by Behn, Noel;
Rone handed the Warlock the envelope with one typed question on it. The Warlock picked up the flashlight and shone it on the page. “No, I’ve never heard of the Bellman,” he told the Grand Mute, “but I’ll keep my ears open.”
Later Rone and Ward went over the Warlock’s report. The history of the Pepper Pot was beginning to take shape.
“Bresnavitch could easily have been Polakov’s source for the paintings,” Ward pointed out.
“If what Rudolf says is true he most likely was,” said Rone.
“And he could damn well be the Bellman also,” Ward thought, aloud. “Bresnavitch was in complete charge of hiding those art treasures from the West. He thought up the scheme of making us believe they were destroyed, then he arranged for the secret storage of them. Who would have been in better position to turn around and steal them from Russia?”
“No one,” Rone agreed, “but why would he do it? For the money?”
“I don’t know—but I’ll just bet he was the one. He was the original thief, and Polakov opened up his Paris art business to cover for the unloading of the paintings. Once they were in that far together, moving on to sell information was just the next step.”
“But once again,” said Rone, “Polakov got high prices for his material. Did Bresnavitch want money for that too?”
Ward drummed his fingers on the table. “Take it from this point. Bresnavitch decided he wanted to make a move in the Kremlin, he wanted the letter to show his associates he had delivered the West. Either he or Polakov must have realized that getting someone to write the letter in the first place would be one hell of a job. It would take time and trust. What better way than to start feeding in information—information for a price, damn high-level secrets? Polakov was an old espionage hand—he would have known that paying for information wouldn’t have bothered the West; in fact, the more he asked the greater the Western trust in him. No, maybe the whole idea of charging for the information was simply a come-on. Maybe they knew from the beginning they wanted the letter. Once the West began relying on the Russian data, getting the letter wasn’t too hard.”
“That still doesn’t explain why Polakov and Bresnavitch sold the missing paintings,” Rone said.
“That might simply have been Polakov’s way of cultivating Bresnavitch, of getting up his confidence—I’m just not sure of that point at all.”
“And what about the man Rudolf saw in the car?” Rone reminded him. “It wasn’t Bresnavitch. Then who was it? Would Bresnavitch send an emissary?”
Ward shook his head. “No, I don’t think sol He’d deal directly with Polakov—he wouldn’t let anyone else know.”
“Another thing,” said Rone. “Do you think Bresnavitch would tip off Kosnov that agents are coming into Russia to meet him? Do you think, if he was the Bellman, that he would risk having Kosnov catch those men and make them talk?”
“No, Nephew, he sure as hell wouldn’t. He might kill them himself, but he wouldn’t hand them over to the good colonel.”
“I don’t think the man in the car was Kosnov either,” mused Rone. “Kosnov is too well known to meet that openly.”
“Agreed. He has half of Moscow to use, and if you’ll remember, when he and Polakov did get together they went all the way to Paris to do it.”
“Could Bresnavitch and Kosnov be working together?” asked Rone.
“That’s one helluva thought.”
“It might explain their so-called feud. Antagonisms make a perfect cover.”
“That they do.” Ward shook his head. “I just can’t see the two of them linking up. It’s that man in the car who’s getting more and more interesting.”
“Is there any word on who’s been tailing Erika?”
“Not yet. The Warlock and B.A. have trailed him as far as the University area, but then he shakes them. Come to think of it, that fellow might be able to clear up a thing or two.”
Rone sat at the receiving set. Just before midnight he heard voices come from Kosnov’s bedroom.
“I passed Madame Grodin on the street today,” Erika said. “She was very cold to me.”
“Ignore her,” said Kosnov.
“I can’t.” It seems to be the same with all the women. Is it me?”
“No, golubushka, I’m afraid it’s me. The investigation has everyone on their guard.”
“But why should Madame Grodin be the coldest? The same is true of her husband. I even felt it with Bresnavitch. It’s different with them. Does Bresnavitch feel you are concentrating on him?”
Rone was aware of the pause before Kosnov began to explain. “Bresnavitch and I were once friends and then became enemies. It has never been the same since. We have been polite to each other, even cooperative, but it has never been the same.”
“What happened?”
“I would rather not talk about it.”
“You never talk about anything that troubles you. How can I be a wife if you don’t let me know things?”
There was another pause. “Many years ago Bresnavitch and I had a falling out. He tried to replace me with a Western agent.”
“A Western agent?”
“A man named Sturdevant. Bresnavitch offered him my job.”
“How do you know?”
“Sturdevant told me. We had become friendly during the war. Even after we and the West became alienated, Sturdevant and I still cooperated. It was said I was the only man he even halfway trusted. I often allowed his groups to operate in my area, and he did the same for me. I am afraid I betrayed him. Bresnavitch was after my resignation. I had to do something spectacular to hold my position. So I broke up one of Sturdevant’s rings. One that I had guaranteed to protect. The raid on the ring disrupted Bresnavitch’s plans. He is not an easy loser. So you see, golubushka, the trouble is not with you. It goes back many years.”
“What became of Sturdevant?”
“He swore to kill me, but he died before he could carry out the threat.”
