“I’ll get back to you, Brewer. And remind me not to owe you any favors ever again.”
Brewer called Chernie. “This is the cleaner, sir. We can pick up your cleaning in a few hours. It depends on the weather. I’ll call you shortly with a definite pickup time.”
There was a pause. Finally, Chernie spoke in almost a whisper. “Come now.”
“As fast as I can, sir.”
“Come now,” Chernie whispered. Brewer put the phone on its cradle. It was now one-twenty.
The new storm settled in. Remembering the tangled traffic horrors of the first, working Washington had already fled. Even so, before the first light coating, the major arteries—including the Beltway—were jammed and crawling.
Brewer called Sauer then met him in a bar in Georgetown.
“Things could get pretty wild,” Brewer said. “If that backs you down, now is the time to tell me.”
Sauer stared at Brewer, trying to read more information from his face. “I told you I’m on a one-way street. I can’t back down from anything.”
“Your friend,” Brewer said. “What’s her name?”
“Maida Conyers.”
“How tall is she?”
“About five-four,” Sauer said. “Weighs about one twenty.”
“This may turn out to be a street brawl,” Brewer said. “How old is she? Does she work under fire?”
“She’s about forty and she carries her end of the piano,” Sauer said. “She and Court are both on their way.” He chafed his hands and looked out on the street. “Goddamn snow.”
Brewer called again. “Do I have a bird?”
“Coming up, Brewer: one helicopter, two pilots as crazy as you are, one pad near the U.N., and up to two feet of snow.”
“Grazie. ”
“The bird will pick you up at National Airport in half an hour. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, Brewer, sometimes I think you really like the long odds.”
At three they got out of a cab at the Washington National Airport on the edge of the Potomac River.
Brewer went to a pay phone and dialed Chernie’s number, let it ring twice and hung up. He waited five minutes for Chernie to run down the stairs of his apartment to the pay phone on the street corner. Then he rang that number.
“Hello,” Chernie’s voice cried breathlessly.
“I’m on my way,” Brewer said. “I’ll be there in a few hours. Here’s what I want you to do. Take your wife and leave the apartment.”
“Yes yes.”
“Don’t take anything. No bags, no packages. Just walk out as though you’re going to do some shopping. Got that?”
“Yes yes.”
“Go to Bloomingdale’s and buy a couple of things. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Stop for something to eat. Is that Russian language film still at the PanCinema Theater in Times Square?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you both have parkas?”
“What?”
“Parkas? Do you and Anna both have parkas?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“What color are they?”
“Red. They’re both red.”
“Good. Wear your parkas and boots. You have boots?”
“Yes yes.”
“Sit in the rear row of the theater and stay there until I get there. No matter how long it takes. Stay right there. Got that?”
“Hurry,” Chernie said. “Hurry.”
Brewer led the way through the airport and out to the helicopter pad.
At three-fifteen the helicopter left National. It had no military markings, and both pilots wore civilian clothes. Flying through the snowstorm was like flying through a white blur.
Brewer thought of Chernie in New York—sitting in the theater with his wife, eyes not seeing the film before him, ears not hearing the sound track. Slowly dying.
Sauer leaned close to Brewer’s ear. “When are you going to detail the job to us?”
“When we get there,” Brewer said.
The co-pilot spoke to Brewer. “We’re going to be flying along the coast all the way to New York. We’ve passed over Chesapeake Bay and we’re over the Eastern Shore now. We’ll be over the water somewhere around Bombay Hook.”
There was nothing to do but wait. And think of the terrified Chernie, glancing over his shoulder each time someone entered the theater, fearing the awful tap on the arm by a KGB man, hoping at any moment to see Brewer’s face wearing the smile of deliverance, and periodically giving his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze. All this for a few words inside Chernie’s head: “His name is—” Brewer felt powerless.
“A world I never made, Igor.”
Chapter 33
When the helicopter arrived over Manhattan, the city was already under five inches of snow. As it approached the landing pad on the east side of Manhattan, the helicopter swung like a kite in the buffeting winds.
