His smile widened to a full-fledged grin. He was not used to having people talk back to him and he found it oddly comforting to be put so firmly and pleasantly in his place. He thought he might be falling in love.
*****
Panov awoke early the next morning and lay there going over the mission so far. He’d had some bad luck, but it looked as if things were beginning to break his way. He would get the icon and go back home triumphant; they would realize that Ray’s death had not succeeded. He was too clever for the Americans.
It was a morning of optimism for all concerned. Panov thought it was all over but the shouting; Jessica, too, was convinced she was on her way home. Mr. Yordan had written the letter to Father Vazov and felt better about having lost the icon, and Mrs. Christopolis felt she had at least partially fulfilled her obligation to Ray.
The interview with Mr. Yordan began well enough. Panov and Leontov entered the shop to the tinkle of the small bell which brought the proprietor from the back room. For the first few minutes, Mr. Yordan was under the impression that they were there to pick up the letter for Father Vazov. But he was not a stupid man and after a few questions he realized that Panov knew nothing about the letter and that he thought the icon was in the shop. Mr. Yordan had no inkling of the larger issues, but he was a businessman who dealt in priceless artifacts and he had a shrewd idea that they might be trying to steal the icon from that nice young woman that Slava had sent over. As his answers dried up, so did Panov’s patience. Finally, he grabbed the old man and shook him. “Where is the icon?” he growled. He shook harder. “Where is it?”
“Rila Monastery,” the old man gasped.
Panov was beside himself. He was certain the man was lying. “You fool! We know it is here. Where is it?”
A spasm of pain crossed Mr. Yordan’s face; he gasped for breath and tried to speak. The words rattled in his throat and he slumped, his weight settling on Panov who let go and watched incredulously as the body crumpled to the floor. Without looking at Leontov, he strode to the door and left the shop.
He walked quickly back toward the hotel, Leontov a few steps behind him. They were nearly to the front steps when Leontov spoke. “What if he was telling the truth?”
Panov looked at him, waiting. “What if the icon is at Rila Monastery?”
“Yes?”Still Panov waited.
“We don’t know what it looks like.”
Panov swore briefly and bitterly. He was right, of course.
“The old woman took the icon to the shop.”
They turned and started back down the street. As they approached the house, Panov said, “It is better if I speak with her alone. It will be better if she does not see you, in case we must approach her again.”
Leontov glanced at him, then nodded. And, he said to himself, you don’t want any witnesses this time. They agreed to meet again in half an hour and Leontov drifted past the house and around the corner as Panov rang the bell.
Mrs. Christopolis did not like Panov. She hadn’t liked him when she found him standing on her doorstep, and now, five minutes later, sitting in her parlor, she liked him even less. His story about giving Ray the wrong icon was thin and all his efforts to casually extract a description of the icon were met with uncomprehending blankness. Finally, Mrs. Christopolis had had enough. She rose briskly and said, “I wish I could help you,” a statement neither of them believed, “But I have never seen the icon myself. It was wrapped in paper and I took it to be repaired. If it is the wrong icon, I am sorry, but I believe you must wait until Mr. Stephens returns and take it up with him.”
Panov heard the ring of truth and the finality in her voice. He rose, apologized for disturbing her, and left the house.
Mrs. Christopolis closed the door after him and stood staring into space. Finally, she went to the telephone and asked for the number of the icon shop. She was more disturbed when she finally put down the phone after hearing it ring unanswered. She stood for a moment, irresolute, then opened the closet door and took out her black coat. Buttoning it neatly, she stepped out the front door and began to walk rapidly down the street.
Leontov picked her up at the corner. He had been watching the house since Panov left. He edged closer and, as she stood in a crowd at the corner of the small but busy intersection, he maneuvered himself directly behind her. He waited until a large truck was nearly at the intersection, then gave her a firm shove in the small of her back. As she sailed forward into the path of the vehicle, Leontov leaned forward as if to grab her coat. Two witnesses later swore that he had tried heroically to snatch her from the path of the truck.
*****
The performance the night before had gone well and Jessica was relaxed and happy as she set out early Monday morning to collect the letter to Father Vazov. It was 8:15 and the streets were filled with housewives doing the day’s shopping. The depression of the day before was gone. Having the icon sent to Rila was a nuisance, but she was convinced there was nothing sinister about it. The boy had made an understandable error. She would collect the icon from Rila and go home. Her response to Ray’s death was natural, but it had caused her to overreact. This was going to be another of her flawless performances. Her fears and apprehensions were groundless. She grinned to herself. Maybe she was getting too old for this. Her imagination was catching up with her.
The bell tinkled as she pushed open the door and entered the cluttered shop. There was no one in sight. Suddenly Gregor’s head appeared above the counter, his eyes wide with fright. “Oh, miss,” he babbled, “What to do?” His master was dying; he could not rouse him. She had trouble following his rapid Bulgarian, but she moved quickly around the counter and knelt by the man on the floor. No pulse. She looked up at the boy.
“What happened?”
“I was in the back. I heard the door and voices, one, maybe two, men. Then I heard some noises and when I get here, I see my master on the floor and the men are gone. I think perhaps they have gone for help.”
