She tried the flat tops of the posts of the brass bed. Two of them were stuck solid and would not budge, but the third had some give to it. She rocked it gently back and forth until finally it began to lift. Inside the post the brass was blackened and she could see nothing. She ran her finger around the interior, reaching as far down as she could. And felt it. The edge of a slip of paper. How like Ray not to make it too easy. Finally she had it out, a piece of heavy paper which looked like part of a greeting card. She carefully replaced the cover and sat down in the chair to read the note.
“Jessica,
If you’re reading this, I haven’t made it and you’ve been sent to find out why. It’s Tuesday night and I’m exhausted and I may be imagining things, but I think not. I’ll try to take the ferry to Istanbul tomorrow. I’m leaving the film. Jess, if you are reading this, you’re a clever girl and you’re in trouble. I think we’re an endangered species. Whatever plan you’ve made for getting out of the country—change it. Even if you think it’s your plan. Chances are it’s not. Only one person knew I was coming out early, yet they were waiting for me. Don’t trust anyone. Not even yourself. This is a cockeyed one. Topoketa, Jess. Bring home the puppy biscuit.
Ray
Ask Mrs. Christopolis about the icon. Do you remember your favorite character in Wind in the Willows?”
There were tears in her eyes as she finished reading the note. He’d been so sure she would come—so sure she would find the note. She leaned back in the chair, and none of the things she could think of were very pleasant.
It was a strange note, both chatty and desperate. Wind in the Willows? Mr. Toad of Toad Hall? But that hadn’t been her favorite; she’d always preferred Mr. Mole with his…”Oh, God.” Her eyes widened and she felt sick. Not a mole. Moles only happened to the British. Not to insignificant sub departments of august American institutions. Not to Ray and Max and her and their very small section. Too small surely for a mole?
There were footsteps on the stairway and she quickly folded the paper and put it in the pocket of her raincoat. She was sitting dejectedly surveying the damaged bed when Mrs. Christopolis appeared in the doorway. She looked as if she might burst into tears again.
“You were right, Mrs. Christopolis. There’s nothing left. They seem to have taken clothes, books, everything. I’m sure he had no valuables though.”
Mrs. Christopolis interrupted her. “Of course not, he is such a quiet sensible man. He never even went out after dinner; he would sit downstairs with me and do his crossword puzzles. We would sit by the fire in the evenings and drink tea,” she broke off.
“Have you notified the police?”
Mrs. Christopolis looked surprised. “Of course. My sister’s son is in the police and I called him right away. I told him Rigo would not leave so—and then this. We do not have much crime in Varna; he cannot understand this.”
Jessica sighed, “No.”
They started downstairs. This time they went into the kitchen where Mrs. Christopolis gave Jess a cup of the tea she had made.
“Did he leave anything else with you, Mrs. Christopolis?”
Mrs. Christopolis shook her head, then stopped. “I almost forgot the icon. He asked me to take it to my brother; there was some damage in the corner and he wanted it repaired. My brother is art restorer for state treasures and he was happy to do so. Rigo is a very careful man.”
“Yes, he was,”Jessica said. “He liked things to be right.”
There were two men who knew where Ray Stephens was. They had his body in the refrigerated hold of a ship in the Port of Varna. Ray had known when the men cornered him on the quay that he was not going to get away. He knew they could make him talk, and he was confident that he had done his best to protect the microfilm. He had taken the cyanide pill with a sense of relief and a malicious knowledge of the frustration he was causing his pursuers.
It was more than frustration. The orders had come from very high up and had been unequivocal: Get that microfilm. It had not seemed like an impossible task.
Ray had decided it was too dangerous to fly home straight from Moscow. He’d cut out two or three cities from his usual itinerary and he cut short his stay in all his usual stops, but he’d kept roughly to his routine. There had been no pursuit inside the Soviet Union. If they had wanted him there, they’d have gotten him. He knew that. He’d never had any illusions about his vulnerability if he were blown. So it came as a distinct shock to find that they did want him in Varna. There was no doubt in his mind that they knew exactly what they were after. And if they knew what he had, they knew where he had gotten it. So two of them were going to die for that microfilm. There was no way to warn the man who had given it to him…they had both known the chances they were taking. He was a realist. He had begun making plans to save the microfilm. He had twelve hours from the time he had first spotted his pursuers, twelve hours to hide the microfilm and try to get out himself. When they’d cornered him on the ferry slip, he’d realized he was only going to be able to accomplish half of that. He’d have given a lot to know how they’d found out. He was awfully afraid he did know. His last thoughts were of Jessica. Was he expecting too much? He had to trust her. There was no one else.
*****
The two Russians who had been sent to intercept Ray were new as a team. Panov, the elder of the two, was a veteran of the Stalin days, a hard silent man without much regard for the intelligence of his superiors, a fact he had not been too successful in hiding. This had kept him from rising as far in the ranks of Soviet intelligence as his undoubted ability should have led him. He knew this and he knew why; but he also knew that they respected his abilities, or they wouldn’t have handed him this assignment. He had his own ideas as to how this one should be handled and he had a feeling this one might be HIS. The one that would give him the break he needed. He was getting on. A nice warm Moscow office and a little higher shopping priority would be very welcome. He was not a happy man when Ray took the cyanide and left behind no microfilm. He did not like Jessica at all.
