arrested. He had him executed.”
Elena wet her lips. “For what reason, Leo?”
“He wanted my mother.”
43
It took her twenty minutes to die.
Lydia.
Yuri stayed with her. He had left the man who cut her to the rats. He had shut the bedroom door so that Lydia could not hear the sounds he made. He knelt on the floor by the bed and he took her hand. She had begged him to hold it because she was frightened. She could not see him any longer.
Yuri kissed her several times. He wet her face with his tears.
She was frightened and yet very brave. . She knew that she was dying. She said that he must not call for an
ambulance. They would only move her. It doesn't hurt so much if she lies still and moving her would be of no use.
She told him that she was sorry.
He answered that it was not her fault. It was his. He should have known that there would be a second man. He should not have told her not to turn on the lights. He should have gone in first.
She reached to touch his lips. To silence him. It was not what she meant, she said. She meant that night. After the party for General Belkin. She was totally to blame. It is just that she feels . . . strange emotions sometimes. She does not want to feel them. But they come. They frighten her. That night, she thought that the vodka might keep them away. It made them worse. She was sorry that she was not better for him.
It was this that made Yuri cry as he had not since he was a boy.
Afterward, he washed her face.
He put a fresh pillow under her head and he smoothed her hair as best he could. In a closet, he found an extra quilt. He covered her with it.
He realized that sooner or later he must decide what to do with her. The lake was out of the question. He would probably bring her back to Bern in Corsini's car. The sensible thing, he knew, was to go get it now, carry her down to it, hide her in the trunk, but he could not bear the thought of putting her there.
Perhaps he would keep her here until Bannerman comes. Bannerman knows how much she has helped. She should be more than a name to him. He should have a face to remember
This reminded him. He did not yet know the name of the man on the living-room floor. Yuri heard him talking. Very rapidly. Was someone there? He listened at the bedroom door, the Browning in his hand.
But the man was only praying. He was speaking Italian, but Yuri was quite sure that he was reciting the Catholic act of contrition. Over and over. Yuri opened the door carefully nonetheless The man had not moved. The two rats had lost interest in the marmalade. One was exploring the room. The other was looking down through the open trapdoor, possibly summoning his family. One of them seemed to have chewed at the man's left hand, but he probably never felt it.
“Have you decided?” Yuri asked him.
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