Assignment - Suicide (14 page)

“Right here,” Gregori whispered hoarsely. “See, the bridge
down below. Comrade Z will have to come along this road. Here is the spot, I am
sure of it.”

They were on the highest point of the ridge, and far below
through the brush and ragged trees was the paved road, winding for a short
distance along the bottom of the gorge beside the rocky stream, then turning
abruptly to cross the stream by way of a wooden bridge. There was a watchtower
at the opposite end of the bridge and a white-painted barrier. Two soldiers in
dark green uniforms stood there, small in the distance, leaning on their rifles
and smoking. Gregori made a satisfied, clicking sound with his tongue.

“The dugout is just beyond,” he said.

Their ultimate destination was a hundred yards below the
crest of the ridge, out of view of the gorge and the bridge. Here, too, there
was still evidence of war. Gregori paused to study the slope of ground, nodded,
clicked his tongue again, and chose a narrow defile between jutting
boulders that led through a bomb crater. Dimly visible through the growth of
brush was a log barrier and a doorway clogged with dead weeds and stones.

“Here is where Borka died," Gregori said softly. “And
Alyesha and Petra. All of them brave men, starving and cold and desperate. Here
is where we stay until our task is finished.”

The dugout proved to be in good condition when they had
cleared the entrance. Some of the winter‘s chill persisted, but it was dry,
with a high ceiling of logs cleverly niched and joined to stand indefinitely.
Wooden bunks stood against one wail, and a fireplace with a concealed
chimney led up by way of tin flues opening through the earth overhead.

“Elena, Valya, you two will clean up. We will sleep here for
two nights, at least. There will be no fires, no smoking, understood? And
no unnecessary noise. One of us will always be on watch here, another at the
point overlooking the bridge. There will be patrols now and then, since we are
only half a mile from the missile base. Be careful. Our lives depend on the
cleverness of your sight.” Gregori sighed. “We will rest between our duties, when
we can."

Their food that night consisted of more salted fish,
black bread, and vodka. Water was supplied from a small stream that trickled
over the rocks near the dugout entrance. It was dark when they finished
eating, but a bright moon rose an hour later, flooding the wild wasteland
of swamp and woods with a cold silvery light. The temperature dropped abruptly,
but there was no wind, and a hushed, absolute stillness pervaded the night air.

After eating, Gregori beckoned Durell outside. In the
clarity of the moonlight, the Russian’s broad face was sober and dark.

“Gospodin Durell, are you a good shot?”

“Yes,” Durell said. “Perhaps as good as you, Gregori. But I
will take no part in your plan for murder.”

“I understand that. Nevertheless, you may be helpful.”

“Would you trust me with a gun?” Durell asked.

“I would rather not. But I would appreciate advice. Come
with me.”

They walked quietly through the moonlit brush back over the
crest of the ridge to the vantage point above the road where the bridge crossed
the stream. Dim lights shone in the sentry tower below. The sound of the little
river came gently up to where they crouched on the overhanging ledge. Now and
then the thin, scratchy bars of radio music came from the sentry’s shack.
Within five minutes of their arrival, two huge trucks had crossed the
bridge, stopping at the check point briefly before continuing west around
the bend. Gregori lay prone on his stomach, the rifle cuddled against his
cheek. “I will be able to pick him off easily when he comes."

“And do you know the time Comrade Z will be here?”

“In the morning of May the first. The exact horn is
unknown.”

“Your organization has good intelligence service,” Durell
commented. He stood watching the lights of the watchtower below. “Why is it you
do not know the name of your victim?”

“Perhaps I do,“ Gregori said dryly. “Stand a little to one
side, please.” He rolled over to lean on an elbow. “I would not like to have
you jump on my back and take the rifle from me."

“If you know Comrade Z‘s identity—”

“It is only a guess.“

“I see. And do you have plans for after the assassination?“

“There will be a great deal of confusion. We will try to get
back to the car while the soldiers are running around in circles. Anyway, the
missile will not go off if my aim is true."

Durell said quietly, “You don’t really expect to get out of
this area alive, do you?”

