The Kremlin Letter

by Behn, Noel;

  “And Madame Sophie?” Rone asked as he rose.

  “They only took him. Go. You’ll get us all in trouble.”

  B.A. had six possible routes to the apartment. From the western end of the street she could approach from the west, north or south. From the eastern end, east, north or south. Rone sat in the small park three blocks east of the house. He would have to gamble. She was due in less than ten minutes. Rone saw no movement on the sidewalks. Only two trucks passed along the street. One of them stopped in the next block. As the driver got out a man stepped from a doorway and said something to him. The driver nodded, got back into his truck and drove away. The man walked down the street away from Rone and stepped into another doorway. There were five minutes left when a car pulled up opposite him. A young man and a woman sat in the front seat. The man got out, went around the car, and opened the door for the woman. He helped her to her feet and then escorted her to an apartment entrance. They stood in front of the building talking. No one came to tell them to move on. The surveillance did not extend this far. There were less than three minutes to go. B.A. must be coming from the other direction. Rone walked quickly to where the car was parked. He called to the man. “Your oil’s leaking.”

  The woman entered the house as the man returned to the car. He looked underneath. “I don’t see anything,” he said to Rone.

  “It’s getting too dark. Do you have a torch?”

  “No,” the man replied, somewhat perplexed.

  “Then back up the car and put on your lights and you’ll be able to see.”

  The man got into the car, started the engine, turned on the lights and backed the car a few feet away. Before he could get out Rone was at his door. “You’re dropping oil, all right. It’s probably coming from under your dashboard.”

  “There’s no oil line there,” the man said defiantly.

  “Don’t tell me, comrade,” answered Rone. “I’m a mechanic. I know this model you’re driving. They put it together backward. They’ve got everything in the wrong place. Move over and I’ll show you.” Rone opened the door as the driver obediently slid away. Rone stuck his head under the steering wheel. “There it is. Just like I told you.”

  “Where?”

  “Just look down here.” The man bent his head under the dashboard and searched the firewall. Rone’s hand crashed into the back of the man’s neck. He pushed the limp body away, grabbed the wheel and started driving for Potkin’s building. As he drove he saw several men standing either inside doorways or between the buildings. They looked up at the passing car without interest. There was no sign of B.A. at the first cross street. He continued toward the apartment. The owner of the car stirred slightly. Rone cracked him across the back of the neck. The body slumped. Two more streets and still no trace of her.

  He was opposite Potkin’s apartment when B.A. turned the corner two blocks ahead. She was coming toward him on the opposite side of the street. He rolled down his window and reached back to open the rear door. They were half a block apart when he jammed down the accelerator, swerved the car to the opposite sidewalk, bounced over the curb and slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a stop.

  “Get in,” he shouted, throwing open the rear door.

  B.A. stood frozen. “What?”

  “It’s a trap. Get the hell in here.”

  B.A. moved for the car just as a man rushed from a building and caught her by the arm. Rone jumped out. B.A. had been thrown to the ground before Rone reached her. He chopped away her assailant with two fast cuts, jerked her to her feet, and dragged her to within a foot of the car before two more men lunged onto them. Rone caught the first one in the groin. When he turned to B.A. she was being pulled back toward the building. Three more men were within steps of her.

  “Save yourself,” she shouted, twisting one hand free. “Please. I love you.” She was pushing her thumb into her mouth. The last thing Rone saw before jumping behind the wheel was a man reaching for B.A.’s jaw as it snapped shut.

  Rone had expected gunshots. No one fired. He had expected cars or barricades to block his way. None appeared. He had accelerated and roared from the sidewalk with only two men running toward the car waving him to stop. They jumped clear as he passed. He skidded around the corner and raced onto the boulevard. The last thing he saw in the rear-view mirror was a group of men bending over B.A.

  No one was behind him. He took no chances. He turned down several side streets and reversed his direction twice before reducing his speed. He drove another five minutes before pulling into an alley, parking and getting out. He walked between two buildings, turned onto the boulevard, and caught a bus.

  For the first time he thought of Ward. Ward would be coming to the apartment at five. He would be walking into the trap just as B.A. had. He realized there was nothing he could do about it.

  Rone had less than fifty rubles with him. There were thousands in the apartment. Fifty rubles would not carry him far. It would barely get him out of Moscow, if he had any idea how to accomplish that in the first place.

  He sat in the Komsomol Theater on Chekhov Street trying to clear his mind. He was oblivious to the players and the audience. The key was clenched in his fist, the key Erika had given him earlier that day. The solitary question in Rone’s mind was how much the colonel knew about his wife’s affair with Yorgi. If he had been followed, and now there was no reason to believe otherwise, did the colonel know he had been meeting with his wife? They had never been seen together. They had always entered and left their rendezvous from different directions at different times. Erika usually came through the restaurant, Yorgi through the basement of the adjoining building. Rone closed his eyes and concentrated. He tried to rehear the nocturnal voices. He listened for inflections, innuendos. The words were those of a trusting husband, but what was underneath them? Had he been play-acting with his wife or had the affair escaped his notice? Maybe the colonel knew all along but refused to acknowledge it. Rone listened to the voices from his memory. He replayed certain segments as if he were operating a phonograph. He could recall no trace of skepticism in Kosnov’s voice.

