"No. Back then, the profession still had rules. I left because I failed the profession. Not the-other way around."
"I don't understand."
"I can't explain. I don't want to talk about it. If the sanction's lost its meaning, how can we depend on anything else?" He shook his head in dismay. "Nothing's sacred."
"Everything gets worse," Chan said. "Six years ago, what I plan would have been unthinkable."
"And now?" Chris asked. "Since precedent has been established, I feel free from obligation. Malenov is mentally diseased. These past few months, he's increased the opium traffic beyond tolerance. He has to be stopped."
"Then kill him outside," Chris insisted. "He's too well guarded then."
"But you'll be hunted."
"By them all." Chan nodded. "Everyone. The Snow Leopard has his tricks."
"The odds," Chris said. "If everyone's against you... Ferlach, and then Montreal? What happened?"
"To the violaters? They were found, and they were killed. And so will I be killed. In time. But I will stretch the time."
"I ask you not to do this."
"Why?"
"Because I feel responsible to you."
"The debt is mine. I interfered with what you understand as fate. But I must face my own. As I grow old, I must prepare to die with what you Westerners call dignity, what I call honor. I must face my destiny. Too many years I've waited for this chance. The opium is wrong. It has to be stopped."
"But the KGB will only send another man to replace him."
Chan clutched the rail. "Not Malenov. The man is evil." Sweat drenched his face. "He has to die."
Chris felt distressed by Chan's directness. "In the morning, I will leave."
"But I can't wait that long. The Russian leaves tomorrow."
I need important information from the priest."
"Then get it soon. What I want, our friendship won't be overlooked. The coincidence of our meeting after all these years will seem suspicious. Fate, my-friend. I didn't save your life so long ago to have you lose it due to me now. Get out of here. I beg you."
The rain fell harder.
Something wakened Chris. He lay in his room in the dark, squinting at the luminous dial on his watch. Three-thirty. Puzzled, he kept still and concentrated. The storm had passed. Occasional drops of water trickled off the eaves. As moonlight glimmered through his open window, he smelled the sordid odor of the river and the fertilized soil of the garden below.He listened to the songs of the birds beginning to stir.
For a moment, he thought he'd wakened from habit and nothing more. His six years in the monastery had trained him to use the hours before dawn for meditation. Normally he would have wakened shortly anyhow.
But then he glanced toward the hall light filtering through the crack below his door. A shadow passed. Whoever it was, he thought, the person knew how to walk like an animal, carrying the weight of his body along the outsides of his feet. He imagined a cat stalking silently toward its prey.
It might have been a servant patrolling the hall. Or Chan. Or someone after Chan. Or after me, Chris thought, because of my friendship with Chan.
He grabbed the Mauser by his side and threw off his sheet, lunging naked in the dark toward the protection of a chair. His testicles shrank. He held his breath and waited, cautious, aiming toward the door.
Beyond it, he heard a noise like a fist slamming into a pillow. Muffled, it nonetheless carried a great deal of force, As someone groaned, an object thudded to the floor out there.
Chris left the cover of the chair, creeping toward the wall beside his door. With his ear to the wall, he listened to the rattle of a latch as a door came open in the hall.
Someone spoke, alarmed, in Russian. "What have you done?"
Chris heard the old priest answer, also in Russian. "He was going in your room. You see his garotte. He meant to strangle you. I had no choice. I had to kill him."
Chris opened the door. If he didn't, if he stayed in his room, the.priest might wonder why the noise hadn't wakened him. Suspicious, the priest might decide Chris was somehow involved in this.
Chris squinted from his open door toward the light in the hall.
The priest swung toward the sound he'd made, aiming a Russian Tokarev automatic pistol with a silencer.
Chris froze. He raised his hands, the Mauser high above his head. "Your voices woke me." He shrugged. "I can see this is none of my business."
Waiting for a nod of dismissal from the priest, Chris stepped back in his room and closed the door.
He stared at the dark. He'd seen a man in another doorway. Middle sixties. Shrunken, pale. Dark circles under his eyes. Rumpled hair. Nervous twitches. Wearing sweat-stained silk pajamas. Joseph Malenov, Chris thought. He'd never met the man, but he'd seen photographs of him and knew that Malenov was addicted to the opium he smuggled.
On the floor, between the priest and Malenov, Chris had seen Char's body, the base of his skull shattered by the Russian pistol's 7.62-mm bullet. The floor had been dark with blood and urine. There'd been no point in checking to see if Chan was alive.
Chris seethed. Other shadows blocked the light at the base of the door. He recognized the sound of someone unfolding a blanket. He heard men, more than two, quietly, but not as quiet as Chan had been, lift the body, wrap it, and carry it away. He smelled acrid sandalwood, then the resin odor of pine.
Someone must have lit a pot of incense and thrown sawdust on the floor to absorb the body's fluids.
Chris stepped toward the window, careful not to show himself. The birds erupted from the trees, alarmed by intruders. Silhouetted by the moonlight, two Oriental servants left the rectory's porch, hunched over, carrying a heavy object wrapped in a blanket between them. A third servant led the way, flashing a light toward the path through the crosses in the graveyard and the pepper plants in the garden.
