The Kremlin Letter (28 page)

Rone slipped down the back stairway, walked along a narrow alley, and stepped through the rear entrance of a neighboring restaurant. He ordered a bowl of soup and a glass of wine. When he left he crisscrossed the crowded side streets and made his way to the subway. He took it for five stops, got off, rode back three. He backtracked four more stations and got off within five blocks of where he had started. He crossed several vacant lots, made sure he was not being followed, then caught the subway once again.

The address was a new multistoried building in one of Moscow's better neighborhoods. Rone walked past the building several times. As he had feared, it was too isolated. There were very few people on the street. They could be spotted too easily. He walked down the side streets and behind the building. No, it wouldn't do at all. He anticipated Erika's tears. He didn't like to make her unhappy, but this time it couldn't be helped.

It was not quite noon. His first appointment was with the Warlock at two o'clock. Rone decided to walk for a while. He passed the Palace of Labor, turned right and strolled along the river. It was a quiet, peaceful afternoon. Moscow is a silent city. Cars are not allowed to honk their horns, people are generally quiet on the street. Somehow the din of other cities had never found its way into Russia's capital. Rone did not particularly care for this. In a way it depressed him. It was a city that behaved more like a hamlet. Physically it was impressive, but for some in-explicable reason even the architecture seemed muted.

He returned to Potkin's apartment shortly after one. A note was pinned to the door: “Yorgi, am waiting on the street,
à droit
. U.M.”

Rone went downstairs and turned right. He had walked seven blocks before Uncle Morris fell in beside him. She was wearing the latest in Moscow styles: a heavy wool suit with square, padded shoulders and block-heel shoes.

“We have come up with something you should know about,” she told him as they walked. “The Swiss bank account has been traced to Polakov. Twelve deposits were made which correspond in time to the twelve payments he received for each of the parcels of information. In fact, each deposit was made within five days after he received payment from the West. This was the same account where he subsequently deposited the first half million dollars. Two days after he went into Russia for the last time the entire balance was transferred to another account. We don't know who that one belongs to.

“Here is what is most interesting. All of the money in the last account was then transferred to Tangier. Also deposited in that bank was the second half million dollars. Our people checked back and found that previous to this large transfer, eight smaller deposits had been made. Four were on dates corresponding to the last four small deposits he made in the Swiss bank, but the additional four deposits were made at intervals
after
he ceased supplying us with information.”

“You didn't make any more payments after the letter?” asked Rone.

“None. Once we had agreed to deliver the letter there was no more information for sale, at least to us. He might have continued selling to someone else—at least that's what some of us think.”

“Maybe those four additional payments came from the Swiss bank.”

“They didn't,” Uncle Morris informed him matter-of-factly. “As I said before, we were able to trace the original Swiss deposits. His account was cleaned out in one transfer. A subsequent transfer for the same amount showed up in the Tangier bank. And then, of course, there is that confusing issue of who made that last transfer, since Polakov was already in Moscow at the time.”

“Couldn't he have mailed the transfer in?”

“Our information says it wasn't done by mail. No, someone had to make it and someone had to be in Tangier, and I'm afraid that list of Russians and their whereabouts you wanted is of little help here. Not one of them was within five hundred miles of Africa at the time.”

“Was there a name on the Tangier account?”

“Yes, but it makes no sense to us. It was Bel Aman. What do you know about it?”

“Nothing,” answered Rone.

“Sorry to spoil your hopes, but it looks like that bonus money your little club was counting on is tied up in a dead man's account.”

“Is there anything else?” asked Rone.

“Not from our end. What's progressing with your merry little group?”

“You'll know when we come out.”

“And how's the bordello business?”

“Still looking for new and experienced girls.”

“I prefer younger clients. Well, ta ta.” Uncle Morris turned away.