Gregori shrugged and was silent.

“Even if you get past the barbed wire perimeter of the base,
and even if you reach the car, you couldn’t get out of the area. The roadblocks
would take care of that.”

“Quite true.” '

“Then you expect to die.”

“We must all die at one time or another.
Svoye
vremina
,
ili
nye
skolka
poshe
,
In due time, or somewhat later.”

“Do the others understand the situation?”

“Vassili understands. We are a suicide group. And Elena,
too.”

“And Mikhail?"

“It is best if he has hope.”

Durell’s voice was uncompromising. “Gregori, if we are
captured and I am identified as an American, won’t that defeat your
purpose? Think of the propaganda alarm. It will be considered an American plot,
and war will come out of this, anyway.”

“We can only hope for the best.”

“But you admit that possibility? That I will be considered
as your leader?"

“There can be no help for that. It will be better if capture
seems certain for all of us to die, rather than talk.“ Gregori stood up,
cradling the rifle in the crook of his arm. “Now you know how it will be,
gospodin
.
It is regrettable. But you came to this country expecting possible death. If
death now is a certainty, you can blame no one but yourself.”

A small wind came up, rattling the underbrush. From below,
in the watchtower, came the sounds of jazz music. The Russian guards down there
were listening to “Melancholy Baby.”

Durell shivered in the wind.

He was not asleep, although he made his breathing sound deep
and regular when Vassili cautiously flashed a light in his face. No
muscle in his face gave him away. He lay fully clothed on an upper bunk, above
Valya. Across the dark dugout, he heard Elena muttering thinly as she dreamed.
Gregori slept on the earthen floor near the entrance. Vassili and Mikhail
had drawn the midnight watch, with Mikhail posted directly outside and Vassili
at the observation post above the bridge. Durell waited for twenty minutes
after Vassili left the dugout for his post, before he moved.

He let his legs slide over the edge of the rough wooden bunk
and sat up smoothly and silently. The top of his head grazed the invisible
timbers of the dugout ceiling. He sat still. There was a dim glow at the dugout
opening from the moonlight outside, and a shapeless bulk on the floor
where Gregori slept. Nothing else. Then a cool hand touched his ankle,
tightening for a moment, and he knew that Valya was awake and waiting for him.

He slid down slowly and she guided his foot so he stood on
the edge of her bunk and was able to step down to the floor without a
sound. Again he waited. Elena continued to mutter and then she turned over, her
clothes rustling. Now he could see the thin, angular wedge of her face.

Valya stood up beside him, her hand on his arm. Nothing had
to be said. She was ready to go with him.

He waited for a count of twenty, maintaining the same
breathing rhythm as before. Elena slept. Gregori did not move. He slid his feet
toward the entrance, pausing every second step. Valya was close behind him. Her
control was not as steady as his; her breath was tight and frightened.

During the hours he had waited, Durell knew that the
situation was now impossible for him. Ever since Gregori’s frank statement of
the case, he knew he could never allow himself to be captured or found here
with this band of assassins. He stood over Gregori‘s sleeping bulk. He liked
the man. He could kill Gregori now with one blow, instantly and silently, but
he did not want to see the man dead. He stepped over Gregori‘s legs and ducked
his head and came out into the open, straightened, and waited for Valya.

She hesitated, her face dim and tormented inside the dugout.
He thought for a moment she had frozen in terror lest she fail to get safely over
Gregori’s body. Then she took a quick, light step that spanned the Russian’s
sprawled legs, and stood beside Durell. Her lips were parted. Her breathing was
still fast and irregular.

Durell took her hand and went a few steps to the right and
paused again in the brushy niche of rock that led to the dugout. He was looking
for Mikhail, who should have been on guard here, but he did not spot the
dancer. Moonlight flooded the scene with distorted patterns of light and
shadow. The air was cold. He saw by the illuminated hands on his watch that it
was just past midnight. Valya shivered beside him.

“This way,” he whispered.

“Be careful.”

He smiled quickly to ease the fear that gripped her. He had never
seen her so close to losing total control before. Then he saw the dark swelling
on her face where Elena’s gun had cut her, and he recognized that she must be
suffering a dull, pulsing pain. He took her hand and led her silently away from
the dugout.