The co-pilot shook his head at Brewer. “It’s going to be tricky,” he said. “Wind shear.”
The helicopter made a tentative pass at the landing pad and swung off as the wind rocked it. Then, turning and approaching from the other direction, the two pilots tried to land again. At the last moment the helicopter was borne away.
“Try once more,” Brewer said. The two pilots conferred, studied the landing pad, then conferred some more. Brewer looked down through the storm to the street. He thought of Chernie and his wife sitting in the theater, terrified and ready to bolt, waiting to be rescued.
Skepticism was written all over the co-pilot’s face as he glanced back at Brewer. He and the pilot talked at some length while hovering over the landing pad. The wind was pushing the helicopter like a frail toy. The pilot turned to Brewer then held up crossed fingers.
“I’m terrified,” Maida Conyers said.
“So am I,” Brewer said. He nodded at the pilot. “Do it.” The helicopter circled the pad again, rocking in the seething wind. As the pilot tried to settle the craft on the pad, the gusting wind pushed it aside. At the last possible moment the pilot dropped it on the pad. A hard landing.
“I’ll never do that again,” the pilot said. “Pure luck.”
Brewer had to restrain himself from running. They were not far from the United Nations building, but there were no cabs at the cab stands. He considered calling the theater, and paging Chernie, then rejected the idea.
The wind was blowing great clouds of snow through the streets and piling curved drifts at the intersections. Snow grains cut their faces. It was snowing harder than ever.
“Are we going to have to walk?” Sauer asked.
“No,” Brewer said. “We’re going to do what everyone else in New York is doing. We’ll take the subway—the crosstown shuttle.” He led the group up Forty-third Street and into Grand Central Station. They followed him down the subway stairs past the Lexington Avenue line to the shuttle line. And there, as they stood on the platform, he detailed the job to them.
“We’re going to pick up a man in the PanCinema movie house in Times Square.” He looked at Sauer. “You know it?”
Sauer nodded. “Foreign language movies.”
“That’s the place,” Brewer said. “The man is waiting in there with his wife. He’s a Russian who wants to defect. If he’s in the clear, then we simply escort the two of them back to a safe house on the east side. Okay so far?”
They all nodded.
“Trouble is,” Brewer said, “there’s a chance a couple of Russian security people may have followed him.”
“Then what?” Sauer asked.
“They’ll probably try to kill the man. He knows too much.”
“What’s his name?” Court asked.
“Chernie. Igor Chernie.”
“The Science Officer?” Sauer asked. “On the Russian U.N. delegation?”
“Yes,” Brewer said.
“You’re right,” Sauer said. “He knows too much.”
“Why don’t we get a
busload of agents and rash the place?” Conyers asked.
“Because they’ll kill Chernie on the spot before we can get to him,” Brewer said. “We’re going to have to finesse the two of them out of that theater.” He looked at Maida Conyers. “Conyers, what I want you to do is change clothes with Anna Chernie in the ladies’ room. And you, Sauer, you’ll change clothes with Chernie in the men’s room. That means you two will be wearing their red parkas and they’ll be wearing your coats. Okay?”
Nods again. “Decoys,” Conyers said, and they all nodded again.
“When I signal you,” Brewer said, “zip up the hoods so your faces are partly covered. Wrap scarves around your mouths so that only your eyes show, and walk out of the rest rooms to the front door of the movie and north toward Forty-fifth Street. That’s in the opposite direction from the subway-shuttle entrance. If there are any Russian security people around, they should follow you.”
Brewer looked at Court. “The moment these two red parkas go out the front door, you take Anna Chernie out by the side door and walk her south back to the shuttle entrance and down the steps. As fast as you can.”
Court nodded. “She speak English?”
“Fluently,” Brewer said. “Take the shuttle back to Grand Central, then transfer to the Lexington Avenue local, downtown. So far so good?”
Court nodded. “Where are we taking them?”
