So much for the sacred motherland, he thought bitterly. So much for the faithful Yuri Volanov. The son of a bitch he's turned on us.
It was his worst moment in a long career as an intelligence officer. He had gambled on an agent, and he had lost. Homefire, for which he had taken full responsibility, was in jeopardy. His face composed, he took the pen that his aide offered and wrote just two words on the message form.
"Send that reply," he said and sank back down on the bed. He prepared himself to return to sleep. The sleep came slowly, but it came. There would be no tossing, sweating sleeplessness for Andrei Petrovich. Like most good intelligence officers, he was a cynic who, at the same time, nourished an incurable streak of optimism. Having placed his faith in Yuri Volanov, and having been betrayed, he now was ready to place an equal amount of faith in someone else. If Volanov refused to return to the motherland voluntarily, then he would be returned by force. One way or another, he would return.
The reply for Zhukovka took several hours to reach Anya, and by that time Sasha had been stitched and treated by the doctor and now lay propped up in Anya's bed, head swathed in bandages. Under the wrappings, his face was tense and drawn; dark smudges of strain showed under his eyes. Those eyes, normally dancing with humor, were still and solemn now, and when he spoke his usual bantering tone was gone. It was a weary voice, and sad.
"I fucked it up badly," he said.
"Why did you go in by yourself?" Anya asked. "That was inexcusable, Sasha - against all procedure."
He nodded and winced. "It was a mistake. I was foolish." The look on his face showed that he wasn't going to carry the subject any further. The relationship between mother and son was such that he felt that he could tell her anything, but he was not about to tell her about the fantasy of the burning building and his father's cries for help. Instead, he said simply, "How bad is it? Bottom line."
"It couldn't be any worse. We've lost him. He's on the run, and we don't know where."
"I'll find him." It was an effort to speak. The doctor had given him tablets for the pain, but they had only dulled the roar in his head. Despite this, he forced himself to think, trying to recall what had happened. There was little to remember. Into the room, the two of them tied to chairs, the other two wheeling around as he came, and then the shot. And then nothing. Until now. And somewhere in between, a fugitive fragment of childhood memory ... a football game? He dismissed the thought. "I'll find him," he repeated. "Damn it, I had the feeling he might run. Have you notified Zhukovka?"
"Hours ago. Sasha, they're going to be furious."
"All my fault." He tried to smile. "Fear not, I'll get him back for you."
"How?"
"Backfire, of course."
"Backfire." Anya said the word slowly, pronouncing the two syllables separately. "We were hoping never to have to use that."
"What choice do we have? Without Backfire we could look for him forever."
"We can't do it on our own," Anya said doubtfully. "We'll need authorization."
"Zhukovka will give it." He closed his eyes and sank back against the pillows. "Andrei Petrovich is no fool. He'll authorize it."
He was quite right. Less than ten minutes later, the messenger from the embassy arrived. A short, inconsequential- looking second secretary, he was accustomed to these nocturnal missions and he wasted no time. He delivered the message to Anya and then was gone into the night. Anya decoded the number groups rapidly, writing the results on a sheet of paper, and then brought the paper into the bedroom. She handed it to her son.
If Homefire blown then strong chance House of Joy also blown. Deactivate House of Joy tonight. Joy #1 return to Center soonest. Joy #2 fall back to safe house and activate Backfire.
"You were right," Anya said. "It's Backfire, and he wants you to run it."
"It had to be." Sasha raised his hand languidly and let the paper flutter to the bedclothes. "We have a chance now, a second chance for me. And you're going home."
She sat on the edge of the bed as they discussed plans for activating Backfire, for closing down the House of Joy, for moving Sasha to a safe house in Alexandria, and for Anya's exit from the country via Canada, the first leg of her journey back to Moscow. The plans were all of a contingency nature and had been laid down months before. When they were satisfied that all of the points had been covered, Sasha sighed and sank back into the pillows piled behind his head and shoulders. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He opened his eyes, and just for the moment they were dancing with the usual mischief. He turned his head and breathed deeply again, sniffing the pillow.
