Still. . . Waldo should have moved faster.
The Austrian—Lechmann—tried to make him feel better. Even Elena, he pointed out, never expected anything like this.
That was true, Waldo supposed.
All she wanted, she told him, was for someone to get to Moscow early, look things over, keep an eye on them once they got there. If we're followed, she said, try to find out who's interested. She told him why. That Belkin has a bug up his ass about the KGB looting the country.
That's not exactly what she said. Elena doesn't talk like Lesko yet. But she said she was asking him if he'd take the job because Bannerman says he knows his way around Moscow and St. Petersburg and might not mind dropping in again and maybe torching a few more buildings.
That wasn't exactly what Bannerman said either. And Bannerman had other reasons for making the suggestion.
A big one was that a few weeks before, in Westport, Waldo had clocked some lawyer who'd been slapping his wife around. Everyone thought Billy or Molly did it. More likely Billy. He had the history. Waldo had to tell Bannerman it was him. Bannerman wasn't happy. But he said let's keep it between us. Meantime, maybe you're getting cabin fever here in Westport. Maybe you could use a change of scenery.
When Elena made the proposition, he sort of asked Bannerman if it was okay. Sort of. He told Bannerman that he might hang around Europe for a while. Take that vacation. Bannerman just smiled and said good idea. That's when Waldo knew it was probably Bannerman's idea in the first place. Elena said bring whoever you want. Spend as much as you like. Just don't mention this to anyone else. Least of all Lesko. He was sure to make a fuss over it, she said.
He sure as hell will now, thought Waldo.
Lechmann had pulled into a darkened street just off the Arbat. He was prying what remained of the windshield from its frame and using a rag to sweep the glass from the floor and seats.
Until they pick up new wheels, Waldo told him, they'd better take the right front door off, too. Bullet holes. Without it, they still wouldn't look any different from a thousand other crates driving around this town. The place is one big spare-parts depot. It's okay not to have any doors or windows, but if your car is dirty they give you a ticket.
“Let's ditch it soon,” said Lechmann. “Lesko will be giving a good description.”
Waldo grumbled in agreement.
There had been no question of sticking around, identifying themselves. They'd end up doing five years just on general principles unless Bannerman could come up with something the Russians wanted in exchange.
Nor could they blame Lesko for shooting at them. To him, they were only dark shapes in deep shadow. Dark shapes with muzzle blasts. But maybe he began to get the picture when they pulled up and down the street and put a few final stitches in that sniper.
Waldo tried to think what he should have done differently. He supposed that he could have told Lechmann to ram that cab. But then the van might have been disabled and he couldn't assume that spraying the tree had put the sniper out of action. As it turned out, it hadn't. He'd gotten off at least five shots before Lechmann's burst crippled him.
Then Lesko starts blasting.
Gun looked like a Makarov. It must have been the one Belkin's driver had.
“That driver,” he said to Lechmann. “Valentin, right? I think he probably bought it.”
“Perhaps not.” Lechmann had been thinking about that as well. “The shots hit him high. Here and here.” He touched his chest at the level of his collar bone.
“Belkin caught one, too. Could you see how bad?”
The Austrian touched his right kidney to show the entrance wound. “He was also in shock. Walking in circles. Finally he sat. Very hard. I think it's bad.”
Don't count on a bonus for this one, thought Waldo. But at least Elena looked okay. No thanks to them. She had the sense to stay down. And Lesko had the balls to draw their fire away from her.
They'll hold Lesko for maybe two days. Maybe longer if he killed the moose. Elena, they'll just question. They'll be very polite when they find out who she is. They'll get a statement, find out she didn't actually see much of anything, and then put her on the next plane out. Anything else they'll get from Belkin and Valentin if those two are able to talk.
He ought to let Bannerman know, thought Waldo. But he can't risk a call. Anyway, by the time he got an overseas line Elena could be back in Zurich. She'll tell him.
