Kulik was too dazed to speak. Adding to the confusion was Sostkov, waving at him from the doorway, another phone at his ear, trying to get his attention.
Kulik shrugged helplessly. Sostkov seemed exasperated. He put the phone down, reached for a pad, and began scribbling furiously. He came in with the pad and held it up for Kulik to see. For emphasis, he mouthed the message.
“It was the Kerenskys,” he was saying. “They were waiting for the Belkin party. The Kerenskys shot them up but they got all the Kerenskys. All dead. Belkin's driver dead. Belkin and the Brugg woman might also die.”
When Kulik could speak, he mouthed one word.
“Borovik?”
Sostkov took a breath and sighed. “Who else?” was his reply.
It was a catastrophe.
First, humiliation. Then disaster, calamity, and now catastrophe. This was how Arkadi Kulik's evening had pro-gressed.
The Sudanese was correct, lamentably, about everything except the conclusion he drew from it. He had walked past a television set, seen the doorman who had been so insolent being interviewed, got someone at the consulate to translate for him, and, disbelieving, had rushed back over to see for himself.
By then,they were towing a taxi with three dead assassins in it. Restaurant staff and patrons were outside, gossiping with anyone who would listen. The prevailing opinion was that it had all started with a fight that had broken out earlier when a party at one table insulted the party at another.
So the police know as well, Kulik realized. They know all about that disgusting brawl and the burning of three hats. They would surely have his name from the maître d' by now. They would know that his party left first and that the Belkin party was attacked when it left an hour later. They would draw precisely the same conclusion as had the hysterical Sudanese.
He needed, at all costs, to bring this under control before men he'd made rich, men he'd spent years cultivating, organizing, playing them like puppets, suddenly decided that he, Arkadi Kulik, was now a liability.
He had to act quickly.
He made one phone call which, he hoped, would at least keep the Moscow police from showing up at his door. The call was to a deputy minister who had influence with the militia. It is time, he told him, to use that influence. Head off this investigation. See that the detectives now in charge are transferred, their notebooks collected, reliable people put in their place.
But this, the deputy protested, will not be so easy. It's more complicated than you think. There was another killing, earner, in which the American is a suspect and the victim was another of the Kerenskys.
At this, Kulik could barely speak. But more needed to be done. He sent Sostkov and the general with the black eye speeding back to Moscow. To find Borovik. Bring him back here before the detectives can get to him and start asking questions. Tell him we need his advice. Say we need to know what Stalin would do in this situation. If he doesn't go for it, stuff him in the trunk.
He told the second general, the one with the rip in his pants, to get on the other phone. Call the owners of that restaurant, wake them up, make sure they know the consequences if a single name among this evening's guests is given out, or that of any other guest from any other Sunday evening.
What else, he asked himself, should he be doing?
There was a possibility, he supposed, of retaliation by Leo's other friends. His soul mates within the KGB. Those faceless hypocrites who had turned against their own. But they would be the least of his problems. They will act only through channels, Kulik thought. They will file written demands for a thorough investigation, but they will run into stone walls. You'd think they would have learned by now.
But that still leaves the Bruggs and all their resources. It still leaves Mama's Boy and all his renegades. And, for the moment at least, it still leaves General Vadim Yakovich Borovik who had, at long last, outlived any possible usefulness he ever had.
That idiot.
That criminally stupid idiot.
As for the Brugg family, he could only guess what they might do. But they were not his most immediate concern. Any reprisals from that end will be planned out very carefully beforehand and their primary weapon will be money. They are Swiss, after all.
Bannerman, however, will want to respond at once. But even Bannerman can't pick his targets out of a hat. He will need to interview the survivors and will probably want to see the American—this Lesko—personally. That means he'll be coming to Moscow if they grant him a visa, and that alone can take many days and much debate. Once here, he'll need to confer with those he will surely have sent ahead. That done, he will need to form a plan of action and, perhaps, import even more specialists to carry it out. It could be a week or more before he's ready to act.
