Duel of Assassins (25 page)

It was as if, all these years later, Taras had scored the
final winning touch in their deadlocked and interrupted fencing match. Proved
himself better than Marcus.

Question: What would it avail to take out Rybkin at the
Potsdam Conference, if Taras wasn’t there to oppose him?

Answer: With apologies to Marchenko, it would avail
absolutely nothing. It would be an empty victory.

No, he needed to get Taras back into the game, for one more
showdown. They would never be friends again, that was finished. But they could
remain rivals, deadly ones. And if that was all there was, so be it. Marcus
wanted it.

He had to get him back. And he thought of a way to do it.

But did he dare?

Yes.

Before he could change his mind, he put down his sweet,
tepid coffee, got up from the table in the dingy sitting room of the Otel Ali
Pasha, and procured several sheets of hotel stationery. Then he settled himself
again in the late afternoon light filtering through threadbare lace and no
longer iridescent peacock feathers, and began to compose a letter.

*

Taras took a cab from Dulles International through five
o’clock nightmare traffic to a Holiday Inn on Connecticut Avenue, checked in,
shaved, showered and changed, then took another cab to Cleveland Park and
Charlie’s condo. It was dark when he pushed the doorbell. He’d rehearsed what
he would say a thousand times, till the words were grooved into his brain and
leeched of meaning. And yet the apprehension still churned in his gut.
Apprehension? No, call it what it was. Plain fear. More than he’d experienced
before actual combat.

He pushed the bell again.

Why was he torturing himself over this one woman? He could
find another—others by the dozen. There was no shortage; the District and
environs boasted an embarrassment of available, attractive females. But of
course Taras didn’t want another woman. He wanted the one he’d walked out on.
He wanted her back fiercely, more than he could remember wanting anything in
his life.

She wasn’t home.

He had willed her to be, but she wasn’t. Jealousy swept over
him. She was with another man. He imagined a tangle of sheets and bodies in the
apricot glow of a bedside lamp, her elegant forefinger twining in his matted
chest hair, whispered dinner plans. The vision left him eviscerated, his hand
clutching the iron porch railing for support.

Somewhere in his suitcase he still had his key. But he had
forfeited the right to use it.

He turned around. The cab was gone.

Maybe she was working late. Or off on sudden assignment.
There were people he could call—including Charlie herself, if he had the
courage. She would have left a message on her machine.

He walked a block, flagged a cab, went back to his hotel,
dialed the paper.

The foreign editor had gone home hours ago. One of the night
guys on the desk said Charlie was in Europe. Taking a week of R & R before
the runup to Potsdam.

“Do you know where?” Taras asked. “I’m an old friend, and
it’s absolutely critical. I have to talk to her.”

“Sorry, I don’t have it. Even if I did, you’d have to clear
it with John.” John Tully was the foreign editor.

“Can you give me his home number? He knows me.”

“Hold on. The operator will patch you through if he’s home.”

Tully was home. He knew about the breakup. He commis-erated
with Taras, said it was a hell of a thing and that he’d be happy to help, but
claimed he himself didn’t know where Charlie was. “She’s being secretive,
Taras. I expect she’ll let me know when she’s ready. She’s not planning to file
till next week, a scene-setter for Potsdam. Any messages if she calls sooner?”

“Yeah. Tell her... Christ. Tell her I want her back. Tell
her I have to talk to her. Ask her if you can give me her number.”

“Can’t she call you at the Agency?”

“No, don’t even mention the damn Agency, John. If she asks,
tell her I’ve quit. Tell her I sounded desperate.”

Tully chuckled. “That won’t be hard—you do. Look, Taras,
I’ll do what I can. Good luck.”

Taras hung up, stared at the phone. Dialed her condo. Her
breezy voice startled him:

“This is Charlotte Walsh. Sorry, my dears, I’m off on
temporary assignment, working undercover as a B-girl... in Punta Negra, I think
it is, though I could be wrong. But I do call in regularly for messages. And
I’d especially like to hear yours, right after the tone.”

Taras hung up. God, she sounded wonderful! Funny and happy.
It was as if he had never existed in her life, or been completely erased from
it. He slumped in the hotel chair, then slowly straightened himself, took a
deep breath. He wasn’t going to pursue that pointless, self-pitying line of
thought. He’d get her back.

He called mutual friends. Two sympathetic wives knew about
the breakup, and knew Charlie had gone to the Continent. Both claimed she had
been deliberately blithe about her destination, wanting to prowl about, so
hadn’t left a number. Were they holding out on him, perhaps under Charlie’s
direct orders? Taras couldn’t tell.

Finally he phoned Brock Chalmers, who still sounded eager to
have Taras join his Institute, maybe as early as September, six weeks off.
Chalmers proposed a luncheon later in the week. Taras told him he might be
leaving town, promised to get back to him.

It was too late for any more calls, and Taras was undone. He
watched an old war movie to escape flagellating thoughts, slept and dreamed
badly, awoke around five with a feeling of hopelessness.