Rone watched her disappear down the street. It was ten past two. The Warlock was already sitting in the confession booth. In five more minutes the interview would automatically be canceled. The Warlock would leave. Rone knew he couldn't make it back in time. He turned and headed slowly toward the apartment.

When Rone was four blocks from the apartment he stopped and lit a cigarette before crossing to a park, where he would wait until the Warlock was out of the vicinity. He started to cross the street, but jumped back as a black Zim roared past. In the back seat sat Grodin. Beside him was Potkin.

30

The Visitation

Potkin's car was followed by two others. The street curved at the next corner. As Rone rounded it he could see straight down to Potkin's building. Five black Zims were parked in front. Several men stood near the door. Another man came out shaking his head. For a moment Rone felt relieved. The Warlock had escaped. Then two more men emerged carrying a body. He could see the stumpy form of Potkin approach and look down at it. He said something to Grodin. Men were dispatched in various directions. The body was put into one of the cars. All the cars drove away. The apartment was now a trap. Rone would have to warn the others.

B.A. was not due until five, Ward not until seven. He took the subway to the street Mikhail lived on. His mother said B.A. and Mikhail were not expected back until after eight. She didn't know where they were. He told her, if she possibly could, to get a message to B.A. saying not to buy meat for dinner. Then he headed out to contact Janis. He had no way of knowing where Ward was.

It was almost three-thirty when he reached Madame Sophie's neighborhood. Janis usually spent his afternoons in one of the two small restaurants around the corner. Rone entered the first and sat down. When the waiter approached he asked if he had seen Janis.

“They took him a half hour ago,” the waiter whispered as he cleaned off the table.

“The police?”

“Police or secret police. They may still be around. Go out through the back.”

“And Madame Sophie?” Rone asked as he rose.

“They only took him. Go. You'll get us all in trouble.”

B.A. had six possible routes to the apartment. From the western end of the street she could approach from the west, north or south. From the eastern end, east, north or south. Rone sat in the small park three blocks east of the house. He would have to gamble. She was due in less than ten minutes. Rone saw no movement on the sidewalks. Only two trucks passed along the street. One of them stopped in the next block. As the driver got out a man stepped from a doorway and said something to him. The driver nodded, got back into his truck and drove away. The man walked down the street away from Rone and stepped into another doorway. There were five minutes left when a car pulled up opposite him. A young man and a woman sat in the front seat. The man got out, went around the car, and opened the door for the woman. He helped her to her feet and then escorted her to an apartment entrance. They stood in front of the building talking. No one came to tell them to move on. The surveillance did not extend this far. There were less than three minutes to go. B.A. must be coming from the other direction. Rone walked quickly to where the car was parked. He called to the man. “Your oil's leaking.”

The woman entered the house as the man returned to the car. He looked underneath. “I don't see anything,” he said to Rone.

“It's getting too dark. Do you have a torch?”

“No,” the man replied, somewhat perplexed.

“Then back up the car and put on your lights and you'll be able to see.”

The man got into the car, started the engine, turned on the lights and backed the car a few feet away. Before he could get out Rone was at his door. “You're dropping oil, all right. It's probably coming from under your dashboard.”

“There's no oil line there,” the man said defiantly.

“Don't tell
me
, comrade,” answered Rone. “I'm a mechanic. I know this model you're driving. They put it together backward. They've got everything in the wrong place. Move over and I'll show you.” Rone opened the door as the driver obediently slid away. Rone stuck his head under the steering wheel. “There it is. Just like I told you.”

“Where?”

“Just look down here.” The man bent his head under the dashboard and searched the firewall. Rone's hand crashed into the back of the man's neck. He pushed the limp body away, grabbed the wheel and started driving for Potkin's building. As he drove he saw several men standing either inside doorways or between the buildings. They looked up at the passing car without interest. There was no sign of B.A. at the first cross street. He continued toward the apartment. The owner of the car stirred slightly. Rone cracked him across the back of the neck. The body slumped. Two more streets and still no trace of her.

