Lesko braced himself for an explosion. Lesko would have gone over and dumped it on his head.
But Belkin only nodded. He muttered a thank-you.
Come on, Leo.
That's a fucking insult.
They 're laughing at you.
Lesko was embarrassed for him. Belkin had pushed the limits of their friendship but he was still a friend. Even Valentin was seething. Belkin, he was sure, wasn't going to do a thing. Fine. But Lesko damned well would.
He was rising from his chair when Belkin raised a staying hand, telling him to sit. Screw that, thought Lesko. But then he saw Belkin's eyes. There was no fear in them. No anger either.
Just real calm.
Belkin rose to his feet, taking the bottle with him. He held it by the neck. This was not so good, thought Lesko. He's going to pop him from behind. He readied himself. So did Valentin. So did the younger one who saw Leo coming.
Belkin reached the chair. His stepfather had turned, warned by the young one. He seemed less sure of himself but not quite afraid.
“Go back and sit down, Leo,” he said in English. “There's a good boy.”
Belkin walked on past him. Toward the fireplace. This confused everyone, including Lesko. He began to understand when Belkin turned again to face the rectangular table. He held up one hand, the champagne. He held up the other, the guy's Scottish hat. Belkin dangled it.
Then he dropped it in the fire.
To Lesko, this was not the greatest gotcha he'd ever seen. But sure as hell, Belkin's stepfather thought it was. He lunged for the hat, which was already in flames. Belkin let him try because he wasn't finished. Too late anyway.
Belkin plopped the bottle down between the two Arabs. Into the caviar dish. Splat. When their eyes followed it, he took both their toppers, turned again to the fire, and dropped them in with the tam.
Agals, thought Lesko. That's what you call the little striped cords around the head rags. These words never came when he needed them. He did not need them now because he was moving to intercept the two truck-driver types who were on their feet and charging Belkin. Valentin, meanwhile, is moving at flank speed toward the youngest Russian, who had paused to look at the fish eggs dripping from his shirt and was now reaching for the neck of his vodka bottle.
46
Aldo Corsini had barely made a splash.
Yuri eased him over the side in at least twenty meters of water. Perhaps much deeper. He had used that much line, weighted with a mushroom anchor, to sound for the bottom. He hadn't found it.
As Miriam killed the engine of the runabout, he had wrapped Aldo's body in that same length of line, tied off both ends of the carpet, and secured the anchor to the end where his head was. At least one rat was still inside. It now sensed its predicament and already was chewing to get out.
Yuri eased the bundle over the side, holding it under the surface until the carpet became waterlogged and the bubbling was reduced to an occasional burp. Then, satisfied that it would sink quickly, he released his grip on it.
Next came a bundle of bloodstained rags that smelled of household cleanser. These he had stuffed into a sail bag along with the sweepings of broken glass and a can of bottom paint for ballast. As with Aldo, he waited until it was saturated, tugging downward, and let it go.
From where they were, no lights could be seen on shore. Not even the glow of Zurich in the sky to the north. Nothing but fog. But the runabout had a small compass in the dashboard. They had steered out on a heading of 240 degrees. They would steer back by the reciprocal until they saw the lights of the marina. From there, Carla's house was only a hundred meters to the left. Avram, the man who came with Miriam, would be outside waiting for them. He was to signal with a flashlight when he heard their motor.
Yuri had not quite decided what to do about the Sicilian.
Zangrillo.
Bannerman would surely have more questions for him, but Yuri doubted that the man would live until morning. Not without a respirator. He was breathing with more and more difficulty. Fluid filling his lungs.
It would be no great loss for Bannerman. Yuri now had more names. Bannerman could pick and choose and he would not have to worry about Susan being on hand for the interrogation. For Susan, seeing Lydia will be enough of a shock.
Miriam had suggested that they dispose of Lydia as well. He could not bring himself to do it. She deserved to be sent home. He had no idea where that was exactly, but he hoped it was a place where he might go and visit her one day. Bring flowers. Have a good long talk.
