The Tristan Betrayal

by Robert Ludlum

  His room had been completely torn apart. His suitcase, which he had locked before leaving this morning, was open, the lock cut, its contents, hastily packed in Paris, strewn around the bed and floor. It was complete chaos, insanity!

  The few suits he had carefully hung up in the closet had not just been tossed to the floor; they had been slit open, as if to check for concealed pockets. Leather belts were slit open, as were the soles of his shoes. Even the lining of his suitcase had been slashed open, without finesse. No care had been taken to conceal the search, which had been conducted with an aggressiveness that shocked him.

  He raced across the room, lifted the leather Hermès case, and examined the brass fittings. Concealed in some of the hardware was an array of parts for a miniaturized radio transmitter, which could be assembled when needed. Most of them still seemed to be in place, as far as he could tell, including the crystal, the most important component of the transmitter, without which it could not operate. Luckily, those parts had not been discovered; they had been too well hidden. Of course, they were only the miniature components of the transmitter; the rest of the device had been concealed by Roger somewhere in the pinewoods of Moscow near the American embassy dacha.

  Then he remembered the compact, wearable Webley pistol, which he had carefully wired into the frame of the bed. He got down on his knees, looked under the bed, and saw that the netting, which he had untacked before concealing the pistol and then retacked, had been slashed.

  The gun was gone, too.

  He sat down on a chair, his heart pounding. Why had they tossed the room, conducted their search so openly, so violently? What did it mean? They—the Soviet security services, presumably, though he didn’t know which ones—seemed to be warning him, letting him know in their unmistakable way that they were suspicious of him. They were drawing a line in the sand, telling him to go no further, to watch his step, to be always aware that they were watching.

  But to make such a warning required clearance from the top, or near the top, of the security services. That was what was most unnerving. He was in a special category for some reason. Certain highly placed individuals had at least strong reason to suspect that he was not here merely as a businessman. Did that indicate a leak?

  He had to contact Corky and let him know. Ordinarily he would not communicate with Corcoran unless and until he had a decision that needed to be made at Corky’s level—field security demanded isolation of an agent from command central as long as possible. But the nature of this assault—for that’s what it was—was evidence of a possible security breach, and of that Corky had to be notified at once. Tonight Metcalfe would be going to the American dacha outside Moscow. As soon as he had an opportunity to leave unobserved, he would traipse out into the woods, following the prearranged markings that Roger had left for him. He would find the transmitter, install the crystal and other components that had been fitted into his suitcase hardware, and attempt to contact Corky.

  But he had to get out to the dacha without being followed. That was the challenge. The run-of-the-mill goons from the hotel lobby would be following him, which was not a serious concern. But so would the pale-eyed blond man, whoever he was. No one except Amos Hilliard knew he was planning to attend the party tonight, and he would not tell anyone, except perhaps the ambassador. On the other hand, if it was known to the NKVD that Lana was planning to be there tonight—and surely it was known that he had met with Lana backstage at the Bolshoi—the followers could fairly assume that he might try to get invited. Nevertheless, he’d have to take precautions, at least create a semblance of doubt, thereby reducing the contingent of those tailing him.

  He began to devise a plan while he washed his face and shaved. There was a knock at the door. Metcalfe dried his face with the rough hotel towel, went over to the door, and opened it.

  Standing there was Ted Bishop, the British journalist, looking seedier than normal. His tie was askew, his shirttails untucked, his face flushed. He was clutching a bottle of Scotch.

  “Bloody dezhurnaya wouldn’t give me your bleedin’ room number until I told her I was your brother! Now fancy that! Tall, handsome American like you and dumpy little British troll like me, brothers!” His words were slurred; he was obviously tipsy. “She must think we’re adopted, we—blimey!”

  Bishop stared at the wreckage of Metcalfe’s room. “You really can’t get decent help anymore, can you? I mean, I know the maids at the Metropole are subpar, but good Christ!”

  Metcalfe pulled him in, closed the door. “Do they search every foreigner’s room these days?” he asked. “Even businessmen who’ve come to try to do a deal? No wonder there’s no more Soviet–American trade.”

  “They did that?” Bishop cried, weaving unsteadily into the room and plopping into the only chair. “Gorblimey! I’ll be buggered! They get your passport, too?”