"English Leather cologne," he said brightly. "You sweet old harlot, you kicked someone out of bed just for little old me."
"How strange," said Vasily Borgneff. "Positively ironic. You want me, a former agent of the KGB to extract this American Secretary for . . . what did you say he is?"
"Assistant Secretary of Defense," Edwin Swan repeated.
"Yes, this James Emerson, who is also a former KGB operative. One Russian eliminating another, and the CIA pays the bill."
"I didn't say anything about the Agency," Swan noted.
Vasily said thoughtfully, "Does that mean that I'll be working for your so-called Gang of Four?"
Swan did not answer. It was as if he had not heard the question, but the silence told Vasily what he wanted to know.
The two men stood in the main room of the bastion under the Fun House. It was almost four in the morning, but under the Fun House there was no day or night. Vasily, awakened from sleep by Swan's arrival, wore only jeans and a light shirt. The DD5, who had not yet slept that night, was dressed, as always, immaculately. The two men who had accompanied him out from Washington sat sprawled in armchairs on the far side of the room. They were both Orientals - Borgneff guessed Vietnamese - both short and wiry and dressed just a touch too carefully in black suits and white silk shirts without ties. Swan had introduced them only as Chuc and Van, and they sat together ignoring the conversation. The room was the same one in which, less than two days before, Borgneff and Swan had stood discussing frozen fish fingers and toaster waffles. Now they were discussing James Emerson and Eddie Mancuso.
"How sure are you that it's Eddie?" asked Borgneff.
In reply, Swan simply pointed to the two objects lying on the table beside him: a steel flechette and a U-shaped fragment of dull metal. Both had been brought from the Emerson home by the backup team. Vasily carefully picked up the dart by its fins and examined it closely, his hawklike face intent, his one eye gleaming brightly. He did the same to the piece of dull metal and nodded.
"Beautiful work," he said. "Yes, it has to be Eddie.
Look at the flechette ... see the lathe marks? This little beauty never came off a production line - it's hand-crafted. What did he use on it, some form of venom?"
"We don't have a lab report yet."
Vasily flicked the U-shaped piece of metal with his finger. "Vintage Mancuso. Marvelous! It's the rim of the charge that took out your other man. Eddie's famous toe-cap gadget. It's almost like a trademark."
"No question, then? He did the job?"
"He might as well have signed his name to it."
Swan sighed with a ghost of satisfaction. "Do you still think you can find him?"
"I'm sure of it. More so now than before."
"Why is that?" Swan inquired politely.
"Because you've flushed him out. He's running, and I know where he'll run to. What puzzles me is how he got mixed up with your man Emerson, or Volanov. What's the connection?"
"None that we know of," Swan admitted. "As you say, it's a puzzle."
It was a galling admission for the DD5 to make, but no more galling than the admission that two of his operatives had badly bungled an assignment, and that now he was forced to turn to a KGB maverick to finish the job. Coming to Borgneff this way, in the middle of the night and desperate, had punished his self-esteem badly, and he was seething inside. Only a firm resolve allowed him to ma
intain a calm exterior, for he knew that he truly had no choice. Before making the trip to the Fun House, he had, as usual, consulted by telephone with his associates abroad, and all four had agreed that Borgneff was the only man for the job. If Eddie Mancuso was involved, then Vasily Borgneff was the logical antagonist to set against him. Still, it galled.
Swan reached into his jacket pocket and took out a thick envelope. He tossed it onto the table. Vasily opened it and examined the contents: a bound sheaf of currency, a U.S. passport, a Virginia driver's license, and three credit cards. He checked the names on the identification.
"Victor Barnum," he mused. "Yes, it's a name I can live with. What does the money represent?" "That's twenty thousand you have there, a down payment on Emerson. The total price is fifty."
"And Eddie?"
"There's an open warrant out on him, good for another fifty. If you get him, it's yours." Swan hesitated. For a moment he looked almost embarrassed. "One thing more. The price for Emerson includes his wife and daughter."
