Line of Succession

by Brian Garfield

  The door admitted him to a corridor at the foot of a flight of wooden stairs. Menshikov came forward from the hallway beside the staircase; smiled and swept his arm toward the stair. It was all dreary and tedious. Lime went up the stairs and Menshikov remained at the front door like a cheap gangster in a Bogart movie.

  The stairs creaked when he put his weight on them. At the top there was a landing and a corridor that ran the length of the building front to back. Toward the front a door stood open and General Mikhail Yaskov stood there smiling amiably in comfortable English slacks and a gray turtleneck sweater.

  “Hallo David.”

  Lime crossed the distance between them and glanced into the room behind Yaskov. It was a dismal flat, the kind that rented furnished. “They must have cut your budget again.”

  “It was available. Housing shortage you know.”

  Mikhail Yaskov spoke English with a London accent. His smile revealed a chrome-hued tooth; there was humor in the steady gray eyes. He was a tall easygoing man, but the aristocratic face was deeply and prematurely lined.

  At one time Lime had felt affection and respect for Mikhail. He had learned better; every face was a mask.

  “Well then David. You look God-awful.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “Pity.” There was a bottle of akvavit; Mikhail tipped it toward a glass, handed the glass to Lime and poured another for himself. “Cheers.”

  “I haven’t got time to play Oriental games.”

  “Yes. I realize there’s a shortage of time. You’re rather rigid about having your leaders keep their appointments.”

  “Have you got Mezetti?”

  The Russian settled into the armchair and waved him toward the sofa. The room was poorly heated and Lime kept his coat on. Mikhail said, “Let’s say I might be able to help you find him.”

  “I’m not carrying a microphone.”

  “Well if you were you’d find anything it picked up had been jammed to gibberish.” Mikhail touched a device on the end table by his chair. It looked like a transistor radio; it was an electronic jammer.

  “No time for scavenger hunts. Have you got him or haven’t you?”

  “I have an idea where you might find him.”

  “All right. And the price?”

  Mikhail grinned. “How quickly you come to my point.” He sipped the liqueur and watched Lime over the rim of the glass. “The Organs had a signal the other day from Washington.” The Organs was KGB in Moscow. “We’ve been instructed to cooperate with you. It was all very correct you know—everyone being polite to one another in cool voices.”

  “Where is he, Mikhail?”

  “Abominable weather we’re having isn’t it.” Mikhail set the glass down, steepled his fingers and squinted. “Let me tell you a bit of local history, David. Your man Mezetti drove to that lake cottage with the evident expectation of meeting his friends there. Or perhaps I should say the hope, if not the expectation. If he’d been certain of it he’d have brought the money with him, wouldn’t he? I mean, for a tourist with a definite itinerary he was a trifle short on luggage.” The quick smile, a fast remark: “No, let me finish please. It’s one hundred thousand dollars, isn’t it? Yes. Well then, Mezetti comes to the lake cottage empty-handed. Why?”

  “To find out if his friends are there.”

  “One must assume his friends were supposed to make contact with him at the hotel before a certain hour. When the deadline passed he drove out to the meeting place to find out what had gone wrong. Correct?”

  “Did he tell you all this or are you just trying it on for size?”

  Mikhail tugged his earlobe. “There was another car you know. Mezetti switched cars at the lake cottage.”

  Lime became attentive. “Then you didn’t put the snatch on him?”

  “I had no orders to detain the man, David. He’s probably still unaware he’s under surveillance.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Another sip of akvavit. “He arrived at the lake, he poked around. He looked at his watch several times and sat in his car watching the dock as if he were waiting for something. An airplane to collect him? We don’t know that, do we? The point is no one came. There was no airplane. After a while Mezetti went over and looked inside the other car. He found a note fixed to the steering wheel. He then drove away in this second car.”

  “Make and model?”

  “A Volkswagen,” Mikhail said drily. “A rather old one I should judge.”

  Lime was beginning to see now. It was Mezetti who had been sent out on a snipe hunt. The scavenger hunt was once-removed. They had played it cleverly and it had bought Sturka at least four days.

