"And what am I supposed to be doing?" Starcher asked, trying to sound casual.
"You can try to fool me into believing you are a nice person," Durganiv said, "But I know you are a paid killer for the reactionary American government and the murderous provocateurs of the Central Intelligence Agency. That you would stoop so low as to ..." Durganiv shook his head. "I never thought a civilized government would do such a thing."
He thought this very funny and laughed so hard he choked, spewing beer over the tabletop in the boat's small cabin.
What the hell is he talking about? Do what thing? The questions flashed through Starcher's mind, adding themselves to all the other questions he had asked himself. He had been on the boat since yesterday, and he still knew nothing. What was happening to Justin? To the Kutsenkos?
He said, "I think I'll have that beer now, if you don't mind."
"Of course not." Durganiv finished his bottle and took two more from a small foam locker under the table. He tossed one across to Starcher, who was sitting on his bunk. "I think I'll have one more, too," Durganiv said. "Did I say it's good for the nerves?"
Starcher twisted off the cap and the shaken beer sprayed into the air.
"Maybe if you're drunk, that'll be an excuse," Durganiv told him. "They might take that into consideration. If the mob lets you live."
The son of a bitch is enjoying this, Starcher thought. He's getting off on taunting me. I should take this gun out now and blow his goddamned face away. But then what do I have? Nothing.
He told himself he had to wait, but how much longer could he wait? Whatever Nichevo had planned, Starcher knew that he was now part of it. Had he fallen into Nichevo's hands like a fool? Was he going to take a Russian scheme and make it worse by his presence in Cuba? Maybe Harry Kael had been right. Maybe Starcher should be home in his blue pajamas, sitting in his rocking chair looking at the stock exchange tables in The Wall Street Journal and leaving the spy game to people young enough to play it. People with all their wits.
"Are you a Russian?" Starcher asked.
"Yes. I know, I don't look like a Russian."
"You save me the trouble of saying it."
Durganiv finished that bottle of beer and opened another. "My mother was Spanish," he said. "My father was the direct descendant of a great cossack general. Did you know I was going to be a ballet dancer? But I grew too big."
"If you jumped in the air, you'd go right through the stage when you landed," Starcher said.
"I was a very good dancer. But I was too big. So I became ... well, what I became."
"What is that?"
Durganiv looked at him, sipped his beer, and winked slyly. "A lifelong enemy of the forces of slave-mongering capitalist oppression. A man who fights the reactionary forces wherever he finds them."
"A spy for Zharkov and Nichevo," Starcher said.
"Nichevo? What's that? And who's Zharkov?"
"Never mind. Are you a killer, too? As well as a frustrated ballet dancer?"
"Only when I have to be. Like tonight. Tonight, for you I will be a killer. A very good killer. Too bad no one else will ever know."
"Why not?" Starcher asked.
"I am sharing credit. When I danced, I would not do that. See? I have mellowed as I have grown older. Now I share credit. Tonight, all the credit for my triumph will go to you. It is a shame. People will not point to me and say, there is Yuri Durganiv, the great killer of dictators. No, they will say, that poor dead body over there, that is Starcher. The CIA man. They sent him here to kill..." He stopped and drained the bottle of beer. "Enough talk. There is much to do," he said.
Suddenly, Starcher knew what Nichevo had planned. In a flash, he saw how carefully Zharkov had calculated it and what a fool Starcher had been to wind up their captive. He had made it easier for them, easier to destroy the image of the United States around the rest of the world.
It was time for the gun.
He could kill Durganiv. Maybe he couldn't get out of here, but at least Zharkov's plans would be set back.
Starcher reclined on the bunk, his feet away from Durganiv so that his hand could remove the .22-caliber pistol without the Russian's seeing it.
Then he heard the sound of a small powerboat pulling alongside the cabin cruiser, and he quickly replaced the gun. The motors kept running. Durganiv smiled, drained the last drop from the beer bottle, and rose to his feet.
"We're having company."