Vasily grimaced but said nothing.
"What's the matter? Do you have qualms about the women?"
"Not as such, but I dislike overkill. Gratuitous slaughter tends to get out of hand."
"I can assure you that it's not gratuitous. It has to be that way, and it's an integral part of the assignment."
Vasily went to the sideboard, rummaging among half- empty bottles until he found a decanter of cognac. He poured them each a measure, raised his glass, and said formally, "To a successful conclusion."
Swan returned the salute, sipped appreciatively, and said, "You have one distinct advantage over Mancuso. He thinks you're dead. He'll hardly be expecting you."
"I'll need every edge I can get. I have a great deal of respect for Eddie."
"Any sane man would." Swan smiled wickedly. "Of course, there comes a time when respect turns to caution. You might decide that he's too much for you. You might just take the twenty thousand and disappear."
"The thought has already crossed my mind," Vasily said calmly. "But apparently you don't think that I will."
"No, I don't. For two reasons. Mancuso tried to kill you and damn near succeeded. He cost you an eye ..."
"He owes me more than an eye," Vasily said sharply. "We were like brothers once."
"Yes, and he turned on you. So you want Mancuso as much as I want Emerson, and if you get one you'll get them both. That's what I'm counting on. That's why you won't disappear."
"You said you had two reasons."
"Yes, I did." The wicked smile was back. He gestured across the room to where the two Vietnamese sat quietly.
"Just to remind you where your loyalties lie, Chuc and Van will be working with you."
"I'm afraid that won't do," Vasily said coldly. "I always work alone."
"Not this time. Besides, as you said, you'll need every edge you can get."
"Those two?" Vasily looked at them contemptuously. Chuc was absently picking his teeth while Van stared at the ceiling. "If they're anything like the first two you used, I'll be better off without them."
"They're capable men," Swan insisted.
"For jungle work? I don't like this, Swan. You're imposing conditions that could shorten the odds."
"They're going," Swan said flatly. "You'll be in charge, but they're part of the team."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't. Be sensible, man, two days ago you were begging—"
"Not begging!"
"Begging," Swan repeated, "for a chance to get out of here. This is your ticket out, and it's the only one you'll get. Don't be a fool. . . take it and be grateful."
"Grateful? Yes, I suppose I have to be." Vasily laughed bitterly.
"Good. How soon can you be ready?"
Vasily glanced again at Chuc and Van, and shook his head disgustedly. "Two days," he said.
"No sooner?"
"Not a minute sooner. I'll need at least one day in a good laboratory and another day with a first-class gunsmith. Can you arrange for that?"
"No problem." Swan looked at his watch. "We'd best get going right away. I'll brief you on communications procedure as we drive back to town."
"It's almost time for breakfast," said Vasily with an exaggerated politeness. "Would you care for something here before we go?"
Swan smiled grimly. "I seem to recall a conversation about frozen fish fingers and toaster waffles. No, we'll breakfast in town."
CHAPTER TEN
Mexico, for Eddie, was the smell of the jacaranda and the wood smoke mixing early in the morning as the indios passed through the streets driving burros impossibly laden with faggots of wood. It was the earthy odor of rotting fruit, the blaze of a salmon-colored sky at sunset, and the cascade of church bells that shattered each dawn. It was tortillas in the morning and margaritas at night; it was jalapeno peppers and chicken mole and bowls of ripe guavas and mangoes. It was the house built into the side of the hill high above the village of Atotonilco, rising from a walled courtyard in a succession of levels that topped the crest: levels of fountains and terraces, flowered gardens, intimate alcoves, and long, cool rooms floored with multicolored tiles. It was the harsh and drunken laughter that echoed from the cantinas; the soft laughter of young girls on paseo; and, best of all, now, the contented laughter that bubbled up in the back of his throat as he lay on the grass beside the swimming pool, warm and safe in the sun. Mexico was salvation, and that, for the damned, was something to laugh about.
"That's a wicked laugh," said Ginger. "What's so funny?"
