He shared all these thoughts with his sergeant.
“More bodyguards?” the sergeant suggested.
Levin gave him a look. Shame on you, it said.
The sergeant wished he hadn't said it. Unless all of the witnesses had hallucinated, he realized, a man doesn't shoot at his fellow bodyguards.
In Levin's belt was the Makarov they had taken from the big American. In his pocket was the clip he had found in the street. The witnesses said that the big one suddenly stopped firing as if the gun had jammed. This allowed those other two to get away. A Makarov, however, does not jam so easily. But if you're not used to it, Captain Levin knew, you can easily press the button that releases the clip. This must have been what happened. It explains why this Lesko stopped shooting at the van, but it does not explain why the two in the van didn't seize that chance to kill him.
Answer: they didn't want to. They might have been friends after all.
Or ... possibly .. . they were from a rival brigade. Survivors, perhaps, of the Lubertsy Brigade. Perhaps, thought the sergeant, they just happened to pick tonight to settle old scores. It was as good a guess as any.
Levin watched as the American, Lesko, was heaved into the last of the ambulances. He seemed to be coming around. Just a good bump on the head.
A morgue truck was next in line, waiting to shovel up the remains of the Chicago Brigade. Behind it was a tow truck for the taxi.
“So?” asked the sergeant. “Now what?”
“We take out our pads. We start taking statements.”
“Waste of time. You know that this will be taken from you. It's too big. They especially won't want the Jew on CNN.”
This reminded him. The doorman had been saying something about a big fight inside the restaurant. The maître d', meanwhile, was frantically waving his hands, trying to get the doorman to shut up about it.
Levin sighed. He riffled the sheaf of documents as he looked up the street. The Lincoln was getting through. It was coming down the far sidewalk. The Americans. They won't ask his religion before they start raising hell.
“You start with the waiters,” said Levin. He cocked his head toward the Lincoln. ”I think I'll start with them.”
55
The commandos were definitely Enzian Unit.
Yuri saw the insignia as he drove past with Miriam. Two soldiers dressed in combat fatigues stood in the road to keep traffic moving.
In the gravel driveway leading to Carla's boathouse he saw two vehicles with the markings of the Swiss military. The assault had been made from this direction as well. Behind them, just in from the road, he saw a Buick sedan with diplomatic plates. The. boathouse itself was illuminated bright as day by spotlights. Two men, civilian clothing, were climbing the wooden steps to the loft apartment. A soldier at the top seemed to be saying that it was safe to enter.
Miriam sat close to him on the front seat of Aldo Corsini's car. Her chin rested on his shoulder. His right hand was between her thighs. Miriam's hand was inside his shirt, playing with the hairs of his chest as she tasted his cheek with her tongue.
This picture was presented to one of the sentries when Yuri slowed to ask what happened here. He expected no answer and got none. But at least it gave him the chance to look. And the sentry would be more likely to remember his amorous companion than the make and model of the car they were driving.
Yuri and Miriam had paddled—no motor—to the small marina just two hundred meters below the boathouse. Miriam's car had been left there as well, but it was gone. Avram had taken it. She knew that he would be waiting with
it a few kilometers up the road. There was some risk, they realized, in taking Corsini's Audi. Those raiders might well be looking for it. On the other hand, Corsini's tapes and Lydia's notes were still inside. Also, leaving the Audi to be found at the marina might lead to the lake being dragged.
“Those were Americans, I think,” said Miriam when the car picked up speed.
Yuri nodded. He was already trying to imagine who sent them and why. It wasn't Anton Zivic because Zivic had sent Miriam. It might have been Roger Clew, however. The diplomatic license plate seemed to argue in that direction.
Also, Clew is fond of theatrics. A commando raid would behis cup of tea.
“When we find Avram,” she said, ”I have a robe and slippers in my suitcase. I can put them on and go back.”
Yuri understood what she meant. She would pretend to be a curious neighbor. Very natural. No one would question it. The men in the Buick would probably ask her if she saw or heard anything before they arrived, and to do that they would have to identify themselves. Miriam was very resourceful.