Maybe Zharkov, Starcher thought. Good. It would be worth his own death to get Durganiv and Zharkov together. Ruin the plan and destroy the head of Nichevo, both at once. His own life would be a small price to pay for that.
But it wasn't Zharkov who came through the door to the small cabin. It was a thin, short Russian with dark hair, wearing a blue serge suit. Starcher could still hear the putting of the motorboat engine outside.
Durganiv rose and nodded to the new arrival. He spoke to him in Russian. "This is Starcher. You guard him until I call. The radiophone is on the bulkhead outside the door. Bring him when I tell you to. I have to go now to do some work."
The man nodded, not taking his eyes off the American. Starcher wondered if he should shoot Durganiv now. At least stop that part of the plan. His left hand moved toward his leg.
Durganiv switched to English. "Oh, another thing. Starcher has a gun strapped to the back of his leg. But it has no bullets in it, so don't be alarmed."
Starcher felt his heart stop for a beat. He looked at the swarthy Russian, who smiled and shrugged.
"The coffee was drugged last night," he said. "That is why you slept so well. I found the gun and took the bullets."
"Why?" Starcher asked weakly.
"I figured you would cooperate better if you thought that escape was possible. Otherwise, I'd have to be watching you all the time. Behave yourself now, old man. Georgi has not my patience or my winning ways. Don't hurt him, Georgi," he said. "But tie him up if you have to. And don't let him drink any more. I think he has a drinking problem."
The dark-haired guard nodded, and as Durganiv left the cabin, he was laughing. A few moments later, Starcher heard the small powerboat accelerate into life, and then its sound moved away from the boat.
He was trapped with no way to escape.
The Grandmaster sat on the edge of the long string pier that jutted out into Havana Harbor. He had stashed his shoes under a garbage pail, and he dangled his bare feet down toward the water. Behind him, fishermen unloaded the day's catch. Justin had been sitting there for five minutes, and now no one noticed him. He glanced back to be sure no one was watching, then slid off the end of the pier and into the water without a sound. In the water, he again sighted out to where the Russian naval vessels were at anchor, a thousand yards from the shore. He lined himself up with those ships, dropped under the water, and swam toward them.
Water had always seemed to bring him strength, rather than drain him of it. He moved powerfully under the water, not like a human, flailing with arms and legs, sapping the body of energy, but like a fish, with a sinuous motion of his trunk. His arms were extended in front of him, primarily to control his direction, but his movement through the water looked as if a creature with the body of a man had been bred to swim with the technique of a fish.
He remembered the patient lessons of Tagore, sitting on the lakeshore near Rashimpur, nodding as Justin crawled ashore, and telling him, "Again."
And Justin would swim the lake again underwater, emerge triumphant, cold, dripping wet, and Tagore would nod and smile once more. And say, "Again."
A small powerboat passed over his head, moving toward shore. Justin looked up and saw its V-shaped wake. The boat was not the cabin cruiser he sought; its wake was too small for that. It was just a little runabout.
He swam on. He did not think of the time he had been in the water or the distance he had traveled. His body worked independently of his mind. Finally he saw a heavy mass in the water ahead of him. As he drew nearer, it loomed over him as if he were a fis
h and had suddenly swum to the base of Hoover Dam.
He recognized it as the hull of the one of the Russian warships, and he swam toward it, then moved upward to the water line. He broke water alongside the boat and saw the small cabin cruiser fifty yards away. Patrol boats lay on either side of it, drifting casually around, gently circling. The larger Russian warships made a big, broken, irregular ring around the small vessels. The cabin cruiser looked like a lone calf in a large corral, being watched by two lazy sheepdogs. On each of the patrol boats, Justin could see a couple of sailors. Each boat had a machine gun mounted on the stern. But the sailors were bored with their duty. On one boat, the two seamen were arguing with each other; on the other, they played matching coins.
There were no signs of life from the cruiser. Starcher, if he was there, was probably in the cabin amidships, Justin thought.
He let himself down under the water and moved carefully away from the side of the big Russian warship.
The Russian agent Georgi would not talk to Starcher. He seemed content to sit at the table, his pistol near his hand, staring at the American.