“To the safe house off Third Avenue,” Brewer said.
“I know where that is,” Sauer said. “Down in the twenties between Second and Third.”
Conyers and Court both nodded. “Brownstone,” Court said. “Been there.”
Brewer looked at Court again. “While you’re taking care of the wife, I’ll be taking care of Chernie himself. I’m going to lead him out the other side door of the movie, around the corner, and follow you back to the subway shuttle. We should be right behind you and Anna Chernie. Clear?”
“Clear,” Court said.
Brewer looked again at Conyers and Sauer. “Once you two leave the movie, if you’re being followed, just keep walking north. If you’re not being followed, turn back and follow us back to the shuttle. You know the route now?”
Both of them nodded.
Brewer looked at their faces. “Just one thing,” he said. “Now that you know what’s going on, nobody makes any phone calls from now until we have the Chernies safely housed. Got that? Don’t even look at a telephone.” He watched their nodding heads.
“Sounds like you don’t trust someone,” Sauer said.
“I don’t trust anyone,” Brewer said.
He handed out a supply of the subway tokens he’d just purchased to the three of them. “When you come back, you’re going to need these to avoid the lines at the change booths. If you have any problems, just step over the turnstiles and keep moving.”
When they entered the subway car, Brewer looked speculatively at Sauer and Court.
Court stood with his head bowed, hands in pockets, avoiding everyone’s eyes. His actions formed a familiar pattern that Brewer had seen before, and he tried to remember where. He wondered if Court was about to come apart.
Sauer idly read the car cards above his head.
Brewer felt as though he were going into action accompanied by the town drunk and the village idiot. And himself, the biggest fool in the asylum, leading them.
“I never rescued anyone by subway before,” Maida Conyers said. She looked levelly at Brewer. “And I’m inclined to hope I never do again.”
When the shuttle stopped at the Times Square station, Brewer said, “Okay. Break up and enter the theater one at a time.”
He walked by himself up the subway steps to the street. The blowing snow was blurring the bright lights of Times Square. There was the sound of spinning tires as cars skidded and slid in the deepening snow, fighting for traction. Several people were pushing a car. Most of the businesses were closed, and few pedestrians were about. He hurried toward the theater, head down, feeling the snow crystals blown into his face. As he walked he noted a man standing in a doorway of a record shop. There were two others under the marquee of the Charter House Hotel next to the PanCinema Theater. Two more stood in a doorway on the other side of the theater entrance. Chernie’s fears were justified.
Brewer bought a ticket and entered the lobby, opened the inner door and walked up to the low back wall. He looked over into the last row. Chernie and his wife looked back at him. Mrs. Chernie sighed audibly, almost a sob. Brewer slipped into the seat next to Chernie and whispered in his ear.
“Igor, I want you and Anna to walk out into the lobby, where you can be seen in your red parkas from the street. Hoods down so they can see your faces. Look out at the storm then turn around and come back in. Go into the rest rooms and change clothes with a man and a woman who will be waiting for you. Understood? Then follow my signals. Understood?”
Chernie spoke to his wife and the two of them got up, put on their red parkas, and went to the lobby. They looked out at the driving snow then turned back into the theater and went to the rest rooms. Maida Conyers entered the theater and went to the ladies’ room. Then Sauer entered and went to the men’s room. Court was a long time entering. When he passed Brewer, he leaned over and said, “I counted at least five.” He sat down a few rows ahead of Brewer.
A few minutes later Brewer nodded toward the rest room doors. Sauer and Conyers, wearing the Chernie’s red parkas, hoods zipped up, walked out of the rest rooms. They crossed the foyer quickly, walked through the front lobby and out on the street and turned right.
Court led Mrs. Chernie, in Maida Conyers’s beige storm coat, to the side exit. The door opened briefly and the two figures stepped through and were gone.
Brewer beckoned Chernie and led him to the left side door. They stepped through onto Forty-fifth Street.