They went down the slope toward the river-to feed Chan to the crocodiles, or else to boat him across to the jungle.
Friend, Chris thought. His throat felt tight. He clutched his Mauser.
Father Janin made the sign of the cross. In the church, he'd been kneeling at the altar rail, reciting his daily prayers. He stared at the votive candles he'd lit, enveloped by the fragrance of beeswax and frankincense. They flickered in the dark.
5 A.m. The church was quiet. Sanctuary. Pushing from the altar rail, the old priest stood and genuflected to the tabernacle. He had prayed for God's forgiveness. Having vowed to guard this safe house, he believed he'd lose his soul if he didn't fulfill his obligations. Though the KGB had recruited him, he felt allegiance to every network. Every operative in the world was his parishioner. Their differences in politics-or religion, or lack of it-didn't matter. Even atheists had souls. Cold, tired men came here for refuge. As a priest, he had to offer them the corporal works of mercy. If he had to kill to protect the sanctity of this safe house, then he prayed for God to understand. What justification could be more compelling? In the dark, the candles flickered in commemoration of the dead.
The old priest turned from the altar, stiffening as he saw a shadow move.
From the dark of the nearest pew, a man stood, walking toward him.
The American. The priest reached through the slit in the side of his surplice, pulling the pistol from his belt, aiming it under the loose folds of his garment.
The American stopped at a careful distance. "I didn't hear you come down the aisle," the priest said. "I tried to be quiet, to respect your prayers,"
"You came to pray as well?"
"The habit dies hard. You must have been told by now that I too was a Cistercian."
"And your friend?
You feel no need for retribution?"
"He did what he had to. So did you. We know the rules."
Nodding, the priest clutched the pistol beneath his surplice. "Did you get the name of the dentist?" the American said. "Not long ago. I have it written down for you." The priest set his prayer book in a pew. With his free hand,
he reached through the other slit in his surplice, pulling out a piece of paper. After setting it on the prayer book, he stepped carefully back.
The church was still. The American smiled and picked up the message. In the dark, he didn't try to read it. "The man you seek lives far away," the old priest said. "So much the better." The American smiled again. "What makes you say that?"
But the American didn't answer. Turning, he-walked silently toward the back of the church, his shadow disappearing. Father Janin heard the creak of a door being opened. He saw the gray of early dawn outside. The American's figure blocked the gray. The door abruptly closed, its rumble eerie in the stillness.
He'd been holding his breath. Exhaling, he put the pistol back in his belt, his forehead slick with sweat. Frowning, he glanced at the stained glass window beneath the peak-at the back of the church. Pale light filtered through, emphasizing the silhouette of the galvanized steel sickle moon.
The Russian, Chris thought. He didn't blame the priest. What he'd told the priest was true. The priest had only been obeying the rules. More than authorized, the priest was obligated to insure the safety of a guest, even if he had to kill another guest who attempted to violate the sanction.
The Russian, though. As Chris left the church, skirting the pools of water in the morning twilight, heading toward the rectory in back, he thought about him, seething without showing it. From habit, he seemed more relaxed the more determined he became. His pace appeared leisurely, a stroll at dawn to appreciate the stillness, admiring the birds.
The Russian, he kept thinking. He reached the back, pausing in half light, pretending to enjoy the view of the river, debating. For years, Chan had fought against the Russian, becoming so obsessed he sacrificed his life for this chance to kill him. Back in '65, Chris as well had fought the Russian, joining forces with Chan in a combined CIA-Communist Chinese operation to stop the flow of opium from Laos into South Vietnam. Following a failed attack on a Pathet Lao camp, while Chris was being tortured for information (face crushed, appendix ruptured, spine fractured), Chan had led a rescue mission, saving Chris's life. Chan had brought Chris to this safe house, caring for him, never leaving his side till the American surgeons arrived.
Now Chan was dead. In the same place Chan had nursed Chris back to life. Because of the opium. The Russian had to die. He knew the danger. He'd be an outcast, hunted by everyone. Regardless of his skill, they'd find him eventually. He'd soon be dead.
It didn't matter. Given his reason for wanting the dentist, given what he intended to do, he'd soon be dead regardless. What difference did it make? But this way, without losing anything he wasn't already prepared to lose, he could return a favor to his friend. That was paramount, more than the sanction, more than anything. Loyalty, friendship. Chan had saved his life. Obeying honor, Chris was obligated to repay his debt. If not, he'd be in disgrace.
And since the sanction had been violated twice already, the only meaning that remained was in his private code.
He squinted from the river to the graveyard. Mindful of the paper the priest had given him, he pulled it out, reading the dentist's name and address. His eyes hardened. Nodding grimly, he walked up the porch steps, entering the rectory.
In his room, he packed his small overnight bag. From a leather pouch, he removed a hypodermic and a vial of liquid. Carrying his bag, he left the room.
The hall was quiet. He knocked on the Russian's door. The voice was tense behind it. "What?" Chris answered in Russian. "You have to get out of here. Chinese had a backup man." He heard the urgent rattle of the lock. The door came open, Malenov sweating, holding a pistol, so drugged his eyes were glazed.