Leontov was a younger man, early thirties, to whom the Stalin years were hearsay. He was the Russian equivalent of a corporation man: bland, smooth, intelligent, and rising inexorably, like heavy cream, to the top. He had a sense of humor which he allowed some small rein in the field, and a calm acceptance of life outside the borders of the Soviet Union. None of these things endeared him to Panov.
Panov had waited as long as he dared before reporting Ray’s death. He had searched Ray’s body and then his room with savage thoroughness, taking the clothing and books away with him for an even more thorough search in his hotel room. Nothing had turned up in Ray’s clothing or books, although Panov grunted with anger over the crosswords. Could there be a clue there? He hadn’t time to send it back for examination. Finally, Leontov had suggested they go back to Mrs. Christopolis and talk to her. They had nothing to lose. They could tell her they were friends of the dead man, he said, and ask if he had left anything to be given to them.
And how, Panov asked snidely, were they supposed to know he was dead? Did the woman herself know? He thought not. Besides, it was too obvious.
Leontov was unmoved by the sarcasm. They didn’t have to say he was dead. They could simply be looking for him and for a package he was to bring them. The simple way, he said, echoing Jessica’s sentiments, was always best.
Panov finally agreed to go, not graciously, but because, in truth, he couldn’t think of a better plan. The two men turned the corner just as Jessica was knocking on the door. Although Panov had only a description of her, one look was enough. He swore bitterly as she disappeared inside. For a moment he considered storming the house, but Leontov was already suggesting that they try to find a vantage point where they could hear what was being said. Without breaking stride, the two men moved into one of the alleyways leading to the back gardens of the houses on the block. Grapevines made leafy enclosures in most of the gardens, and Leontov counted quietly and finally nodded at the wooden gat
e just ahead of them. They marched in boldly, as if they had business, and got as close to the back of the small house as they could. The kitchen door opened into the back garden and the tiny parlor also had a window which looked over the back. Leontov pressed himself close to the house and heard the murmur of the two women’s voices. Unfortunately, the high-backed heavy plush sofa cut off much of the sound. Finally, the two women rose and he heard one say, “You go on up and I will join you.” Crouching below the kitchen window, he could hear the sound of water running and the rattle of china. Preparing tea or coffee he presumed. Then silence.
Panov stood seething in the shelter of the grape arbor. This was a waste of time. Neither of them had thought to bring any listening devices. He had not counted on Jessica getting there so quickly. It occurred to him that there were several things he had not counted on, Ray’s death most of all. He hated the spare little man who had outwitted him and he hated Leontov for being there to see it.
He was about to gesture to Leontov to leave when the sound of footsteps made Leontov duck further below the kitchen window. Even Panov, further back, could hear the voices quite clearly now as the two women chatted over cups of tea. And he forgot his impatience as he heard Jessica say casually, “Did Ray leave anything else with you, Mrs. Christopolis?” and the news of the icon dropped into his lap.
The voices of the two women faded as Mrs. Christopolis walked Jessica to the front door. The two men slipped out the back gate and walked quickly back to the hotel. The only part of the exchange they missed was Mrs. Christopolis telling Jessica that because he was working on a large order for the state icon collection, her brother would be at his shop this afternoon. She would call and tell him Jessica was coming. Unaware that she was giving Jessica a twelve hour lead, she closed the front door and went to the telephone.
The two Russians actually passed by the icon shop as they walked back to the hotel. They had peered into the window, but had not tried the door. Mr. Yordan and his assistant were both hard at work in the back room. Panov noted the hours on the little card in the window and decided to come back at eight the next morning. They were nearly back to the hotel by the time Jessica pushed open the door of the shop and rang the little bell.
“A friend of mine sent an icon to be repaired. He asked me to drop by to see if it is finished. He sent it in through your sister, I believe.”
The man was stout and balding and he had been listening with polite incomprehension until she mentioned his sister. His face brightened, he smiled broadly. “Of course, of course. One moment.” He turned toward the back of the tiny shop that was jammed with frames and wood, paint pots, and the clutter of work. There was an exquisite icon set on a table top easel beside a jar of gold leaf paint. She studied it as he bellowed, “Gregor!”
A small youngster in his mid-teens appeared in the midst of even greater clutter revealed as he pulled aside a curtain.
“Yes?”
“Where is the small icon Slava brought to me last week?”
The boy disappeared behind the curtain. The man turned back to Jessica, his smile reappearing. “He will bring it. I have myself worked on it. There was a small amount of damage only in the lower corner. I think you will be pleased. It is hard to tell where the repairs have been made.”
It was Jessica’s turn to smile. She had heard wonderful things of his work, she said. The icon on the table, had it been restored?