At the end of the cleft in the rock the brush was thinner
and the trees were stark, black against silver in the moonlight. A thin wind
shook the branches. Here and there the white blasted stumps of dead trees,
shattered long ago by shrapnel, were like eerie sentinels against the night.
There was a little knoll to the left, commanding the approach to the dugout
from the ridge behind them. Wild blackberry bushes made a thorny barrier that
way, but a small path had been crushed through them and Durell signaled to
Valya to stay where she was.

“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t leave me.”

“Mikhail is up there.”

“I want to go with you,” she whispered.

He went ahead with her footsteps behind him, although his
own pace was silent. He was halfway through the blackberry patch when a slim figure
rose directly in his path. Moonlight touched Mikhail’s thin, sharp face. He had
the P.38 in his hand, the barrel ugly and black in the moonlight.

“Valya?” he called softly.

The girl whispered quickly: “
Here.
It is all right, Miko.”

“Who is with you?”

The gun began to come up as Durell jumped. Mikhail made a
strangled sound and tried to spin away. Durell’s hand closed on the gun. He
prayed it would not go oil. He felt Mikhail suddenly spit at him like an angry
cat. But Mikhail did not shout for help. It was as if the dancer saw this as a
personal struggle, and his hatred for the American who had taken his girl
boiled over in a rash attempt to win alone with his own strength.

Durell blocked a knee to his groin, twisted the gun harder, heard
the breath hiss from between Mikhail’s lips, and wrenched again. They both
fell, hitting the ground hard, rolling into the thorny brush. A bramble
scratched Durell’s arm. He had Mikhail’s gun hand and twisted it backward until
the dancer‘s fingers were certain to snap. He saw the distorted anguish
on the dancer’s face, the sweat that shone on his brow, the glisten of the
man‘s teeth as he tried to bite at his face. He slammed his left arm across
Mikhail’s mouth and got the gun free, pulled backward, and stood up.

Mikhail lay on his back, panting, propped up on his elbows
as he stared up at Durell’s tall, dark figure.

“Kill me!” he whispered. “I beg of you—kill me!"

“Why do you want to die, Mikhail?"

“Life has nothing for me now. Kill me! Hurry!”

“If you shout, I will. And Gregori may stop my escape. But
Valya will die, too. Do you want that?” Durell asked quickly.

The man’s eyes glistened, turned to the girl. “Valya?”

“I am going with him, Miko.”

“You would betray Gregori—all your comrades?”

“They will not be harmed by anything we do.”

“It is so hopeless. You cannot succeed. Neither your plan
nor Gregori’s. Everything is known—they are ready for you.”

Durell said harshly, “How could Kronev know of our plans
unless you told him?” The thought came to him that he might have to kill
Mikhail, here and now. “Did you make a deal with Kronev because Valya prefers
me to you?”

Mikhail was silent. His chest heaved with the tumult of his
breathing. His face was pinched and white and agitated.

Valya said quietly: “Have you betrayed us, Miko?”

“Would I be here with you if I had?”

“Of course not. I believe you. But will you give us a chance
to get away without raising an alarm?”

“You're going with the American?”

“Yes.”

“Valya, how can you ask me to let you do this?”

“You must, Miko. Otherwise—” She looked at Durell coldly.
“Will you kill him?”

The gun felt heavy in Durell’s hand. “The choice is his.”

The dancer said: “It would not be through fear if I kept
silent. I know I am going to die. And I promise you nothing. Kill me now, if
you feel you have to.”

Durell looked at Valya to read the expression on her face,
but she turned away and he could not tell what she was thinking. He did not
know what to do. The moonlight, as silent and silvery as snow on the dappled
brush, gave him no answer. The breeze that made the trees click and rustle was
equally mocking.

“Get up,” he decided. “You will come with us.”

“And if I shout for help, will you kill me?”

Durell inwardly cursed the fatalistic Russian temperament.

“Get up,” he said again, ‘Unless you want Valya to die,
too.”