With a shudder, he realized how horribly wrong he was. His mind recoiled with dismay. Not Castor and Pollux. No, dear God, it had been another pair, and he almost wept because he couldn’t remember who. Chris and Saul, perhaps. His Furies crowded closer. His mouth filled with bile.
He’d left the office in midafternoon as soon as his assistant had brought the news.
“Romulus escaped? But everything was arranged, the trap confirmed! The KGB claimed they had him!”
“And the woman. Yes.” The assistant spoke reluctantly. “But he got away.”
“How?”
“They caught him near Lyon. He broke from a château where he’d been taken to be executed.”
“They were supposed to kill him on the spot!”
“It seems they wanted to interrogate him first.”
“That wasn’t the agreement! How much damage did he do? How many guards did he kill?”
“None. The escape was clean.”
It troubled him. “But they killed the woman?”
“No, they’re questioning her to find out where he went.”
He shook his head. “It’s wrong.”
“But they claim—”
“It’s wrong. They lie. It’s a trick.”
“But why?”
“Someone let him go.”
“I don’t see what the motive would be.”
“Isn’t it obvious? To come for me.”
The assistant narrowed his eyes.
And that was when Eliot, realizing his assistant thought he was paranoid, had left the building, taking Castor and Pollux with him. Since then, he’d been sitting in his shadowy den, protected for now by guards around the house and his two remaining faithful sons in here.
But he couldn’t continue like this forever. He couldn’t merely wait. Despite the Shades that haunted him, he didn’t believe in fate. I’ve always depended on skill, he thought. And wile.
I taught him. I can outguess him. What would I do if I were Saul?
The moment he knew what question to ask, the answer came all at once. Thrilling, it gave him another chance. But only if he acted quickly.
He had to get through to Landish.
Saul would savor revenge, making stops along the way, increasing the terror.
Landish’ll be his first target. We can set up a trap.
9
Again he felt he’d been here before, seeming to see not only Franklin but the walls of Andrew Sage’s estate as well. Everything was coming together. Eliot had used the school to pervert him. One of the consequences was the Paradigm job. Understanding, he grimly delighted in his sense of heading back to where it all began. When he’d blown up Sage’s estate, he’d felt nothing. There’d been a job to do. He’d done it for Eliot. But everything was different now. For the first time, he looked forward to a kill. Comparing the walls of Sage’s estate with Landish’s estate, he realized the change in himself. He wanted to kill, and it pleased him that the method he’d chosen was the method he’d used to kill Sage. He savored the irony, using Eliot’s tactics against him. I told you, Landish, how I’d punish you if you lied. Dammit, my brother’s dead. Imagining the walls of Franklin School, he felt his eyes burn, swollen with tears.
He turned to his weapon. He could have chosen a rifle and simply have shot Landish from a distance. But that wouldn’t have satisfied him, wouldn’t have been complete enough, a fulfillment of his threat. Landish had to die in a certain way.
But his determination created a problem. Landish either was more cautious or else had learned of Saul’s escape, for security on the estate had tripled. Guards patrolled in abundance. Visitors were asked for credentials and then were searched. The walls had now been equipped with closed-circuit cameras. It wasn’t possible to infiltrate the grounds as he had before. Then how could he plant the explosives? How could he blow up not just Landish but—I told you what I’d do; they represent everything I hate—those fucking roses?
It was the largest remote-controlled model plane he could buy. He’d gone to half a dozen of the largest hobby shops in London before he found it. A miniature Spitfire with a three-foot wingspan and a half-mile range. His own guided missile. He wiped his misted eyes while he made adjustments, smiling. A toy. If Chris had been here, he’d have laughed. The corrupted child had chosen a plaything to get back at his father.
