Yuri combed the driver's hair, roughly, approximately, and returned the comb to Susan. Next he spat into the handkerchief and used it to wipe the blood from the driver's face.
“This you don't want back, I think.”
“Um . . . it's okay.”
He looked around him. “Carla is where?”
“With Irwin. He took her—”
“You go too, please. Needs woman.”
But by this time he was looking past him. His eyes, still hot with rage, found those of the man named Kosarev. “Watch TV tonight,” he said. “You son of a bitch.”
This last phrase was mouthed. No doubt, Susan felt sure, so as not to offend her ears. It did not greatly offend Kosarev, who only grumbled softly as if at a minor frustration. By the time that thought registered, Yuri was out the front entrance, climbing onto the hood of a Lincoln, pulling Georgi up with him, inviting the cameras to come forward.
The police captain, Levin, followed him out. He wanted to hear this himself. Yuri looked down at him, hesitated, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out what looked like a video cassette and handed it to Levin. He gestured toward the Vremya unit. Go play it, he seemed to be saying. Play it for everyone.
“Any idea what that's about?” Susan asked.
Lesko shook his head. Bad enough he'd probably have nightmares about it himself. But Bannerman was now telling the Russian, and Clew, what was on Borovik's confession tape. Just the highlights. Like a place called Vigirsk, wiped out by stolen nerve gas. Naming names. Kosarev's name among them.
The Russian wilted, just for a second, but quickly recovered. From where Lesko stood, the existence of that tape did not seem to be news to him. Now, in fact, he was trying to brush it off. Coerced by torture from a piece of garbage like Borovik . .. zero credibility ... all Kulik's doing . . . trying to blame the innocent for his own criminal acts.
But he was looking outside, watching the faces of the reporters as they listened to the driver and to Yuri.
The army doctor, Meltzer, glanced up at Lesko. “You've been busy,” he said, scowling. Lesko grunted. “For the record,” he answered, “you asked me not to do anything on my own. I didn't. How bad's he hit?”
“I've seen men die from leg wounds. This is a chest.”
“He's not bubbling,” Lesko said hopefully.
“He's not doing cartwheels, either.” Meltzer cocked his head toward Clew. ”I hear you're flying him out.”
Lesko frowned. “Can he make it that long?”
The army doctor blew air. “He's stabilized, I think. The question, I gather, is will he make it if he stays.”
Podolsk's hand came up. He was trying to speak. Lesko knelt, took the hand. “You heard, right? You just have to hang in. You'll make it.”
“That man .. .” Podolsk squeezed. “Kosarev.”
“Easy, okay? What about him?”
“Ask him to say my name.”
“Say your name? What for?”
“Please. I want to hear him say my name.”
What the hell, thought Lesko. If only to keep him quiet. He crooked a finger at the man named Kosarev, calling him forward. The Russian held back. Lesko showed his teeth.
“Lighten up, Lesko.” Clew stepped between them. “This man's your ticket out.”
Lesko had assumed as much. He was clearly not everybody's favorite human being at the moment, but he did seem to have a lot of clout. Lesko's guess was that he'd be going along for the ride to Zurich or Wiesbaden, wherever, so no one should develop engine trouble.
The thing was, though, he wasn't acting much like a hostage. He was acting, now, more like a guy who's had a very bad day and would just like it to be over. It wasn't helping that the cameramen outside were all suddenly trying to get shots of him through the glass. Nor was it helping anyone's nerves, come to that, that those two Japs—born with cameras around their necks—were snapping everything in sight. One was now posing with those two shooters ... guy with the bandaged head and the ugly woman wheezing through broken ribs. What a fucking circus. This whole thing. Beginning to end.
Lesko rose to his feet.
He approached the Russian, patting Bannerman and Clew on their shoulders to show his good intentions. He put an arm around Kosarev. The Russian tensed but did not struggle.
“What's your name? Andrei, right?”
Kosarev nodded warily.
“Tell me,” he said to Clew, “that our friend here had nothing to do with last night.”
“He didn't. That was the last thing he wanted.”
“But he was in this thing with Kulik.”
Clew shook his head. “That... hasn't been proven.”
