Bannerman looked at his watch.
If Corsini hadn't worn that wire, if Arkadi Kulik had decided to stay home and watch TV last night, he and Susan would be back out on their terrace, right now, having their morning coffee.
On the other hand, he'd still be wondering whether he and Susan have a future together. That's no longer a question. She's carrying their future in her belly. Not that being pregnant made the difference. Anton was right. He would never have let her go anyway.
“You want a plan?” he asked her. “Here it is. I'm going to dump all this on Willem Brugg.”
“What does that do?”
“It lets me walk away from it.”
“Fine, but why would the Bruggs want it?”
“These documents, if I'm right, are a mother lode for insider trading. The Bruggs could end up owning half of Russia.”
She made a face. “How does that help the Russians?”
“Food on the table. The Bruggs would build, not loot.”
It wouldn't take them a week, he told her, to have these documents decoded, analyzed, interpreted. The Bruggs would know how to exploit them. Kulik's banks would cooperate. If one didn't, the Bruggs would probably buy it. The Bruggs work with money, not guns.
Well. . . they start with money.
They would probably call Ronny Grassi in, scare him half to death, and then take him on as a consultant. And Leo, if he lives. And Yuri, of course. It's only right that Yuri should have a voice in this.
Yuri is finished in the KGB. There's nothing left for him there. But with Brugg money behind him, he can start one of his own. Maybe he'll make Viktor Podolsk a general.
They reached Lechmann's car. Susan touched his arm.
“But not my father, Paul. And not Elena. Let's leave them out of this, too.”
“They'll have other things to think about.”
“Elena's got a lot of healing ahead of her. She's going to stay in bed, even if I have to tie her down.”
”I agree. Absolutely.”
He opened the door for her.
And he did agree. But fat chance, thought Bannerman.
88
Carla was beginning to wonder if she'd been had.
Not that she was complaining.
She was probably about twenty when she learned one of the great and enduring truths of human nature. The best way to get a guy you've met to make love to you ... not just fuck you, but really make love and do it slowly, patiently, lots of touching and soft whispers, lots of tongue ... is to tell him you think you're frigid.
He'll spend hours at it. And he won't be a shit the next morning because he'll feel so good about himself. He'll think he's the one and only. He was the cure. Years could go by and you'll always be special to him.
It had never occurred to her, somehow, that this might work both ways. It sure as hell worked for Viktor. The first time took her almost three hours. She would have thought that she could make a corpse come in less time than that.
One problem was the phone. It rang once for quite a long time. He didn't answer, of course, but they had to disengage’ and listen at the door for fifteen minutes, Makarovs in hand, in case someone decided to check out the room in person. No one did. When they came back to the bed, the message light was blinking. She told him to ignore it.
The call was not from Bannerman, because Bannerman, the second problem, came to the door, knocking softly, saying his name. She wrapped herself in the bedspread, let him in, and steered him into the bathroom.
With the hairdryer, shower, and exhaust fan going—fairly safe unless they thought to bug the hairdryer—Bannerman briefed her on what was happening. He also dried his hair, which was wet for some reason. All this took another ten minutes, a considerable loss of momentum.
He told her who else Anton had sent, that they would check in with Miriam as they arrived and that Miriam would send some over here. They might not be needed, this was just in case, don't make any contact with them. They'll stay until Elena, and maybe Leo, can travel.
He told her about the plane from Wiesbaden. It would take Yuri and Viktor out, himself and Susan with them. Lechmann's already gone out to Vnukovo to watch for any unusual activity. If she doesn't want to be seen, she can wait and go out with Willem. In the meantime, however, try to keep in mind that someone still wants Podolsk dead. That charred corpse in Kulik's Zii might not fool them very long.
The “try to keep in mind . . .” was as close as he came to a lecture on maybe trying to be a touch more combat-ready in here. Carla wondered why she was being spared until he told her he'd been upstairs, room 404, with Susan. When he sort of mumbled the “with Susan” part, she knew in a flash why he wasn't throwing stones and why his hair was wet.