He was opposite Potkin's apartment when B.A. turned the corner two blocks ahead. She was coming toward him on the opposite side of the street. He rolled down his window and reached back to open the rear door. They were half a block apart when he jammed down the accelerator, swerved the car to the opposite sidewalk, bounced over the curb and slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a stop.

“Get in,” he shouted, throwing open the rear door.

B.A. stood frozen. “What?”

“It's a trap. Get the hell in here.”

B.A. moved for the car just as a man rushed from a building and caught her by the arm. Rone jumped out. B.A. had been thrown to the ground before Rone reached her. He chopped away her assailant with two fast cuts, jerked her to her feet, and dragged her to within a foot of the car before two more men lunged onto them. Rone caught the first one in the groin. When he turned to B.A. she was being pulled back toward the building. Three more men were within steps of her.

“Save yourself,” she shouted, twisting one hand free. “Please. I love you.” She was pushing her thumb into her mouth. The last thing Rone saw before jumping behind the wheel was a man reaching for B.A.'s jaw as it snapped shut.

Rone had expected gunshots. No one fired. He had expected cars or barricades to block his way. None appeared. He had accelerated and roared from the sidewalk with only two men running toward the car waving him to stop. They jumped clear as he passed. He skidded around the corner and raced onto the boulevard. The last thing he saw in the rear-view mirror was a group of men bending over B.A.

No one was behind him. He took no chances. He turned down several side streets and reversed his direction twice before reducing his speed. He drove another five minutes before pulling into an alley, parking and getting out. He walked between two buildings, turned onto the boulevard, and caught a bus.

For the first time he thought of Ward. Ward would be coming to the apartment at five. He would be walking into the trap just as B.A. had. He realized there was nothing he could do about it.

Rone had less than fifty rubles with him. There were thousands in the apartment. Fifty rubles would not carry him far. It would barely get him out of Moscow, if he had any idea how to accomplish that in the first place.

He sat in the Komsomol Theater on Chekhov Street trying to clear his mind. He was oblivious to the players and the audience. The key was clenched in his fist, the key Erika had given him earlier that day. The solitary question in Rone's mind was how much the colonel knew about his wife's affair with Yorgi. If he had been followed, and now there was no reason to believe otherwise, did the colonel know he had been meeting with his wife? They had never been seen together. They had always entered and left their rendezvous from different directions at different times. Erika usually came through the restaurant, Yorgi through the basement of the adjoining building. Rone closed his eyes and concentrated. He tried to rehear the nocturnal voices. He listened for inflections, innuendos. The words were those of a trusting husband, but what was underneath them? Had he been play-acting with his wife or had the affair escaped his notice? Maybe the colonel knew all along but refused to acknowledge it. Rone listened to the voices from his memory. He replayed certain segments as if he were operating a phonograph. He could recall no trace of skepticism in Kosnov's voice.

He had to assume that all the means of exit from Moscow would now be well covered. He couldn't risk going near any place or anyone he had known before. Hotels were out of the question. Moscow is not the kind of city where you can sleep in the park or on a subway unnoticed.

He pressed the key. The idea of having a new apartment suddenly available was a little more than Rone could accept. Perhaps Kosnov hadn't wanted to catch him in the afternoon raid. Had he intentionally waited until Rone was approaching the building? Rone would see what was happening and run. Where would he run to? To the new apartment, of course.

It was adding up too well. Erkia could not come that afternoon. The colonel wanted her to be with him. Why this afternoon particularly? If he was conducting the raid, how could he possibly be with her? No, he wanted her out of the way; she could be under guard at this very moment. When he had tried to save B.A., he had escaped too easily. He was a perfect target, but no one had fired a shot at him. Three men were within short range of him. No one fired. No one produced a gun. The men in front of the car had simply waved their hands to stop, but neither one was holding a gun. He had raced the car away expecting to be chased. He wasn't.