The Tristan Betrayal

by Robert Ludlum

  Jesus Christ! What he saw sickened him, stunned him, caused him to sink to the floor. No, not again! Amos Hilliard sat on the toilet, his head slumped back, his darkly bloodshot eyes staring at the ceiling, a bloody discharge coming from his nose and mouth. His throat had been nearly severed just below the larynx. The ligature mark, a razor-thin furrow, was scarlet and pronounced; it indicated that the weapon had been some kind of thin, strong wire. The diplomat had been strangled, garroted in exactly the same way as Scoop Martin and the members of the Paris station.

  No! Hilliard must have just been killed, minutes ago—he could not have been here long. Five minutes? Even less, maybe?

  Metcalfe touched Hilliard’s crimson face. It was at a normal body temperature.

  The killer had to be nearby.

  Metcalfe raced out to the door, then hesitated. The murderer might be waiting for him on the other side of the door, the deserted restaurant affording him temporary shelter, enabling him to stand there, ready to pounce.

  Metcalfe crashed his foot against the door, causing it to swing open. He hung back, crouched to the side of the doorjamb, watching to see if any figure jumped from the shadows, garrote in hand. No one did. He leaped into the hall, torquing his body from side to side, ready to jump if he had to. But no one was there. Still, the killer could not have been gone for much more than a minute or two.

  He ran down the nearest staircase, bounding down the steps two and three at a time, nearly crashing into a waiter bearing a tray. Metcalfe glanced at the slight, uniformed waiter, sizing him up quickly, rejecting him as the possible killer.

  A gust of cold air in the hall told him that the exit to the street had just opened, moments ago. Someone had either come in or gone out, though this was not the way Metcalfe had entered the restaurant. The killer. It was possible, in any case. Had he left through this door?

  Stealthily he pushed the steel door open a crack, taking care not to make a sound. If the killer had left this way and was walking—so as not to appear suspicious to others on the street—not running, then he could not be far. He would be within sight. If there was even the possibility of an element of surprise, Metcalfe wanted to preserve it. He slipped through the narrow opening, gently pushing the door closed behind him, satisfied that he had not made a noise.

  He was at the rear of the building. Large steel trash bins overflowed with malodorous food garbage. He looked around, but there was no one here.

  Whoever it was who had murdered Amos Hilliard had vanished.

  Metcalfe knew he had to leave at once, but to go where? He couldn’t return to the Metropole. The fact was, he’d been burnt. He’d been observed servicing a dead drop; the NKVD knew he was engaged in clandestine activities. He had to get the hell out of Moscow as soon as possible. But that was far easier said than done. In this totalitarian state, where everyone was watched and borders were heavily guarded, it was as difficult to leave as it was to enter. Among his papers at the Metropole had been several sets of passports and other bogus identification, but they had surely been seized by the NKVD by now. By far the most prudent, most logical course was to contact Corky and have him proceed with the exfiltration Hilliard had mentioned. To do it right required coordination, horse-trading at a high level. The sort of thing that Corky, who worked in mysterious ways, was expert at arranging. An exfiltration was not something that was done by a lone agent, except in the direst emergencies.

  He wanted to take Lana with him. It wasn’t safe for her here any longer, given her involvement. He had promised himself that he would protect her; now, he needed to bring her out.

  In order to set the plan in motion, Corky had to be contacted, and for now the best way to reach Corky seemed to be through Ted Bishop. Metcalfe, after all, could not place an international telephone call except from his hotel, and returning there was out of the question. In Moscow one could not place an overseas call from a telephone booth. Amos Hilliard was dead. He had no transmitter.

  That left only Ted Bishop. Bishop, as a foreign correspondent, was expected to place long-distance calls regularly, perhaps even daily, whether from his hotel room or from Central Telegraph. So Bishop could place a call for him, to one of the emergency numbers in London or New York. Simply by speaking a few meaningless-sounding words, once the phone was answered, Bishop would alert Corky without knowing what he was doing or whom he was speaking to.