Lesko looked at Bannerman, whose mind was elsewhere. “Roger's not a guy you can just shoot the shit with, is he?”
A flicker of a smile.
“That was Andrei's boys who showed up with the shovels this morning? And who chased us all the way back from Kulik's?”
Bannerman raised an eyebrow toward Kosarev. He had apparently not bothered to ask. Kosarev shrugged. It was not a denial.
“Lesko ... let's save time,” said Clew. “What he wants is no more trouble. What he did want was Kulik's papers. He now understands that they're gone.”
With his free hand, Lesko rubbed his eyes.
Nice, he thought. Guy says I gave it a shot, it didn't work out, water under the bridge. Never mind all the dead. And maybe the dying.
Miggs whistled from the front door. He was waving a Motorola, pointing at his watch. Any time you're ready, he was saying.
Bannerman reached for Kosarev, but Lesko tightened his grip and walked him to Podolsk's side. “He wants you to say his name. It can't hurt, right?”
Podolsk looked up, waiting. Kosarev mumbled it. Gutturally. It was Lesko's sense that he was trying to alter his voice. Lesko began to understand.
“Out loud,” he said, squeezing. “Into the mike.”
“Podowsk,” the Russian said through clenched teeth. “He is Major Viktor Podowsk.”
Podolsk's breath came in gasps. “That is him,” he said.
“That is the man who ...” He tried to claw at Lesko's gun.
90
The MedEvac plane from Wiesbaden arrived as the setting sun touched the horizon. Viktor Podolsk, Meltzer attending him, was carried aboard first and connected with a respirator.
The convoy from Hospital #52 brought Leo Belkin in one ambulance, Elena in another, Valentin's body in a third. It was Belkin who begged them not to leave Valentin behind. It was bad enough he got him killed, he said. He couldn't leave him in a Moscow morgue for some clerk to contact his family.
Three Lincolns and the two army trucks escorted them. Riding in the truck, as additional escort, were a dozen or more hospital staff and several Russian soldiers—relatives of staff—who were determined to witness the safe departure of the Brugg Industries plane and the MedEvac aircraft. Several of the Swiss medical, team had elected to stay in Moscow. They would teach the use of the equipment they had brought. They would come home when the Russians were proficient. Miriam and Avram stayed in case anyone else breaks the truce. And to direct traffic when the teams from Zivic start arriving.
The Swiss surgeon, to the surprise of many, was among those who chose to remain. He made it clear that this was not a humanitarian gesture. He expected to be paid the full salary per diem of a Russian staff surgeon. That the amount in question is less than one Swiss franc, he said, has no relevance to the principle at hand. Also tell that Lesko girl that she can kiss my ass.
Elena, though pale and weak, wanted a few minutes with Leo before he was lifted aboard the MedEvac. There was time, because the MedEvac had brought with it a maintenance team that had been ordered to inspect the Air Force plane on which Kaplan and Clew had arrived. Almost at once, they found evidence of tampering.
They met, stretcher to stretcher, on the tarmac between the two planes. Belkin, himself even weaker, groaned at the sight of her. Her head was thickly padded, her left ey
e wandered slightly, her speech was slurred. He was totally to blame, he said. He had been no friend. He was deceitful and stupid. And when trouble came, as he should have known it would, he was worse than useless. Poor Valentin. It was unforgivable. It was shameful. It was .. .
”. . . a matter of honor, Leo,” she reminded him.
She would hear no more of his breast-beating, she said. She will expect him in Zurich as soon as he is well enough. They will discuss, among other things, when she is to get the rest of her wedding gift. At the very least, she told him, she expects him to make good on St. Petersburg.
Lesko had come over. He heard the part about St. Petersburg. Over my dead body, he thought to himself. But he was glad to see that Leo's color was a little better. Get well, Leo. Get nice and strong so I can pound the living shit out of you. After that, no hard feelings.
Lesko was just leaving the Savoy when he learned that Elena was already on her way to Vnukovo. He had wanted to hit someone then as well, starting with that Russian prick, Kosarev, out Bannerman stopped him. We want him walking, he said. We want him clearing the way outside. Lesko still had no idea why this little shit was helping them.
