He threw his back against the passenger-side door and dropped into a weightlifter's squat, gripping the car by the rocker panels. He heaved. Two tires rose slowly off the ground. With a roar, he heaved again. He heard the vendors cheering as he managed to straighten his legs. He heard his trousers split. He heard Miggs shouting, “Don't.”
Yeah, well, then pitch in here, for Christ's sake.
Miggs and the officer grabbed him again. They pulled him away from the car, which came down with a crash that popped two of its hubcaps. He heard Lechmann yelling something-something “Amerikanski” with a ”Yeb vas” in there someplace. He could only imagine what Bannerman, on the floorboards, was calling him. Now Lechmann, who had suddenly turned pale and wasn't faking it, was arguing with the officer. I want to arrest this man. The officer was shaking his head, pointing up Tchaikovsky Street telling Lechmann to get lost. Lechmann threw another finger, this one for all of them. He drove off without the hubcaps.
The only good thing about this, other than that Bannerman and Podolsk were now clear, was that the Russian officer decided to do the ambassador's car first just to get this tank like American out of there. Lesko found another flower vendor, dropped the same twenty, and needed Kaplan to help him with the all the flowers he'd just bought. The grinning vendor threw in a small corsage, which he insisted on pinning to Lesko's lapel.
“For good show,” he said in English. “For very good show.”
“Don't ask,” he said to Elena, softly.
One eye had flickered when he entered the room. It was when Willem turned and said his name. He would have sworn that she started to smile. Not just because he'd come. Because of the way he looked. In his mind, he saw her grinning at him, hands at her cheeks, saying, ”I don't believe this.”
Yeah, well...
She was sleeping now, breathing quietly without the help of oxygen. Her color was better than when he'd seen her this morning. The finger had stopped twitching. He touched a hand to her throat, checking her pulse against his own. Elena's seemed so slow. It alarmed him until Susan gestured toward the monitor and whispered that Elena's was the normal one.
Willem had given up his chair to Lesko. He had signaled Susan that perhaps they should wait outside, but Lesko said no, stay, both of you. This is a family. They sat down again, taking seats at a small conference table that had a wet bar behind it.
Lesko, for the first time, noticed his surroundings. Recovery room? The bar was flanked by life-size portraits of Marx and Engels. On the far wall, over a leather couch, was a larger one of Lenin. On an antique sideboard were a dozen or so framed photographs of another of those trucker types shaking hands with twenty years' worth of Kremlin leaders. An orderly was clearing them away to make room for the flowers.
“Don't ask,” he heard Elena say in his mind.
85
The MosKopy store on Kalinin Prospekt is a joint venture between Russian entrepreneurs and an American franchise chain. Podolsk had told Lechmann about it. For hard cash, they ask no questions.
The store offers a mailing and messenger service, four high-speed copying machines, and several fax machines. During daylight hours, the fax machines are virtually useless in terms of any communication beyond greater Moscow. A city of eight million, Moscow has fewer than two hundred long-distance telephone lines. Only that many calls can be made at one time. You could make more, Lechmann knew, from Main Street in Westport. Ask why a market economy is slow to catch on, and that's all you have to know.
If it had not been late on a Sunday night when he thought to try faxing Anton Zivic, all these circuits would surely have been busy. As it was, he was lucky. He had expected an operator to come on the line and, if she was in the mood to be helpful, suggest that he try again at sunrise.
He was not there, however, for the fax machines. He was there for the Japanese color copier that was kept in a small walk-in closet that had a heavy curtain across the door. The machine was strictly for self-service use. The fee, per copied page, was several times the normal rate with a hard currency surcharge for each quarter hour of use. This was on the assumption that any papers that were not to be seen by staff had probably been stolen. The machine was seldom idle.