  “No,” Metcalfe said. “That’s locked up at the front desk.”

  “Where they’re like as not studying how to forge it—they don’t see all that many American passports anymore. What’d you do, shake off one of the cockroaches they put on your trail?”

  Metcalfe nodded.

  “They don’t like that. Makes ’em as mad as hornets. They like to know where all their foreign guests are going. You have a glass here, a tumbler or two?” He waggled his Scotch bottle, which he gripped by the neck.

  “Sure,” Metcalfe said, grabbing a dusty glass from the bureau and handing it to the journalist.

  “Got another?”

  “I’m afraid that’s all they’ve given me.”

  Bishop glugged out several fingers of Scotch. “You’re lucky, then.” He raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply. “This isn’t even Scotch at all. It’s goddamned vodka. They put some bleedin’ caramel coloring in it, and they get some nice hard currency from us in return. Put the swill in old Johnnie Walker bottles. No wonder there’s no seal on ’em.”

  “None for me, thanks,” Metcalfe said unnecessarily. Bishop wasn’t exactly offering some anyway.

  “Goddamned brown vodka,” Bishop said. “Callin’ it Scotch. Is that a heartbreaker or what? It’s a metaphor for the whole fecking regime, I’d say, if I went in for poofter things like metaphors. You going out somewhere tonight? You got plans?”

  “Meeting some friends.”

  “I see.” Bishop peered at him over the rim of his tumbler. “Businessmen friends, I assume.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Selling ’em the rope?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The rope. Selling the Russians the rope. You never heard that?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Bishop fixed him with a beady bloodshot eye. “ ’S’what Lenin himself said. ‘The capitalists will sell us the rope with which we’ll hang them.’ ”

  Careful, Metcalfe thought suddenly. The British correspondent was a drunk, but beneath the alcoholic haze was a deep and abiding hatred of the Soviet regime. He remembered Hilliard’s words: . . . the hate-Russia crowd . . . happy to help out Berlin any way they can. They see the Nazis as the only hope for stopping the spread of Communism around the world. . . . Was Ted Bishop one of the “hate-Russia crowd” as well? The journalist had been ensconced in Moscow for years, which meant he had good sources from whom he got information—but did the transaction go the other way? Did he in turn provide information to some of his favored contacts? Contacts not necessarily in the Soviet government but, instead, in the community of foreigners based here?

  Everyone in Moscow seemed to have his own hidden agenda. It was a maze. What was it that the British prime minister had said last year? “I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” Even more confounding, more mystifying, was what Hilliard had called the “rats’ nest” of the Russia watchers here. Watch your back, Hilliard had warned.

  Bishop was gesticulating wildly, embarked upon a rant. “You and your fellow businessmen may say you’re just out to make a buc
k, but aren’t you really helping to build the Soviet war machine? Shit, you got Douglas Aircraft building planes for the Russkies, and if you don’t think those birds are going to be dropping bombs on London, I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury. You got United Engineering and Foundry building the Stupino Aluminum Mill outside of Moscow, the most advanced aluminum plant in the world, fancier than anything you Americans have back home, to make those bombers. You got General Electric selling turbines and turnkey power plants to the Commies; you’re building steel mills and blast furnaces and bloomin’ steel plants bigger than what you Yanks got in Gary, Indiana; you got . . . Ah, I don’t even know what I’m talking about, Metcalfe. Listen to me go on.”

  As Bishop raved, Metcalfe began moving about the room gathering his clothes, plucking out those that hadn’t been slashed apart. If he was going to make it to the American embassy party tonight, he’d have to move quickly, which meant getting the soused Brit out of here.

  Bishop took another deep swig of his “brown vodka.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, Metcalfe, but I’ve got it from an impeccable source, a bird who works for a bloke at the ‘clearinghouse’—”

  “The what?” Metcalfe said, suddenly alert.

  “That’s what I call it—the ‘clearinghouse’ . . .” Bishop went on. “Anyway, they’re tellin’ me that Stalin’s man Molotov is going to Berlin in the morning, he is. Leaving out of Byelorusskaya Station tomorrow morning with a huge sodding delegation.”

  “Is that right,” Metcalfe said blandly. If this was true, this was a serious piece of news. If Stalin was sending his foreign minister to Germany, that meant he was trying to cement relations with the Nazis. . . .