If the moose is alive, they'll wring him dry. Who sent you? Why? Who were the two who escaped in a flower truck? Why did they kill your associates? Don't you see that it must have been prearranged? They were there to silence all three of you. For your own good, tell us everything.
“You know what I'm thinking, right?” he said to Lechmann.
Lechmann raised a staying hand. ”I want soap and water, new clothes, some food, and a van that gives less fresh air. Any other subject, tell me tomorrow.”
”I think it was that bunch in the Zil. They ordered the hit.”
The Austrian snorted. “Why? Because they left the restaurant in a hurry? For this you don't order a killing. For this you leave nothing for the waiter.”
Waldo considered this. He thought it proved his point.
“That hit,” he said. “Did it look like surgical precision to you? Or did it look like a last-minute arrangement.”
Lechmann had to agree. Certainly with this last. It was also clear that the driver, Valentin, gave no sign of expecting trouble until minutes after that group in the Zil had departed.
“Tomorrow we find out whose car that is,” said Waldo. “But first I want to know what happened inside.”
The Austrian shook his head. “First a bath,” he insisted. “We have two hours until the restaurant closes. When it closes, we can ask.”
“Ask who?”
“The doorman,” Lechmann answered. “Whatever happened inside, the doorman did not disapprove.”
“That was Waldo,” said Katz.
He said this from deep within Lesko's brain even as Lesko was pounding the big man's face against the taxi.
But Lesko said no. Moved like him, maybe. Bowlegged stance. Kind of rocks side to side. Never really saw the face because it was always behind his scope. No, he decided. No way that was Waldo. Listening to Katz could have got him shot.
It was for cover, as much as anything, that Lesko had dragged the big man behind the taxi. It was to knock the fight out of him that he kept banging this shooter's head while keeping one eye on that flower van down the street.
The van had stopped down by those trees. The man jumped out. He aimed his weapon, had a clear shot, and’ didn't take it, which means he couldn't have been in on this. Just then, another burst came from inside the van. It was aimed off to the side, which means they must have nailed that other shooter. Then the van starts rolling. The guy jumps back in. The van disappears around the corner.
Waldo? No way. Waldo wouldn't have cut out. All he knew about that van for sure was that it had one cockeyed headlight. It had been tailing them since they left for dinner.
The man he was holding had stopped moving. The one who shot Valentin. This one he had seen before, no question. Two hours ago. Standing in the doorway of Detsky Mir.
He realized, his anger draining, that he might have overdone it. Bloodied and broken teeth glistened on the surface of the trunk. The trunk itself was sprung from the pounding.
Lesko rolled the killer onto his back. He'd gone totally limp. One eye was open a slit. The other had been driven deep into its socket. He seemed to be breathing. Or just expelling air. Lesko had no time to worry about which. He let him slide off the trunk. He pulled the lid open, then he lifted the big man by his belt and collar and heaved him into the trunk, his thick legs dangling outside.
Elena.
Lesko slammed the trunk on this one's knees. No reaction. He stepped around the Chaika and onto the sidewalk.
Elena was the way he'd left her. She was half sitting, half leaning against the bu
ilding. She looked wrung out, a sort of tired I-don't-believe-this expression on her face. She didn't look up at him. Her eyes were on Leo Belkin, who was trying to undo the buttons on Valentin's shirt.
Belkin's fingers weren't working very well. He was reeling like a drunk. Lesko heard another police whistle close by. He glanced up toward its source. A cop at the next corner. He was just standing there blowing, probably waiting for backup before risking an approach.
Lesko knelt at Belkin's side. He eased him away from Valentin. The doorman came out, wringing his hands, saying something in Russian. Lesko looked up at him, shaking his head. The doorman said “Ambulance” in English. He mimed a telephone call. “Ambulance comes,” he said.
Belkin sank to the pavement, hugging his waist, curling himself into a fetal position. He had trouble speaking, but he could gesture with his head. See to Valentin, he was saying. Help Valentin.