  And there were other ways for Bishop to help, if he was for some reason unable to place a call. It was the BBC radio broadcasts that Metcalfe used to listen to in Paris that gave him the idea. Coded messages, in the form of personal greetings, were broadcast during each evening’s BBC news—messages that alerted agents in the field, their true meaning opaque to all other listeners. Why not use news dispatches in the same way? Metcalfe decided. He mentally drew up a plan for an innocent-sounding dispatch that Bishop might plausibly send to his newspaper, the Manchester Guardian. It would be, say, a review of a concert, a performance—maybe even the ballet. But certain emergency phrases contained within the bland-sounding dispatch—coded language that Corky had formulated, which would easily get past the Soviet censors—would reach Corky, come to his attention, alert him to what was going on, what needed to be done. This method wouldn’t be as quick as an emergency telephone call to a prearranged number in London or Washington, which was the preferred method.

  Of course, Metcalfe couldn’t level with Ted Bishop, couldn’t tell the journalist the truth about who he was, what he was doing here in Moscow. He’d craft a plausible lie about how the Soviet authorities were preparing to arrest him because he was a wealthy businessman, as part of their ongoing campaign to discredit foreign capitalists as spies. That’s all Ted Bishop needed to be told. Given the Englishman’s apparent anti-Soviet bias, that was probably all it would take.

  After all, Metcalfe reflected, he’d lied to someone far more important to him, someone he cared about—no, loved—deeply. Lies were beginning to come far too easily to him.

  Still, the English journalist remained a question mark in Metcalfe’s mind, his loyalties unclear. For now, Metcalfe would have to assume that no one was to be trusted. He would have to be exceedingly cautious with Bishop.

  Quietly, with a casual lope, Metcalfe took the path around to the far side of the Aragvi, unseen by the police. He found a phone booth a few blocks away in front of a shabby-looking storefront infirmary, the Central Moscow Clinic Number 22. The clinic was dark, closed; no one was observing him. He called the Metropole and asked for Ted Bishop.

  Number 7 Gorky Street was the massive, imposing Central Telegraph building, completed in 1929 in the grand Soviet architectural style. Its interior was equally imposing; it was designed to convey the solidity of a central bank or at least an important government institution, which it was. Here Muscovites waited in long lines to send telegrams to friends and relatives in distant reaches of the Soviet Union, to mail packages or buy postage stamps, to place international calls from stuffy booths. Still, despite its amazingly high ceilings and columns and granite, despite the immense hammer-and-sickle emblem of the USSR on the wall, it retained the gloomy aspect of all Soviet bureaucracies. Metcalfe stood in the shadows of an alcove, waiting for Ted Bishop.

  As he watched a middle-aged man place a phone call from one of the booths, he saw how closely monitored telephone calls were. You had to show either a passport or an identity card, fill out a form, pay in advance, and then there was no doubt that someone was listening in to your call. He considered, then rejected, the option of placing an international call himself to one of Corky’s emergency numbers. His false Russian identity papers would not permit him to place an international call; for that, he’d have to use either his true identity, which was now far too risky, or his Daniel Eigen passport, which he had to assume was compromised as well. No, Ted Bishop would have to place the call for him. He could do it without arousing undue attention.

  Finally, precisely on time, the rotund journalist entered the massive doors, carryin
g Metcalfe’s leather bag, looking around anxiously. Metcalfe hung back, watching, waiting to be sure that no one had followed Bishop in. While Bishop walked all the way into the center of the rotunda, peering around the interior, Metcalfe stayed concealed in the dim alcove, watching the front doors to make sure there were no others trailing in the reporter’s wake. Others following Bishop—or working with him.

  Metcalfe let another minute go by. Bishop began pacing back and forth, a scowl of irritation on his face. Finally, when it appeared that Bishop was about to leave, Metcalfe slowly emerged from his concealed alcove.

  But Bishop, who hadn’t yet seen Metcalfe, appeared to be signaling to someone, flicking an upraised index finger steadily. Metcalfe froze, stayed put, watched.

  Yes, Bishop was definitely gesturing to someone. But whom?

  And then Metcalfe saw whom Bishop was gesturing to.

  At the far end of the lobby, beside a long row of what looked like bank-teller windows, a door opened, and a blond man came out.

  A blond man with pale eyes. His NKVD pursuer strode up to Ted Bishop and began speaking rapidly in what Metcalfe could hear was Russian.