Potkin had seldom been nervous. Now he was. Potkin had seldom trembled. Now he caught his hand shaking from time to time. There was no one to help him look for his wife and daughters. No one could know. He must wait. He must hope. Potkin was a man alien to hoping. Since Series Five had been completed there was only routine work; he had too much time to think. He took long walks.
He strolled slowly along Fifth Avenue. The sun was setting when he reached the house and walked into his office. Lieutenant Grodin was waiting for him.
“We need you,” he told Potkin.
“Wh-why?”
“We have decided to assassinate Kosnov.”
Potkin stared at him.
“You will do it,” Grodin said firmly.
“I am busy. I have many important cases. I can’t leave.”
“Comrade Captain,” said Grodin, “the decision is not yours to make. Aleksei Bresnavitch is not accustomed to refusal. He has his ways.”
“His ways?”
“Don’t be naive, Captain. This is a serious matter. If you don’t cooperate it could effect your career—your family.”
“My family?”
“That is what I said. Aleksei Bresnavitch has his ways.”
Potkin had never cried that he could remember. Now tears swelled in his eyes. He was an apathetic man. Now he threw back his head in hysterical laughter.
29
The Man in the Fedora
Erika left Yorgi in the apartment, went down the backstairs, through the basement passageway and out along the alley. As she moved out onto the street a man in a wide-brimmed fedora hat stepped from the doorway and followed at a distance. He stopped and faced the other direction while Erika looked into a store window. He continued after her when she began walking.
Erika followed the route that her Yorgi insisted she use today. Instead of walking along Pyatnitskaya Street as she had done in the past she cut through an alley, crossed the boulevard and ducked into another alley. The man with the wide-brimmed hat quickened his pace. He turned in the alley. No one was the
re. He ran farther along. An arm reached out and grabbed him from behind. The man dropped to his knees, lurched forward with tremendous strength and hurled the Warlock over his shoulder. Then he turned and began running back up the alley. A knife shot through the air and drove into his back. The man took two more steps, gasped for breath and fell forward dead.
Ward walked over, pulled out the knife and turned the body over with his foot. “Well, what the hell do you know,” he said to the approaching Warlock. “It’s a goddam Chinaman.”
B.A. and Rone found little time to spend together. When they did there was no place where they could be alone. At the most they would walk hand in hand along the riverbank through Gorki Park.
“We have both become prostitutes,” she told him one day. “I don’t feel any different, do you?”
The following days were mostly unproductive. The Warlock reported that Rudolf had gone into a state of depression and refused even to mention Polakov’s name. Business was thriving for Janis and Madame Sophie, but none of the girls seem to have known Polakov. B.A. and Mikhail were also doing well on the black market in stolen electrical equipment. Once again, there were no leads to Polakov’s contact.
The only thing that was progressing well was Yorgi’s affair with Erika. Rone felt she was falling deeper in love with him. He was surprised and somewhat embarrassed when she told him she realized they might never leave Moscow together. She didn’t care. If she did it might mean her life anyway. The last few weeks with her lover were the happiest time she had ever spent. She was grateful to him for this. Just to be close to him was enough. If it ended tomorrow she would understand. Erika also had a surprise for him. It came at the beginning of the next week, on a Tuesday. He had reached the apartment before her. He fixed himself a glass of tea. Erika was late. She did not arrive for half an hour.
“Darling Yorgi, darling Yorgi, forgive me, but I just couldn’t get away,” she explained breathlessly.
“That’s all right,” answered Rone. “Here, have some tea.”
“No, I can’t stay. I have to meet the colonel. Yorgi, close your eyes.” Erika stood with her arms behind her back.
“Why?”
“Don’t ask. Just close them. Now hold out your hand.” Erika placed a small, brightly wrapped package in his palm. “I have to go now, darling. I’ll see you there tomorrow.”
“Where?” asked Rone.
“Unwrap your present and find out.” Erika threw her Yorgi a kiss and left.
Rone opened the package. Inside he found a key and a folded note. He began reading:
Dearest Yorgi, this is a key to our new apartment. It’s ours for at least a month, and maybe longer if we want. Don’t ask me how I got it. It is ours and no one knows about it. It is perfectly safe. The address and apartment number are below. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Rone shook his head in frustration. The room he was now in had maximum security; Janis had seen to that. It was in a complex of five dilapidated buildings in a crowded section of Moscow. It could be entered from adjoining structures or through a common basement. Even more important, the streets below were busy with shops, vendors, small restaurants, neighborhood inhabitants and shoppers from other sections of Moscow looking for items not necessarily available in more respectable sections of the city. Rone and Janis had feared Kosnov. They picked an area where it would be hard to be followed. They had found a room that was virtually undetectable. There was no way to link Erika and Rone. They entered the building at different times and from different approaches. Their meeting place was perfect.
Rone slipped down the back stairway, walked along a narrow alley, and stepped through the rear entrance of a neighboring restaurant. He ordered a bowl of soup and a glass of wine. When he left he crisscrossed the crowded side streets and made his way to the subway. He took it for five stops, got off, rode back three. He backtracked four more stations and got off within five blocks of where he had started. He crossed several vacant lots, made sure he was not being followed, then caught the subway once again.