  It reduced Mezetti’s importance markedly but this still had to be played through to the finish. “What’s the price then?”

  “Mezetti evidently thought someone would be there to meet him.” Mikhail leaned forward and peered. “Who, David?”

  “Whoever left the note in the Volkswagen, I imagine.”

  A thin smile, and Mikhail got to his feet and went to the window to peer past the blind.

  The entire performance was sad. Mikhail was imprisoned in this dingy room because the Finns hated the Soviets and officially Mikhail—a known KGB operative—was persona non grata; officially, no doubt, he wasn’t in Finland at all. So he had to play at these back-street games: secret meetings, sleazy hideouts, second-string underlings to do his legwork for him. Yet in spite of all those handicaps he had got a jump on everyone else. He had isolated Mezetti from his shadowers without alerting Mezetti and was now the only man alive who could put Lime back on Mezetti’s trail.

  And naturally there was a price.

  “Of course you know who they are, Mezetti’s people.”

  “If we knew who they were would we be bothering with Mezetti?”

  “You don’t know where they are,” Mikhail said smoothly. He smiled to show he knew; he wasn’t just guessing. Well it was understandable. The Soviets would have had little trouble piecing together the fact that the Americans knew the identity of the quarry. It surprised Lime a little that they hadn’t already picked up the name as well. But then he realized Sturka’s name hadn’t been mentioned at all except in scrambled transmissions and those were virtually impossible to tap. The Russians would know Sturka was being sought for the Capitol bombing but they wouldn’t have reason to tie him into the Fairlie case too.

  “We’d like a name or two,” Mikhail said, returning to his chair.

  “Why?”

  “In the interests of peaceful coexistence. Open cooperation between allies, so to speak.” The smile this time was to show the falsehood of it.

  “Look Mikhail, you’ve thrown a little roadblock at us but I don’t think it entitles you to voting stock in the corporation. Suppose I publicize the fact that the Russians are being obstructive?”

  “We’ll deny it of course. And how are you going to prove it?”

  “Let’s put it this way. I can see what your people are worried about. Some of the satellites have come loose of their moorings and Moscow wants to make sure none of the troops are being bad boys. It would give you a black eye if it turned out Romania or Czechoslovakia was involved in this. All right, I’ll give you this much. We have no reason to believe any government’s behind the kidnapping. No government, and as far as we know there’s no national liberation movement behind it either. Is that enough for you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’m playing fairly loose as it is.”

  “I know you are.” Mikhail’s mouth became small and mean until he no longer seemed to have lips. It was anger not so much against Lime as against his own superiors. “One has one’s orders.” It was almost an epithet.

  You could picture them in the Kremlin, uniforms buttoned to the choke collars, refusing to take compromise for an answer. They held the ace and they knew it, and if Mikhail didn’t take the trick they’d throw him in the Lubianka.

  Lime really had no optio
n. “Julius Sturka. He’s got a little crew of amateurs. Raoul Riva may be in on it, maybe not.”

  “Sturka.” The Russian’s thin nostrils flared. “That one. We should have taken him out years ago. He’s an anarchist. But he calls himself a Communist. You know he’s probably done more harm to us than to you, over the years.”

  “I know. He doesn’t exactly contribute to your good name.”

  “And you have no idea where to look for him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a pity.” Mikhail drained his glass. “Mezetti has taken lodgings in the railway hotel in Heinola. We have three cars covering him. Two or three men in the lobby at the moment. They’re expecting you—they won’t interfere.”

  “Tell them to pull out when I arrive.”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t suppose you people have a decent photo of Sturka in your files.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Lime had one—the snapshot Barbara Norris had taken with her Minolta. But it was a 16mm negative, grainy and not in sharp focus.

  When they parted they didn’t shake hands; they never did.

  Snow came up onto the windshield in lumps of gray slush and the wipers flicked it away. It was falling hard on a slant, lashing the windows. Chad Hill leaned forward over the wheel trying to see; they were crawling. It was a convoy, four cars and a police van.

