*
“This is bureaucracy at its worst,” Mann was fuming. “My friend lost the bag, he had to go on to Detroit and asked me to pick it up for him if it was at Lost Property. You asked me about the contents, and I told you. Even about the half-finished postcard. So what else do you want to know?”
The man at the counter was polite and apologetic. He explained that the regulations required answers to all questions on Lost and Found Form C37. “You see, sir, some forms need only ticks, but this is a real dog. Now I could tell you stones … ”
Mann agreed to identify himself rather than argue any more. Luckily, he was carrying a spare set of driving license and credit cards. There was nothing for him to worry about except the waste of time. Because he had hoped to be back at the house by now.
*
Rust knew he had lost too much time. He shouted and shouted, hoping to get some answer from Anna, but nothing could be heard from upstairs. He tried to climb the stairs, but it exhausted him to the point where he feared he might pass out or fall asleep only to be found in a heap when Mann returned.
“Anna!”
A vague premonition grew into firm conviction: Anna did not answer because she was not alive. They had no use for her. She could tell them nothing. But she could identify them if they let her go. So she had to die, probably with Lanigan. Rust had to know the truth. He wiped the blood off the gun: it had three bullets left. As long as he was awake he was not defenceless. The urge was tremendous to leave the house and try to escape. But Mann might arrive at any moment, and outside, Rust’s chances against him would be even worse.
Rust grabbed the upright of the banister and began to crawl up the stairs. Every one of them demanded the determination of a solo venture up the Himalayas. He reached the first landing. Fourteen stairs. It seemed hopeless ever to get farther up. He heard something. Could be the gravel crunching under the tires of a car. Or perhaps, induced by the effort, it might be the din restarting in his skull. He turned to face the front door below. He tried to take aim. But all his limbs were shaking. He lay on his stomach. If he held his feet dangling in reverse behind him in the air, he had enough room to rest both outstretched arms in front of him, holding the gun with both hands.
The door opened and Mann appeared. He had the plastic bag. Blinded by the incoming light, Rust shouted, “Don’t move!” At least he hoped he was shouting.
“What the hell.” Mann stopped. Then a slow smile spread over his face. “Don’t be stupid. Your hands are shaking.” Mann began to advance slowly. “You couldn’t hit an elephant. Not even a dead elephant.”
“Don’t move.”
Mann jumped to the right, and Rust fired. The bang and its echoes in the confined space reverberated, renewing the painful pressures on his eardrums. Instead of dying out, the noise grew and grew until it sounded like an approaching helicopter, rotor blades roaring, then groaning, then whining and chirping. If it wasn’t all in my mind, it could even be a real chopper, thought Rust. His vision began to blur. He could just make out Mann’s silhouette against the wall. And the shadowy figure was watching the door. Did he also hear that helicopter-like noise? Then silence. Mann flung himself on the stairs, presenting a minimal target, climbing fast on all fours. Rust had to turn quickly. He knew he was about to pass out. He heard the click of the safety catch. Or he thought he had heard it. He fired. And fired again.
*
The combined session of CIA and Pentagon experts reached a deadlock. They were to advise COMOR, the President’s Committee on Overhead Reconnaissance, but the gulf between clashing views was too wide. The photo analysts’ latest report was deemed to be “speculative.” Some hawks campaigned for the immediate resumption of unlimited U-2 flights all over Cuba, but the majority were opposed to it. The risk was considered to be too great. A provocation. Just what some of the generals wanted. Provoke some extreme reaction, such as missiles fired against American aircraft, and the President would be forced to sanction retaliation. The Cubans, trained secretly in Florida for an invasion, were said to be ready to go in — except this time, unlike during the Bay of Pigs, the President would have no chance to deny them full air cover and pull the carpet from under them. But the hawks were the minority. “There’s plenty of time” was the prevailing view.
Repson agreed with the majority. He emphasized that McCone, director of the Company, was due back from his honeymoon in a couple of days. “Let’s wait for him and let him decide.”
“If he wants to resume the flights, he’ll need backing and evidence to convince the President,” argued the Air Force colonel.
“And how exactly do you propose to provide that evidence?” Repson sneered. He was bored with pilots who could not see much beyond the limits of their gunsights. “Come on, how do you propose to get the evidence?”
“Certainly not by waiting for nukes to become regular parts of the Havana skyline.”
Some people laughed. The majority agreed that Khrushchev could not afford to take serious risks, such as placing long-range missiles with nuclear or conventional warheads in Cuba. Certainly not after the President’s categorical statement that the appearance of aggressive weapons in Cuba would not be tolerated by the United States. No bargaining, no compromise. Not even if it meant war.
The meeting ended inconclusively — or rather with the conclusion that nothing should be done. The decision, taken by COMOR on September 10, after the loss of a U-2 over China, was to remain in force. No flights to be routed over western Cuba.
The telephone rang. “It’s for you, Elliott.”
Must be London or Miami, thought Repson. He had waited in vain all day for Sir Charles to return his call. But it was a CIA agent from Miami station.
“What’s the problem?” Repson asked.
“No problem, sir. We’re still at the Upstairs, but we’ve done it.”