Valentin looked bad, thought Lesko, but maybe he had a chance. He was breathing; his lungs sounded clear. The bullets may have missed them. Lesko ripped the shirt open. Two neat holes, high in the chest, and a nastier-looking wound high on his gun arm. That one had sent the pistol flying. It didn't look dangerous. He reached behind Valentin's neck and felt for the exit wounds. He found them. They also seemed clean and in line with the entry. Not too much blood, no bone fragments that he could feel, and they were well away from Valentin's spine.
Lesko shrugged off his coat and bunched it under Valentin's head lest he go into spasm and hurt himself on the cement. He stripped his necktie and used it to bind the arm. That seemed to be where most of the blood loss was coming from. It was all he could do. Now he needed to check on Belkin whose left foot was starting to twitch.
“Lesko .. .”
Katz's voice. Faint. He ignored it.
“Lesko!” The voice came again, more urgently this time.
He knew that it was only his own mind, warning him about something that it sensed. Happens all the time. It's probably about the Russian cops, he thought. Blue lights were coming down the street. Belkin's needs were more immediate. But he heard Katz speaking to him again. Louder. Closer. He was saying something about Elena.
Good idea, he thought. Maybe Elena could keep an eye on Valentin, keep him warm and quiet while he ...
Elena.
It struck him that it was not like Elena to just sit. She knew more about bullet wounds than he did. She took two, herself, back in ...
He looked up at her. She had not moved or changed expression. She was looking back at him. Or maybe at Belkin. Or maybe at neither of them. Lesko felt himself go cold.
“Elena?” He called to her.
No reaction.
He tried to call her name again but he found he couldn't speak. He raised himself on legs which, suddenly, could barely hold his weight. He walked toward her, slowly, wanting to see her eyes come up to meet his. They didn't move.
Now he saw the blood. A fist-sized smear on some ornamental stone two feet above her head and a few more dabs that had marked her progress as she slid down the wall.
He heard himself calling her name. He saw his hands reaching to touch her face and he heard himself cry out when he felt how cold it was.
Now he felt the blood. It was behind her left ear. Her eyes were like black opals, their pupils fully dilated. He could not look at them. Carefully, he probed beneath the clotted hair. The tissue, the skull itself, was spongy to his touch.
The part of his brain that was rational said that she could not have been shot. He was covering her when the shots were fired. He'd seen where the bullets from those trees had hit. And there had been no impact. If there were, he would have felt it because her head had been against his chest.
He glanced up at the ornamental stone where the trail of blood began. It had a rounded edge, protruding. The realization began to form that he must have crushed her against it. A low anguished howl came from deep in his stomach. He wanted to run back into the street. He wanted to find Valentin's gun and stick it in his mouth.
Elena twitched.
Quickly, too roughly, he dropped his fingers to her throat. In his agony, it had not occurred to him that she might not be dead. There was a pulse. Slow and faint but it was there.
“Elena!” He bellowed her name.
Her lips moved. They seemed to part a bit. A cheek twitched. One of the black opals drifted as if searching for him.
Desperate, hopeful, he screamed her name again. He squeezed the flesh of her arm, digging in his nails. She seemed to react. A small gasp. A stuttered intake of breath.
His left hand, balled into a fist, lashed out at someone. He didn't know who. Someone in white. The doorman was trying to say something to him. He leaned close. Lesko swiped at him as well. The doorman backed off.
The rational part of his brain knew that he ... they . . . were trying to help. The rational part saw the ambulance. The flashing lights. Many police cars. But Elena was trying to come back. He was sure of it. Give him just a minute and he could help her break through.
The doorman was spreading his arms. A gesture of hopelessness. Lesko saw this. He misunderstood it. He wanted to scream “No! She'll be okay.”
But the doorman was not looking at Lesko. He was looking at the two uniformed policemen who were holding back, not sure how to separate this deranged bull of a man from this woman without doing more damage.
The doorman moved out of view. Lesko could not see nor did he care where he was going. He did not see him take a baton from the hand of one officer, turn, and take careful aim for a measured backhand blow across Lesko's temple.
