Red Rag Blues (40 page)

Mikhail took off his tie and loosened his collar. “Because,” he began, “as they say in Hollywood, this thing is bigger than both of us. To start with, Upstairs are afraid that Cabrillo and Conroy are CIA.”

“Bloody ridiculous.”

“I thought so too, at first. Now I'm not so sure. Look what they've accomplished. Penetrated McCarthy's inner circle. Made contact with the KGB.”

“That was
your
idea,” Kim said. “Wasn't it?”

“Was it? I went fishing. They were the bait. Who caught whom?” Mikhail raised his eyebrows. Kim had no answer. He was trying to catch up with the idea that Cabrillo was back in the double-agent business, now with the CIA. Mikhail said: “Upstairs, they believe Cabrillo and Conroy must have had CIA help, before I got involved. How else could they have fed McCarthy so much high-grade stuff? The quantity, the quality, the sheer rate of output … And look at their cover: they're both blacklisted. Upstairs think that is pure CIA camouflage.”

“Upstairs has gone soft at the knees, if you ask me,” Kim said. “I don't understand this sudden twitchiness about the CIA. We've killed their agents often enough. They've killed ours. Who cares?”

“This may take a little time.” Mikhail picked up the phone and ordered food: cheese, smoked eel, pickled gherkins, anchovies, stuffed olives. Then he began to explain.

Stalin was dead. The Korean war was over. The world was changing. Moscow and Washington had been working on an exchange of spies for many months. Now was definitely not the time to rock
that
particular boat. Furthermore, there might be a Soviet mole inside the CIA; perhaps two. Upstairs had given a hint of that possibility. It would be a fatal mistake to frighten the Agency and make it tighten its security. Moles were an endangered species at the best of times.

“But this is DC,” Kim said. “Murder capital. Cabrillo could be shot for his loose change. It happens every day of the week.”

“And the woman too? No loose ends, remember. Do you really want to murder two consultants of the most powerful senator in America? Think of the uproar.” Mikhail waited as food was brought in and the servant left. He ate an olive.
“Upstairs appreciates all you have done in the past, Kim, but that was then and now is now. Ask yourself a simple question. Would it be more convenient for Upstairs to decide to shoot Luis Cabrillo or Kim Philby?”

Kim was chewing on some smoked eel. “After all I've done” he mumbled.

“And when I was Upstairs, the vote was very close,” Mikhail said. “Now, for the love of heaven, have some more vodka and stop looking so damned miserable. I may have a solution. For a start, I don't believe that Cabrillo is a full-blown CIA agent. He may
know
an agent, perhaps someone who is moonlighting, passing him information, getting a percentage. I'm guessing. But Cabrillo doesn't strike me as CIA material. Too flippant, too self-centered, too volatile. That's what makes him vulnerable. He spins like a top. Well, let's knock him off-balance. Upstairs says expunction is out. All right: what's the next best thing?”

“Better than death?”

“How about being frightened to death? What would scare the wits out of him? Send him running as far and as fast as possible?”

“Nothing less than dynamite up his rectum,” Kim said.

“Dynamite,” Mikhail said. “Well, that's a start. Now let's try and improve on it.”

They talked, and killed the bottle. Something had to go, and the bottle was nearest.

*

Next morning was hot and heavy. Luis hadn't slept well: the air was too humid and his brain was too active. He wanted to get back to work. He took a shower and couldn't get completely dry. “Appalling climate,” he said.

“It's a swamp,” Julie said. “But it's our swamp so we like it.”

Mikhail arrived at nine, carrying a briefcase. He accepted a coffee, and said, “The situation has changed for the worse. I'll go so far as to say it is grave, extremely grave. Your lives are in danger.”

“Not bloody Jerome again?” Luis asked.

“Not Jerome. But there are hostile forces, more deadly than Jerome, ranged against the senator. Assassination now would make him a martyr, so he is safe. But his associates…” Mikhail spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “Well, this is America, and
Americans have their own way of eliminating difficulties. Believe me: you're in their way, so you're in their sights.”

“How d'you know this?” Julie asked.

“We're the KGB.”

“Yeah. Sure. Sorry. Forgot.”

“Nobody's threatened us,” Luis said.