  Lime had watched the teletype operator word his message before they got in the cars and set out for Heinola.

  FROM: LIME

  TO: SATTERTHWAITE

  IGNORE PREVIOUS SIGNALS X HAVE

  CORNERED MM IN DEAD END X IN VIEW

  OF TIME FACTOR AM TAKING MM INTO

  CUSTODY FOR INTERROGATION X

  It would be an open transmission for part of the way so he hadn’t said anything about the Russians.

  Only six o’clock but the world seemed adrift in the formless subartic night. The darkness had the viscosity of syrup.

  Chad Hill drew in at the curb; the lights of the railway hotel flickered in the falling snow.

  A man in knee boots and fur hat was shoveling snow clear of the exhaust pipe of his Volkswagen; another man was scraping frost off its windshield. Lime walked over and spoke to the man at the windshield.

  “Tovarich?”

  “Lime?”

  “Da.”

  The Russian nodded. Turned, tipped his head back until snow-flakes hit his face, pointed to a window on the second floor. Light shone through the drawn drapes.

  Chad Hill came up from the car. Lime said, “You know the drill now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lime was making vague arm signals to the procession of vehicles that had drawn up; men got out of them without slamming the doors and fanned out to cover every side of the hotel.

  The ice sheet on the porch splintered under Lime’s heels like eggshells. He tucked his face toward his shoulder against the frozen wind and peered inside through the misty windows. A few indistinct shapes in the lobby. It wasn’t a setup, they weren’t posted for it. Anyhow there would have been no reason for it; it was just that he always suspected the worst.

  He went along to the door with Chad Hill in tow; batted inside with matted hair and ruined shoes.

  Three of the men in the lobby got up and converged on the door. Lime and Chad Hill stood aside until they were gone.

  It left two old men in chairs reading magazines. The clerk behind the desk watched Lime with fascination but made no protest when Lime headed directly for the stair.

  Chad Hill stuck close. Lime said, “Got the tools?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Keep it quiet,” he adjured. They climbed the stairs with the predatory silence of prowlers. Lime made a quick scrutiny of the hallway and went toward the front of the building.

  A ceiling light burned above the door of the front room. He reached up and unscrewed the bulb until it went out. He didn’t want the light behind him; no one knew whether Mezetti was armed.

  He considered the door. Got down on one knee and looked into the keyhole. It was blocked by the key inside.

  Chad Hill held the lock-pick case open and Lime selected a slim pair of needlenose pliers.

  Behind them four men came up to the head of the stairs and deployed themselves along the corridor.

  It would have been easiest to knock, use some ruse or other. But they couldn’t tell how nervous Mezetti might be; why risk alerting him? Lime pictured bullets chugging through the door panels.…

  It was an old lock with a sloppy big keyhole and there was room for the pliers. He got a grip on the stub of the key and with his right hand dragged the .38 out of its armpit rig.

  Chad Hill was biting his lip. His knuckles were white on his revolver.

  Lime nodded. Squeezed the pliers and turned.

  Nothing; he’d turned it the wrong way. You always did, somehow. He turned it the other way and when the lock clacked over with a rusty scrape he twisted the knob and burst into the room.

  Mezetti had no time to register alarm.

  “Turn around and hit the wall.”

  The six of them crowded around Mezetti. Lime frisked him, felt the heavy padding around his torso and made a face. “He’s had the money on him all the time. Strip his shirt off.”

  He put his gun away and did a quick wash of the apartment. In the bathroom a faucet dripped relentlessly; there was an old-fashioned bathtub standing on clawed feet. Trust Mezetti—it was probably the only room with private bath in the entire hotel. Revolutions were fine as long as you could conduct them in luxury.

  The agents had the money piled up on the floor and Mezetti was blinking rapidly, trying to watch everybody at once. Lime waved them all back and stood close in front of Mezetti. “Who’s supposed to meet you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Where’s the note they left for you in the car?”

