Snow Wolf (22 page)

Lebel stood up to leave.

"No-wait, Henri. I'm certain we can resolve
this," That settled it. A Couple of phone calls to the upper echelons of
the Ministry and a fine sable coat for the official's wife finally clinched the
deal. Lebel would be bestowed with honorary Soviet citizenship, which would do
away with the need for him to be under surveillance as a foreigner.

The next day he went back to the
apartment off Lenin Prospect, checking to make 'sure he wasn't followed. He
wasn't. It was still a terrible risk but he considered it worth it. He knocked
on the door and frena appeared.

When she saw him she went white, and when
the shock subsided her eyes were wet as she led him inside the two-room
apartment.

For a long time they embraced and kissed
and cried. There were two things Lebel learned that day. One, that he still
loved frena Dezov, and much more than he even realized, and two rather more
disturbing, that she was married. Or rather had been' when they had their
affair in the camp. The husband, a much older, stern-faced army colonel, had
later died in the final battle for Berlin.

Somehow Lebel wasn't unduly bothered by
conscience about their affair in the camp. With death so close you took what
human comfort you could. Besides, there was no such thing as a truly honest
businessman, and in business he had sometimes committed sins considerably worse
than adultery. And lrena wasn't sad about it, quite the opposite. She confessed
that the day she learned of her husband's death she opened a bottle of vodka
and got quietly drunk with joy. The man was a brute and the only good he had
done was leave her an army widow's pension and a country dacha on the outskirts
of Moscow.

They made love that day with an intensity
Lebel had never known, and did so every time afterwards that they could get to
Ireia's dacha, which offered them privacy.

That first day together in years, as they
lay in bed, she had prodded his generous stomach and laughed.

"You're no longer a skeleton, Henri.
You've grown fat, my little Frenchman. But I still love you."

He had grown plump, but he saw the look
on her face when she said it and knew she still loved him too.

lrena Dezov was certainly no longer a
skeleton. Her body had filled out, her bust rather larger and even more
comforting than he remembered, her lust for life and lovemaking still
unquenched.

But Lebel knew trena would never be
allowed out of Russia, despite his connections. Nobody was allowed out of
Stalin's Russia. Dissidents were shot, committed to asylums, or imprisoned for-
life, not given exit visas. Even applying for an emigrant visa condemned the
applicant as a traitor, which meant the firing squad or the Gulag. And each
time he and Irena and he met six times a year, more if possible, he had to take
particular care and timing to travel to the dacha.

It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't safe,
and every time he saw her he feared their relationship would be exposed and,
worse, stopped.

But they would still take the risk and
meet every time he was in Moscow.

And it would be their secret.

Paris. February 3rd The clouds hung gray
and sullen over Paris that afternoon in early February, threatening rain all
day, but in the luxury penthouse suite on the fifth floor of the Ritz Hotel,
Henri Lebel's mind was on anything but the weather.

The sight of the two voluptuous young
models who stood before him almost naked as he sat in the couch by the window
sent a rippiin-, erotic shiver down his spine. They were tempting, too tempting
almost. The Curtains were drawn and the lights were on, three powerful bulbs
flooded the suite, and as the fashion photographer effected some last-minute
adjustments, Lebel lit a cigar and smiled at the youngest of the two girls.

"Very, very nice, Marie. Turn around
now if you please."

The girl was twenty, with short dark hair
and a dusky skin any full-blooded Frenchman Would gladly kill for. She wore
only a pair of' stiletto high heels and black silk stockings and a suspender
belt. The girl turned, displaying a rear view of her, long, elegant legs and
perfectly rounded buttocks. She cocked her head as she giggled at a smiling
Lebel.

"What about the coat, Henri?"

Lebel ptirsed his lips and grinned.
"In a moment, my sweet. Let me drink this moment in like good wine."

Marie laughed as she stood there with her
hands on her- hips, not a shred of embarrassment in evidence as Lebel's eyes
wandered over her body.

Lebel thought The girl was stunning, no
question about it, and really ideal.

Marie. And now Claire. Your turn. Nice
and slowly."

The second girl was fair-haired and
nineteen. She gave Lebel a cheeky smile and turned her buttocks to him. She had
splendid breasts, and as she turned Lebel was given the full benefit of their
firm pert mounds. Her ass wasn't as tantalizing as Marie's, or her legs as
long, but she was a beautiful creature nonetheless, and her breasts more than
made Up for the deficit.

Lebel felt a warm electricity in his
loins and had to suppress a sigh of pleasure.

He stood and stubbed out his cigar in the
crystal ashtray on the coffee table. He turned to the photographer, an
middle-aged man in a sweater and slacks, with a cravat tied around his neck,
and slapped him on the shoulder. "You did well, Patric. The girls have
just the look I want for the New York catalog.

"As always, a pleasure to work with
you, Henri."

Despite his busy schedule, Lebel always
found time to supervise personally the catalog photo-shoot for the coming
winter collection, and the sumptuously decorated suite in the Ritz provided an
ideal backdrop.

The photographer clapped his hands.
"The sables first, girls. Let's start with the best."

The photographer had shot off a quick
dozen frames with the girls in various poses, Lebel offering suggestions as he
felt necessary, when there was a knock on the door. A tall sharpfeatured man
with the face of an undertaker and dressed in a black suit entered the room. He
barely glanced at the two beautiful models. Charles Torrance was English and as
Lebel's butler and chauffeur was discreet and had just the right air of itas.
His honeyed voice spoke softly across the room in perfect French.

"A visitor, sir."

"Tell whoever it is to go
away," Lebel snorted. "Can't You see I'm busy, Charles?"

"It's Mr. Ridgeway, sir. He says he
has an appointment."