She sat on the edge of the pool, her feet in the water, her fine, sleek body still stippled with dewdrops from her swim. The tiny flags of her bikini distracted him from the ripeness of that body, like a mustache scrawled on the Mona Lisa, and he was tempted to pull her to him and strip her bare. Impossible, of course, in the open daylight by the pool and with her parents wandering somewhere about. . . but still, he was tempted. He contented himself with reaching out to run his hand along the smoothness of her thigh.
"Nothing's funny," he said. "Nothing and everything. That was my fuck-you laugh."
"Oh? And whom are you fucking?" she asked politely.
"Whom? Christ, you're terrific. You're the only girl I know who can use fuck in a sentence and make it sound grammatical. Whom am I fucking? You'm, of course."
"That's nice," she said contentedly. "For both of us."
"Yeah, it is, but that's not what I meant," he explained. "That was my fuck-the-world laugh, nothing to do with sex. Like this." He raised himself up on one elbow and said loudly, "Hey, world. Fuck you, world, you can't touch us now."
"Don't say that," she said quickly.
"Bad luck?"
"Very."
"I'm sorry," he said when he saw that she was serious. Her eyes had been smiling and clear until then, but just for a moment he had seen them flash with fear, and he cursed himself for causing it. It was days since he had seen that look in her eyes, not since they had crossed into the magic of Mexico; but in the days before that, all during the drive from Washington to the border, her eyes had been filled with it.
It had been a trip of fear for all of them. Less for Eddie, who had lived with fear for so long and had learned to measure himself by his terror. Less, perhaps, for Emerson, who had willingly entered into a life of fear as a boy, and who had buried his fear under years of plenty, just as muscle is buried by fat. Less, in some degree, for Rusty, who had bought herself an interest-by-marriage in the fear game, and who had met every raise ever since. But for Ginger there had been no such shield against her fear, and she bore the full weight of it. Protected all her life, she was the least protected of them now as they fled in the night pushing south and west, running before winds of terror.
That first night set the tone of the trip, Eddie driving away from the house, piling on miles of back-country road, and making for the inter-state highway below Front Royal. It was just before midnight when they reached the intersection of 1-81, and he was tem
pted to keep his hands on the wheel and drive all night; but instead, he turned the camper into the parking lot of a darkened Burger King, slowed to a stop, and turned off the engine.
Then he told them where they were going. He told them about getting new papers in Houston, about Mexico, about the house in Atotonilco. He told it simply and without frills. He did not lie, but he did not emphasize the perils, and he did not show them the fear that he felt. After he told them, there was silence. They had been silent ever since leaving the house, but that had been the silence of tightly held breath. This was the silence of the same breath released, the silence of a sigh.
After a moment, Emerson said, "What's in Mexico?"
"Safety," Eddie told him. "Temporary safety. A place to hole up in, a place to make plans for the future. Right now, I don't think you could ask for more."
"I did ask," Emerson said bitterly, "and you saw what they gave me. All right, Mexico it is. How long will it take us?"
Eddie got out the maps and showed them all the route. "We drive in shifts of two," he explained. "Rusty and Jim. Ginger and me, and whoever isn't driving sleeps in the back. We drive straight through, no stops except for gas and food. If all the balls drop in the right holes, we should be in Atotonilco four days from now."
Emerson nodded his agreement. "One thought. Rusty and I should take the night shifts."
"Why?"
"If anybody comes looking for us, I've got the face they're looking for. Night-time gives me some protection."
"Makes sense." Eddie slid out of the driver's seat and stood behind it. "That means you've got the wheel. Just lay it straight down 1-81 for a couple of hours while I get some sleep."
He opened the door of the living quarters of the camper, looked at Ginger, and said, "Let's go, kid."
Ginger looked at her father and mother. She did not move. She looked back to Eddie and in a small voice said, "I don't think I want to go in the back with you."
Eddie felt his face grow hot. His first impulse was to grab her arm and pull her out of her seat. Instead, he kept his hands at his sides and said tightly. "Yeah. I know you don't, but you have to. Come on."
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