Lechmann busied himself with the contents of Arkadi Kulik's safe. When finished, he was to messenger the duplicate set to the hospital, into Miriam's hands only, with a note from Bannerman that says “Get this back to Zurich.” The original was to be wrapped and left for Yuri to pick up. Yuri, leaving nothing to chance, was now watching from outside while Bannerman keeps an eye on the blue Volga and while Carla discusses literature with Podolsk.
Hours earlier, Lechmann had also photographed the documents. This left three possible ways of getting them out of Russia. Not such bad odds. He had photographed them when he and Waldo hid the militia car before going to try to free Lesko. Getting the papers on film was Waldo's idea. Someone might steal their police car, he said. Waldo, Lechmann felt certain, was innocent of the irony in that observation.
Waldo kept the four rolls of film plus the fifth partial roll, which Lechmann had shot outside Kropotkinskaya 36. It was no longer needed to identify the occupants of Kulik's Zil, but Waldo kept it all the same. That done, Waldo dropped the camera down a sewer. This saddened Lechmann—it was a very expensive Pentax SLR—but he understood. Never keep a camera when you no longer need it. When they see a camera, they look for film.
The copying was almost finished. It's anyone's guess, thought Lechmann, where Waldo is now. Probably well out of Moscow on the back of another truck. The five rolls of insurance film are inside a hollowed-out cucumber or some such thing. Waldo will get out when he gets out. He will turn up when he turns up.
Click-hum, click-Hum.
It must be wonderful, thought Lechmann, to see the world as Waldo sees it. Everything so simple. That Waldo is seriously crazy no one would argue. But try to go the one step further and classify his derangement.
Are not all lunatics delusional? Try to find anyone more logical. Are they not dysfunctional? Try to find anyone more resourceful. Bannerman, perhaps. But no one else. Waldo is lethal in the extreme, but is he therefore dangerous? Answer: He is if you are. If you are not, he is merely grumpy.
Click-hum.
Someday a psychologist will stumble on Bannerman's Westport and think he's gone to heaven. They'll set up world headquarters. They will have a whole wing just to study Carla Benedict. All the way here she is in deep conversation with poor Podolsk, who, it's clear on his face, had thought she had come to kill him. All she wants, however, is to persuade him that Gertrude Stein was a quack.
Click-hum. Rose is a rose is a rose.
Just two more charts.
On their way to the MosKopy store, Lechmann had gone through the papers with Bannerman, translating for him as best he could. They were quite a hodgepodge. Hundreds of names, addresses, titles, all sorts of nationalities. The papers sketched an enormous network certainly, but, beyond that, Lechmann had no idea what to make of them.
It is not as if these charts say “Mafia ” across the top and then show in little boxes who are the capos and who are the soldiers. Nor do they say, “Here is how we will regain power” or even “Here is how we will steal Russia blind.” All they seem to show is a network of connections that are not even necessarily criminal.
There is one chart, for example, on which Aldo Corsini's name had caught his eye. Follow the dotted lines in one direction and they lead to twelve other names, with Ronnie Grassi's off to the side. Follow them in another direction and one line, color-coded, leads to Elena Brugg—who the hospital says is out of surgery, looking not so bad, thank God— and from there to Leo Belkìn—who is conscious but not so good. From there it splits off and changes color. One line to Nikolai Belkin, one line to Bannerman himself. Should one assume that this incriminates Elena? Bannerman? Leo's uncle?
This was only one chart. Another showed connections between the Bruggs and a number of European industrialists, financiers, eve
n several big-shot politicians. Here, lines connected them to names that were plainly criminal. Known traffickers in drugs and munitions. Smugglers. Money launderers. A lot of lawyers.
There were notes in abundance, but they were usually cryptic. Some were obviously in code. Bannerman knew many of the names, and Podolsk knew many others, but between them they could make little sense of the whole.
“Could so many be corrupt?” Podolsk had asked Bannerman.
“Sure.”
No hesitation. Just “Sure.”
Hear him say this, hear the way he says it, you understand fortress Westport.
“But here is Elena Brugg,” said Podolsk. “Here is you.”