At eight-thirty he dialed Langley and was told a letter had
come this morning. Federal Express. From Istanbul. From somebody called Hickock,
William Hickock. Odd name, just like the famous cowboy, Wild Bill.

Taras went silent. It had to be the Cowboy.

“I’ll be right over.”

Taras sat behind his old desk at Langley, his attention
riveted on the envelope before him. The FedEx return address was William
Hickock, Otel Ali Pasha, Demirkapi Caddesi, Sirkeci, Istanbul. Of course, the
Cowboy would now be long gone. One step ahead of the KGB, and still playing
games. What had he sent this time, another finger? But there were no bulges in
the envelope, no odor of decomposing flesh. And a date stamp indicated it had
been checked for explosive content. It was, then, just a letter. He slit it,
read in English:

Dear Cossack,

Dare I say it? I’ve missed you. And our recent meeting
was hardly the reunion our long friendship deserves, was it? I don’t want it to
be our final encounter. Do you?

Let’s do something about it.

Let’s finish off our old duel, the one interrupted in
Kirovograd so long ago. I’m willing to count the point you scored against me in
Yalta, but it’s my turn to riposte, or whatever you
call it.

I’m going after Rybkin again at Potsdam. Why don’t you
try to stop me? What do you say? For old time’s sake. Don’t you like the
historical settings, Yalta and Potsdam, for our private little showdown?

Oh, I know, Cossack. You beat me, and now you don’t want
any part of the Game anymore, do you? You’re quitting a winner.

But I’m going to change your mind.

Remember the drunken oaths we swore on the Rossiya
Express, somewhere around Sverdlovsk? Eternal friendship, Cossack, and we kept
that pledge—until you walked out on me in Pakistan. The other pledge was
eternal vengeance—on the murderer of Eva Sorokina.

But neither of us ever found old Kostya, did we?

Maybe you no longer care about the first oath, but what
about the second one? I’m going to give you a chance to keep it. A second
chance. Because, Cossack, only a few days ago you missed your first chance. You
had Eva’s murderer at your mercy, and you let him go.

Calm yourself. I feel your Slavic blood rising. Can it be
true, you wonder? Yes, Cossack, it wasn’t crazy Kostya. I’m the one who killed
Eva. You won’t believe me if I tell you how sorry I was then, and still am. It
was an accident. I was blind drunk on Siberian White Dynamite, drunker than all
of you, I think, though everybody but Eva and I passed out. I was out of my
mind, but that doesn’t bring her back, does it?

Why am I telling you this after all these years? Because
it seems like the only way to get you back.

As an enemy, if not a friend.

You want the sordid details? I bet not. But maybe you can
remember what happened when you were alone with her earlier? You attacked her,
Cossack. When Kostya and I came back from pissing in the snow, she was on the
floor screaming and you were on top of her, shaking her. I almost killed you
myself.

Christ, she was lovely that night! And you saw the way
she started hanging around me after what happened with you. Suddenly we were
alone. What was I supposed to do? I did exactly what you tried to do.

But she fought me too. I wasn’t expecting that. And she
started screaming again. How she was engaged to you. All about her sacred
virtue. She was hysterical. I was afraid she’d rouse you and Kostya.

I only wanted to stop her screaming, like you did. But
she wouldn’t stop. Until it was too late. I couldn’t believe she was gone,
Cossack. But she was. I think being betrayed by both of us was too much for
Eva. She couldn’t handle it. She preferred to die, that’s what I really think.

I had no choice after that. You and Kostya would never
have believed it was an accident. I had to strip all our clothes off and make
it look like Kostya did it and then ran off with our stuff. I could barely get
that fucking giant over my shoulder, but I did it. I managed to carry him through
the snowstorm clear down to the river and chop open one of the holes left by
some ice fishermen and stuff him in, along with most of our clothes and money.

Cossack, nothing I ever saw or did in Afghanistan came
close to the nightmare of that night in Khabarovsk, running back through a
blizzard in my shorts, then lying down on the freezing floor beside the naked
corpse of poor Eva and you, with the damn stove out, shivering like a madman,
waiting for you to wake up and find Eva, and then to wake me.

We both nearly died that night with Eva. Maybe we should
have. Except for one thing.

We became friends. And our friendship was not a lie, even
if I did not dare tell you the truth of what happened to Eva. You were the only
true friend I have ever had, Cossack, far more than old man Marchenko. And I
almost did tell you the truth one night in Kandahar, when we got roaring drunk?
Do you remember? But I was afraid it would cost me your friendship. So now that
I have lost that, I have told you. And only you.

I’ve got to get ready now for Potsdam. I hope you’ll be
there too. In fact, I just thought of one more enticement, to
make
sure you’ll come. But I’ll let you discover that.