  Metcalfe felt his insides turn to ice. Oh, Christ! Ted Bishop was rotten.

  It suddenly came to him in a sickening headlong rush: The insatiable, jovial, journalistic curiosity, the searching questions. The anti-Soviet rants that concealed darker allegiances. The drunken scene in his room, when Bishop had rushed to the bathroom to vomit. That must have been a ruse, a pretext to go through Metcalfe’s belongings, which included certain spy paraphernalia, the hollow shaving brush and cream, the multiple false identity papers. Bishop must have searched them while he was in the bathroom pretending to be sick and had thereby discovered the truth about Metcalfe. Perhaps he had been tipped off by the NKVD, after its agents had torn apart Metcalfe’s room. Perhaps he was doing a follow-up search for the NKVD.

  Anything was possible. The reporter had been in Moscow for years, tolerated by the authorities. Deals must have been struck, compromises made. Or worse. Foreigners occasionally were recruited by the NKVD; Ted Bishop was one of them.

  Know all your exits, Corky said. But Metcalfe hadn’t had the time to do so. The press of time had caused him to omit the very security precautions he most needed to observe.

  Walking quickly along the perimeter of the lobby, keeping to the shadows until he reached the front doors, Metcalfe waited until a couple approached, arguing loudly, and slipped through the doors close behind them.

  Then he accelerated his pace until he was running down Gorky Street. He had to reach Lana at the Bolshoi and warn her.

  Unless it was already too late.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Bolshoi Theater’s facade was illuminated dramatically, but all was quiet in front, which told Metcalfe that the ballet was well under way. He circled around to the rear of the building until he located what appeared to be a stage entrance. It was locked; he pounded his fist on the door until it was opened by a tall, lanky, balding security guard with gold spectacles. He wore a navy-blue blazer whose patch read STATE ACADEMIC BOLSHOI THEATER SECURITY, with the same legend sewn on the visor of his navy-blue cap.

  The security guard’s wariness abated somewhat when he saw the man standing before him.

  Dressed in a physician’s white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, and carrying a black leather doctor bag, Metcalfe made a convincing Soviet physician. His disguise was completed by his haughty, even imperious gaze.

  It had been a simple matter to break into the shabby-looking clinic. The infirmary’s security was practically nonexistent; the lock had given way to a few seconds of work with the lock pick. He had quickly spotted the coat closet and grabbed one of the spare white coats, then found a stethoscope and black bag in a supply closet nearby. All told, it had taken him no more than five minutes.

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “I’m Doctor Chavadze,” Metcalfe said, figuring that the Soviet Georgian name might explain his slight accent. “I’ve just been called to attend to one of the dancers who’s performing tonight.”

  The guard hesitated. “Which one?”

  “How the devil should I know? One of the leads, I’m sure, or else they wouldn’t have called me out of my dinner party. Apparently this is a matter of some urgency—a stress fracture. Now, please have me escorted to the dressing rooms at once.”

  The guard nodded, opened the door wider. “Please, come this way. I’ll get someone to take you there, Doctor.”

  A young, scruffy-looking teenage stagehand with a pubic mustache escorted Metcalfe through a series of dark, squalid corridors in the Bolshoi’s backstage labyrinth. The stagehand whispered, “We go up three levels and then stage left,” and then he spoke not a word; the performance was under way. Metcalfe could hear the orchestra playing Tchaikovsky’s music; he recognized a theme from act two of Swan Lake.

  Compared to the grandeur of the Bolshoi’s public spaces, the backstage was surprisingly grubby. They went past reeking toilets, down creaking low-ceilinged corridors with missing floorboards, around rusting catwalks and ladders. Dancers in costume, their faces caked with makeup, huddled and smoked. As they passed near the stage, Metcalfe heard the haunting strains of the oboe and the harp and the swelling tremolo strings of Tchaikovsky’s score, and he recognized the beautiful melody of the act two pas de deux. A shaft of ghostly pale blue light lay across the backstage darkness; Metcalfe stopped and found himself looking directly at the stage and a section of the house.