Lebel sighed. He had almost forgotten his
secretary had phoned him about the appointment three days before. "Very
well, tell Mr. Ridgeway I'll see him in the study." Lebel glanced back at
the girls and photographer and smiled. "Champagne for everyone when
they're finished, Charles. And a little caviar would be nice. The Crimean red
the Soviet Ambassador sent."

The penthouse suite Henri Lebel lived in
on the fifth floor of the Ritz had one of the most pleasant views in Paris,
overlooking the magnificent cobbled Place Vendeme.

The suite had- been occupied during the
war by a senior Gestapo officer who had the luxury quarters expanded to a five
room apartment to impress his Parisian mistress. It was elegantly fitted out
with period furniture and silk tapestries, and had the distinct advantage of
having three separate entrances and exits. Lebel's registered offices and
warehouses were in the suburb of Clichy, but he seldom if ever used them to
conduct business. The suite in-the Ritz was far more private.

As he stepped into the study that
afternoon he saw Massey standing by the window, staring out at the pigeons
swirling above the sodden Place Vendeme. The record player in the corner was
on, Maria Callas in La Boh@me playing softly in the background.

Lebel smiled as he crossed to the window,
offering his hand. "Jake, good to see you." He pronounced the name
like the French Jacques, and shook Massey's hand before glancing back at the
source of the music. "I see you took the liberty. She's quite superb,
Callas. Remind me if ever you want tickets when she's playing in Paris. I have
a friend with the Opera."

"Hello, Henri. I hope I didn't
disrupt your afternoon'?

Charles said you had company."

Lebel took a cigar from a humidor on the
lacquered table, ] and lit it. He blew out @ a cloud of smoke. "So what
brings @ you to Paris, Jake?"

Massey looked at the chubby Frenchman.
His pencil-thin mustache was neatly clipped, and Close up his face was covered
in fine wrinkles, masked from a distance by a deep Riviera tan.

"Just a brief visit to have a chat,
Henri."

Lebel nodded toward the record player.
"is that why you put the record on, just to be certain we can't be
overheard?"

"the Frenchman rinned. "Lebel,
you wouldn't trust God himself."

"That's how I've lived so
long."

Lebel's eyes took in the room. The suite
is completely safe, believe me. No electronic devices. I checked the rooms
myself." The record playing softly in the background was unnecessary, but
Lebel understood.

"so to what do I owe the pleasure of
this visit'? It's years since we last met. You never called or wrote like you
promised You would. If you were a woman I'd have given up on you long ago.

Massey smiled. "So tell me, how is
business?"

"I can't complain. In fact, it's
very good. Since the war ended your rich Americans have no shortage of cash.
They like the best money has to offer. And they particularly like my sables. I
lost five million francs from America alone last year. A quarter of' ii)y
business."

Massey's eyebrows rose. "That's
good, Henri."

"Wait until next year when they see
my new catalog. It's going to be even better."

Lebel smiled confidently and leaned
forward and touched Massey's knee. "But enough of business. Why are you in
Paris'?

"You still see any of the boys from
the resistance?"

"Once a week we meet and crack open
a couple of bottles and remember the dead. You should come next time. They
still remember you fondly. Killing Geri-naiis was the highlight of their lives.
Now they raise chickens or kids and live boring lives. How could life ever be
the same?"

Massey looked around the elegant room.
"You don't seem to be doing too badly. This place must be costing you
plenty."

Lebel sighed, "True. But it's all
down to luck and a twist of fate, mon Monime You know that."

"Being in the resistance has been
good to you, Henri."

Lebel shrugged. "It had its price,
but of course, I don't deny it. They helped with my Moscow business contacts
after the war."

"That's partly why I'm here. I need
a favor, Henri."

Lebel sighed. "Is it something
that'll get me killed or just mutilated?"

"Both. And it has to do with
Moscow."

A nervous look flickered on Lebel's face,
emphasizing his wrinkles. He became serious.

"Explain."

Massey put down his glass. "A man
named Max Simon and his daughter were murdered in Switzerland two months ago.
Both of them were shot through the head. Moscow sanctioned the killings."

Lebel put up a pudgy hand. "Jake, if
it's politics, you know I don't get involved."

"Hear me out, The man responsible is
an East German killer named Borovik. Gregori Borovik. That's not his real name.
He uses a whole lot of aliases. He's crazy, Henri, and I want to find
him."

Lebel sighed and shook his head.
"Jake, the contacts I have don't talk about such things."

"All I'm asking is that you make a
few discreet inquiries. You know everyone in the Soviet Embassy in Paris.
You're personal friends with the Ambassador."

"It's not a friendship that extends
to discussing the nastier side of intelligence life."

"Max Simon was a personal friend of
mine. His daughter was only ten years old."

Lebel's face paled slightly with distaste
before he shook his head firmly. "Jake, I'm sorry to hear that, but you're
wasting your time."

Massey sighed and stood up. "OK,
let's put that aside. Right now you're the biggest dealer in Russian fur in
Europe. Apart from diplomatic staff and a handful of Western businessmen in
oil, tobacco and diamonds, you're one of the few people allowed to visit Moscow
almost at will. And seeing as Moscow's pretty much a closed city right now, I
guess that makes you kind of special."

Lebel nodded thoughtfully before sipping
his cognac. "That's true. But to use an American expression, cut the crap,
Jake. Get to the point."

Massey smiled back and his face didn't
flinch when he said, "I need you to take some people out of Moscow for me
on one of your private goods trains."

Lebel's mouth opened and before the cigar
could fall from his mouth he pinched it hard between his thumb and forefinger
and frowned in disbelief.

"Let me get this right, Jake. You
want me to smuggle people out of Russia?"