  “The Brits have been playing footsie with the Sovs,” Bishop said, swaying from side to side, “and when they find out about this they’re going to be mighty pissed. London’s been saying the Russians may have signed some ruddy piece of paper with the Krauts, but they secretly hate ’em, right? Bollocks! Does this sound neutral to you, Met—”

  “This on the level?”

  Bishop raised a finger unsteadily, waving it at Metcalfe. He squinted, swaying from side to side, front to back. “Impeccable source, I told you.” Suddenly Bishop lowered his finger, drew back, his mouth agape. “Don’t scoop me, now.”

  “Not to worry, Ted.”

  “Worry and I were born twins, as whatsit said,” Bishop roared sloppily. In a low voice, he added, “You’re not a spy, are you? This businessman thing, it’s your classic cover, you know.”

  Metcalfe froze. He composed a smile, prepared a witty demurral, but then the Brit let loose a loud, braying laugh, which became a choking, gagging sound, and all at once Bishop rushed to the bathroom, flinging the door shut behind him. Metcalfe could hear retching noises, groaning.

  “You all right in there?” Metcalfe called, but Bishop’s only reply was a groan, followed by more heaving. Metcalfe shook his head as he began to dress quickly. Whatever Ted Bishop’s secret allegiances, he was a drunk, plain and simple, which made him less a danger than an annoyance. A few minutes later came the sound of the toilet flushing, then water running, and then Bishop emerged, grinning sheepishly.

  “Uh, Metcalfe,” he said, “would you mind terribly leaving me your toothpaste and your shaving cream when you clear out of Moscow? Really damned fecking hard to get that stuff here, y’know.”

  Roger had still not returned to the Metropole. The challenge was to get to the embassy dacha undetected, which ruled out hiring a car and driver through Intourist or certainly arranging for a taxi, if one could be found. One of the front-desk clerks, the more amiable-seeming of the two young men, smiled as Metcalfe approached.

  “I need a ride,” Metcalfe said. He spoke in Russian, but haltingly and with a deliberately poor accent. If your Russian was too fluent, he knew, alarms would be raised. Better to sound like a hapless tourist.

  “A . . . ride?”

  “A car.”

  “I can call Intourist,” the clerk said, reaching for his phone.

  “No,” Metcalfe said with a grin. “Nothing official. I—well, this is just between us guys, okay? It’s personal, you know?”

  The clerk slowly raised his chin, eyes narrowing, the sides of his mouth curling up slightly in a knowing smile. “Personal,” he repeated.

  Metcalfe lowered his voice still further. “A situation involving a woman, you understand? A beautiful girl. Ochi chorniye,” he added. Dark eyes: the old Russian folk song. “She’s a tour guide for Intourist, and I know she’s nervous about her bosses finding out . . . understand?”

  The Russian understood. “You do not wish to involve anyone from Intourist,” he said with a nod. “But this is most difficult, sir. Intourist is our official organization for all foreign tourists.” He shrugged helplessly. “Moscow is not like London or New York, sir. Intourist is the only official transportation service for foreigners.”

  “Absolutely,” Metcalfe said. Very subtly he slid a thick pile of ruble notes across the counter, poorly concealed beneath a piece of Metropole stationery. “It is a difficult situation, clearly. Anything you can think of—any means of unofficial transport that can take me to my ochi chorniye—will be most, er, handsomely appreciated.”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” said the clerk, suddenly enthusiastic. “Love must always find a way.” He disappeared into the back office and returned a minute or so later. He tipped his head to make sure that the other clerk did not overhear from the far end of the desk, where he was busy speaking with a group of Bulgarians. “It is difficult to say for sure, sir, but there may be a possibility.” He arched his eyebrows. “It may require some inconvenience on my part.”

  Metcalfe nodded. He shook the clerk’s hand, concealing within the grip another, even thicker, wad of rubles. “Anything you can do.”

  “Ah, yes, sir. Perhaps I may be able to help. If you will come with me . . . ?”

  The young Russian came out from behind his counter and walked quickly to the hotel’s front doors, Metcalfe following close behind. A few minutes later, the clerk flagged down a large, dented van on whose sides were painted the word MOLOKO: milk. The clerk rushed over to the van’s driver, speaking hurriedly. Then he returned to Metcalfe. “This gentleman tells me that gasoline is quite scarce, you know, and very costly.”

