Tool of the Trade (14 page)

I didn’t know what sort of response was expected, or safe. “Because?”

“Because he didn’t lay a hand on them. He said something to them. Then they took a long train ride, got off at the end of the line, walked out into the country, and killed each other. Rather, one killed the
other and then shot himself in the head. Now, don’t you think that’s remarkable?” “Uh, yes.”

“Does it remind you of anything?” My mind was a blank. What was I supposed to say? Don’t hurt me? “Come on, now. It must remind you of something.” He walked around to stand behind me, out of sight. “What could it be?”

“A… movie?”

He put his left hand in my hair and wove his fingers through it tightly, barely painful, immobilizing my head. “Something to do with your husband.”

“Just that… he caused it, you said?”

He pinched behind my earlobe with his thumbnail and began increasing pressure. “A process. The name of a process.”

“I can’t think when you—”

“What do you call it,” he said, suddenly increasing pressure with both hands, “when you induce a trance in a person and tell him to do something?”

“Hypnosis!
” I cried through the blinding pain.

“Very good.” He kept up the pressure for a few seconds and then slowly let go. He walked back around and sat down. Took out a Kleenex and dabbed at my tears. “You see? You
can
think while I’m hurting you. It’s up to you to convince me that you think better when I’m not. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Tell me about your husband and hypnotism.”

“But he couldn’t have hypnotized those men and ordered them… nobody could—” “I know. Tell me anyhow. Everything.”

That was a long time ago. “One winter, before we were married, he was very interested in it. We practiced on each other. I was a better subject—”

“Or he was a better hypnotist?”

“That could be. We didn’t think so at the time. Just that some people are hard to hypnotize.”

“All right. Go on.”

Suddenly a memory rushed in, and I tried hard to suppress it. It’s difficult to think about one thing and talk about another. “He wrote a paper about it.”

“I’ve read the paper. It doesn’t seem particularly relevant”

The time I started undressing.
Don’t think about it!
He said something to me
don’t
and I started stripping
don’t think
right there in the laboratory. “I don’t, don’t think he, uh, wrote any other papers.”

“Valerie.” He reached over and patted my right hand. “I told you, I do this for a living. You are withholding information.” He bent my little finger back almost to the breaking point. “I will break your finger. Then I will break the next one, and the next.”

“Please. No.” Tears dripping, trying not to scream.

He suddenly relaxed his grip. “I want you to think very hard over the next twenty-four hours. Recall all that you can about your husband and hypnotism. If I am satisfied with your testimony, your fingers… stay unbroken.”

He stood up and walked toward the door. “If not, I will break one finger each hour.” At the door, he looked back down the long room at me. “After ten hours, I will do more serious damage. The blade.”

He smiled and closed the door silently behind him. When had I wet myself?

Foley may be back in Boston. At least one of his guns is.

The police called in the FBI when they came across some suspicious-looking documents, investigating a rather gruesome break-in/murder down by the Combat Zone. The papers turned out to be computer listings for some highly classified General Dynamics software; the aiming system for a new antisatellite particle-beam weapon. So we were brought in on it.

The man was shot once in the head with a nine-millimeter automatic. The picture of the scene of the crime reminded me of that unlucky Bulgarian agent. I would like to go a long time without seeing another head wound.

Anyhow, the FBI retrieved the bullet from the wall behind the body and checked the rifling on it. Put it through their computer and, as too rarely happens,
actually did identify the weapon. It belonged to Nicholas Foley. (Twenty years ago Foley had the weapon “accuratized” by a Nebraska gunsmith, by mail. The gunsmith kept a file of sample bullets from each customer and periodically sent them to the FBI.)

Of course, the KGB could have stolen the weapon when they broke in to kidnap Mrs. Foley. We know from a previous clandestine search that Foley owned at least two pistols, a .22 target pistol and the accuratized Browning, and they were both gone after the kidnapping. Since Foley never went back to the apartment, if he still has the Browning, then he would have had to carry it to Paris with him. Or stash it at the airport. Either one is possible, but I suppose it’s about equally likely that the murder was an internal KGB affair. They may have used Foley’s pistol to confuse us—though in that case you would think they would have left it at the scene—or possibly just used it because it was handy.