But Yuri's mind was elsewhere. The first thing was to get to a telephone and get through to General Belkin. Warn him. Get instructions. Find out who in the embassy can be trusted to help. Meantime, Miriam could report to Anton Zivic. The next was to get back to Bern, get rid of this car, and see to Carla. He was reasonably sure that she would be sound asleep, probably for several more hours. And Zivic, no doubt, had sent a team there as well.
He hoped that they would be as good as Miriam. What he didn't need, the way things were going, was for the pills not to have worked so well and for Carla to slice them up the way ...
Lydia.
He could not stop thinking of Lydia. The way he had used her. Showed her so little respect. Sent her straight into that knife. Lydia, who was so brave at the end.
“Yuri ... stop it.”
For an instant he thought this was Lydia's voice in his mind. It was only Miriam.
He could have asked, “Stop what?” but he didn't. She was reading his thoughts and he knew it.
“We all have our dead,” she said quietly. “But we go on for the—”
He raised a hand, stopping her before she could say more. He knew that she meant well. But she knew nothing of Lydia Voinovitch. If Miriam were to say, “She knew what she was getting into,” it would have broken his heart.
‘There is Avram,” she said instead.
He saw a car, hood up, a man fiddling with the engine, pretending that it had malfunctioned. He glanced into his rearview mirror and eased off on the accelerator. He saw nothing behind him, but ahead, coming from the other direction, two big sedans, Mercedes, were abruptly slowing. They stopped, one behind the other. The driver of the first was looking at Avram. He rolled his window down. Yuri snatched the Browning from his belt and stepped on the gas, prepared to ram if necessary.
“No.” Miriam touched his leg. “In the second car. It's Willem Brugg.”
The first Mercedes went on. Yuri recognized at least two of its occupants. They had been at the wedding. They now worked for the Bruggs.
Willem Brugg stayed with the second car. He had gestured for Yuri to wait while he finished talking on his cellular phone. He was dressed in evening clothes. Could it have been Willem, Yuri wondered, who had arranged for the raid on Carla's house? If so, Yuri wondered how he knew that anything was happening there. More likely, he had been out to some affair when someone tipped him about the raid. Yuri could ask him soon enough.
In the meantime, he was glad for the chance to get a grip on himself. There he was, ready to ram and shoot before Miriam told him what he should have known already. Willem's car was hard to mistake. It was, perhaps, the only white Mercedes in all Zurich that had a ski pod permanently strapped to the roof along with four different antennas. Willem was equally hard to miss. Hair worn long, in waves with gray streaks. A face, good face, tanned like leather from being outdoors more than in. Willem had been known to hold board meetings while hiking and to make deals while skiing glaciers in July.
He was also a man who smiled easily. Laugh lines were etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was not smiling now. He handed the phone to his driver, sat still for a long moment, then opened his door and stepped out. He seemed unsteady on his feet. Yuri started to get out, to offer assistance, but Willem Bragg motioned him to stay.
He waited as two police
cars sped by, their Mars lights strobing, then crossed the road to the black Audi. His expression, Yuri saw, was grim. His eyes, normally so alive, so intelligent, seemed clouded and distant. He greeted Yuri by name and bowed his head to Miriam.
To Yuri, he said, ”I amso very sorry. I know that she was special to you.”
Yuri thanked him but the reply was a reflex. He wanted to ask how Willem could know about Lydia.
“The man who killed her ... it was you who saw to him, I take it?”
Yuri nodded.
Brugg gestured vaguely toward the first Mercedes, since departed. “They will see to everything else. She will be .. treated as we all would wish. She was special to me as well.”
Yuri narrowed his eyes. He was distracted but he was not unconscious. It was finally getting through to him that Willem Bragg was talking about Carla. Yuri felt a surge of unreasoning panic. Had they gotten to Carla? Killed her in her sleep? Or was Willem, please God, talking about poor Lydia whom he'd left in Carla's bed? He had to swallow before he could ask. In that time, Willem Bragg's eyes had moistened. He gestured, stiffly, almost reluctantly toward the Mercedes with the ski pod and the four antennas.