Because Yuri's mind was on poor Lydia, and on the urgent call that he now had to make to General Belkin—tell him to get out of Moscow fast—he did not hear the sounds that caused Miriam to place her fingers against his lips.
He listened, hearing nothing at first except the squeal of a train pulling into a station on the far shore of the lake. Some truck traffic. Nothing more. But Miriam was peering out across the stern. With one gloved hand she covered the fluorescent glow of the compass. She raised her machine pistol with the other. She pointed with it.
“There,” she whispered. “And there. Two boats.” · ,
Yuri saw nothing but now he could hear. The lapping of, water where there should have been none. He reached for the Browning and lowered himself. Soon he heard the soft purr of a motor. Two motors. One behind the other. He could make out their shapes. Blunt ends. Inflatables. They were roughly abeam of the runabout and perhaps forty meters away. In the bow of the first boat, Yuri saw the lumpy outline of a man with one arm raised. He seemed to be making hand signals. Now he was pointing.
Miriam saw this as well. She lifted the hand that covered the compass, then turned and nodded toward Yuri. No question. Their heading was 60 degrees. Carla's house. Yuri tensed. “Don't move.” Miriam touched his shoulder. “Wait.”
The two boats faded and were gone, swallowed by the night.
“Commandos,” said Miriam. “Two teams. At least three in each boat. Could they be yours?”
Yuri frowned. He shook his head. Russian Spetsnaz on a lake in Switzerland? Why not on the Potomac? Why not in New York Harbor for a raid on Wall Street? Impossible.
“There would have been no time,” he told her, “even if we had such units in the West.”
“How long since that flash code to Zangrillo?”
“Less than one hour. No time,” he repeated.
Also, he thought, even the nut cases do not send in commando teams every time an agent fails to acknowledge. And if they did, who would obey such an order these days?
“Not ours either,” she said. “Could be Swiss. Enzian Unit, perhaps.”
Enzian Unit. Swiss counterterrorist strike force. Zurich-based.
That these commandos were Enzian was at least plausible. But who would authorize their use? The Bruggs would have such influence, but what could be their reason? And why not just send the police?
Uh-oh.
“What about Avram?” he asked.
She did not seem concerned. “He'll hear them. When they don't signal, he will fade into nothing.”
“He won't shoot?”
She shrugged. “To protect what? So they don't make a new mess?”
Yuri thought of Lydia. He hoped that they would treat her with respect while they tried to find out who she is. Her identification papers were in his pocket. He had left her handbag and its remaining contents among Carla's purses on her closet shelf.
And he hoped that Miriam was right about Avram.
Already, one too many had died for trying to help.
47
The secretary of state took Irwin Kaplan's call.
He did so reluctantly when, as his communications officer informed him, Kaplan had vehemently—not to say profanely—refused to go through Roger Clew.
Clew, still in his tennis whites, was pacing the floor of Barton Fuller's study. He was fuming, but not due to the insult. He had been cursing the DEA man for ten minutes. This began when the same communications officer advi
sed him of a call, then in progress, between Irwin Kaplan's home and a yacht, docked in Monaco, which was registered to a man named Grassi.
If Clew was angry, Kaplan was furious.
Fuller listened to him, making notes on a pad. The notes were not strictly necessary. A full transcript of both calls would be on his desk within the hour. Highlights, written in longhand, were already at his elbow.
“Irwin . . . calm down.”
Fuller raised his eyes to the heavens.
“Irwin . .. Roger did not mislead you.”
He told him of the satellite communications, sent virtually in the open, between Moscow and Zurich. He explained their interpretation of them. Barca was dead. It was their first inkling of it. “Blade” had to be Carla Benedict. Carla not only had killed him, there was reason to believe that she beheaded him. The reason for thinking so was that the “Sicilian,” obviously this Zangrillo, had been ordered to behead her in response.