This was when Bannerman begins to stare hard at the pile of papers. He begins to rock a little, saying nothing. His eyes go soft and his fingers start to drum. You know that he is listening to inner voices.
And then suddenly the drumming stops. There is almost a smile. You know that he knows. Bannerman, who speaks little Russian and reads even less, now seems to understand everything.
“Ernst. . . You said Irwin's at the hospital?”
“Also Clew. Yes.”
Bannerman turns to Carla, asking if she has a pen and paper. She produced a notebook from her purse, first putting her Makarov and hairbrush on Podolsk's lap. He begins writing down a list of names, some from one chart, several from the others. Lechmann helped him with the Cyrillic. Some of these he checked against names on the sheets of fax paper he took from his pocket. Lechmann recognized these pages. They listed those who had dined with Kulik. Bannerman numbered the names, stopping at sixteen.
“Copy this as well, please,” he said. “Wrap the copy inside Yuri's package. Take the original to Irwin, personally, with this note.”
He begins writing. “Carla, are you still dead?”I
“For a while.”
“Then you stay with Major Podolsk. Major? Where can you lay low for a few hours but still be reached?”
“Ah . . . Hotel Savoy? I have room sixteen, reserved for four more days.”
Bannerman hesitated. “Can you get in without being seen?”
“Through Hermitage Bar, yes. Is why I chose that room.”
Bannerman looked at Carla, who nodded. She would check it out first, the nod promised.
“Major . . .” Bannerman was still writing. “I'm going to try to get you out of the country. After that, but only then, I'll tell you everything you're entitled to know.”
“Out of Russia?” Podolsk blinked. “This means defect?”
“It means visit until it's safe to come back.”
It also, thought Lechmann, means let's get rid of you before you remember that you're a KGB officer and, like Yuri this morning, get confused about your loyalties.
At a glance from Bannerman, Carla opened her door and took Podolsk by the hand. He is reluctant, but he does not resist. Bannerman watches as they cross Kalinin together. Carla is talking to him, calming him. She puts his hand around her waist, shaking it to make it relax. Pretend we're lovers, she seems to be saying. We're just out for a stroll. This, for some reason, causes Yuri to pout a little.
“Yuri... do you have any friends at the Swiss embassy?”
“Contacts. Not friends so much.”
”I need two things. A secure phone so that I can call Anton, and I need these originals sent to Zurich, Willem Brugg's attention, in the Swiss diplomatic pouch. Will they do that for you?”
“Better if Willem asks. Then would be no question.”
“We'll go to the embassy, call him from there.” Bannerman felt at his shirt pocket, found a slip of paper, glanced at it. “There was a second Zil at Kulik's house last night. Waldo saw one passenger and a driver. If I give you the plate
number, is there a fast and discreet way to learn who had the use of it?”
“Not discreet if fast, not fast if discreet.”
“The man will know who's asking?”
“Within minutes, I think.”
There is, thought Lechmann, a certain sullenness about Yuri. Twice now he sneaks a look in the direction Carla had taken. This is what? Jealousy? Yuri doesn't like that they go to a hotel room?
If Bannerman noticed, he ignores it.
“Never mind,” he says. “We'll ask Roger to do it.”
He adds a postscript to the note he's written to Kaplan, tears it off, writes his short note to Miriam. He begins another note addressed to Susan, but this one he tears off and crumples.
”I want Roger to see that list of names, but make sure Irwin gets it first. Use the MosKopy messenger for Miriam because I don't want you seen with a package, but find her and let her know it's coming. After that, take Susan aside and tell her what's happening.”
“Ah ... I'm not so sure I know myself.”
“I'm going to tell Anton to start hitting them. You tell Irwin that I want a response within one hour. I'll be somewhere near the Swiss embassy. You bring it, I'll be watching for you.”
Lechmann glanced at his watch. “They will ask if you intend returning to Vnukovo. The deadline is now in four hours.”