Outside, that Russian cop, Levin, tried to arrest him, but Bannerman got him to back off. Promised he'd be in touch. Then Yuri tried to go for him. This was after they had to drag Yuri down off the Lincoln. He fought them off and then waved the reporters over to Nikolai Belkin's car, haranguing them in Russian. Meltzer ducked in to take a look. He confirmed that the old guy was dead, but he didn't think he'd been murdered. Looked like a stroke, he said.
Yuri wanted to go to Wiesbaden with the MedEvac, look after Podolsk and Leo, make arrangements for Valentin. Valentin and then someone named Lydia. Just as much, he didn't want to fly back with Andrei Kosarev, because he couldn't trust himself not to kill him. After Wiesbaden, he didn't know. He said he didn't think he'd go back to Bern except to clean out his flat.
Bannerman shook his head. Come back with us, he said. We have some things to talk about with Willem. And tomorrow we'll go to Bern one more time to collect your mail. If you go to Wiesbaden, he said, you'll face about a week of interrogation. You might end up killing Roger Clew instead.
Fucking Bannerman.
Just once, Lesko would like to see him shut down the computer and, like, feel things. But Susan says that's not fair. You should know him, she says, when there's no shit like this going on. He's gentle, and sweet and he can be endearingly inept around the house.
Some standard, right? Endearingly inept.
The other extreme, he supposed, would be someone like Carla Benedict, who doesn't do anything but feel. That was one more thing that slowed them down at the hotel. Carla tried to get away from Irwin. She tried to climb out the window of Podolsk's room. God knows where she thought she was going. Irwin thinks she would have hurt herself. He had to tackle her and hold on, trying to protect his eyes and his balls until the rest of them got back there. But when they did, yeah, you'd have to say Bannerman was gentle. And sweet. He carried her out like a little girl he was putting to bed. Her face buried in his neck. Her whole body trembling. In fact, seeing that was what finally calmed Yuri down.
Carla's already on the Brugg plane, still a basket case. Irwin's staying with her. He refused to go back with Roger. Susan's with them both. From what Lesko understood, Carla had gotten a little snockered, which is something she never does. The booze affected her judgment when those three shooters came in. There was no urgent need, otherwise, to force a fight. But once it started, she was on autopilot.
Except for the vodka, he couldn't see how it was all her fault. Podolsk made a dumb move. Ballsy, maybe, but dumb. He popped up like a target on a combat range. Carla couldn't see his face, she said, with all the flying newspapers, but she saw a gun, which she knew Podolsk didn't have. She never saw him grab it from the other guy.
Now she's convinced she's the kiss of death. If she feels anything for you, you die. Cause of death—Carla. She thinks they put that on your toe tag. There was her sister last year, she says, couple of guys before that, her mother years back ... everyone. Then Aldo yesterday and Podolsk today. Not that Podolsk is dead, but she thinks he will be if she ever goes within one country of him again.
Right now she's getting lots of female empathy from Susan and a lot of TLC from Irwin, who turned into a puddle for some reason when he found out she wasn't dead. Irwin will have his own problems in a day or two. Wait and see.
Anyway, let them have their counseling session with Carla. Before they get to Zurich, maybe he'll give it a shot himself. It's called Lesko therapy. You pick her up, shove her into the lavatory, shut the door behind you, and scream at her.
You say, “Get over it.”
You say, “This is self-indulgent, self-pitying bullshit and I'm tired of hearing it.”
You say, “Podolsk's hurting worse than you, he's all alone, and you promised the guy a trip to Paris. You got two minutes to tell me what you're going to do about that or your pants come down and I spank your ass raw.”
Of course, you pat her down for weapons first.
And you protect your eyes and your crotch.
Epilogue
From the Brugg Industries jet, Bannerman could see the lights of Dresden below. Russian airspace was some forty minutes behind, Moscow more than ninety. Well to the north, he could still see the MedEvac plane reflecting the afterglow of sunset.