“Head for the subway,” he said to Chernie. They turned the corner and looked. None of the five men were there. Ahead of them, Court and Anna Chernie were stepping through the deep snow.
“Pay dirt,” Brewer said. “They followed your red parkas. Keep your head down, Igor, and keep walking.” Anna Chernie turned to look for her husband. Court held her arm and urged her forward. They went down the stairs and disappeared into the shuffling crowd.
Brewer looked back. “So far so good,” he said. They descended the steps and hurried toward the shuttle entrance. A long line stood at the change booth. Shorter lines were pushing slowly through the turnstiles. Brewer looked repeatedly to the rear. “So far so good,” he said again.
At the turnstiles he turned again. “Hurry up, Igor. Here comes trouble.”
Two men holding walkie-talkies were pushing violently through the crowds, kicking over pails of fresh-cut flowers, running into people at the hot-dog stand. One pointed at Chernie and the other yelled into the walkie-talkie.
Brewer shoved Chernie ahead of him, pushing people out of line, and steered Chernie up to the turnstile and through it. Sauer came running down the stairs in his red parka and hurried up to the two men.
“Run,” Brewer said to Chernie. Brewer looked back once and saw Sauer struggling to hold the two men. One of them raised his walkie-talkie and backhanded it over Sauer’s head.
“Get out of the way!” Brewer yelled at the crowd as he pushed Chernie ahead of him. “Clear the way!” The two Russians were climbing over the turnstiles. Sauer, from behind, grabbed one of them around the neck and pulled him down.
At the stairs to the shuttle, Brewer paused. The cars of the shuttle stood at the platform below him, doors open. Crowds were filling the cars. Chernie pushed and shoved and ran down the stairs with Brewer running after him. Chernie ran right into his wife’s arms on the crowded subway car.
Court looked at Brewer doubtfully. “They’d better shut these doors soon. I’d hate to have to start shooting in this crowd.” More and more people were filling the cars.
There was a melee at the top of the stairs. A number of people were pushed from behind and fell. The
two men with walkie-talkies were struggling to get down the steps, with Sauer trying to wrestle them to the ground. They fell in a writhing lump and rolled partway down the stairs. Right behind them came another agent. Conyers had her arms around him from behind and was trying to pull him backward. Amid the shrieks and cries, they rolled and tumbled on the stairs. Conyers ended up on the bottom next to Sauer, struggling with two men. They fought their way to their feet.
The other man turned and lunged toward the doors of the car. They shut.
He forced an arm through the rubber buffers of the double doors, gripped the lapel of Chernie’s coat and pulled him against the door. He was shouting in Russian at him. The train started, and the man ran beside it with his arm still grasping Chernie’s coat. Then the arm withdrew.
Anna Chernie looked at her husband. “There,” she said. “It’s done. I’ve made my commitment. Good-bye to Russia forever.” She stood holding her head against his chest, weeping.
Brewer looked at Court and finally recognized the expression on his face. Guilt. Court’s eyes avoided his. Had he tipped the Russian security people outside the theater? If he had, they’d already had plenty of time to make their way to Grand Central Station to intercept Chernie and his wife.
“You okay, Court?” Brewer asked.
“Yeah. Fine. Fine.”
Fine.
Chernie was trying to console his terrified wife. He managed a tight grin. “We’re okay? Yes?” he asked Brewer.
“A little while longer, Igor.”
Chernie whispered to his wife in Russian. She nodded and wiped tears off her cheeks. She held his hand tightly.
The train rushed through the tunnel, picking up speed, then it slowed, and crept into Grand Central Station. A crowd on the platform pushed their way in the moment the doors opened. The passengers struggled in clots to get off.
“There they are,” Court said. Several men with walkie-talkies were standing at the top of a stairs, searching the faces in the crowd.
“Stoop, Igor,” Brewer said. Chernie crouched in front of Court. Brewer turned Anna Chernie away from the door, put his arms around her trembling shoulders and pulled her face against his chest. She was as small and fine-boned as a young girl.
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