He was pleased and immediately launched into a technical description of the difficulties of precisely matching the colors. Progress had not quite managed to catch up to the ancients in some areas—the richness of the colors—their lasting power. He was obviously a man in love with his work, who faced each new challenge to his skill with a deep affection and respect for the artists whose work he saved. He continued talking about the icon until it occurred to both of them that the boy was taking a long time.
“Gregor! What is the problem? Excuse me,” he said to Jessica and disappeared behind the curtain. She could hear the confused murmur of voices, then a clear, “But it must be, I had it only yesterday,” and she knew the icon was gone. There was a louder murmur, then the curtain was thrust aside and the man and boy reappeared, both looking distressed.
“I am sorry,” the man said. “There appears to have been a mistake. Gregor believes he has sent your friend’s icon to Rila Monastery along with several we had just finished restoring for them. He was not here when my sister brought in the icon, so he could not know it was not part of the Rila group. We will, of course, arrange for it to be sent back at once.”
Jessica was equally sorry and much more disturbed than she allowed to appear in her voice. She said warmly that she was sure things could be worked out. She liked the man; she had been pleased that he had not placed the blame on the boy. What was done was done.
Perhaps, she said as if the thought had just struck her, she could pick up the icon at the monastery; she would be there later in the week. If he could give her a letter….
He was explosive in his relief. “But of course. I will write immediately a letter which you can take to Father Vazov.” He would have disappeared into the back of the shop again if Jessica had not laid her hand on his arm.
“There is no hurry. I will be here until tomorrow. If you will write the letter, I can call back for it tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, of course.” Whatever she preferred. He was sorry for the inconvenience.
Assuring him once again that things would be fine, she left the shop. The less time she had that letter in her possession, the better. She didn’t think they knew about her yet, but precautions were definitely in order. She glanced up and down the narrow street. There were rhythms and patterns in pedestrian traffic and it was easy to check breaks—a person suddenly changing gait from fast to slow; a window shopper unnaturally still. The little street was busy, but each person in it seemed innocuous and intent upon business. She decided to go into two or three more shops, just in case.
By the time she had chatted with two shopkeepers and purchased a small gift from a third, she was feeling let down and weary. Reading Ray’s note had sent her hopes soaring. The talk with Mrs. Christopolis had made her feel that just possibly this would be relatively simple. She would pick up the icon and go home. Now she had struck the first delay and the implications of Ray’s note were weighing heavily. First, he was surely dead. Max had accepted that; she had not. Now there could be no question. Her mind shied away from direct confrontation with the mole theory, but it lay there, a lurking cancer. Ray had clearly meant the microfilm to go only to her; she was sure no one else would have found the note, which was odd in itself. Perhaps not. He thought he knew who the mole was. He thought she would know. How? She was frowning as she went up the steps of the hotel and nearly collided with Stefan.
“Miss Winter!I have been looking everywhere for you!”
“I wasn’t there.”
“No. Now you are here.”
“Absolutely.” She shook her head. “Who’s on first?”
“What?”
She smiled at him. “Never mind. What would you like?” He was still staring at her in bewilderment.
“Why were you looking for me?” she said gently.
“Oh. I was hoping we could go over the James Taylor. I have not sung before and I think perhaps you must do it.”
“Oh no, it sounds much better with you. I don’t have a rock voice, even soft rock. But you’ll be fine and I’ll be backing you. It will do you good to know how the vocalist feels for a change! You instrumentalists are spoiled; you always have something to hide behind.”
They were still standing on the steps of her hotel. She had to have a cup of tea. She was feeling all her forty-three years. “I’ve been walking for hours. Could we sit for a moment and have a cup of tea? That should bring me to life again.”
“Of course, I am sorry. I must come back later, when you have rested.”
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “I’m just old, not in
firm. Come and sit with me while I have my tea. I’ll be good as new and we’ll rehearse.”
She swept him along unprotestingly, privately doubting that the tea was going to be quite that restorative. She felt bone weary. How was she going to manage to sing all night and follow Ray’s trail all day? Max was counting on her, Ray had trusted her, the other side was poised, and here she was, ready for Medicare.
Thirty minutes, three cups of strong hot tea, and ten years of Stefan’s life later she was ready to compete again. She looked at him with affection. He was so like her brother Paul, prickly, sensitive, and incurably pessimistic. He complained of everything; no one appreciated jazz in Bulgaria; his schedule was impossible; he could hardly expect to be good, he never heard any decent jazz.
“Nonsense,” she said finally. “You’re extremely good and you know it. You get paid more than a doctor and you’re doing something that you would do whether they paid you or not.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No. I’m making it up.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “You are making fun of me.”
She nodded solemnly. “And I may do so again. You have been warned.”
A smile lurked in the corners of his mouth. “You are not taking me seriously.”
“Because you take yourself seriously enough for both of us. We could even throw in a third and have some seriousness left over.”
No Work for a Woman Page 5