The address was a new multistoried building in one of Moscow’s better neighborhoods. Rone walked past the building several times. As he had feared, it was too isolated. There were very few people on the street. They could be spotted too easily. He walked down the side streets and behind the building. No, it wouldn’t do at all. He anticipated Erika’s tears. He didn’t like to make her unhappy, but this time it couldn’t be helped.
It was not quite noon. His first appointment was with the Warlock at two o’clock. Rone decided to walk for a while. He passed the Palace of Labor, turned right and strolled along the river. It was a quiet, peaceful afternoon. Moscow is a silent city. Cars are not allowed to honk their horns, people are generally quiet on the street. Somehow the din of other cities had never found its way into Russia’s capital. Rone did not particularly care for this. In a way it depressed him. It was a city that behaved more like a hamlet. Physically it was impressive, but for some in-explicable reason even the architecture seemed muted.
He returned to Potkin’s apartment shortly after one. A note was pinned to the door: “Yorgi, am waiting on the street, à droit. U.M.”
Rone went downstairs and turned right. He had walked seven blocks before Uncle Morris fell in beside him. She was wearing the latest in Moscow styles: a heavy wool suit with square, padded shoulders and block-heel shoes.
“We have come up with something you should know about,” she told him as they walked. “The Swiss bank account has been traced to Polakov. Twelve deposits were made which correspond in time to the twelve payments he received for each of the parcels of information. In fact, each deposit was made within five days after he received payment from the West. This was the same account where he subsequently deposited the first half million dollars. Two days after he went into Russia for the last time the entire balance was transferred to another account. We don’t know who that one belongs to.
“Here is what is most interesting. All of the money in the last account was then transferred to Tangier. Also deposited in that bank was the second half million dollars. Our people checked back and found that previous to this large transfer, eight smaller deposits had been made. Four were on dates corresponding to the last four small deposits he made in the Swiss bank, but the additional four deposits were made at intervals after he ceased supplying us with information.”
“You didn’t make any more payments after the letter?” asked Rone.
“None. Once we had agreed to deliver the letter there was no more information for sale, at least to us. He might have continued selling to someone else—at least that’s what some of us think.”
“Maybe those four additional payments came from the Swiss bank.”
“They didn’t,” Uncle Morris informed him matter-of-factly. “As I said before, we were able to trace the original Swiss deposits. His account was cleaned out in one transfer. A subsequent transfer for the same amount showed up in the Tangier bank. And then, of course, there is that confusing issue of who made that last transfer, since Polakov was already in Moscow at the time.”
“Couldn’t he have mailed the transfer in?”
“Our information says it wasn’t done by mail. No, someone had to make it and someone had to be in Tangier, and I’m afraid that list of Russians and their whereabouts you wanted is of little help here. Not one of them was within five hundred miles of Africa at the time.”
“Was there a name on the Tangier account?”
“Yes, but it makes no sense to us. It was Bel Aman. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” answered Rone.
“Sorry to spoil your hopes, but it looks like that bonus money your little club was counting on is tied up in a dead man’s account.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Rone.
“Not from our end. What’s progressing with your merry little group?”
“You’ll know when we come out.”
“And how’s the bordello business?”
“I prefer younger clients. Well, ta ta.” Uncle Morris turned away.
Rone watched her disappear down the street. It was ten past two. The Warlock was already sitting in the confession booth. In five more minutes the interview would automatically be canceled. The Warlock would leave. Rone knew he couldn’t make it back in time. He turned and headed slowly toward the apartment.
When Rone was four blocks from the apartment he stopped and lit a cigarette before crossing to a park, where he would wait until the Warlock was out of the vicinity. He started to cross the street, but jumped back as a black Zim roared past. In the back seat sat Grodin. Beside him was Potkin.
30
The Visitation
Potkin’s car was followed by two others. The street curved at the next corner. As Rone rounded it he could see straight down to Potkin’s building. Five black Zims were parked in front. Several men stood near the door. Another man came out shaking his head. For a moment Rone felt relieved. The Warlock had escaped. Then two more men emerged carrying a body. He could see the stumpy form of Potkin approach and look down at it. He said something to Grodin. Men were dispatched in various directions. The body was put into one of the cars. All the cars drove away. The apartment was now a trap. Rone would have to warn the others.
B.A. was not due until five, Ward not until seven. He took the subway to the street Mikhail lived on. His mother said B.A. and Mikhail were not expected back until after eight. She didn’t know where they were. He told her, if she possibly could, to get a message to B.A. saying not to buy meat for dinner. Then he headed out to contact Janis. He had no way of knowing where Ward was.
It was almost three-thirty when he reached Madame Sophie’s neighborhood. Janis usually spent his afternoons in one of the two small restaurants around the corner. Rone entered the first and sat down. When the waiter approached he asked if he had seen Janis.
“They took him a half hour ago,” the waiter whispered as he cleaned off the table.
“The police?”
“Police or secret police. They may still be around. Go out through the back.”