Starcher considered rushing him, but he knew it would serve no purpose. Even if he was successful, which he doubted, what would he do? He was an ex-CIA man, stuck on a boat, surrounded by Russian warships in the middle of Havana Harbor in Fidel Castro's Cuba.
And the Russians were going to kill Castro.
He knew it. Durganiv had teased and taunted him, but he had finally just said too much. There were many people who did that, who felt they had to say something, who had to demonstrate their superiority and their greater knowledge. And if you let them alone long enough, they would eventually tell you more than they should.
So Castro was going to die at Russian hands, and Zharkov's plan was to pin the killing on Starcher. But how had Zharkov known that Starcher would be in Havana?
Starcher suddenly realized that Zharkov hadn't known. Zharkov had learned that the Grandmaster was alive, and he was planning to use Gilead as his scapegoat. And now that Starcher had neatly and foolishly arranged his own capture by the Nichevo men, that must have made Gilead expendable. Was Justin still alive? Or had Zharkov already killed him?
If he was dead, Starcher would have no help. He'd have to get free of Zharkov by himself, and he'd have to try to get the Kutsenkos out of Havana by himself. A large assignment. His own best chance to escape was probably on the boat. Once back ashore, he would not know how many people might be guarding him, how many guns might be pointed at him. He studied the Russian agent. He was thirty years younger than Starcher, no doubt in better physical condition, and he was armed. Hell, maybe he had just had a heart attack, too, Starcher thought bitterly. An even fight. First one to have cardiac arrest loses.
He cast about for other possibilities. When the radiophone call came, the agent would have to go outside the cabin to answer it. The phone was on the bulkhead a few feet outside the door. If the agent closed the door, Starcher could hide behind it and hit the Russian when he came back into the cabin. As his weapon, he had already chosen a long piece of iron pipe that was stuffed into a basket in the corner.
Suppose he did knock the agent out? What then? Swimming to shore was out of the question. He couldn't swim well, and the exertion alone would kill him.
But he spoke Russian. Perhaps he could start this boat and just wave to the Russian patrol boats and shout something innocuous. "I'm leaving now. Have another vodka, men."
His white hair was a problem. The Russian agent had dark hair. Starcher could put on the agent's suit jacket. Find some oil and rub it into his white hair. Oil. Or gravy or shoe polish, anything he could find.
He had to try it. It was his only chance. Maybe he even had one small advantage. He had heard Durganiv tell the agent not to hurt Starcher. They wanted him tonight alive and well. It might give him a small edge in a quick surprise attack.
As if on cue, there was a metallic buzzing from the radiophone outside the door.
The agent got up quickly, snatched up his gun, and waved it at Starcher. "You stay there," he ordered gruffly in English. His voice was raspy. He went outside and pulled the door shut behind him.
Starcher ran to the metal can filled with bits of bamboo and metal, apparently used for repairing fishing rods. He took out the piece of pipe, heavy iron water pipe eighteen inches long. It felt reassuringly meaty in his hand.
For the first time, he had a small hope that his plan might succeed. He walked quietly across the floor to stand behind the door, and strained to hear the agent say in Russian, "All right. Room three-nineteen. Right away."
Starcher felt the thunk through the thin cabin bulkhead as the radiophone was replaced on its wall mount. He pressed himself back against the wall. The doorknob turned. He raised the pipe over his head.
The agent entered, and Starcher pushed the door away and leaped forward, already swinging the heavy pipe down toward the agent's head. But the Russian spun, ducked, and tossed up his left arm for protection. The pipe crunched into the fat part of the man's forearm, and Starcher could tell by the sound and feel that he had broken no bones. Then the Russian was rolling across the cabin floor. He came up in a crouched position, with his pistol aimed at Starcher's belly.
"You American son of a bitch," he snarled in Russian. "The only thing keeping you alive is my orders."
Starcher lowered the pipe, just as low as his hopes of escape. "I was counting on that," he answered in Russian.
"Don't count on it anymore. Or on my good nature," the agent said. "The next time, I'll put a bullet between your eyes. I don't care who'll be disappointed. Now, drop it."