Jessica didn’t think so.
“Did you see the men?”
He looked at her wide-eyed and shook his head. “No.”
“Did they see you?” Again he shook his head, “No.”
“Is there a back door?”
His eyes opened even wider. His face was white. He nodded yes.
She was still kneeling by the body. She got up and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Gregor, I want you to go out the back and go home. Don’t talk to anyone on the way. Stay home until tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“What about…” He choked on the name.
“I will call the police, they will come and take care of him.”
He glanced down at the figure on the floor. He was close to tears. “Da,” he stammered finally.
She gave him a gentle shove through the curtain. She waited until she heard the closing of the back door. She knelt beside the body again and looked quickly through the dead man’s pockets. Nothing. They hadn’t had much time. If the letter were not in his pocket, and they didn’t know about it—if, if, if—she got up and looked quickly through the littered counter. Nothing. She badly wanted to get out of there. She didn’t know where else to look. Her eye fell on the icon on the work table. There beneath the bottle of gold paint lay an envelope with Father Vazov’s name on it. How had they missed that? Had they? She lifted it. It was not sealed. She shrugged and put the envelope in her purse.
Every nerve in her body was jumping. She felt as if she had been in the shop for hours, but barely fifteen minutes had passed. Outside, nothing had changed, housewives bustled past toward the market. She joined them, walking confidently down the street, glancing at her watch as if she were late for an appointment, but her mind was in turmoil, trying to sort out the scene in the icon shop. She had only been walking a few minutes when she realized that, in fact, she did have a destination and her feet were aware of it even if her conscious mind wasn’t. She was heading for Mrs. Christopolis and as the thought surfaced her pace quickene
d. She would just go and look at her and have a cup of tea; nothing was going to happen to Mrs. Christopolis. Then why was she almost running? She took a deep breath and slowed down to a brisk trot. Order and method, she said to herself firmly, and the little grey cells. Why hadn’t she foreseen this? As soon as she read Ray’s note she should have taken steps to protect Mrs. Christopolis. Such as surrounding her with Marines?…said a corner of her mind. Your resources are so vast. Nothing, she repeated to herself firmly, is going to happen to Mrs. Christopolis. We will have a cup of tea.
She turned the corner into a scene of bedlam. It was a tiny street, hardly room for two cars to pass, with very narrow sidewalks. A truck was stopped in the middle of the street, the focal point of a boiling mass of people talking, gesticulating, jockeying for position. A policeman suddenly appeared from the center of the circle which opened momentarily to let him pass. As it opened, she caught a glimpse of a small figure lying in the street.
She knew with certainty the identity of that small mound.
She wanted to turn and run back to the hotel, but she kept walking until she mingled with the outer edges of the crowd.
“The same thing nearly happened to me two days ago. Trucks should not be allowed in this area!”
“Nothing he could do. She must have fainted and fallen in front of the truck.”
“I saw the whole thing. It was nothing like that at all.”
The voices babbled on, the usual mixture of horror and excitement, relief that disaster had struck and they were spared, gratitude that they had been allowed to be a part of it. The human comedy.
It answered one question anyway. They knew she was there.
Micha Borov was a square compact man with an air of command, who had been in the Bulgarian Army for 35 years. He counted his partisan days, as did his superiors. He had risen steadily and quietly. He looked deceptively fatherly, and, in fact, had always been a paternal figure to those he commanded, none of whom ever made the mistake of treating him familiarly, however. Through the years he had developed an extraordinary ability to sense trouble spots before most people knew there was a problem. A born psychologist, he had read body language long before it became a fad in the west. He knew very early in any power struggle who had the marbles and he managed, without compromising his integrity, to be in that corner. He was not in the generally accepted sense ambitious, which was one of the things that made him so useful to those in power. He kept his own counsel, did his job, and delivered the goods. A very valuable man.
It was this apparent lack of ambition which had led the party leader to feel comfortable in elevating his son-in-law to Chief of State Security over Borov. The party leader was himself a shrewd judge of men who had walked a few tightropes in his time. He was correct in his assumption that the title of Chief meant little to Borov. What he should have realized, however, was that Micha deeply resented having so important a position go to a man he considered untested. He understood the politics of the situation, he could work with the younger man, but he considered it a poor choice and felt the time would come when this was obvious.
He was aware of the activity in Varna, as he was aware of most things that happened in Bulgaria. He was also aware that he had not heard of the activity from the sources which should have reported it to him…Russian intelligence liaison and his chief. And he found that interesting. He knew an American agent had surfaced; he knew of the search of Ray’s quarters. He did not know where Ray was, but he was confident that he would know soon. The Russians had moved in swiftly and silently, and, given the near desperation of the search, he could make a shrewd guess as to what the American agent had, and why he had to be stopped. Still, no one had asked him for help and he was content to watch from the sidelines.
Before the day was out, his attention had been called to Jessica.