He never saw the web of skin between Chris's thumb and first finger streak toward him, striking his larynx, crushing his vocal cords.
The Russian wheezed, falling back. Chris stepped in, closing the door. As Malenov lay on the floor, unable to speak, struggling frantically to breathe, his body convulsed, his feet turning inward, his arms twisting toward his chest.
Chris filled the hypodermic from the vial of liquid. Pulling down the Russian's pajama pants, he injected 155 international milliunits of potassium chloride into the distal vein of the Russian's penis. The potassium would travel to the brain, the chloride to the urinary tract, causing the body's electrolytes to depolarize, resulting in a massive stroke.
Already the Russian's face was blue, turning gray, about to turn yellow.
Chris put the hypodermic and the vial inside his overnight bag. Picking up the trembling body, he leaned it against a chair so the Russian's neck was in line with the chair's wooden arm.
He tilted the chair so it fell across the Russian, making the injury to his neck seem the consequence of a fall.
For Chan, he thought. He picked up his bag and left the room. The hall was empty. Using the Russian's key to lock the door, he went downstairs, across the rectory's porch, toward the graveyard.
in the gray of dawn, he knew if he went out the front toward the street he'd be followed as a matter of course by agents from various intelligence networks, so he went down the slope toward the river. Smelling its stench, he found a boat that seemed less leaky than two others. Paddling from shore, he ignored the gaping jaws of a crocodile.
Two hours later, the priest (after knocking repeatedly on the Russian's door) instructed his servants to break it down. They stumbled in and found the body sprawled beneath the overturned chair. The priest gasped. As the guardian of this safe house, he was accountable to his guests' superiors. He could justify killing Chan, but now the Russian had died as well. Too much was happening at once.
If the KGB decides I failed...
Appalled, the priest inspected the body, praying the death was natural. He found no sign of violence, except for the bruise on the throat, but that could be explained by a fall against the chair.
He quickly calculated. Malenov had come here, distraught, in need of a rest, requesting drugs to treat his rage and hypertension. He'd nearly been assassinated. Possibly the added strain, combined with the drugs, had caused a heart attack.
But now the American had disappeared. Too much was happening. The priest rushed to a phone. He called the local KGB. The Bangkok bureau chief called his superior. An unexplained death in an Abelard safe house qualified as an emergency, requiring immediate investigation.
One hour after the priest's discovery of the body, a Soviet IL- 18 cargo plane took off from Hanoi, North Vietnam, battling a headwind to fly the 600 miles to Thailand in slightly under two hours. The KGB's investigating officer, in tandem with a team of expert physicians, studied the position of the body, taking photographs. They rushed it to the cargo plane and took off for Hanoi, this time helped by a tailwind, returning in ninety minutes.
The autopsy lasted seven hours. Though the Russian's heart had not occluded, his brain had hemorrhaged. Cause of death: a stroke. But why?
No embolisms. Blood tests showed the presence of Dilantin, which the Russian had been taking; also opium, which Malenov had been addicted to. No other unusual chemicals. After a microscopic examination of the body, the coroner discovered the needle mark in the distal vein of the Russian's penis. Though he couldn't prove it, he suspected murder. He'd seen a handful of cases like this before. Potassium chloride. The separation of the chemical into its two component parts would cause a stroke. A body normally contained potassium and chloride, so the evidence was hidden. He reported his suspicion to the investigating officer.
An hour after that, the KGB bureau chief for Bangkok was sent to the Church of the Moon. He questioned the priest at length. The priest admitted that an American, a friend of Chan, had been staying at the rectory. "His name and particulars?" the bureau chief asked.
Afraid, the old priest answered. "What did the American want?" the bureau chief asked. The old priest told him. "Where does this dentist live?" When the bureau chief heard the reply, he studied the priest across the desk. "So far away? Our coroner in Hanoi has established the time of death as 6 A
.M." The bureau chief gestured toward the night beyond the office window. He pointed at his watch. "That's fifteen hours ago. Why didn't you tell us about the American right away?"
The priest poured another glass of brandy, drinking it all at once. Drops rolled down his whisker-stubbled chin. "Because I was afraid. This morning, I couldn't be sure the American was involved. If I'd killed him for precaution's sake, I'd have been forced to explain myself to the CIA. But I didn't have any evidence against him."
"So you preferred to explain yourself to us?"
"I admit I made a mistake. I should have kept closer watch on him. But he convinced me he had no intentions toward your operative. When I found the body, I hoped the cause of death was natural. What point was there in admitting my mistake if I didn't have to? You can understand my problem."
"Certainly." The bureau chief picked up the phone. After dialing and waiting for an answer, he spoke to his superior. "The Abelard sanction has been violated. Repeat: violated. Christopher Patrick Kilmoome. Cryptonym: Remus. CIA." The bureau chief repeated the description the priest had given him. "He's on his way to Guatemala." The bureau chief gave the address. "At least, he claimed he was going there, but given what's happened, I don't think he'll do the expected. Yes, I know-he's fifteen hours ahead of us."
Brotherhood of the Rose Page 6