54
“You won't believe this,” said the sergeant.
He was staring at the face of the large semiconscious man, now handcuffed, being strapped to a stretcher. The last time he saw that face it was a photograph on the chest of Sasha Kerensky.
“I'm far ahead of you,” answered Captain Alexei Levin. He had in his hand a collection of identity papers. He sorted and arranged them as if they were playing cards.
He paused for a moment, absorbing the scene around him. It was lit bright as day by a truck that said CNN on the side. Behind it was a sound truck from Vremya Evening News. Two commentators, one English, one Russian, were speaking into video cameras. Half of Moscow would be watching this tomorrow. Perhaps half the world. And that doorman, he suspected, could buy a restaurant of his own with what CNN will pay him for his tip.
Well up the street, honking their horns, trying to get around the blue police Volgas, were two big cars, a Lincoln and a Mercedes. Embassy cars, no doubt of it.
Down the street was a crowd of onlookers. Some were scouring the pavement, looking under parked cars, hunting for souvenirs. Levin snapped his fingers at a uniformed militia man, telling him to go pick up shell casings before they all disappear.
He turned back to his sergeant. Levin raised an arm, pointing toward the curb near the first of the juniper trees.
“Down there, full of holes,” he said, “is Feodor Kerensky.”
He traced an arc to the taxi just above them.
“Behind the wheel, with no throat, is Yaköv Gudin, cousin of Feodor. In the trunk, with no face and drowned in his own blood, is Kerensky himself.”
The sergeant, eyes wide, started to speak. Levin raised the finger. He wasn't finished.
He pointed to the chalk marks where the three others had been. Blood still wet in all of them. He started with the nearest outline.
“KGB captain ... based at Yasenevo ... maybe he lives.”
The finger moved to the chalk just beyond.
“KGB general . . . Foreign Intelligence . . . based in Zurich. He probably dies.”
Levin's hand had come almost full circle.
“Elena Brugg ... also from Zurich ... very rich ... very influential. She probably doesn't make it to the hospital.”
He came to the last set of documents. Levin nodded toward the stretcher.
“Raymond Lesko... was once a policeman apparently
... from New York . . . now lives at the Brugg woman's address ... is probably her bodyguard.”
He paused thoughtfully. Among the contents of the American's pockets were a slip of notepaper with six names on it. Scribbled in Russian by a hand other than this one's. Levin knew three of the names. KGB. All former generals. All three would be greatly improved by a firing squad. To be on the same list, the other three had to be just as rotten. Perhaps the Brugg woman was doing business with them.
He glanced up the street once more. The Mercedes, he felt sure, would be from the Swiss embassy. The Lincoln from the Americans. Behind them, probably, was a car from the Interior Ministry coming to tell him he is relieved. Go home, Captain. Not a word of this to anyone. Eat a matzoh or something.
He smiled ruefully.
Tell that, he thought, to the doorman who is now on camera. Tell it to the waiters inside who are wondering how much CNN will pay to know what this group had for dinner.
“Alexei?” The sergeant was staring at the chalk marks where the KGB captain had fallen. ‘That one matches the description of the young one who was with this big one.”
Levin grunted. He had realized that as well. In the pocket of the big one—the American named Lesko—there was a receipt from a jewelry shop at GUM. So they were there, after all. But what did this tell us? That these two did in fact kill Sasha while the other two shopped? It was still too farfetched. Levin didn't believe it. What was clear, however, was that the various Kerenskys had believed it.
They believed it because someone convinced them of it. And who did that? Who else knew the details? Who else would know where these four were having dinner? Answer: their old protectors from the KGB.
Next question is why. Why the frame-up with Sasha? Why would they want these four killed? Find out why, and you're halfway to knowing who. That's if the American's list doesn't tell us who already.
There, thought Levin. Simple and straightforward. More or less.
Simple, of course, if you don't start wondering how two men in a flower delivery van knew to sit out here and ambush the Kerenskys.
Bannerman's Promise Page 34