When Bannerman finally left, she was afraid she'd have to start from scratch with Viktor. But that pump had been primed. He went off like a rocket about twenty minutes later.
Too fast. Explosive decompression. But a half hour after that, he was ready again.
The second time wasn't bad at all. Except Viktor, she was pretty sure, was wishing, pretending, that she was someone else. There's a look they get. But she didn't mind. Probably that girl who died.
Afterward, however, he couldn't do enough for her. He washed her with hot towels and sprinkled her with some talcum he found among the bathroom amenities. He went to the minibar and broke out the caviar and crackers. There were four little bottles of Stolichnaya that had been kept on ice and two thimble-sized shot glasses for offering toasts. Between toasts, he fed her the caviar with a little wooden spoon.
The toasts were sweet. To her, to her rare beauty, to her parents for giving the world such a gift. But they also took forever because he felt the need to summon and recite an appropriate verse with each one. Worse, some of these were Russian, which meant he had to struggle with a translation and then apologize for how much of it had been lost in the attempt.
He toasted his own parents, the two in the photograph she'd seen. He wanted her to meet them. Some day, perhaps very soon, he wanted her to come to St. Petersburg with him. She said it's a date. What the hell.
Leo was forever telling her she had to see the place anyway. It would be nice to drop in on his family, tell them he was a good guy, see what she could do to help them. Depending on her mood, she thought, she might even do a fly-by of KGB headquarters. Funny idea. It wasn't exactly in the post-cold war spirit but if she could do a better job on it than Waldo did, maybe they'll put up a plaque.
But St. Petersburg might have to wait awhile.
“Viktor?” He was tickling her back now. “Have you ever seen Paris?”
“Never. Only wonderful pictures.”
“Want to go?”
“Someday. Of course.”
”I mean tomorrow night. I'll show you where Balzac lived. I know whole streets, and one cafe in particular,that are still just the way he described them.”
Podolsk only smiled. He did not believe that she was serious.
Carla realized that she was getting a little swacked— seven vodka toasts and counting—but the more she thought about it, why not?
After two years he's due for some R&R. So is she. Preferably someplace where she'd never been with Aldo. Where she won't have to keep trying to wash him off.
Viktor's just as good looking as Yuri. Not as tough, maybe, but that's okay. He's about ten times as well-read, however, and now his plumbing's back in working order. He has to keep using it, though. Gotta blow out those pipes at least twice a day.
But it's not just the sex. Or that they can talk about books.
He likes her. He really does.
And they have one other thing in common. They're both ghosts. They're both supposed to be dead.
Abruptly, Carla kissed him and rolled out of bed. She gathered her clothing, her wig, shoved the Makarov in her purse.
“You are going out?” asked Podolsk, startled.
“Just up to tell Bannerman! We're going to Paris.”
The Fi
nn with the carnation was fuming.
KGB or no KGB, five days or no five days, he wanted Major Podolsk out.
He had called Podolsk's room personally to tell him to pack up. He wouldn't pick up the phone, but he was in there, no question. He had snuck in like a thief. Brought some chippy with him. A chambermaid had heard them as she pushed her cart past his door. The chambermaid came running. From what she'd heard about last night, she didn't know why that one was still walking around loose.
The whole staff had seen it on television. Three Hotel Savoy guests, the ones Podolsk was “keeping an eye on,” were shot on Kropotkinskaya not three hours after they checked in. One dead, two others wounded. Two of them KGB themselves.
Who shot them? Those Kerensky gangsters. Their faces were on the morning news. Why did two of those faces look so familiar? Because they had both been with Podolsk last evening, right here in this lobby. Who could doubt that Podolsk must have given the order.