“That was pretty quick — it’s quite a house to search.”
“We were lucky, I guess.”
“You mean you’ve found something?”
“Just the thing you’ve anticipated, sir. It was hidden in a box of contraband Cuban cigars. What do we do with it? … Sir? Are you there, sir?”
“Yes. Er … catch the first flight and bring it to Washington. Let me see, you should be here by about, say, ten P.M. I’ll be at home. Have you got my address in Georgetown?”
*
The tinkle of metal on glass, the soft hiss of rubber wheels turning on linoleum, muted voices over a distant hum, the glitter of chrome or stardust blotted out now and then by the whiteness of angels’ wings or nurses’ coats — Rust knew he had to be in heaven or in a hospital. Schramm’s face was the first he recognized, and that eliminated the former. From then on, he was recovering fast. A few hours’ sedation had restored much of his strength and hearing. And he felt hungry. A good sign. He tried to sit up.
“Take it easy,” said Schramm.
Rust looked around. Charles, grave and concerned, stood in the background. Rust smiled at him and turned back to Schramm. “Where did you find me?”
“In that weird house in Long Island.”
“Where’s Anna? I mean, Mrs. Repson.”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you find her? She must be there.”
“Only you were there and the two bodies. Did you shoot them, Helm?”
“Males?”
“Yes. Two.”
“Anybody upstairs?”
“No. Correct?” Schramm asked Charles.
“Nobody upstairs, dear boy,” Charles confirmed.
“Then they killed her. Together with Lanigan. Have you searched the grounds? Any sign of fresh digging?”
“We’ve got the FBI out there.”
“They might have been dumped in the sea.”
“Who? Mrs. Repson? And Lanigan? Who’s Lanigan?”
“Ell’s man from the Company.” Schramm looked bewildered, but Rust ignored him and addressed Charles: “
Why the fuck didn’t you trust me?”
“Why didn’t you trust me?”
“Does Ell know what happened? I mean, to me and Anna?”
“Not from us he doesn’t,” said Schramm. “You want to call him?”
“I want to see him. Now.” A nurse tried to fuss over him. He brushed her hand aside and sat up. “I have no time for that, honey.” He felt dizzy and had to hold the edge of the bed. His grip felt firm. Another good sign. “Get rid of everybody apart from Charles and yourself, Jake.” Two nurses and a doctor left on Schramm’s nod. “Just get me some food, please.”
“Okay,” said Schramm. “Tell us.”
“You first.”
“There isn’t much, really.” Charles stepped closer. “We tailed you and some idiots lost you at a tollgate when you were driven in by an attractive young lady from Idlewild.”
“That’s when you called in Jake.”
“No, dear boy, he was with me all the time. When we lost you, he remembered an old trick he had taught you.”
“I thought he might if he was called in. Have you got the bag?”
“Yes.”
“Have you examined it?”
“Just the dictionary.”
“What have you found?”
“Only a microdot on page four. It’s … well, it seems to be a memo by Khrushchev, authorizing the installation of some SAMs in Cuba. It doesn’t seem genuine, I must say.”
“It probably is. Anything else?”
“Not yet. But a friend in a Company lab is working on it,” Schramm said.
“It’s on … ” Rust stopped. “So what happened?”
“We ran a big search for you, and kept an eye on that Lost Property office. We knew that you’d have to return sooner or later. When someone else turned up, our guys delayed him long enough for us to get there. We tailed him by chopper to that house. Except when we landed on the front lawn, we heard several shots from inside. We found the guy dead in the hallway. And another body in the living room. Incidentally, what was that dreadful creature by the fire?”
“A centipede.”
“Well, I didn’t count how many legs it had, but it sure had a lot of lives. It took endless kickings to die.”
“I hope it felt the pain.”
“Why?”
“Never mind.”
A nurse brought in food, and Rust needed all his self-control not to gobble up everything in sight. Some intestinal spasms returned, but it was not too bad and he could keep the food and water in. He asked the nurse to leave.
“You eat like someone who’s starved for a week,” said Charles.
“They’ve purged my bowels clean as new, I guess.” Grabbed by sudden panic, he stopped. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday.” Schramm looked at his watch. “Not that much is left of it.”
Charles sat down on the edge of the bed. “I think it’s your turn to tell, Helm.”
“In a sec. Jake said it was a friend in a Company lab working on the dictionary.”
“Correct.”
“Does that mean that it’s unofficial?”
“Well, yes, in a way.”
“In what way?”
“Charles and I thought that first we had to figure out what you were up to. I mean, we had no way of telling who to trust and what your game was.”
“Particularly not when you told me what information your father gave you about those camps,” added Charles.
“What about it?”
“It’s all wrong. He either didn’t know the answers himself, or, well, you know … ”
“What?”
“He might have lied to you. Quite deliberately. I have no idea why he would do that. Perhaps it’s just that his memory was failing. Camps can do a lot of queer things to people. What was your impression? Was he, er, okay up there?”
The food froze in Rust’s mouth. What Charles had said brought back the memory of the brief conversation with Anna about Geneva. She was probably wrong. She had to be. He forced himself to swallow. “Does either of you know when the big water jet in Geneva was built?”