It wasn’t a simple execution. The man had powder residue on his right hand. He evidently had fired at least three rounds from a .22, which went in three different directions. Was he shooting at three different assailants? Struggling? The police say that if he was struggling, it wasn’t with the person who shot him. From the angle of fire and the position of the spent cartridge case, they can tell that the assailant was about eight feet away.

So it’s possible that Foley has an accomplice, or several. It could be anybody, and it could be a temporary arrangement. Evidently he can walk up to anybody and say, “Pardon me, but would you mind helping me murder a Russian spy?” and have them pull the trigger and then forget about it afterward.

There was no real witness, unfortunately. An anonymous caller gave the address and said she had heard a shot. That’s more cooperation than the police normally expect in the Zone.

Anyhow, we’re assuming that Foley is in Boston. The police and FBI are weaving a pretty tight net. Maybe this time.

I was out of Boston before the cockroach’s body was cold. Packed my small suitcase and in a half hour was at the station, waiting for the first train south. With the watch turned up high, I called Jacob’s office and talked to each person, fixing. On the train, sat in the bar car and drank too much warm Budweiser. When I got back to my Georgetown apartment, I collapsed and slept for twelve hours.

The telephone number in his address book was unlisted, but I didn’t have any trouble getting the address from Ma Bell. A suite in the Watergate Hotel, probably not where Valerie was being held. At nine o’clock I called the suite and told the person who answered, in Russian, that I was from Moscow, an associate of Tarakan’s, and would meet him in one hour on the steps of the JFK Center. He asked if something was wrong, and I said, “Da.”

He was a nervous young man, constantly fingering
the red rose in his lapel. I’d asked him to wear a flower for identification. After watching him for a while, to see whether his glance or posture would betray knowledge of a third person’s presence, I finally walked up to him and shook hands.

“Let’s go down to the river,” I suggested before he could suggest otherwise. We walked out and crossed the street. The fleece-lined jacket was a comfort, not just because of the armament it concealed. The temperature had started dropping at ten o’clock; there was blizzard in the air. The wind off the Potomac was vicious. I turned the watch’s gain up all the way.

“After you called, I tried to reach Tarakan,” the young man said. “He wasn’t at the proper number.”

“There’s trouble. I went to see him yesterday, and there were police cars everywhere. I thought it would be well to leave Boston for a while.”

“Probably wise. We can get a
Globe
at the hotel newsstand and see what it says.”

We got to the edge of the water and turned to walk with our backs to the wind. “How was Tarakan involved with this Foley thing?”

“He just started about two weeks ago. He was the one who suggested we bring in
gospodin
Shilkov.” The Scalpel. He shivered, not from the cold. “He more than suggested it.”

“You don’t approve of Shilkov?”

“I can’t even look at him, his eyes. Knowing what I know.”

“Which is?”

“He can’t wait to torture her. Torture her and then kill her. That’s the way he is, the monster.”

“Has he—”

“—We don’t have to
do
this!” the man continued, in Russian, with emotion. “—It just brings us down to their
level!
Beneath
their level! Murder and kidnapping, torture. We should have exposed everything about the Bulgarian incident and compelled the Americans to explain it. Imagine the embarrassment to—”

“Has he hurt her?”

“Not yet, not that I’ve heard. He’s supposed to exhaust all normal techniques of interrogation first.”

“Where are they?”

“An unused factory building in Cabin John, Maryland.” Just across the river from Langley! “It’s right at the township limits, Two hundred North Carroll Drive.”

“How many are there?”

“It varies. Always at least three guards, one with her and two outside. And Shilkov, I think he’s staying there.”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Take me there, now.” I wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have asked one more question.