On Tuesday afternoon, Jessica and the band flew from Varna to Sofia. They arrived in time to set up at the club on Stamboliyski Boulevard and rehearsed for two hours, getting the feel of the room. Jessica went back to the hotel to rest and to give a little thought to the reason she was there. She had to get to Rila as soon as possible, but she couldn’t afford to go directly there. They were obviously watching her; if she accepted Ray’s premise, they had known she was coming before she got on the plane. Why was she still questioning? But how had Ray thought she was going to get the damned icon out of the country once she got it? She lay on the bed, tossing restlessly, and spinning out the problems. Where was Ray? Should she be looking for him? She finally decided she didn’t have time. The only advantage she might have would be speed. Get the icon and get out. Somehow. In the meantime, keep as low a profile as possible offstage.
Which turned out to be the biggest problem of all.
She arrived at the club at 8:30 and went back to the closet-sized room that had been assigned to her as a dressing room. She slipped out of her street clothes and into a halter topped evening dress of gold lame. When she had been in Saks it had seemed too much, but Marie had insisted and she blessed her for it now. She had forgotten the Bulgarians’ love of glitter. Watching the sedate but gaudy go-go girls who had preceded them on the bill at Varna, she had thought appreciatively of the gold lame.
She had no idea how vulnerable she looked standing there, in a pool of light, one hand on the piano, the other holding the mike. The deep gold of the dress made her look like a column of flame and she was quite still as Karl and the bass gave her a simple intro. Her voice was low and husky and touched each person in the room as she began, almost conversationally, “Only a fool, like fools before me, I always lead with my heart…”
If she’d realized the effect she was having, she’d have packed her bags and gone home. And saved at least one, possibly two lives. Although it is doubtful that anyone could have saved the second life. She always felt she should have.
She finished and they launched into a rollicking version of “But Not for Me.” Then she perched on a stool next to the piano and sang a wry and wistful, “Everything Happens to Me.”
As she sang, she began, with no conscious thought, to take on the character of the songs, much as she assumed Mrs. Crimmins did. She was foolish, wistful, unlucky in love, but always willing to “lead with her heart.” In fact, had she been any of those things, she would not have been there. But neither she nor the people whose lives she was disrupting thought of that until it was too late. By the time she sang “Rainy Day,” she had acquired knights who were willing to lay down their lives to protect her. She was surprised to learn she’d been cast as the princess; until very late in the proceedings she thought she was playing the dragon.
They finished the set, the lights came up, and Jess flashed a brilliant smile. The act was over, she was back to being her self. For those watching, the smile was the reaction of a courageous woman putting a brave face on her heartache. It took several days, and several inexplicable actions by those around her, for Jessica to realize what she had done. When she did, she was appalled. She tried very hard to counteract that first dazzling impression, but the damage had been done.
In the band, in the music, she had come home. The conflicts were resolved, her fears allayed. She was a far different person than the young woman who had given up singing all those years ago. She was delighted to realize this and she responded by relaxing as she had not for many years. It was as if she combined the enthusiasm and sparkle of her early years with the wit and humor and experience she had gained. It was a devastating combination. To see her was to be warmed by her, to want to share that vitality, to be as alive as she appeared in that little circle of light. On stage, she forgot Ray and Max, she was pure performer.
She had no difficulty with the dual roles. She’d been compartmentalizing her life for years. For her it was no problem to separate the Jessica who sang from the Jessica who followed Ray’s trail. For the people around her, it was impossible.
Both Max and Ray would have recognized the problem… Jessica still viewed the entire thing as a game.
One to be played well, to the best of one’s ability, but not something one took seriously.
By the time she realized her mistake, things had gotten out of hand. For years afterward, she played the IF game… If I had done this differently…if I had payed attention …if, if, if. It was almost a comfort to think that by being different, she could have changed the outcome. What was harder to live with was the suspicion that nothing she had done and nothing she could have done would have had any effect whatsoever.
*****
Their second set ended in a storm of applause, and Jessica was smiling broadly as she worked her way through the tables to the hallway that led to her dressing room. She hummed quietly to herself as she pushed open the door and flicked the light switch. The sound died in her throat as she faced the man sitting in her chair.
One of her problems was solved. She had found Ray, what was left of him. He was wearing the same grey European cut suit he always wore on assignment; and, although his tie was slightly askew, there were no marks of violence that she could see. Only the sightless eyes and the slight slump gave any indication that things were not as they should be. Ray never slumped.
She touched his shoulder lightly, saying goodbye, then moved wearily into the routine, keeping in character. Dutifully, she opened her mouth and gave a healthy scream. “Well done,” part of her mind said as she stood staring down at Ray. Her fingers slipped quickly into the inside pocket of his suit. There was nothing there. She had not expected there would be. She could not chance a real search. Someone should be arriving just about…now, the interior voice continued triumphantly as Karl’s head appeared around the doorway followed closely by the others.
She turned to them helplessly, pointing to the body in the chair. They clustered around equally helpless until finally Paeter said, “I think perhaps we must call the police.” Jessica nodded. He went off down the hall and they stood in suspended animation. Jessica’s mind was racing. Who had put him here? Why? Should she admit that she knew him? Where had he been until now? Dead or alive? If he’d been alive, and it seemed the only explanation, what had he told them? If he’d told them anything, why were they playing games with his body?
No Work for a Woman Page 6