The model was fueled. He’d tested it earlier at another location. He had no trouble making it work. It responded to radio signals, maneuvered through the sky by a stick on a transmitter. It climbed and banked and dove precisely as he wished. But the plane had cargo: five pounds of stolen explosive, evenly distributed along the fuselage and taped in place. The added weight affected the model’s performance, retarding its takeoff, making it sluggish in the air. But not enough to matter. The weapon would do its job. He’d gone to an electronics store and bought the parts he needed for a detonator, anchoring it to the undercarriage, controlled by its own transmitter. He’d taken care that the plane and the detonator were linked to different frequencies. Otherwise the explosive would have gone off when he activated the transmitter for the plane.
He waited. Dawn came slowly, bringing no warmth. Though he shivered, hate burned his soul.
He knew his target wouldn’t have hidden somewhere else. The roses were too important. Landish would fear for them and be unable to stay away.
He thought of Chris, enjoying the wait, imagining the satisfaction he soon would know. At seven, he tensed as a white-haired figure, flanked by guards, left a rear door of the mansion, approaching the greenhouse. He feared it was someone else disguised as Landish, but through binoculars, he recognized the old man. No mistake. His gardening coat looked somewhat bulky. He was wearing a bulletproof vest.
It won’t do you any good, you bastard.
As soon as Landish and the guards went into the greenhouse, Saul crept back through the trees. He carried the plane, along with the transmitters in a knapsack on his shoulder, crossing a meadow, its grass too wet with dew to be a takeoff strip. A country road worked perfectly. Seeing no cars, he started the plane and guided it faster till it left the ground and struggled for altitude. Its engine droned. When it was high enough to clear the trees, he returned through the meadow, keeping the plane in sight above him as he shifted through the woods to reach the bluff overlooking Landish’s estate. Because of the dew, his pants clung cold to his legs, but even that felt pleasant. Birds sang. The early morning air smelled fresh. He pretended to be the child he never was. Had never been allowed to be.
His toy. His drying tears made his cheeks feel stiff as he smiled. He worked the controls, raising the plane to its limit—a speck against the pale blue sky—aiming it toward the estate. The guards turned, puzzled by its drone. A few cocked their heads. A man with a dog pointed up. Though they couldn’t see him from this distance, he crouched behind bushes, manipulating the controls. His pulse thumped louder as the plane veered over the grounds.
The guards seemed paralyzed, then abruptly snapped into motion, urgent, nervous, appearing to sense a threat but not knowing what it was. He urged the plane to its maximum height, then forced it into a dive. As the plane streaked toward the greenhouse, its shape enlarging, its drone increasing, a few men ran toward the greenhouse. Others shouted. Several raised rifles. He heard the crack of shots, seeing the guards jerk from the recoil. Twisting the control stick, he began evasive maneuvers, banking the plane to the right, then the left, veering, spinning, diving. Other guards began shooting. He studied the greenhouse. Through its glass, he saw a small white-coated figure turn to face the commotion. Only Landish had worn white. He stood among roses, a third of the way along a row. Saul aimed the plane directly at him. So many shots cracked they became a rattle. The plane responded sluggishly. For a terrible instant, he feared it had been hit, but then he realized the weight of the bomb made it act that way. He compensated, moving the plane less abruptly. When it struck the glass, he imagined Landish gasping. He pressed the second transmitt
er. The greenhouse disintegrated. Shards of glass arced, glinting. Guards dove for cover, obscured by smoke and flames. As a rumble drifted across the valley, he fled, imagining specks of rose petals drifting onto and soaking up Landish’s blood.
10
The phone rang, making Eliot flinch. He stared, forcing himself to wait while it shrilled again before he had control enough to pick it up.
“Hello?” He sounded cautious, expecting to hear Saul curse in triumph, threatening. He had to convince Saul to meet with him, to lure Saul into a trap.
What he heard was his assistant. “Sir, I’m afraid we’ve got bad news. An emergency cable from MI-6.”
“Landish? Something’s happened to him?”
“Yes, sir, how did you know?”
“Just tell me.”