Dasvidanya,

The Jolly Cowboy

Taras threw down the letter, reeled back against his chair.
The room seemed to be spinning and tilting like a carnival wheel, and he was
clinging to this desk to keep from being hurled off.

Oh God! Evushka, forgive me!

He remembered how he had frightened her, how the terror had
invaded her beautiful eyes, how she had spurned him and turned to Marcus. And
he would never forget the frozen naked horror of the next morning.

An accident, Marcus said. He hadn’t meant to strangle her.
How sorry he was. But Taras had seen the ghastly empurpled marks on her neck.
And he’d seen something else, too, before he’d covered her with the blanket.
There had been tiny crystal droplets—frozen fluid—beading the golden fuzz
between her thighs. The militia pathologist had later confirmed she’d been
violated. The bastard! The fucking bastard!

Taras’ rage now engulfed him till he nearly blacked out. It
left him shaken and drained. Then it returned, unabated. The chrome-steeled .45
was in his bag. The one he was to have thrown away. He took it out, popped out
the clip, saw the Cowboy’s grinning face, pulled the trigger again and again,
murder in his heart.

Marcus would get his wish. Taras would go to Potsdam. He
would go not to save Rybkin. He would go to kill the Cowboy. For Eva. And for
his own delectable pleasure, to end the duel and show once and for all who was
the better assassin.

The phone rang. It was John Tully, the foreign editor.

“Taras, Charlie called in this morning, before I got in. One
of the interns took the call and didn’t press her for detail dammit. All he got
was the South of France, but also says he got the impression she’s still on the
move. Look, I’m sure she’ll contact me as soon as she lands somewhere. Sorry I
can’t do better.”

“I understand. Thanks, John.”

Taras hung up. Fifteen minutes earlier he was going to throw
away his gun and go after her, beg her to take him back. Now, after Marcus’
letter, he wanted to hold on to it for one more kill. Kind of hard to explain
that one to Charlie, if he could find her. There’s this guy I gotta kill, a
dear old friend who turns out to have been a sociopath. I’ll be a much more
loving husband after I put a couple bullets through his brain, and a few more
through his heart.

But suppose he went after her, found her in the South of
France, made his plea. If she said yes, that would be the end of it. But if she
said no, he would be free to go after Marcus. It would be a way of keeping his
options open, hedging his bet.

Only it wouldn’t work, and he knew it. Emotionally. He had
to choose. He could go hunting one or the other, not both.

Both courses of action beckoned him; two women—one alive,
one dead—claimed him, paralyzing his will.

But he must decide. The secretary looked in again and did
not enter during the anguished half-hour it took him to reach his verdict. It
was:
Let the madman go. Eva is gone and mourned. Find Charlie and open your
heart to her. Then let her choose. But leave your vengeance here, with the gun
she despised
.

The decision made, still a long struggle remained, he knew,
to fully accept it, to subdue the rage and turn away from Marcus’ provocation.
But he could do it, had to do it. For starters, he tossed the automatic into a
desk drawer.

Fifteen minutes later the secretary popped back in, saw
improvements. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee, Taras.”

“Love some, thanks.”

“Kind of a tough morning, huh?”

“You might say that.” Taras made a chuckling sound, but
there was no mirth in his eyes. “Charlie’s somewhere in the South of France,
and I’m going to find out where if I have to call everybody in this whole damn
town. And when I do, I’m going to go to her as fast as I can.”

*

About the same time, several thousand miles to the east,
Marcus Jolly was pursuing the same objective in the same way. As Canadian
journalist Byron Landy, he was making trans-atlantic phone calls. And ultimately
he, too, reached Charlotte’s foreign editor.

“The thing is, John, she asked me to get back to her on
something, for a piece she was writing for you, I imagine. She wanted to quiz
some of my contacts in North Sea oil, how all that affects European energy
plans after 1992, and how it might impact the Potsdam Conference. Fairly
convoluted stuff, I’m not sure where she was going with it, but I’ve got some
answers for her, and she promised me some sources in return.”

“Mr. Landy, I’d like to help you.”

“Call me Byron.”

“Okay. The thing is, Byron, she asked me not to tell
anybody.”

 “I understand. But I know she wants this stuff I got, and
I’d sure hate to wait till Potsdam to give to her. It’ll probably be too late
then, and anyway the place is going to be a fucking loony bin.”

“Tell me about it. We’re already buried alive in wire copy,
and we got two weeks till play-ball. Okay, you can stop twisting my arm. Hang
on a minute. She just called in, as a matter of fact. Cheryl, have you got that
address Charlie just gave us? Thanks. Okay, Byron? Here it is. She’s going to
be there only a week. It’s in the South of France. Place called Le Lavandou,
just east of Toulon. L’Auberge de la Calanque. Here’s the number.”

Marcus took it down.

“I owe you one, John. Thanks.”

“Do me a favor in return, Byron. When you talk to her, tell
her to stay off those damn topless beaches. I don’t want my star soothsayer
sunburning her nipples.”

“I’ll do that.”