“From Moscow,” he said, “I'm afraid there is more bad news.”
Irwin Kaplan was disappointed. And more than a little sad.
He stood in the driveway, leaning against his car, the car phone still in his hand. Anton Zivic, whom he always thought was the most civilized of that bunch, had taken the news of Carla's death as if he'd told him that she had the flu.
No anger. No bereavement. Just maybe a little startled. He wanted the when, where, how, and who. Then, at the end, all he said was “Hmmph!”
Kaplan told him what Fuller had asked. That Bannerman and his people shouldn't go crazy, and why. Zivic seemed more interested in that part of the conversation. But the more Kaplan told him, the madder he got, because for all the years they've been together and all the crap they've been through together, Carla Benedict ought to have been worth more than a fucking “Hmmph!”
It as much as said, “What the hell. She's been walking between the raindrops so long that it's hard to get worked up when her luck finally runs out.” It said, “Don't sweat it, Irwin. No one here will make a big deal.”
He didn't even bother giving him the name of that KGB major. Podolsk. If Fuller was so willing to give him up, he had to be on the bottom rung anyway. When Fuller covered the phone, it was probably to ask Clew if he knew who Podolsk worked for yet. Clew probably did. Besides, Zivic would have realized in a minute that no major could have ordered such a high-profile hit. That's if he even cared.
The phone in the kitchen was ringing. Kaplan had left the door propped open so he could hear. He walked toward it. This ought to be Bannerman, he thought, speaking of cold-blooded pricks. He reached for the wall phone and said his name.
“Irwin, I'm glad I caught you.” Barton Fuller again. He sounded flustered. Caught me?
“Would you put Roger on, please?” he said.
Kaplan was doubly confused. “Roger?”
An annoyed hiss. ”I gather he's not there yet?”
“Mr. Fuller, this is my house. Why would he be here?”
“He'll... explain everything. In the meantime, I'm going to ask you to talk to no one.”
“I'm ... ah ... just waiting for Bannerman.”
“He won't be calling. You can talk to him later.”
Kaplan's expression darkened. “Does this mean you did block his call?”
“I've had to make some decisions, Irwin. I—”
“And Roger's coming here, probably with muscle, to put me out of circulation. Am I right? He's late because they stopped to pick up their ski masks.”
“Irwin .. ”
“Listen, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to lock my doors, get my gun, and if anyone shows up here whose name isn't Kaplan, I'm going to lay one across his fucking bow.”
A long breath. ''You're going to Moscow, Irwin. So is Roger. So are Paul and Susan. I need you to be there with them. Roger will explain.”
“Yeah, well, fuck Roger,” Kaplan exploded. ”I wouldn't recognize Little Bo Peep if I had to listen to his version of it.”
“Irwin . . . Elena Brugg has been shot.”
Silence.
“It's a head wound. It's bad. It happened less than an hour ago. Leo Belkin and his KGB driver were hit as well. They're both critical.”
Kaplan swallowed. “Lesko?”
“Injured. Perhaps not seriously. He ... got his hands on one of the gunmen:”
An image formed in Kaplan's mind. He forced it away. A minor satisfaction.
‘‘Who?” he asked quietly. ”I mean, who did this?”
Fuller's answer, to the extent that he could give it, came in rambling half-sentences. Some of them confused. He was still clearly shaken by the news.
There were three gunmen. Or maybe five gunmen. Lesko may or may not have had a run-in with them earlier. Either way, Lesko seems to be blaming himself. Had to be forcibly sedated. Is homicidal. Maybe suicidal. Either or both.
The shooters were local gangsters with a grudge or they were acting for the KGB. There were rumors, theories, both ways. The KGB connection was alleged by a police informant. Or an informant who is a policeman. Not clear. They have a name. Borovik. Second time that name has . . .