“Somebody blew him up. In his greenhouse. He was heavily guarded. But—”
“Dear God.” When Eliot learned how the bomb was delivered, his heart felt numb. Landish hadn’t stopped him.
It was Saul all right. He wants to let me know how clever he is. He’s telling me he can get at me no matter where I am or how well I protect myself. Eliot shook his head in dismay.
Why should I be surprised? I taught him.
Murmuring “Thanks,” he hung up. In the dark, he fought to calm himself, to clear his mind, to analyze his options.
Feverish, he shivered, struck by the thought that he hadn’t been in danger since he’d worked undercover in France in the war. Since then, he’d risen so high his only risk had been political. No ranking intelligence officer had ever been executed for treason. Only operatives in the field ever faced death. At the worst, he’d have received a prison sentence, probably not even that—to avoid publicity, high-level traitors were often merely dismissed, their capacity to do damage ended. With his collection of scandals to use as blackmail, he might even have claimed his pension.
No, his only fear had been discovery. Because of pride and his determination not to fail.
But the fear he now suffered was fierce. Not intellectual. Instinctive. Reflexive terror. He hadn’t felt this way since a night in a drainage ditch in France when a German sentry had thrust at him with—
His heart almost burst from the strain. His paper-thin lungs, brittle from years of cigarettes, heaved heroically.
I won’t give up. I’ve always been a winner. After nearly forty years, he faced again the ultimate. And didn’t intend to fail.
A father against his son? A teacher against his student?
All right, then, come for me. I’m sorry Chris is dead, but I won’t let you beat me. I’m still better than you.
He nodded. The rules. Don’t go to your enemy. Make him come to you. Force him to fight on your own territory. Make him face you on your own terms.
He knew a way. Saul was wrong if he thought he could get at him no matter where he was or how well guarded. There was a place. It offered absolute protection. And the best part was it followed the rules.
Standing quickly, he walked to the hall. Pollux straightened, attentive. Eliot smiled.
“Bring your brother. We need to pack.” He paused at the stairs. “It’s been too long since we went on a trip.”
11
In London, Saul ignored the rain at the window. He’d closed the draperies. Even so, he turned on the lights only long enough to see the numbers he dialed on the phone. Again in darkness, he lay on the bed, waiting for an answer. In a while, he’d shower and change his clothes, then eat the fish and chips he’d brought here with him. After that, he’d pay for this room, having used it for just an hour, and head for his next destination. He could sleep en route. There was much to do.
The phone stopped buzzing. “Yes?”
It sounded like Orlik, but he had to be sure. “Baby Ruth.”
“And roses.”
Orlik. The Russian had given him numbers—pay phones where he could be reached on certain days at certain times for information and instructions.
“I assume you’ve heard the terrible news about our English friend,” Saul said.
“Indeed. Sudden, but not unexpected. And not without consequences,” Orlik said. “There’s been considerable activity among his associates. It seems they fear additional sudden news about themselves.”
“Have they taken precautions?”
“Why? Would that disturb you?”
“Not as long as I knew where to find them.”
“Travel’s good for the soul, I understand.”
“Can you recommend some places?”
“Several. I know of a winery in France’s Bordeaux district, for example. And a mountain retreat in Germany’s Black Forest. If the Soviet Union’s to your liking, I suggest a dacha near the mouth of the Volga on the Caspian.”
“Only three? I expected four.”
“If you went directly to the fourth, you might lose interest in the others,” Orlik said.
“On the other hand, I’m so looking forward to seeing the fourth I might not be able to concentrate on the others.”
“I’ve a friend of yours who’s anxious for you to finish your travels so you can get back to her. We agreed you’d follow directions. If you don’t do what I want, what point is there in my helping you? I had in mind you’d pay your next visit to my disruptive colleague in the Soviet Union.”
“And take the pressure off you? Think again. You’re helping me only so I’ll take care of him. Then you’ll blame me and be in the clear.”