One of them, no question, had also stolen the computer of that ghastly German. Which Podolsk swore that he would recover. And which he never did. Also, it would not surprise the Finn if that dreadful business with the prostitutes was actually a diversion set up by Podolsk. And finally, this morning by fax, there is a bill from the German. Pay it, he says, or I tell all the world what kind of a place you run. KGB snoops pretending to be Finns.
The manager thought of going back there, pounding on his door. But this is the Savoy, not the Kosmos. Already, there has been one disgusting scene too many. Let his bosses come and get him.
He looked at his watch. Where are they? When he called them, even that was strange. Are you sure, they kept asking? Could there be a mistake?
Just get him out, and quietly, he told them, or I call the militia.
No, don't do that. We'll see to it.
Well? What's keeping you, then?
Susan had been drying her hair when Carla knocked. Their eyes met when Bannerman let her in. A little smile from Carla and then a questioning look. Susan answered with a shy grin.
Yes, the grin said. I told him I'm pregnant. And it's okay. It's even okay with me now. And I can see you've just been laid. It's all over your face. I'm sure it's all over mine.
Now a frown from Carla and, with it, another unspoken question. Susan understood. No, she said with a different kind of smile, a slight shake of her head. Not about Elena. I'll never tell him about Elena.
Bannerman watched this exchange with something less than patience. He interrupted, asking Carla with lip movements and gestures whether she left Podolsk alone downstairs. Carla held up two fingers, then both hands. Relax, Bannerman. Two minutes.
Bannerman steered her toward the bathroom. More sign language. Susan, will you excuse us? Leave the hairdryer going. If you will, go turn on the TV and radio. Make some noise. Carla? Talk fast, please.
I want to take him to Paris . . . Paris? ... Yes, right from here... You came up here to tell me you want to go to Paris?
That was all Susan heard as she squeezed past them. Poor Paul. If after all those years together, he's still surprised by anything Carla does ...
She turned on the radio, turned it up, then crossed to the TV and did the same. The program, she was startled to see, was The Rifleman. Lucas McCain telling the bad guys to dosky-vosky-narodya. Must be Russian for “Get out of town.”
She still had her brush. She went to one of the tall arched windows and opened both panels inward. A breeze came in. It would help to dry her hair.
As she brushed it, flipped it, she took in the scenery outside. There wasn't much to see. A department store blocked the view. If it were not there, Paul had told her, she would be looking directly at Lubyanka Square and KGB headquarters. She had still never seen it. She wondered if it's all boarded up, snipers on the rooftop, waiting to see if John Waldo comes back.
Below, the far side of the narrow street was lined with sidewalk vendors, some looking bored, others hopeful. Much of what they were selling looked used. One old woman had only a single pair of gloves to offer, holding them up to each passing pedestrian. No one even glanced at her.
A movement to the right caught her eye. A black car had turned onto the street and abruptly slowed. A man in a raincoat hopped out before it had fully stopped. The car moved on, pulled over once more, and a second man, dressed like the first, got out. Both of them, fifty yards apart, took an immediate interest in window displays of camping equipment and toys. Both had newspapers folded over their hands. The vendors nearest them seemed to stiffen. They moved aside to give them room.
“Paul?”
He didn't hear. The hairdryer.
Now a second black car came up. Not as slowly. It pulled up to the center entrance. The driver got out, helped an old man from his seat. He had a little dog with him. The old man was looking around him. He seemed confused.
He turned his head sharply as if someone had called his name. Susan looked in that direction. Still another man, well dressed, not as old, had stepped out from inside the department store. He beckoned to the man with the dog, then gestured, impatiently, toward the car. “Leave the damned dog,” was what Susan sensed he was saying. The driver came around and took it. He put it back inside. Remained standing by his door.
More huddled conversation. The older man seemed more confused than ever. He kept looking toward the hotel entrance. At one point he looked to his driver as if for help. The driver turned away. He caught the eye of one of the window shoppers. They exchanged nods.