“They never
threaten,”
Mikhail said. “They
act.
The bullet you never hear is their threat—to others.”

“If it's as bad as you say, okay, we can move, find some place more secure. But frankly, I feel pretty safe here.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. Please come with me.” He went to the balcony. They followed, making baffled faces to each other. “It was on this very spot that Luis was very nearly assassinated as you ate dinner.”

“Shrimp Jambalaya,” Luis said. “Too much chili.” Nobody laughed. “Not a funny joke,” he said.

Mikhail pointed. “You see that rooftop? A man armed with a sniper rifle was within seconds of killing you. A single shot to the head.”

“What stopped him?” Julie asked.

“I stopped him. I shot him before he could shoot Luis, and probably you too.”

“To quote the senator,” Luis said, “this is the most unheard-of thing I ever heard of.” Again, nobody laughed.

“One's own violent death is hard to imagine,” Mikhail said sadly. “Look there, across the street.” He waved an arm, and a man appeared on the rooftop, leaned on the parapet, aimed a rifle toward them. Instantly the crack of a hammerblow struck the stonework ten feet to their left, and a bullet sang as it ricocheted and was lost.
“Jesus!”
Luis cried.

“Look down. You see? Nobody noticed,” Mikhail said. “Silencer.”

“Damn your bloody silencer. I've been hit.” Luis was clutching his left wrist. Blood dripped.

Mikhail examined it. “A chip from the wall. Clean cut, quite small.” He saluted the man on the roof, who disappeared. “Run water on it. Then ice.”

They all went to the kitchen and watched Luis hold his wrist under cold water. “Stings like a bastard,” he said. Bloodstained water swirled pinkly in the sink.

“You set that up.” Julie's voice cracked, so she tried again. “You arranged that. The guy with the rifle was your guy.”

“I was afraid words alone would not persuade you to leave.”

Luis was outraged. “You had me shot? For nothing?”

“To demonstrate the danger—”

“Thanks a million. I was in perfect shape until you began protecting me.”

Mikhail went into the study while Julie patched up Luis with king-size BandAids and a yard of bandage. When they joined him, he was quick to apologize. “Forget it,” Luis said. “Forget the whole stupid shambles. Let's get down to business.”

Mikhail sat with his hands interlocked, shoulders hunched, face wooden with worry. “This thing is on my conscience. If it hadn't been for me, the Arabel affair would never have reached these proportions. Please, just go away for a month or two. Don't pack, don't call anyone, come with me now, I'll get you on a plane to Mexico City, Venezuela, Costa Rica, you name it. Here, take these.” He pushed passports into Luis's hands.

“We have passports.”

“I don't,” Julie said. “Blacklisted. Remember?”

“Hell's teeth…” Luis stuffed them into his hip pocket. “Listen, it's kind of you to worry. Tomorrow maybe we'll take a trip, Miami, New Orleans, God knows where. Today I'm a freelance. Slightly wounded, but still working. The motto of the freelance is: waste nothing. So, can we talk brainwashing? Chinese, Russian, Eskimo, whatever you've got.”

Mikhail emptied his briefcase and gave Luis a brief account of the documents. They were all in Russian. Half concerned Chinese development of mind-control drugs, he said, and half were about Soviet advances in the field. “We are a long way ahead of our Chinese comrades. That is, assuming our spies in China have not had their brains washed already.”

Nobody smiled. Julie said: “Looks like you worked through the night.”

Mikhail had reached the last page. “Perhaps it would be wiser to omit this.” It showed a single line of printing. “The chemical formula for a new mind-control drug, still being tested. Very powerful but highly experimental. Risky.”

Luis looked. The long line of letters was cluttered with symbols and figures. “Hideous,” he said. “Chuck it in. McCarthy likes flim-flam.”

He fetched his papers, added Mikhail's documents, and closed his briefcase. “Into battle,” he said, “or maybe not, if the drugs work.”

“My car's parked downstairs,” Mikhail said. “The least I can do is give you a lift to the Capitol.”

“Don't worry about me,” Luis told Julie. “Mikhail will have his sniper riding shotgun.”

Washington never had much of a morning rush hour. By now the streets were fairly empty. Mikhail's Lincoln cruised quietly. Luis made his seat recline and let his eyelids droop. Thank God for air conditioning.