“I’ve never pretended otherwise,” Orlik said.
“But once you’re safe, you might decide you can deal with the others by yourself. You’ll arrange for me to be killed and come out a winner all the way around.”
“Your suspicion hurts my feelings.”
“I’m in this for one reason only—Eliot. I’ll deal with the others later. There’s no guarantee I can do them all. Maybe I’ll make a mistake and die before I get to the others. If I take them in the order you want, maybe I’ll never reach Eliot.”
“All the more reason to be cautious.”
“No. Listen carefully. I have a question. If I hear the wrong answer, I’m hanging up. I’ll get to Eliot on my own. If Erika’s harmed, I’ll come for you the way I did for Eliot.”
“You call this being cooperative?”
“The question. I assume he knows I’ve escaped and what happened to Landish. He’ll have to figure I’m coming. He’ll make arrangements. In his place, I wouldn’t stay at home. I’d want the best protection I could find, the safest location. Where do I find him?”
Rain rattled against the window. In the dark, he clutched the phone, braced for Orlik’s response.
“I don’t like being threatened.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Wait! What’s the matter with—? Give me a chance! Eliot now? Then the others in the exchange for Erika?”
“Unless I feel you’re using her as a trap.”
“You have my word.”
“The answer.”
Orlik sighed, then told him. Saul hung up.
His heart raced. The location Orlik had told him was brilliant. What did you expect? he thought. Despite his hate, he admitted Eliot’s genius.
The best, the most controlled of arenas. Chris would have understood.
12
A large black van stood outside the farmhouse. Approaching it, Orlik frowned. His tires crunched on the gravel lane as he parked his Citroën well away from the unfamiliar vehicle, making sure he was pointed back down the lane. He shut off his lights and motor but left the key in the switch. Cautious, he got out, scanning the night.
If he’d seen the van from a distance, he’d have stopped and circled the farmhouse, investigating. But the van had been placed so he wouldn’t notice it till he reached the end of the lane. He couldn’t have retreated without alerting his visitors. Assuming the night hid guards in addition to his own, he had no choice except to go inside apparently unconcerned.
Lamps glowed from several windows. There
. As he neared the house, he noticed a shadow to the right at the corner. Positioned just beyond the spill of light, the figure evidently intended Orlik to glimpse him.
To the left, the screech of crickets abruptly stopped. So that side had someone too. But again the warning could so easily have been prevented by avoiding movement that Orlik had to guess the hidden sentries were letting Orlik know they were there.
To watch my reaction. If I’ve done nothing wrong, I shouldn’t look nervous. If I did what they suspect, though, maybe I’d prove it by trying to run.
He had no doubt who they were. After Saul’s “escape” from the château outside Lyon, Orlik had taken Erika south to this farm near Avignon, wanting to hide her—in case Saul attempted to rescue her instead of completing his bargain. Saul could never have found this place. The French authorities didn’t know what was going on. So who did that leave? Who else was involved and had ways of tracking him here?
Two conclusions. A member of his staff, suspicious about Saul’s escape, had informed against him. The second: Orlik’s superiors were here to interrogate him.
“You,” Orlik said in Russian. “To the right. Be careful stepping back. There’s a cistern behind you. Its cover won’t hold your weight.”
He heard no response. Smiling, he continued forward—but not to the main door, instead to an entrance near the right side.
He went in, smelling veal and mushrooms from supper. A narrow hall went left past the kitchen toward the lights in the living room. A muscular guard stood outside a padlocked door.
“Open it,” Orlik said. “I have to question her.”
The guard looked sullen. “They won’t like that.”
Orlik raised his eyebrows.
“You’re expected.” The guard pointed down the hall.
I know who informed against me, Orlik thought. He’s in the right place. He’ll get what he deserves. “They’ll have to wait. I told you to open it.”
The Brotherhood of the Rose Page 29