  He had to assume that all the means of exit from Moscow would now be well covered. He couldn’t risk going near any place or anyone he had known before. Hotels were out of the question. Moscow is not the kind of city where you can sleep in the park or on a subway unnoticed.

  He pressed the key. The idea of having a new apartment suddenly available was a little more than Rone could accept. Perhaps Kosnov hadn’t wanted to catch him in the afternoon raid. Had he intentionally waited until Rone was approaching the building? Rone would see what was happening and run. Where would he run to? To the new apartment, of course.

  It was adding up too well. Erkia could not come that afternoon. The colonel wanted her to be with him. Why this afternoon particularly? If he was conducting the raid, how could he possibly be with her? No, he wanted her out of the way; she could be under guard at this very moment. When he had tried to save B.A., he had escaped too easily. He was a perfect target, but no one had fired a shot at him. Three men were within short range of him. No one fired. No one produced a gun. The men in front of the car had simply waved their hands to stop, but neither one was holding a gun. He had raced the car away expecting to be chased. He wasn’t.

  The play was over and the audience applauding as Rone slipped the key into his pocket. If the colonel was waiting for him to make an appearance, Yorgi would not disappoint him.

  SECTION FIVE

  31

  The Apartment

  He walked casually. In his pocket he carried a knife he had stolen in the last restaurant he had visited that night. If Kosnov was waiting for him, he still might be able to catch him off guard. This would even the score for B.A. He had no idea how he would get into the apartment unnoticed, but for a few minutes he would at least have the satisfaction of being the hunter.

  Rone also considered the possibility it wasn’t a trap. Erika might have arranged it without Kosnov’s know
ledge. Perhaps this more than anything was what lured him there. It might be a haven after all.

  Rone strolled past the building, turned up a side street, cut back and passed again from the other direction. He saw no one.

  He walked around to the back entrance and tried the door. It was locked. That left only the front. He entered the small hallway and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He held the key in one hand and the knife in the other. He slipped the key quietly into the lock and cautiously opened it. The apartment was empty.

  The flat consisted of a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen. The kitchen was modern with an electric refrigerator stocked with food, a four-burner gas stove, a double aluminum sink and modern wooden cabinets filled with dishes and canned goods. In the living room was a television set, a radio and a record player as well as two modern couches, three chairs and small dining table. An Armenian rug was spread over the center of the floor. The bedroom contained two bureaus, a double bed with a wooden headboard and a second radio. It was, in Russian terms, a luxury flat.

  Rone took a bath and made himself a sandwich of black bread, cheese and a processed meat that tasted like pork. He looked through the bedroom drawers. They contained a woman’s clothes. An old woman.

  He was exhausted; he lay down on the bed. He tried to stay awake, but he couldn’t.

  “Yorgi, darling, it’s time to get up,” Erika said with her lips against Rone’s. He opened his eyes. It was daylight. “How do you like your surprise?” she asked, handing him a glass of coffee.

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “Us. At least for a month. Come, tell me, do you like it?”

  Rone nodded and sipped his coffee.

  Erika began to undress. “When did you get here?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night? Yorgi, is something wrong? Why didn’t you stay at your place?”

  “I was thrown out.”

  “Why?”

  “My work papers weren’t in order. The room goes to a factory worker. Some regulation or other.”

  “Then you can live here.” She threw her arms around him. “You can live here where I know where you are. I’ll come every free moment and make love with you.”

  “This is a dangerous flat. People can notice us too easily.”

  “I’ll lock us both in. We’ll stay here for four whole weeks making love. Would you like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s settled,” she said, nuzzling him. “The day after tomorrow I’ll come live here too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The colonel’s going away for a month.” Erika giggled. “And he’s letting me stay in Moscow alone. Only I’m not alone, am I?”

  “Where is he going?”

  “To visit his mother in Yalta.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.” Erika was biting his ears. “We put her on the train yesterday,” she whispered.

  “We? You and the colonel?”

  “Hmmmm. You have exciting ears. I like biting them. I love biting and kissing your ears.”

  “Erika. Was the colonel with you when you put his mother on the train?”

  “Yorgi, please, no questions now. Must we always start with questions?”

  “Answer me!” he said, pushing her away. “Was the colonel with you when you put his mother on the train?”

  Erika rolled on her stomach and pulled a pillow over her head. “I won’t answer anything until you make love to me. I’ll stay under here and suffocate if I have to—but no questions first.”

  “Please, Erika, it’s important. Just tell me—then we can do whatever you like.”

  She turned on her back in disgust, folded her hands over her breasts, and looked at the ceiling. “I met you, I gave you the key. I left you. I met the colonel at his office. We picked up his mother. We went shopping with his mother. We had a meal with his mother. We put his mother on the train. Together. He and I. One, two. One, two, three, yo, ho, ho, ho—the old girl was on the train. All right?”