The airborne office, aft, converted to a bedroom suite at night. Elena had been made comfortable there. Susan was with her. She had chased out all other visitors including Lechmann, who had turned up with a huge bouquet of drooping carnations he had somehow managed to find.
The main cabin had been darkened. Yuri and most of the medical staff were asleep, exhausted or emotionally spent. Lechmann sat huddled with Willem, briefing him, probably telling him about the documents that were on their way. The Russian, Kosarev, sat off by himself, staring out into the night. Carla's tiny body lay across two seats, her legs drawn up, her head on Irwin Kaplan's lap. One hand clutched a spray of violets, also from Lechmann. Bannerman had covered her with blankets. Kaplan tucked them in. He whispered that she looked about twelve years old.
The stillness was broken only by Lesko. He was in the galley, rummaging for a fresh piece of ice to hold against his lip where Carla had kicked him. She understood, she told him, that he meant well. She even agreed. Yes, damn it, she would go to see Podolsk in Wiesbaden. Maybe . . . maybe even Paris someday. But that split lip should teach you. Don't ever put your hands on a lady.
Lesko found the ice and grabbed two cold Löwenbräus. He walked back up the aisle, and took the seat next to Bannerman.
“Ready for a few questions?” he asked.
Bannerman took the offered beer. “I've got one myself. You first.”
“Kosarev's the guy behind all this?”
“He's chairman of the board, apparently. Elected by a council. It's structured very much like a corporation.”
“But he's the one who wanted you running loose so he could thin out the competition.”
“Not the only one, but yes.”
“And he would have killed you to get those papers.”
“At the Savoy? He didn't know I was there. He just wanted Podolsk.”
“Let's shorten this. You made a deal with him, right? He calls off his dogs, he comes along so no one blows us out of the air. In return, he gets what was in Kulik's safe.”
“He gets a ride to Zurich. Nothing more.”
A pained expression. “Am I missing something here? Why then, did he get us out of Russia?”
“We got him out, Lesko. He's running.”
Lesko rubbed his eyes in a show of utter weariness. “Bannerman . . ” He groped for words. “With you, is anything ever what it looks like?”
“You were there, Lesko. What isn't clear?”
”I tuned in late. Indulge me.”
Bannerman sipped his Löwenbräu. “The bottom line, I guess, is that Ko
sarev thinks those papers will put him in front of a firing squad.”
“So why wouldn't he tear the Savoy apart looking for them?”
“He was on Candid Camera, Lesko. We have Susan, by the way, to thank for that.”
“Yeah, well... I still liked it better when she was dating lifeguards. How did you know to go after Kosarev?”
“He was over in that doorway. He was obviously calling the shots. It was Susan, again, who spotted him.”
“But you knew him, right? You knew who he was.”
Bannerman hesitated, then shook his head. “Never heard of him before today.”
Lesko thought he understood the hesitation . . . and why getting answers from Bannerman can be like pulling teeth. The thing is, Bannerman knows he has this reputation for always being two steps ahead of you. Sometimes, maybe, he actually is. But what he really does is make it seem that way because it forces mistakes by the other guy. Keeps him off balance.
So Bannerman's telling the truth. He had no idea who Kosarev was when he went over to Detsky Mir and stuck a gun up his nose. Kosarev gets dragged out in the street, which is suddenly filling up with the television news media and his goons are being shot at from windows. He hears the people he just sent inside being blasted. He says, shit. Mama's Boy knows everything. Somehow he set me up.
“Okay ... so you pull him out of Detsky Mir.”
“Have you been in there?”
“Where? The store?”
“There's a Ford showroom in there.”
“There's a what?”
“European Fords. About a dozen new models, all encased in glass.”
“Bannerman . . .”
“Sorry. It just struck me.”
“Yeah, well, I'll strike you if you don't stay with the program here. You're saying Kosarev threw in the towel.”
He nodded. “Especially when Roger showed up with the cavalry. Next there was Yuri's performance with Georgi. Georgi, by the way, babbled something about a witness to that nerve-gas disaster still being alive and kept on ice by Kosarev. To use, I assume, against Kulik. That's when Levin tried to arrest him. Podolsk wanting to shoot him didn't do much for his peace of mind either.”
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