Labyrinth (11 page)

“Good evening, Grendel,” the Commander said, not looking up from his newspaper. “Please sit down.” Dogan did as he was told. “A most unfortunate day.”

“I've had better.”

“And not many worse, I should hope. I've just received the medical report on Keyes. He'll be manning a desk for the balance of his career, thanks to his wrist.”

“It's the best place for him.”

“We invested a lot of money believing otherwise.”

“You were wrong.”

“A report would have more than sufficed. An assault was totally uncalled for.”

Dogan felt his anger rising. “I gave him a direct order. He disobeyed it.”

“Yes, Grendel,” the Commander responded. “I've read the boy's report on that. You ordered him to let Vaslov go, correct?”

“Correct.”

“The most wanted number from the KGB and you ordered him let go. Keyes claims he had the Russian dead on target.”

“The shot wasn't clear. People were everywhere. If I had let that kid start blasting, innocent bystanders would have been dropping everywhere.”

“Along with Vaslov perhaps?”

“Possibly, but the risk was not acceptable,” Dogan explained, trying to justify his actions, though the truth was much simpler: Vaslov had beaten him and deserved to walk. “Shootouts are a thing of the past, Commander, you've told me that yourself on more than one occasion.”

The Commander glanced up briefly. “That's not the point and please don't talk to me about procedure. You didn't just stop Keyes from firing into a crowd, you shattered his wrist and made holding a telephone painful for him for the rest of his life. He's not happy and neither is the department.”

“You're not expecting me to deny this, I hope.”

“There would be no sense in that. You violated a major rule of the field this morning: You let anger get the better of you.”

“Not anger, Commander, frustration. You gave me a bunch of wet-eared kids who couldn't follow orders on a simple pickup operation.”

“The operation was yours, Grendel. So is the responsibility for bungling it.”

“And I'm not trying to pass that off. Except the operation wasn't bungled. It was clean and well conceived.”

“The results seem to indicate otherwise… .”

“Because Vaslov and the Russians beat us. They played a better game. They're superior to us because their agents know nothing about ego gratifications. They have a job to do and it gets done. Simple.”

“So they planted a fake defector and you took the bait.”

“Yes, Vaslov planted a fake defector but he also planted a half-dozen other diversions to throw us off the track. A stalled car, a pair of baby carriages, a blind man—all his work.”

The Commander flipped the page of his newspaper. “Tell me about the setup.”

“The defector reached us through his contact with the place and the time. He was impatient. He'd been holed up in Paris for almost two weeks waiting for his chance.”

“Then I must assume Vaslov knew something of the plan himself.”

“Probably only shadows but they proved enough. The defector's contact must've had a big mouth. So Vaslov planted a fake defector to draw us off. When we lunged at the bait, his men were the only ones around to pick up the real defector. We got beat, just like I said before.”

A cool night breeze ruffled the Commander's paper. His eyes grasped Dogan's for the first time. “I don't see it as that simple. Perhaps, Grendel, you are becoming too predictable.”

“Given the limitations of what I have to work with, I do the best I can. The men who beat us today were strictly professional.” A pause. “The way we used to be.”

“I see,” the Commander noted, flipping to the back section.

Dogan grasped him Firmly at the elbow. The older man flinched but didn't bother trying to pull away. Annoyance swam in his eyes.

“No, I don't think you do, sir,” Dogan charged. “Let me try to explain. Men like Keyes can't read between the lines, can't estimate their opponent's next move based on simple instinct. Everything has to be cut and dried for them. In the field, though, it's anything but that, which means losing to the Russians is something we better get used to.”

“An interesting depiction of your failure this morning.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“Now I would kindly ask you to remove your hand from my arm.” Dogan complied. The Commander straightened his sleeve. “And as long as you're explaining things, take as your next subject, Grendel, the reason why you chose to take out a fellow Division operative instead of Vaslov.”

“We lost. There was no need to press the matter further. Besides, at least I know what I can expect from Vaslov. That's not always true anymore about those on my own side.”

The Commander lowered his newspaper, actually
lowered
it. “That's one hell of an accusation.”

“Take it for what it's worth. Just make sure you understand something else along with it. If I had let Keyes take Vaslov out today, the Russians would have replaced him and I'd have to deal with a new, unfamiliar network. Considering the bureaucratic overtones, Division would have been set back by such an action more than the KGB. I know Vaslov. Finding out the means and methods of some KGB replacement is a chore I can do without.”

“Knowing Vaslov didn't help you this morning.” The Commander sat motionless on the other side of the table, making no effort to still his newspaper in the breeze. “This morning's fiasco has escalated far beyond an embarrassment. It's won the qualification of incident. Congratulations, Grendel.”

Dogan said nothing.

“I'd like to say I'm bringing you up before the review board,” the Commander went on, cold eyes digging into Dogan and startling him with their stare. “But of course, we have no such board or any precise procedures to follow. You have accused the Company and the Division of losing their professionalism. Perhaps you have lost yours. Times have changed. The days of the lone wolf are over. You're not a team player, Grendel. You just don't fit anymore.” The Commander hesitated. “Pick a country, something warm and tropical perhaps.”

“Carrying a gold watch in your hip pocket, Commander?”

“You know the procedure, Grendel. A most generous one, I might add.”

Dogan felt the rage building within him. The Commander's right hand disappeared under the table, for a gun perhaps. No matter. Limits were everything and Dogan knew he could tear the man's throat out before he could pull the trigger. The thought comforted him, and the knowledge was in his eyes. The Commander's hand came back up and started to dog-ear the pages of his newspaper.

“Uh-uh,” Dogan said simply. “I'm not ready for the country yet.”

“I wasn't offering you a choice.”