He heard a low moan from Kaplan and hastened to reassure him. Steps had been taken. A Swiss special-forces unit is on its way as we speak. They would try to intervene. Someone in Moscow, it seems, is also trying to stop Zangrillo. They had picked up an abort signal, sent in the open.
It was not Roger, he told him, who had been disingenuous. It was Paul Bannerman. Bannerman must have known. It would be like him, in fact, if he'd seen through Corsini all along. For that matter, it would be unlike Carla Benedict to kill a man without prior approval from Bannerman.
”I got news.” Kaplan was incredulous. “Carla would kill if you talked loud in a movie.”
Fuller said nothing.
“What about Lesko and Elena? They could get caught in this.”
“Roger called our embassy. We have armed personnel en route to their hotel.”
“Have you talked to Bannerman?”
“Paul is...on an airplane to Zurich.”
“Airplanes have radios. They even have telephones.”
“I'm aware of that, Irwin. If he makes a call, we'll be listening. If Ronny Grassi's experience is any guide, he's been busy already.”
”Um . . . with all respect. .,”
“That would be a nice change, Irwin.”
“Don't just listen in. Talk to him. Every time you guys dick around with Bannerman . . .”
He didn't finish. “Screw it,” said Kaplan. “I'm going to call him myself.”
48
“We can now enjoy our meal,” announced Leo Belkin.
He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. There was blood where his lip had been cut. He was thoroughly pleased with himself.
It really wasn't that much of a fight, thought Lesko. The two rag-heads wanted no part of it. They backed away, babbling to each other in high-pitched Arabic, probably wondering what this little guy had against hats. Meanwhile, there was Leo, rolling around on the floor with a schoolyard headlock on his stepfather.
The two truck-driver types might have only wanted to break it up, but they both had sixty pounds on Belkin, so Lesko decided not to take the chance. He cut the legs out from under the first one and the second one went down on top of him. Lesko gave that one a quick pop in the eye when he tried to get up. It wasn't a hard punch. Just a reminder that what you see is what you get.
Valentin got in the best shot, but Lesko never actually saw it. All he knew was that the younger of the former KGB guys was suddenly on his ass and the empty vodka bottle was rolling across the rug. He sat there trying to straighten his nose.
All this took maybe five seconds. The other diners sat gaping, some with forks still poised in the air. Along came Elena, shaking her head. She took him, Lesko, by the sleeve and started leading him back to their table. With his free hand, Lesko snatched up Belkin and half carried him along. Behind him, Valentin backed away, covering their retreat. The Arabs seized this moment to lower their heads and take a bead on the exit.
The maître d' snapped his fingers at a busboy who seemed to be enjoying this. The busboy moved in and began picking up toppled chairs. The manager hissed at him. He pointed his chin at the two truck drivers, still down and tangled, apparently saying that the furniture can wait. The busboy shrugged and giggled. He went to help the one with the broken nose and got an elbow in the chest for his trouble.
The manager ordered that one out. The younger one answered in Russian. A stream of words that included ”Yeb vas ” and apparently a lot worse because they even made Valentin gasp. Valentin started after him again but Elena said “Lesko!” and Lesko pulled him back Two fairly big men, however, one in an army uniform, rose from their table where they had been dining with their wives or girlfriends who had also gasped. More likely girlfriends, thought Lesko, because the two men were rising to defend their virtue. They started toward the younger one. Valentin said something to them in Russian. Lesko picked out ”.. . KGB
The younger only shouted a word. He pointed a finger directly at Lesko—and also at Valentin but mostly Lesko— and shouted it again, this time with a few words added. With the pointing finger, it looked like an accusation. Belkin's stepfather, now on his feet, barked a name—”Oleg”—and told him to shut the fuck up. No need to know Russian. The older man's meaning was clear.
The two husbands—whatever—hesitated just for a beat. The one in civilian clothes shot a curious glance toward Lesko, but the soldier was more interested in the man whose language had offended the ladies. He took another step and slapped Oleg across the face. Oleg staggered back against the fireplace, hands to his nose. When he lowered them, the nose was pointing at his ear again. The busboy shoved him toward the stairs and aimed a kick at his rump. The manager shook a scolding finger at the busboy. The gesture, thought Lesko, reflected minimal displeasure.