  Rone thought for a minute. “That means you were with the colonel from the time you left me until when?”

  “I left you at noon and I was with the colonel until we went to bed at eleven. Any more questions?”

  “Come here,” said Rone, reaching for her. But deep within him he heard B.A.’s final shout.

  Erika was bathing. Rone lay on the bed smoking. She had not been out of the colonel’s sight the entire afternoon. He had not been back to the office or even called in from noon on. But the raid took place at two o’clock. Why wasn’t he concerned? Potkin must have told him the whole story. Rone knew from Erika’s previous conversations that he was obsessed about the Highwayman and the missing truck. He had flown to Kara himself. Yet when he had the entire operation in his grasp he spent the day seeing his mother off. All day he had no way of knowing if the raid was successful or not. He didn’t seem to care. Not only that, but he was leaving for Yalta in two days. Did that mean the others were all dead? If they were, he couldn’t interrogate them; neither could anyone else. But what about Rone himself? Kosnov would certainly know that Rone was still free. Why would the colonel leave before he was captured? Rone went to the bathroom and stood beside the open door. Erika was drying her hair.

  “Erika. Whose apartment is this?”

  “Ours.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “It’s ours for one entire month. That’s all that matters,” she answered happily.

  “It belongs to the colonel’s mother, doesn’t it?”

  “Not if she isn’t here it doesn’t.”

  “How did you get the key?”

  “She gave it to me.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could look in while she was away. That’s why I was late yesterday. I stopped here to help her pack and get the key. I stopped before I met you and had a duplicate made for your present.” Erika threw her towel around Rone and pulled him to her. “Yorgi, let’s take a bath together.”

  “You just had one.”

  “I would like another—under the right conditions.”

  Rone nodded and Erika started filling the tub.

  “Why is the colonel letting you stay in Moscow?”

  “Because he knows I want to be alone with you.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I told him I was allergic to sun and swimming. If I went to Yalta with him I would be unhappy because everyone else would be on the beach and I would have to stay inside.”

  “And he believed that?”

  “Darling Yorgi,” Erika said, pulling him into the water with her, “the colonel wants to believe it. He’s very much in love with me, and since I’ve met you, I’ve treated him much better. He wants to believe I care for him. He wants to believe our marriage is a good one. When a man wants to believe in something, and you encourage that belief, he’ll go to great, great pains to protect his illusion.”

  After they dried each other Erika prepared a meal.

  “Has the colonel mentioned Potkin to you?” asked Rone.

  “Who is Potkin?”

  “One of his agents. I believe he works in New York.”

  “Where did you find out about that?”

  “From Polakov’s friend. He wants to know when Potkin is expected in Moscow.”

  “I’ll try to find out,” she said, turning back to the stove.

  32

  The Falling Out

  Rone spent the evening watching television and listening to records. He went to bed early and slept until Erika returned the following afternoon. After they made love he asked her about Potkin.

  “Polakov’s friend was right,” she announced. “Potkin is one of the colonel’s agents. And he is in New York.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get the colonel to tell you?” asked Rone.

  “I told him a woman in the beauty shop had asked me about him. I told the colonel she was a
neighbor of Pot-kin’s who had lent him some dishes and wanted to know when he would be back.”

  “What did the colonel say?”

  “He laughed and told me that the woman was out of luck. Potkin wasn’t expected until the end of the summer.”

  “When does the colonel plan to go to Yalta?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow. Then we have a whole month to take baths together.”

  “I don’t think he should go.”

  “Of course not, my darling Yorgi. We should invite him to dinner instead.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “And so am I, darling. Don’t worry yourself. He won’t be hiding somewhere to try and catch us.”

  Rone pushed Erika away and held her at arm’s length. “He may be in trouble.”

  She stiffened. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Polakov’s friend says that Potkin was in Moscow two days ago. Arrests were made. A spy ring was broken up. An organization that the colonel was very interested in. Only I have a suspicion he doesn’t know a thing about it. Potkin and Grodin were there—at the arrest—I don’t think they told the colonel.”

  Erika remained rigid. “Why do you suddenly care what happens to the colonel?”

  “Because it could affect you. If he is arrested, what becomes of you?”

  “I had hoped you were going to take care of me.”

  “You know I will. This other thing could complicate matters, though.”

  Erika turned her head. There was no longer a smile on her face. She got out of bed and walked across to the table. She lit a cigarette and stood smoking with quick nervous puffs. “Do we have enough money to leave Russia?” she asked.

  “Almost.”

  “What does ‘almost’ mean? If we don’t have enough, how short are we?”

  “About five hundred rubles,” Rone answered. “But if he’s arrested they might take you as well.”

  Erika turned her back to Rone. She stood silently smoking. “Something has changed, hasn’t it, Yorgi? You sound different. It’s like someone else is talking. A person I’ve never met.”