“Paul,” she said sharply. “Come look at this.”
He came to the window, Carla with him. He followed her line of sight, and grunted.
“Leo's uncle,” he said to Carla. “Do we know that other one?”
She shook her head. She saw the driver whose gun she had taken. She scanned the street. ”I see two raincoats.”
“Three,” Susan heard herself saying. ‘The driver's with them, not him.”
“Carla?”
“On my way.”
“Susan, call the embassy. Roger or Miggs.”
Carla was out the door. Susan had the phone. The hotel operator clicked on, she asked her to ring the embassy, then waited. She waved a hand at the walls. “Won't they hear?”
Bannerman made a dismissive gesture. It no longer mattered. He had reached for the Tokarev, which he'd left under a fold of the bedspread, and was back at the window. Susan listened, then spoke into the phone.
“They're getting Roger. What do I tell him?”
“Does he know we're here?”
“Yes.”
“Say I said the agreement's been broken and now they're all going to die.”
“Um . . . that's it?”
“Only that. Sound hysterical. Then hang up.”
“Shit!” Clew slammed the phone down. “Miggs!”
He was already at the door, Kaplan with him.
“Bannerman?” Kaplan asked.
Clew nodded. He pointed at Miggs. “Every man you have, to the Savoy now I want a plane now, not tomorrow. I want everyone at the hospital out now'`
“Hold it.” Kaplan raised a hand. “Elena can't—”
“Now, Miggs. Make it happen.”
Miggs reached for the intercom.
“Paul, I have a gun, too.”
He didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the street, but she felt his displeasure. “Where did you get it, Susan?”
“None of your business. What can I do?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Come here with it. I'll show you.”
Carla, her hand in her purse, watched as Podolsk moved through the bar, walking toward the street exit. His back was to the several patrons sitting there. But they paid no attention. That established, Podolsk turned and retraced his steps, now heading toward the lobby. Carla followed, staying back, listening for movement in the bar behind her. There was nothing. The bar, at least, seemed clear.
Two Japanese men sat in the lobby writing postcards. They did not look up, but a uniformed po
rter did. He blinked at the sight of Podolsk, then shot a glance toward the desk. Carla followed it to a man in a dark suit, red carnation. The man's jaw tightened visibly. Keeping both eyes on Podolsk, he reached for a telephone.
Carla stepped to the door that led behind the desk. She opened it and, smiling pleasantly, stepped close to the man with the carnation. He went rigid.
“That's a gun against your nuts.” She jabbed him with it. “Who did you call about the man in room sixteen?”
He couldn't speak. She jabbed him again.
”I. .. I only want him out,” the Finn managed.
“Who did you call? Give me a name.”
“Name? I called KGB. Only the switchboard. I didn't ask for names.”
“How many are inside already?”
“None. No one came. Just now, I was about to call and ask why.”
She tugged at his sleeve. “Lie down now.”
He started to kneel. “Wait,” she said. “Give me that carnation.”
Nikolai Belkin's brain was reeling. And his heart was breaking.
“Don't argue with me,” this man had said to him. “Just get him out here. For you, he'll come out.”
But first he said Podolsk was a traitor . . . that he went over to those others for money ... those who would destroy this nation ... try to make beggars of us. The Academician told him no, it was impossible. At that, this man grabbed him by the shirt.
Belkin looked into the deputy director's eyes, trying to comprehend this. He saw panic. More than that, he saw a man he no longer knew. He turned to his driver, Georgi, to say come here, help me persuade Kosarev that Podolsk would never . . .
But in Georgi's eyes also, he saw a stranger. He saw contempt. Georgi? You have been with me from the beginning. Why do you—
“Useless old fool,” the man snarled at him, shoving him. “Get back in the car. Sit there with your fucking dog. You can do that much, can't you?” And he called to Georgi, “Go. Get him out here. Tell him the Academician needs him.”
Bannerman's Promise Page 54