“I'm told that Molotov preferred a Buick,” Mikhail said. “So did half the Politburo. But Stalin's car was usually a Packard, because it could be more heavily armored. Bulletproof. So they say. Odd to think that the Kremlin depended so much on Detroit.”

Luis grunted. After the carnage on the balcony, he felt no obligation to chat.

“This car isn't new, by any means. Third-hand, perhaps even fourth. The embassy got it cheap. Lincoln is a good, safe, democratic name, isn't it? Government of the people, for the people, that sort of thing.”

Luis nodded. Minimum effort.

“Only fault is it's a thirsty beast. Gets through a tankful in no time. In fact, I'd better get a few gallons now.”

Luis opened one eye and watched him swing into a gas station and pull up at the pumps. “Relax,” Mikhail said. “Shan't be a second.” The door opened, letting in a whiff of clammy air, and shut. Luis was thinking, rehearsing his opening remarks to McCarthy.
The history of the next war, senator, can be written in a single line…
All the Lincoln's doors opened at once. A man in a blue boilersuit barged Luis sideways. Luis grabbed the wheel for support. Someone behind him slipped a hood over his head and gripped him by the neck. By now the Lincoln was moving and someone was tying his wrists. The hands around his neck were released. The hood hung down to his chest. He could breathe easily but see nothing. The cloth smelled of old apples. Someone put a hat on his head.

*

They drove for what might have been an hour. Luis dozed occasionally. The shock of being kidnapped had lasted only seconds; after that, nobody spoke and he was wedged comfortably between the driver and the man who had barged him. Nevertheless, the mental stress was huge and exhausting. Trapped inside the hood, Luis could think only one thing: he was going to be killed. Logic told him to make the most of every minute that remained, but that idea was exhausting too. Fatigue won. He nodded off. Each time he woke, he felt worse. He thought of West Virginia, the mountains, the long drop into the gorge. Why did people scream as they fell? Screaming wouldn't save them. Maybe they only screamed in the movies. Just like in the movies, he was being taken for a ride. He dozed again.

The car stopped. He was pulled out and he lost the hat. “Never liked it,” he said, not in his own voice. Too high, too thin, too weak. His knees were made out of wet paper towels. He clung to somebody's arm and breathed deeply. This wasn't the mountains. Not cold enough. Very unprofessional. He thought about saying so, in his borrowed, feeble voice. Too late: they were making him walk. Not far. Into a building. A door shut behind him. More walking. A chair was shoved against his legs and he sat with a thud. He heard a familiar click and much rustling of papers. They had opened his briefcase.

He counted to a hundred and then backward to zero. Time to speak. He said, “Tell me…” Someone slapped him, not gently; enough to make orange blossoms parade before his eyes. So now he knew the ground rules.

The rustling of paper went on and on. Then there was the unmistakable sound of pages being shuffled together and tapped into a block. “Your formula,” a man said. “Interesting, on paper. Wars are not fought on paper.” Neutral accent, neither American nor British. “The next stage is to convert the formula to reality, and test it on your mind, which is in urgent need of control.”

“It's risky.” Luis waited. Nobody hit him. “Might not work.”

“That will be your funeral.”

“I have to pee.” Pathetic but true.

“Nobody is stopping you.”

People walked away. A different voice said, “Do not move. You are being observed.”

At last he had something to think about. They didn't want him, they wanted the formula. What then? The stuff was raw, untried chemistry. Pumped into him, it might scramble his brains. Fry
them. Braise them, poach them, broil them with sprigs of parsley. Horrible thought. In an hour or two, he might be incapable of thinking it. Or he might be thinking something more nightmarish, against his will, if he still had a will. He should have listened to Mikhail, should have quit, got out. Too late now. Too late to control his bladder, too. The flood of hot urine down his left thigh soaked his calf and ran into his shoe. It was shameful and then it was pleasant. If he was going to lose his mind he might as well enjoy the pleasures of infancy while he still could. Nobody seemed to object.

Evidently the door was open, if there was a door. He heard distant sounds. Vaguely chemical smells reached him. This must be a laboratory and the kidnappers must be scientists. All brains and no humanity. The last trace of hope slipped away.