Fuller let his voice trail off. He shifted, abruptly, to the details of the flight to Moscow. It was Kaplan's sense that he had not meant to say that name aloud. What was it? Borovik. If Kaplan was to bet, he'd say that that was the name Roger Clew turned up as that KGB major's boss.
Fuller's voice was stronger now. Bannerman, he said, knows nothing of this. When he lands, he will be placed under guard by the Swiss authorities and immediately deported. A special diplomatic flight will be waiting. It will take him to Moscow where he will remain under guard until this business is sorted out.
You and Roger will meet him there. A military aircraft will depart from Andrews as soon as you get there. You'll fly directly to Moscow's Vnukovo II airport. It's very secure. Reserved for VIPs. With luck, the two flights will arrive within an hour of each other. That's eight or nine tomorrow morning, Moscow time. From there, you'll be taken to the embassy compound where you'll get a medical briefing and you, Irwin, will be told everything we've learned in the meantime.
If you have time to pack, pack light. I'll square this with your office. No, don't stop on the way to tell your wife. Just leave her a note to call this number and I'll talk to her myself.
Irwin ... damn it. Don't argue on this one. If I must, I'll get the President to call you. Otherwise, just this once, shut up and do as I ask.
Yeah, well. . . fuck him, too, thought Kaplan.
“No,” he said aloud.
Screw this.
Bessie Kaplan didn't raise a schmuck.
“They're going to fucking arrest Bannerman, kidnap him to Moscow, and keep him there until he listens to reason. Is that what you're saying, Mr. Fuller?”
“Irwin . . .”
“Then what? You think Bannerman's going to smile and say thank you for going to so much trouble? Thank you for bringing Irwin over? Because if Irwin's here, I know that everything you're telling me must be true? Irwin makes all the difference. Now I'll only kill some of you.”
“Very well, Irwin,” came Fuller's voice wearily. “Stay on the line. You can say no to the President.”
Shit.
This has to be a bluff, thought Kaplan.
It wasn't.
They got him at Camp David. Out of breath from jogging. The call lasted maybe thirty seconds. The language was very general.
The President—nice guy—made a reference to “this Moscow business” but, talking to him, Kaplan did not get the feeling that he knew much about it. He might have been distancing himself, Kaplan supposed. More likely, he really didn't know that much and the call was an act of faith in Fuller. He said maybe after this we'll all have lunch and talk about i
t. And one of these days, he said, he'd like to meet this Mama's Boy he's heard so much about.
You don't tell the President to be careful what he wishes for.
You also don't say no to the man.
He wanted to talk to Fuller again. Kaplan apologized for disrupting his Sunday and clicked off. For a long moment, he sat staring out at his car.
“Do it, Irwin,” the President had said. “Please get on that plane.”
But he never said don't use that car phone. He never said don't call Willem Brugg, for instance. To Kaplan, it seemed the decent thing to do. Kaplan slid off his stool and headed for the door.
The President never said don't call Zivic again either.
Zivic.
Maybe this, at last, will get a rise out of him.
But the main point of calling Zivic would be to explain why Bannerman's being put on ice. Don't overreact. Don't go snatching Fuller's mother, for instance. Fuller's heart's in the right place. He's just a little spooked at the moment.
Kaplan heard sirens a long way off.
A police escort, maybe.
He had maybe two minutes, he figured. Time for at least one of those calls.
56
Lesko knew that they must have drugged him.
He could remember being inside an ambulance. He could remember wanting to tear it apart. Other than that, there were just bits and pieces.
The shot they gave him had eased the throbbing of his head. But it also kept him from clearing it. His brain was in one of those four-in-the-morning states that he hated. Not quite awake. Not quite asleep either. Half in and half out of a dream. No way to know what's real and what isn't.
He knew, or was pretty sure, that this was a hospital. He was strapped to a gurney but he didn't mind that. The straps kept him from floating away.
He was in a big room that had yellow tile halfway up the walls and a ceiling that was cracked and stained. Belkin and Valentin were in the room with him. White coats all around both of them, especially Valentin. Nurses running in and out. Doctors yelling in Russian. They were cutting Valentin's clothes off.
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