Schramm shrugged his shoulders.
“Late last century, I believe,” said Charles. Rust sighed with relief, but the older man continued, “But it wasn’t much more than a good spurt, I think, at the time. They kept improving it, but the really big jet was not installed until, oh, well after the war. I remember I was there in 1950 or’51; they made quite a song and dance about the height. No, it might have been ’52. Anyway, what’s the relevance?”
Why? Why would the old man lie about the water jet? The Jeddo, he called it. And he mentioned even the height. Why? A hundred and thirty meters. How did he know? He wouldn’t.
Not unless he had only heard or read about it and confused the information with his own memories. Or else he might have revisited Geneva after the war. But why would they let him? And if they did, why would he lie about it? To convince his son that he had ever been in Geneva at all?
Charles watched Rust’s shocked expression. “I take it you didn’t know that the information he gave you was false.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. It’s … it’s just that I wanted to know what I was made of. What I’ve inherited from him. To see if I could blame that stranger for anything or everything bad in me. So now I know.” He stared at the ceiling. “And that’s not the worst.” He paused. It was hard to say it. “Ell.” The friendly familiarity of the name was wrong to use this time. “My brother is a traitor. He’s probably ordered his wife’s death. And authorized my torture and death.”
“Repson?”
“He fingered me at Idlewild to those thugs. He sent along Anna to allay any suspicions I might have, and probably to get rid of her, too, in one go.”
Charles and Jake avoided his eyes. They knew how much those few sentences must have hurt Rust.
“Okay, what do we do? Do we pick him up? What?” Jake was itching to go into action.
“First you’ve got to get that dictionary. Lucky it’s not in Company hands — I mean, officially.” Rust stopped again. A memory flash brought back a fragment of the telephone conversation with Ell from London. Porokhovyye konfety. Castro’s shopping list. Ell denied that he had ever received it. Rust now knew why. “Anyway, here’s briefly what happened.” In a matter-of-fact voice he summarized the last three weeks’ events. He cut out most of the traumatic experiences, though obviously, both his listeners sensed the gaps. He was ready to tell them the little he knew about the missiles when a thought ran through him like a shudder. What if these two were on Mann’s side? What if they had returned with Mann only to finish off the job? When Mann and George were found dead, these two could have tried to continue in a different style. Except that by then, they had nothing more to gain from keeping him alive. He could not dismiss the thought completely, but decided that if these two were also working for the opposition, he would not have much left worth fighting for.
“You were saying.” Jake broke the long silence. “About that dictionary.”
“You’ve got to retrieve it. And the microdot that’s already been blown up. It’ll have to go right to the top. I mean McCone.”
“He’s away.”
“Okay, his deputy then. The thirteenth dot on page thirty-one is a microdot. I guess it could be a chart to help you locate some other microdots on different pages.” He paused, then mumbled mostly to himself: “What a joke: I planned to deliver it to the President through Ell.”
“Yeah. We’ll have to pick him up and bring him in. Shall I arrange it?”
Rust shook his head.
“I mean, I could do it sort of unofficially if that’s what you preferred.”
“Before you move, I’ve got to go and see him. I think I’ve earned the right to judge him first — at least to my satisfaction!”
“Don’t. The risk is too great,” protested Charles.
Jake agreed: “It’s crazy.”
“It’s my skin. And as of now, I’m dispensable. So give me an hour with him. Can you be ready by then?”
Wednesday, October 3
Revealed in Miami: Pentagon asked Jose Miró Córdoba’s Cuban Revolutionary Council for 150 escapee officers to receive advanced training at U.S. military schools; twelve men already selected. Increasingly heavy traffic (mostly Russian ships) at Havana and Cienfuegos; reports of unloading at night in screened-off “security” areas.
*
IN MOSCOW IT WAS 3:00 IN THE AFTERNOON, AND MAJOR Boychenko had a feeling that the day would never end. There was nothing he could do about his headache — he should not have experimented with all those western kokteil concoctions everybody seemed to drink at the party. And there was nothing he could do about the sudden silence from New York. Yet less than twenty-four hours ago, there was sunshine for him whichever way he turned.
By Tuesday lunchtime, old Fyodor Galakhov of the Red Banner kolkhoz had told him everything. Boychenko exercised his power of persuasion and never needed even to approach the limits of socialist legality. He reported directly to the Spetsburo, and the colonel praised him for his clear and concise summary of the situation. Only half an hour later, he was formally relieved of all his Tourist duties and transferred temporarily to the Spetsburo. He was not particularly keen to join an assassination squad, even if it would give him a chance to travel abroad, but the assignment was recognition for his hard work and dedication. And there was more to come. As if the news of his success had already been spreading along the grapevine of Moscow’s potentates there was a sudden slurry of telephone calls: the bath faucets and the scarcity goods from the Voyentorg had been delivered, his reference for the surgeon had been useful and the Foreign Trade Ministry official, whose favors Boychenko had been seeking, suddenly found an “unexpected opening” for Boychenko’s daughter.
In the Company of Spies Page 29