Plenty of time, thought Arkadi Kulik. He would even make it easy for Mama's Boy. Pick his targets for him. Lay a trail of bread crumbs to this or that address, just for the mischief of it, and hope that he is not discriminating.
But just in case he is, we will contrive to be more specific. He will have names. In the course of a deathbed confession, General Vadim Borovik will name, as his coconspirators, a select few individuals who have been annoyances lately. Perhaps even those two Sudanese since they now seem disinclined to do business.
The confession will be recorded on videotape. Sent with a note to Mama's Boy himself by certain men of conscience, certain friends of Leo Belkin who must regretfully remain anonymous.
Play the tape, the note will say. But first, so you'll know that justice has been done, open the accompanying satchel. No, it's not a bomb. It's round but it's not a cabbage either. You've seen one just like it before, Mama's Boy. Think back a few years.
This was Sostkov's idea. To send him Borovik's head.
One must give credit where due, thought Kulik.
61
Across and just down from the restaurant entrance, John Waldo sat in the darkened delivery bay of the Berioska shop. He had taken the top off his sandwich.
He was rebuilding it, discarding the smoked herring and the olive slices, munching the cucumbers separately, placing the marinated tomatoes between the roast pork and the chicken.
He had already muttered an opinion of a man who would place herring and chicken between the same two pieces of bread. Dagwood, the doorman. This came during a pause in Ernst Lechmann's account of what he had learned.
Waldo was patient. He knew from Lechmann's manner— starting to tell him something ... thinking better of it—that he had probably dug up a name and address to go with that Zil. Another indication was that Lechmann kept saying they should wait to see if Zivic answers before they take any action. The only action Waldo could think of, other than maybe checking out Hospital #52, would involve paying a visit to the guy who very probably sent the shooters. Check out his house. Try to find out what's what.
Lechmann would hate that. He says he doesn't mind going into a strange house as long as he can soften it up first. Like by rolling in a grenade. In Waldo's view, this totally misses the point of reconnaissance. The other thing . . . Lechmann says he farts when he's nervous. A sure way to wash out of cat-burglar school is to be someone who farts when he's moving through a darkened house.
But it didn't matter. They had to hang around here anyway. If Dagwood is on the level, maybe they'll get instructions from Zivic. If he isn't and he drops a dime, someone will be setting up a surveillance on that window box before the doorman comes out and puts something in it. They had to hang around because they had to know.
An hour went by.
In all that time, Waldo counted just four passing cars— one of them a police cruiser, blue Volga sedan, nothing special on its mind—and he saw no one at all on foot. Typical Moscow nightlife. Muggers would starve. . So little traffic was good in one way. Any movement stands out. But it's not so good if you're the one who's moving. He had already decided what they would do about that. He kept it to himself for now because Lechmann, he felt sure, will really hate this new idea.<
br />
“He's coming,” said the Austrian.
They watched as he came through the door, two plastic bags this time, locked it, then lifted the bags to his shoulder. He paused to look up and down the street as a normally prudent man would. No sign of abnormal anxiety. He was looking down at the sidewalk now, at the chalk outlines still there. With a slow shake of his head, he blessed himself backward. The Russian Orthodox way. He turned and began walking in the direction of the metro station.
Waldo felt sure he was straight. But if he isn't, he decided, it's better to louse up their timing.
“Go now,” he whispered to the Austrian. “Call him.”
Lechmann hesitated, but he understood. He slipped from the shadows and, as the doorman approached the row of junipers, gave a soft whistle. The doorman turned, looking for its source. He recognized Lechmann. He raised his free arm in greeting and moved toward him.
Waldo saw what he was hoping for. No anxious glances to either side. There was no hint in the doorman's demeanor that a plan had been upset. Waldo was satisfied but he did not yet relax. He kept his weapon at his cheek. He watched as the doorman drew several folded sheets from his inside pocket and handed them to Lechmann. From his outside pocket he drew two bottles. One was a Pepsi. The other was mineral water. He gave these to Lechmann as well, slapped his arm, and turned down Kropotkinskaya.