Bannerman grunted. “Irwin might ask. Roger will know better.”
86
Viktor Podolsk had given up.
There was no sense to be made of this day. The famous Mama's Boy flies into Moscow and he does in one hour what the Academician would not have done in two lifetimes. Podolsk could see that now. It saddened him terribly. Two years of his own life wasted.
So much death. It left him numb. Numb even to the body of Carla Benedict, who had removed her clothing right in front of him while she waited for the bathtub to fill. He could not believe it. First came her blonde wig. Next she kicked off her shoes, hung up her jacket, pulled her blouse over her head—she wears nothing underneath—and down came her skirt. She stood at the entry closet, checking her Makarov, wearing only panties. On the bathroom door was a Savoy Hotel bathrobe. It was provided to make such exposure unnecessary, but she ignored it totally. Podolsk shielded his eyes with his hand.
Carla Benedict.
His first surprise was that she was alive. The second was that she bore him no grudge. Walking here, he tried to talk to her all the same. He wanted her to know that the Aldo Corsini business was none of his doing and how frantically he had tried to stop the Sicilian.
She would not discuss it. He persevered. “Leave it alone, Viktor,” she said. They walked a few more blocks, he tried again, she said, “Viktor . . . leave it the fuck alone.”
Her attitude was now clear. Also clear was that there was great pain. Great loss. Very lonely woman. This saddened Podolsk all the more. He was glad to change the subject to the one that still baffled him.
“How did Bannerman know?” he asked.
”Hmm?” She turned off the tap. Now went the panties. Oh, God.
“Ah . . . Bannerman,” he repeated. “How could he, so soon, have put so many pieces together?”
“He's a pretty smart guy. Can I use your razor?”
“Razor?”
”I want to do my legs.”
He gestured, still not looking. “My kit is on the sink.”
In the bathroom doorway she started to turn, then stopped. He felt that she was staring at him. He parted two fingers. She was. Slowly, she reached behind the door and took the robe. She held it bunched against her chest, the hand with the Makarov over her privates. Ridiculous, but at least it is modesty. She is still staring.
“Viktor?”
A weary sigh. He sensed what was coming. “Yes?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Podolsk groaned softly. And a little angrily. Ten minutes, she's been in there soaking. Hardly a splash. Door open in case someone comes. She has been sitting there wondering about him and now she will ask. He took a breath.
“The answer,” he told her, “is no. It so happens.”
“Um ... the answer to what?”
“You read Gertrude Stein. Does that make you a lesbian?”
&
nbsp; Silence.
”I know what you thought. All those books in his flat, you say. No wife, no pictures of lady friends. A KGB officer who sniffs flowers. You say, why hide such a beautiful body from this one? It will mean nothing to him.”
Podolsk grimaced. He had not meant to say all that. Better she thinks that he is homosexual than be certain he's an idiot.
“Viktor
“Forgive me. It has been a difficult day.”
“You think I'm beautiful?”
He chewed his lip. “You know it perfectly well.”
A longer silence. Then, “Viktor, how long has it been?”
An exasperated sigh. “Can't you tell me about Bannerman? I want to talk about Bannerman.”
“How long? Months? Years?’”
Even to himself, he did not know how to answer. How long since what? Since he's been with a woman or since he's been any use to a woman. All he knew was that the pains in his stomach came first. He would need to coat it with milk each morning, so much did it rebel against starting another day with Borovik.
“Two years,” he answered. “Almost two years.”
“And before that?”
“There was someone. She died.”
And that was all he was going to tell her. He could have said how kind she was. How she taught him to love poetry. How one day a mole on her back got bigger and in one month she was gone.
“Viktor?”
“Yes. Sorry.” He was biting on his knuckle.
“Is that when you took this job?”
“Soon after. Yes.”
“They told you it was dangerous. And you hoped it was. Viktor, I know that feeling.”
His throat grew hot.
“Come talk to me, Viktor.”
87
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