  Metcalfe nodded again and slipped the clerk another wad of rubles. The Russian scurried over to the driver of the van, handed over the cash, and then came back to Metcalfe. “This way, sir,” he said, leading Metcalfe over to the back of the van and opening the doors. Metcalfe climbed in. Apart from several crates of milk bottles and, strangely, a box of foul-smelling onions, the interior of the van was empty. As soon as the van’s doors were shut, plunging Metcalfe into near darkness, he heard a gruff voice coming from an opening between the cargo area and the driver’s compartment. “Where you going?” the driver demanded.

  Metcalfe gave quick directions. He avoided giving any specifics about the embassy dacha, instead describing its location. Glancing through the narrow slit, he saw the driver’s tattered peasant jacket, the fur hat. “I don’t want you touching my onions,” the driver said, throwing the van into gear. The vehicle lurched ahead. “Ten rubles for the kilo, and I was lucky to get them. The wife’s going to be pleased, I can tell you this.” While the driver prattled on in a tedious singsong, Metcalfe’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, and soon he noticed a small, dusty window at the back of the van that enabled him to watch for any followers.

  There were none. The driver followed the roundabout route Metcalfe had directed, all the while chattering. From time to time Metcalfe would grunt to indicate that he was listening. When at last the van reached Nemchinovka and maneuvered off the Mozhaisk Chaussee down the narrow, tree-lined path that led to the embassy dacha, Metcalfe was certain that they had not been followed. He had made it here undetected. At last, a victory, even if it was a small one. He allowed himself to enjoy a brief, passing moment of
pride, the satisfaction that came with accomplishment, with control.

  “Right here’s fine,” Metcalfe said. With a grinding of gears, the van bucked to a halt. Metcalfe pulled open the doors and leaped out. It was dark; evening came early in Moscow at this time of year. The only light came from the dacha, a few hundred feet away. He could hear faint gramophone music, laughter, animated conversation. He wondered whether Lana and her German lover were already there.

  Metcalfe pulled out another wad of rubles and strolled over to the front of the van to hand it to the driver. Suddenly, with a burst of speed and a cloud of dust, the van lurched ahead, its engine roaring. Why was the driver in such a hurry to get out of here that he wouldn’t even wait for the promised final payment? Baffled, Metcalfe stared, and then, in the instant before the van barreled away down the dirt road, he caught a glimpse of the driver, for the first time, in the van’s rearview mirror. Heart thudding, he saw the face of the man who had been disguised beneath the fur hat and peasant jacket. The man who had driven him from the hotel right to the embassy dacha.

  It was the man he had been trying so hard to avoid. The blond man with the pale gray eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The damage had been done, his attempt at arriving surreptitiously even more incriminating than any aboveboard arrival might have been. There would have been nothing unusual about a scion of Metcalfe Industries who happened to be visiting Moscow attending a party at the U.S. embassy. That was entirely to be expected. His evasive maneuvers, however, were bound to make it seem as if he was hiding something. This was not good. There would be consequences, no doubt, beyond the damage that had been wreaked upon his possessions back at the hotel. Consequences he would have to face later.

  The dacha leased by the American embassy was a modest two-story country house built of logs, set on a ridge overlooking this valley in the woods southwest of Moscow. Here was the hub of social life in the foreign diplomatic community in Moscow, the place where ambassadors, counselors, attachés, and their staff gathered to exchange gossip, pass along information to one another, subtly attempt to pry information out of one another. Here, year-round, the most important envoys from America, Britain, Italy and Greece, Turkey and Serbia collected to socialize. More diplomatic business was transacted here, Metcalfe knew, than at any official function; the sheer intimacy and informality of the place was conducive to the sort of idle chatter that enabled trust to be established and thus substantive information to be exchanged. Here the Americans and the Germans often went riding together, on horses jointly owned by the Brits and the Americans. Sometimes the diplomats went for long walks in the woods. There was something pleasantly illicit about these social gatherings, over drinks on the porch or at dinner, over tennis on the courts out back or skating during the long winter months when the tennis courts were flooded. But beneath the facade of social chitchat, what was really being transacted was politics. That was the true hard currency expended at the American dacha. Everything here was politics.