Waldo eased his finger off the trigger.
“Zivic's crazier than you are,” Lechmann muttered.
Waldo nodded slowly, not sure that he disagreed.
The fax from Westport had been sent in English, open, no code, either in the belief that interception was unlikely or in the hope that the KGB would pick it up. Waldo wasn't sure which. It read ...
Yours acknowledged. Well done.
Am aware of events on Kropotkinskaya. PB arriving Vnukovo II, ETA 08:40 Moscow time Monday, in the company of Roger Clew. Irwin Kaplan, possibly Susan L, possibly Wïllem ßrugg and will be taken, under guard, to U.S. Embassy. Purpose of detention is to prevent independent action.Leo Belkin, Elena, severely wounded, both doubtful. Action, therefore, must be taken regardless.
Will coordinate reprisals, this end. You will coordinate teams 1. 2, and 5. Cobra and Viper to coordinate teams 3 and 4. Primary targets, your end are General Vadim Borovik and Major Viktor Podolsk—KGB, Moscow Center but any/all targets of opportunity are authorized.
Example: Liteiny 4.
If no abort signal by 10:00. continue to execute at your discretion. Am advising State Department, that effect, via a copy of this message.
Waldo read it a second time, and then a third. Let's take it a piece at a time, he decided.
An ETA of 08:40 Monday means that Bannerman would have to have left Westport well before he could have known what happened here. Waldo didn't understand that. Or why all those others were traveling with him. But if Zivic says they're coming, they're coming.
How Clew figures in this, he had no idea. Maybe Bannerman leaned on Clew to get him into Russia. Maybe under guard was the only way the Russians would let him in.
As for the hit, Zivic already knew more than he did. Must have heard via CNN. Or maybe he's got a source here. Waldo felt bad about Elena. Lesko, he knew, must be going batshit right now.
As for these five teams that he's supposed to divide up with Cobra and Viper . .. what teams? And who the hell are Cobra and Viper? None of their people use dumb names like that. Except maybe for Mama's Boy, but that's more of a nickname that got hung on him.
The answer, Waldo concluded, is that there aren't any snake names and there aren't any teams either. But Zivic wants everyone at the State Department, maybe everyone in Moscow, to think we're already here in force.
And invisible.
Speaking of invisible, he and Lechmann aren't. That doorman could still be a problem. He's seen Lechmann's face and he knows he was driving the van. But Lechmann chose to trust him so that's that. The thing is ... if that doorman is human, he probably made a copy of Zivic's fax for himself and will find someone who knows English to tell him what it says. He wouldn't be able to resist telling someone.
Spilt milk, Waldo decided.
As for this General Borovik—who Lechmann says is not the guy with the Zil—but who Zivic seems to think is behind the hit—Waldo had no idea where that had come from except that the name seemed to ring a bell. He turned to the Austrian, who was sipping the Pepsi.
“You got an address for this KGB guy?” he asked. “This Borovik?”
The Austrian searched through his folder of papers, copies of which he had faxed to Zivic, and read them in the glow of distant streetlights.
“Here it is. It's an apartment house in the Lenin Hills.”
“How about the other one? Major Podolsk.”
“No mention of him. Was never one of the guests.”
Okay, thought Waldo. Then Borovik. He knew where he'd heard that name now. This part was getting interesting. Given the mention of Liteiny 4—that building he torched—this figured to be the same Borovik from a few years back in Leningrad. The brother. The one they snatched and traded but whose brother spiked their guy's stretcher. The brother got the bill for it a few months later. Maybe this one's been stewing about Bannerman ever since. Suddenly Bannerman's friends show up in town. The guy can't resist whacking them.
“John . . . No!” said Lechmann, who was glaring at him.
“No, what?”