  “Wait,” he said, grabbing the stagehand by the shoulder. The teenager looked at him, bewildered that the doctor wanted to catch a glimpse of the performance.

  The stage set was magical and glowing: a moonlit lake, a painted backdrop of a lake and surrounding forest, several large prop trees—and in the center was Lana. Metcalfe watched, transported.

  Lana was Odette, the swan queen, costumed in a close-fitting white tutu that emphasized her tiny waist, fringed with feathers and tulle; her hair was up in a tight chignon, and on it a white feathered headdress. She looked delicate and vulnerable, astonishingly birdlike. She was dancing with Prince Siegfried, while around them spiraled the cygnets, which then spun offstage, leaving just Odette and Siegfried. He gracefully hoisted her, set her down gently, his hands tight around her body; she embraced him, arching her swan neck intimately against his, and Metcalfe felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy. This was a dance, no more; it was her work, her job, the prince merely a co-worker.

  “All right,” Metcalfe said. “Let’s go to her dressing room. I’ll wait for her there until intermission.”

  “I’m afraid you really shouldn’t be here,” came a quiet voice in English with a Russian accent.

  Metcalfe turned, surprised—could this be the taciturn stagehand?—and then saw who was speaking. He recognized the blond hair, the pale gray eyes.

  The NKVD man. He stood a few feet away, pointing a pistol.

  “Yes, it is you,” the NKVD agent said, his voice barely audible. The young stagehand watched in terror. “For a moment I didn’t recognize you, but you are nothing if not resourceful. Well, if you’ve come to watch Miss Baranova perform, you should have purchased a ticket like everyone else. Guests are not permitted backstage. Come with me, please.”

  Metcalfe smiled. “A gun is useless,” he replied, “unless you’re willing to fire it. And I doubt you want to fire a gun in the middle of the pas de deux. It will shatter Miss Baranova’s concentration and detract from the spectators’ enjoyment, will it not?”

  The agent nodded, his face impassive. “I’d much rather not have to fire, but given a choice between letting you get away and disrupting the performance . . . well, I really have no choice.”

  “You always have a choice,” Metcalfe said, backing away slowly. He felt the weight of his pistol in his breast pocket, but it was not reassuring: by the time he reached for it, the Russian would have squeezed the trigger. Something about the NKVD man’s composure told Me
tcalfe that the Russian would not hesitate to fire.

  “Keep your hands at your sides,” the Russian commanded.

  Metcalfe’s eyes shifted to the left, taking in the rigging, the system of pulleys within his reach. High above them a pair of lead sash weights dangled, anchored in place by means of ropes that were tied to iron hooks. He moved his hands behind his back and backed up a few feet as if intimidated by the agent. “Don’t shoot,” he said, putting a slight quaver in his voice to indicate fear. “Just tell me what you want.”

  The rope! It was there; he was able to grasp it! Slowly removing his knife from his back pocket, unseen by the Russian, he placed the sharp blade against the taut rope and sliced once, twice, keeping his movements subtle.

  The NKVD agent allowed the faintest curl of a smile, which looked more like a sneer. “Your act doesn’t fool me. You can’t continue to run; there are no exits. I suggest you come along quietly.”

  “And then what?” Metcalfe said.

  Finally the blade sliced all the way through the rope, which jerked out of his grasp. The lead sash weights swung in an abrupt downward arc from high above, toward the blond man. The Russian heard the swish of air, glanced up, and jumped to the side just as the weights rushed at him, just missing him by inches. But he was off his stride, no longer poised in a firing stance, his weapon no longer pointed at Metcalfe. The young stagehand let out a yelp and ran off.

  Metcalfe lunged, not away but toward the blond man. He crashed into the NKVD man, knocking him to the ground, pinioning him against the floor as he slammed his knee into the Russian’s stomach.

  A sudden babble of loud voices erupted from the main hall. The orchestra had stopped playing; it was pandemonium! But Metcalfe couldn’t look to see what happened. The blond man was fighting back, torquing his body up, his powerful arms struggling against Metcalfe, but the wind had been knocked out of him. Suddenly something hard struck the back of Metcalfe’s head, so forcefully that he could taste blood. It was the agent’s gun: the Russian had managed to free his right hand and swing the weapon at him.