Belkin's stepfather, meanwhile, seemed in shock. So did the truck drivers. They had no idea how to react to this, Lesko decided, because no one had treated them this way since their first How-to-Scare-Everyone-Shitless class in KGB school. No one messes with a KGB officer, even one who's between jobs. It's like no one slips a whoopee cushion under Stalin, either.
Right now all they wanted was out of there. But the maître d' stood between them and the stairs scribbling on a little pad. He tore off a page and held it out to Belkin's stepfather. Obviously a bill. One of the truck drivers started to argue, apparently saying that Belkin should pay, but the stepfather, Kulik, told that one to shut up as well. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, and threw most of them on the table. The four Russians clumped up the stairs.
No question who's in charge here, thought Lesko.
On his way out, Kulik's face was the color of borscht but he never glanced in their direction. The younger one sure did. Oleg. Holding his nose again, he shot a parting look at Valentin which promised that this wasn't over.
Some angry mutterings upstairs. Another “Shut up.” Then Lesko heard the front door open and they were gone.
In two minutes, the room was back to normal. The furniture had been straightened and the table freshly set. The dining room had settled into a low buzz again. More than a few patrons seemed to be giving Lesko funny looks. But everyone else, the maître d' included, seemed to have forgotten that it was Leo who had fired the first shot.
“How come they're not throwing us out?” Lesko asked him.
Belkin didn't hear. He was busy getting serious heat from Elena, but he didn't really seem to mind. Guy was happy. He was glowing. All he'd say to Elena was, “It was a matter of honor. A matter of honor.” In his mind, he was still burning his stepfather's hat. Valentin answered for him.
“Because we are not KGB torturers from Lefortovo who retired after looting party funds.”
Lesko stared, then understood. “That's what you told those two guys who joined in?”
Valentin nodded absently. He had found blood— Oleg's—on his necktie.
“Well? Is it true?”
“Is what true, please?” He found more on his lapel.
“That they're torturers and looters.”
Valentin rocked his hand. “The first is possible. The second is probable. You notice that they offered no rebuttal.”
“The guy Oleg did. He pointed at you and me and said something.”
“Is nothing, Mr. Lesko. It made no sense.”
“Indulge me.”
A shrug. “He said that we are murderers. He said that tonight we beat a man to death.”
Lesko blinked. “You and me?”
“It is what he claimed.”
That would account for the funny looks, thought Lesko. Including the one he was now getting from Elena.
“Did he happen to mention when and where exactly?”
Valentin only shrugged. His manner said that this accusation was of no importance to him.
Lesko was about to press him on it, but the waiter appeared with a cart and began setting out more plates of appetizers. He was describing each one in English. Pirogi stuffed with mushrooms. More pirogi with cranberries. Smoked sturgeon. Little crepes, called blini, filled with cheese. He was especially proud of the carp mousse.
Waiters.
It's the same everywhere, thought Lesko. When you get to the absolute most critical part of any conversation, guaranteed they'll show up and start telling you about the specials. Carp mousse, for Christ's sake.
As for that wild accusation, the more time he had to think about it the less he liked it. It's true, he thought, that people say weird things in the heat of the moment. But this one was so far out in left field that he had trouble dismissing it. It also struck him that the outburst did not seem to surprise Belkin's stepfather. He seemed more interested in getting Oleg to shut up about it.
“Lesko?” Elena was squinting at him.
He looked at her, assuming that she was on the same track.
“When you left us at GUM,” she asked him, “did you have . . . difficulty with anyone?”
Nice, thought Lesko.
She's asking did someone take the last of the paper towels so I smashed his face against the toilet. Did somebody try to get ahead of me in line so I threw him off the balcony. “Elena ... I went to the washroom, I bought the necklace, I came back.”
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