Starcher let the pipe fall to the floor and walked back to the cot.
Too old. But at least he got one lick in, he consoled himself as he watched the Russian rubbing his arm. "God damn it," the agent snarled.
"I'm sorry I didn't bash your thick Russian skull in," Starcher said.
"And I'm sorry I didn't blow your brains out. You're making the trip to shore tied up."
As the agent lashed Starcher's wrists behind him with a length of rope he pulled from one of the cabin's lockers, Starcher asked, "Are you Nichevo too?"
"What's Nichevo?" the man answered much too casually.
Starcher's last hope withered. If Georgi hadn't been a Nichevo man, perhaps Starcher might have been able to shock him with the realization that Castro was going to be assassinated by Russians; perhaps it could have confused him enough to prompt him to speak to his superiors; perhaps the result might have been countermanded orders or a delay. Any of those things might have worked in Starcher's favor. But those possibilities were gone now.
The Russian roughly yanked Starcher's feet up behind him, to tie his ankles to his wrists. A voice spoke in Russian.
"Not too tight. I'm just going to have to untie him again."
Starcher snapped his head around, even as the Russian wheeled away from him.
It was the Grandmaster. He stood only a few feet from the Russian, his clothes pouring water onto the floor, his eyes burning with the intensity of blue ice.
The Russian snatched for the gun he had laid on the small of Starcher's back, but as he raised the muzzle, the Grandmaster attacked.
The Russian's body shielded Gilead from Starcher's view, but he saw Justin's right arm move. He heard a snap and then another snap, and then Justin backed away and the Russian sank to the deck of the cabin into a kneeling position, his body twisted around so that Starcher could see his eyes. They were open wide, staring, but they expressed nothing, not even shock. They were dead man's eyes. The agent pitched forward onto the floor.
Gilead stepped over him to undo the ropes around Starcher's wrists.
"How'd you do that?" Starcher asked.
"It's not important. Are you all right?"
"I'm okay. They're going to kill Fidel Castro," Starcher said.
"That's their plan?" The knots were tight on his wrists. Starcher heard Justin sigh, and then felt the ropes snap.
"Yeah," Starcher said. He rolled over and removed the remnants of rope from his wrists. The knots were intact. The heavy line had just been pulled apart.
"Why not let them?” Justin asked. “Castro's no friend of the United States."
"Because they're planning to blame the killing on us. That's why they've been holding me. I was their prize exhibit. Crazed CIA assassin."
Gilead said, "They didn't even know you were coming. They didn't know who you were."
Starcher rubbed his wrists. The tight knots had stopped the circulation to his fingers.
"I thought about that," he said. "Zharkov must have been planning to use you first. When I came, he decided that I was a better scapegoat."
The Grandmaster nodded. Soaking wet, his clothes stuck tightly to his body, and Starcher was surprised to see how much wiry muscle had grown on his thin frame. He looked nothing like the wreckage of a human being Starcher had salvaged from the Rook's Tour ... was it only two months ago?
"That explains why they tried to kill me last night," Justin said. "They didn't need me anymore."
"I'm sorry, Justin. I wish I could have let you know."
"Nothing to worry about," Justin said.
"How'd you find me, anyway?"
"Your friend at the waterfront bar heard about this boat. He told me. It's one you people owe him. Now, what's next?" Justin asked.
"We could just leave. Without you or me, the plan would probably be canceled."
Gilead shook his head. "There are three other American chess players and their seconds. Zharkov would probably just grab one of them. I'm sure he's got dossiers, and he'd be able to phony something up. When he was done, you'd think our whole chess team was riddled with superspies."
Starcher was thinking. "Besides," Gilead said, "I can't just go. I promised the Kutsenkos we'd get them out. And I've got my business with Zharkov."
"This agent was on the phone. I heard him say, 'Room three-nineteen. Right away.' I imagine he was supposed to take me there. Probably at the José Marti. I guess they were going to set it up then."
Grandmaster (A Suspense and Espionage Thriller) Page 39