  Mezetti was startled and showed it. Lime said over his shoulder, “A couple of you look for it. He won’t have thrown it away.”

  Mezetti stood in his drawers trembling, not from the chill. Lime went to the little desk and pulled the chair out. It had one wobbly leg, or perhaps the floor was out of kilter. He lit a cigarette. “Stand still.”

  “What the fuck do you pigs think you’re doing? Do you know who I——”

  “Shut up. You’ll speak only when spoken to.”

  “That money belongs to Mezetti Industries. If you think you can steal——”

  “Shut up.”

  Lime sat and smoked and stared at Mezetti.

  One of the agents had been going through Mezetti’s coat pockets in the wardrobe. “Here it is.” Chad Hill took it from him and carried it across the room to Lime.

  Lime glanced at it. Mario, Wait for us at the railway hotel in Heinola. Hill had it in tweezers and Lime nodded; Hill put it in an envelope.

  “Come over here.”

  Mezetti didn’t move until one of the agents gave him a brutal shove.

  Lime made hand signals and the agents brought the straight wooden chair over from the window. They set it by the desk and Lime said, “Sit down.”

  Mezetti moved cautiously into the chair.

  Lime reached across the desk, put his hand on top of Mezetti’s head and shoved his face down onto the desk top. Mezetti’s teeth clicked, his jaw sagged, his eyes rolled up.

  Lime sat back and watched. Mezetti gathered himself sluggishly, showing his distress. He worked his jaw back and forth experimentally.

  Lime waited.

  “You fascist filth,” Mezetti breathed.

  Lime allowed no reaction to show; he puffed on his cigarette. After a moment he slammed the rim of his shoe into Mezetti’s shin.

  Mezetti doubled up holding his leg against his chest and Lime stiff-armed him in the face. It tipped Mezetti backward, the chair went over and Mezetti rolled on the floor.

  The agents picked up Mezetti and the chair and positioned him where he had been before. Mezetti was about to snarl when Lime took the n
eedlenose pliers out of his pocket and used them on the top of Mezetti’s right ear. Squeezed. Pulled upward, and Mezetti strained to come along but the agents held him down on the chair.

  Lime let the ear go and prodded the points of the pliers up into the hollow under Mezetti’s chin. Mezetti’s head strained back like a dental patient’s.

  Chad Hill was watching it all with alarm and disapproval.

  Lime kept digging with the pliers until Mezetti began to bleed small droplets under the jaw. When Lime withdrew the pliers Mezetti felt his chin and saw the blood on his fingers. The last of the bravado drained out of him as if a plug had been pulled.

  “All right. Which one was supposed to meet you here? Sturka? Alvin Corby? Cesar Renaldo?”

  Mezetti licked his lips.

  Lime said, “Put it this way. You can tell me or you can try to hold out. You’ll get pretty bloody and the pain will be a lot more than you can stand, but you can try. But even if you don’t tell me anything I’ll let them understand that you did tell me. On the other hand if you’re realistic we’ll keep your name out of it until we’ve nailed them all.”

  Abruptly he japped the pliers into the back of Mezetti’s hand. Blood started to flow freely; Mezetti clutched his hand.

  Lime turned to Chad Hill. “It might be a good idea to let word out that he’s cooperating anyway. It may force Sturka to move.”

  It was strictly for Mezetti’s benefit; Lime was certain Mezetti didn’t know where Sturka was. Of course Sturka knew that too; a news release wouldn’t force Sturka’s hand.

  “I don’t know where they are. That’s the truth.” Mezetti’s voice was a defeated monotone. He was looking at the desk, keeping his eyes down.

  Lime said, “I want you to be very, very careful of your answer to this question. How many of them are there?”

  It was a calculated way of putting it. It didn’t sound like a fishing expedition; it sounded as if he already knew the right answer. He drummed the pliers against the desk.

  It came out slow, reluctantly. “Four of them. The ones you named and Peggy Astin.”

  “It’s a bad idea lying to me,” Lime said. He lifted the plier points against the pit of Mezetti’s chest and began to twist and grind.