“No, we do not drive our flower van with no windshield to an apartment house that is certainly guarded and try to shoot a KGB general.”
Waldo grunted. Actually, he was thinking of something else. Borovik aside, maybe what Zivic really meant by Liteiny 4 was that he should go torch Moscow Center. But either action, he had to agree, did sound a little nuts. Especially with the van, but he'd already made a decision about that. The one Lechmarin would hate.
“What Zivic wants,” he told the Austrian, “is for us to make some noise. He wants some leverage with whoever's holding Bannerman. He wants us to stick and move until he calls us off.”
Lechmann looked in pain. “By means of this abort signal?”
“At ten in the morning, yeah.”
“John . . . what abort signal?”
Waldo shrugged. He didn't know, either. “Maybe he figures we'll know it when we see it.”
Lechmann groaned theatrically. But he had a point. They couldn't very well hang around the American embassy tomorrow morning waiting for a balloon to go up or some damned thing. But that, come to think of it, gave Waldo an idea about how to get in touch. First things first, however.
“We need a car,” he said to Lechmann.
Lechmann nodded. He gestured toward another van, one of two that were parked in the rear of the Berioska shop. White, with a green birch tree—the Berioska logo—painted on the side.
Waldo shook his head. “They don't drive at night. We need a car that no one gives a second look at night. An ambulance, maybe.”
Lechmann sniffed. He had known this was coming. Waldo was easing his way into the suggestion that they go to Hospital #52 on Zubovsky, look in on Elena, hope that none of the police or reporters notice them, and then make off with one of their ambulances. Dumbest idea he ever heard from John Waldo. Theft would be reported within ten minutes. No vehicle is easier to spot. Every ambulance in Moscow would be stopped ten times over by the police. He said all this to Waldo.
Waldo smiled within himself. ,
“See that?” He put an arm around Lechmann's shoulder, hugging him. “That's what makes you such a pro. It's these good ideas you have. It's why you get top dollar.”
The Austrian eyed him with suspicion. “What idea, specifically?”
“You just said it,” Waldo told him. “What we need is a police car.”
62
It was two hours later, European time, when Bannerman's Swissair flight touched down at Zurich's airport.
As he had expected, he was asked to remain in his seat, with Susan, while the rest of the pa
ssengers deplaned. The air marshal stayed close to see that he did.
The senior flight attendant had been watching him as well, her expression a mix of curiosity and disdain. That he was some sort of criminal, she had no doubt. What sort remained to be seen.
Suddenly, she was called to the cockpit. When she emerged from it after a minute or so, the curiosity remained but the disdain had been replaced by something akin to sympathy. This new expression seemed to embrace Susan, thought Bannerman, perhaps even more so than himself.
She bent to whisper in the marshal's ear. He glanced toward their seat, one eyebrow rising. Another change of attitude. The flight attendant then approached his seat and handed him a message slip.
He didn't have to read it. She told them what it said. Mister Willem Brugg would be coming aboard in just a few minutes, accompanied by two representatives of the Swiss government. They would like to hold a private conference aboard this aircraft. Mr. Brugg apologizes for any inconvenience and has asked that we see to your comfort in the meantime.
“Someone's been hurt,” Susan said to her quietly. She, too, had been reading the attendant's expression. “Will you please tell me who?”
“I'll bring you some coffee,” was all she would answer.
“Willem?”
Susan, half out of her seat, called his name when he entered the cabin. Two men, wearing suits, entered behind him. Still another wore military fatigues and a submachine gun across his chest.
Willem Brugg raised his palms in a calming gesture, and asked the others to stay back. He came toward her, leaned to take her hand, kissed it, and answered the question he saw in her eyes. Her father was not hurt, he told her. Only a bump on the head. His own weary eyes went moist. He wiped them.
“Oh, God.” Susan clutched his sleeve. “Oh, God, not Elena.”
He nodded. “Injured,” he said quickly. “But still alive.”
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