Snow had started to fall by the time we got his car out of the lot and pointed in the right direction. We’d be going within a few blocks of my apartment, and I was tempted to stop by and pick up the second gun. But I decided that it would be better to arrive a few minutes earlier, especially if the snow got worse. If one gun didn’t do the trick, then two probably wouldn’t be any better.

Before we were out of Georgetown, the snow was falling and blowing so hard that I could barely see the car in front of us. The driver hunched over the wheel and gave short answers to my questions.

“How long has Mrs. Foley been here?”

“Month.”

“Where was she before that?”

“Boston, I guess.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“What is your job in connection with her?”

“Guard, sometimes. Shopping.”

“Are you armed?”

“No. Gun’s at the place, the factory.”

“Where at the factory?” Just in case.

“Table in the prisoner’s room. By the door.”

“What keeps the prisoner from taking it?”

“She can’t go anywhere. Handcuffed to a chair that’s bolted to the floor.”

“Are there other weapons?”

“Probably.”

“Elaborate on that, please.”

“Shilkov always has a gun. And there’s a locked closet. Shilkov has the key. He said we didn’t need to know what was in it.”

We drove along in silence for a few minutes. “I don’t understand,” he said, “why I have to answer all your questions. Why I’m driving you out here through the snow.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“All right.” But a mile later, he persisted. “I’ve seen pictures of Foley. You aren’t him, are you? In disguise?”

“No. I work for him.” Might as well plant some misdirection. “I’m a private detective he hired in Boston. I haven’t seen him in over a month. Hope he’s still alive.”

“He hired you to find Mrs. Foley?”

“That’s right. Half the money up front, half if I deliver her.” He nodded. “Do you feel sorry for her?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Elaborate.”

“They say she’s not one of us, an innocent by-stander. If she has to die in this war, I wish it could be without torment.”

“What war do you feel you are fighting? What aims?”

He thought for a moment. “First, to contain American imperialism and militarism. Second, to encourage the growth of humane Communist leadership in contested parts of the world. The two are related, of course.”

Not so different from what I would have said at his age. I suddenly felt old and tired. “Look. I have a secret word for you.”

“Yes?”

“When I say the word
kumquat
, I want you to do everything in your power to subdue Shilkov. Even if you have to kill him.”

He nodded slowly. “I think I can do that.”

We drove the rest of the way to Cabin John in silence. North Carroll Road turned out to be little more than a bulldozed strip of frozen mud, and number 200 was the only building on it. It was a half-finished factory building, evidently a project that had run out of money. We parked in front and got out. There were no other buildings in sight, and to the rear of the factory a public dump supplied an interesting odor.

We opened the door and there were two men with two guns. No chance. The short fat one laughed, said “Kumquat,” and fired a shot from a large pistol. The driver screamed, and a second shot cut off the scream. At the same time, before I could even reach inside my coat, the other man, kneeling with a rifle, shot me in the chest.

I thought this was going to be it for sure. The door banged open, and the Scalpel strode in with a bright smile, bright eyes. Looking forward to something, presumably hurting me. All he did, though, was unlock the handcuffs, slide me onto the floor, and then reattach the cuffs to the chair leg. I found my voice. “What's happening?”

He laughed his one-syllable laugh. “Company coming. A gentleman your husband hired.” He went back into the anteroom, and I overheard him arguing with a couple of the guards. They went outside, and I heard a car drive away. So I was left with just the Scalpel and his little buddy, Sam. Sam was the only American there, and I think he wanted to grow up to be like the Scalpel. When he stood guard over me, it was with a wistful smile and bad thoughts radiating.

The two of them left me alone. After a few minutes a car pulled up outside, one I hadn’t heard before.

The outside door opened, and the Scalpel said something I didn’t understand. Then there were two loud gunshots, with a scream in between.

They came back in carrying a limp body between them, a man with a pillowcase pulled over his head. They slid the table aside, heaved him onto my chair, and handcuffed him to the armrests—and then I realized it was Nick! He must have lost seventy pounds. But he still wore the wedding ring I gave him, and the fancy Italian shoes he’d treated himself to last birthday.