“But you've left yourself one, haven't you, Commander? How many men are watching us now? What weapons are they holding on me? They're waiting for a signal from you, of course, which you'll give if I don't agree to your reassignment and go quietly.” Dogan leaned back. “Give the signal, Commander. You know there's no way they can kill me before I kill you. Think of it, we'll pass into eternity together, but in different directions, I suspect.”

The Commander swallowed hard.

“Of course, you could let me go and have them deal with me later. Who knows, they might even succeed. I'm not too worried, though. They're all like Keyes and I'd slice a limb off you for each one of them you forced me to kill. There's not a dozen of them who could get me before I got you and you know it.”

The Commander removed his rimless glasses and wiped the lenses. “I withdraw my offer. You're out, Grendel, plain and simple.”

“Without a going-away party? My, what's the world coming to?”

The Commander was shaking his head. “You could have had it easy, Grendel. All you had to do was accept the desk we offered you. A man should know when his run is over.”

Dogan stood up. “I'll know,” he said simply and walked away, leaving a huge chunk of his life behind. He had known he'd face this day sometime; it had been inevitable. But he came away wondering if there was something he might have said to make the Commander change his mind. The field was everything to him. Without it there'd be no purpose. Free-lancing was always possible and quite lucrative. But such mercenary work denied your identity, and Dogan had been around too long to lose his now.

He knew the Commander would have him followed and took immediate steps to lose his tails. He never saw them but knew they were there all the same. He probably had trained many of them, but a good teacher never passes on all of his lessons. Losing them proved effortless. Dogan toyed with the notion of leaving one bound and gagged in the Commander's bed that evening.

He wandered about until he reached the Place de la Concorde, stopping at the spot where Louis XVI was publicly guillotined. The large fountain shot majestic bursts into the air. The water was colored by the night lights of Paris, a kaleidoscope of vitality, awesome in its beauty. But Dogan didn't care much about beauty tonight. His life was the Division and now the Division had been taken from him. And there was no one above the Commander he could plead his case to, even if he had a case to plead. The old man was the only one he was answerable to. To other Company men, he was simply a name on a restricted file card. Dogan glanced up at the naked marble figures basking in the fountain's spill and wondered how Louis felt the moment the cold steel spit his head into a wicker basket. He thought he might know. He sat down on a bench and focused on the symmetrical perfection of the layered brick surface of the Place de la Concorde. An anachronism of construction, just as he was.

“Mind if I join you, comrade?”

Dogan looked up to find Vaslov standing before him. Somehow he had been expecting this.

“Be my guest.”

Vaslov sat down next to him on the bench. He was wearing an elegantly tailored French suit that emphasized his finely chiseled frame. His hair was neatly styled, also western, and his eyes were bright and alive.

“How'd you find me?” Dogan wondered.

“I followed you, of course. Marvelous job of losing your tails, by the way.”

“I didn't lose you.”

The Russian shrugged.

“You witnessed my meeting with the Commander, no doubt,” Dogan assumed.

Vaslov nodded. “And it wasn't hard to judge from your physical responses—body language, I believe you Americans call it—that things were not going well. I'm not surprised. You should have let that young man kill me this morning.”

“Not in my book.”

“Any regrets?”

“Only that I didn't crush the prick's vocal chords.”

Vaslov leaned back and laughed easily. “Look now at how we find ourselves, two cold warriors sharing the fine French landscape. If only I had brought wine …”

“We could toast the success of your mission today. You had a clean escape coming to you.”

“You used a similar ruse against me in Prague with similar success. When was that, seventy-seven, seventy-eight maybe?”

“Seventy-nine. Winter.”

“You remember?”

“I remember the cold.” A pause. “You spared my life then just as I spared yours today.”

“And with good reason, comrade. When the nobility is gone from our profession, we become nothing more than simple assassins instead of knights jousting for our country's pride.”

“How romantic… .”

“Indulge me, comrade. I look forward to the rivalry between us because it forces me to challenge myself, to reach for perfection. I could have had that defector collected and returned to Moscow yesterday or even the day before, but that would have prevented another match in our ongoing tournament.”

“You took quite a risk.”

“But well worth it. In the end, what do we have besides each other? Today I won. Tomorrow may be different.”

“For sure. Tomorrow you'll be the only one playing.”

Vaslov sighed. “They pulled you, comrade?”

“I forced the issue.”

“This morning?”

“And tonight.”

“They are fools, comrade, little different from my superiors in the Kremlin. Only sometimes I think those in the Kremlin know they are fools so they leave me to run things as I wish.”

“You're lucky, my friend.” Strangely, addressing Vaslov as “friend” didn't come at all hard for Dogan. This was the longest conversation they'd ever had, but through the years they'd shared things far more important than words.

“Of course, I knew the sanction you would face, comrade,” Vaslov said in a more somber tone. “I knew you would have plenty of time on your hands, and I have a project that might command some of it.”

“Working for you?”

“Not exactly. What if we had a common enemy, an enemy that could devastate all the ideals we fight for along with our countries?”

The breeze toyed with Dogan's thick brown hair. “You're on to something?”

“Just talk now, random pieces of information that together make no sense. Something is in the air, that's all I know. Our countries are strong, but vulnerable to another who knew what to look for.”

“Another country?”

“I don't think so.” Vaslov hesitated, crossed his legs. “Have you ever heard of the Committee?”

“Just rumors. No one's sure they really exist.”

“Which is their greatest strength. No one believes in them, so no one bothers to stand in their way.”

“We thought their existence was tied to disinformation on your part.”

“Just as we thought about you, comrade. With both of us chasing our own tails, they could operate unhindered right before our eyes. True enough?”

“I suppose.”

“Then tell me what you
have
heard of the Committee.”