Deep Lie

by Stuart Woods

Rule grabbed her bag and walked out to where her secretary sat. “Jeff, I’m feeling like death. I’m going home and to bed. The way I feel, I don’t think I’ll be in tomorrow, either. Anybody calls, tell them I’m not answering the phone. If they want me badly enough, they’ll send a courier.”

  “Okay,” Jeff said, and went back to his magazine.

  Rule left the building, got into her car, and stopped at the first gas station. She dialed Pan American. “You have a night flight to Rome, don’t you? Good. I want one seat; I’ll give you a credit card number.”

  26

  HELDER, exhausted and a little drunk, had slept soundlessly until midmorning. He woke, sweating, his dreams back in the minisub, Sokolov with the screwdriver protruding from her eye, the hatch jammed. The sun on his face seemed like the light of heaven. He stood and looked out the little window at the spires of Stockholm. He was alive and safe.

  He took a cool shower, washing away the sweat and the last vestiges of the dream, or rather, the memory. He dressed in his other clothes, a light tweed jacket and linen trousers, packed his bag, retrieved the pistol from the fridge, and went down to breakfast. He ate greedily from the array of eggs, sausages, and herring, a good Swedish breakfast, then he paid his bill in kroner.

  “Where would I go to book passage on the ferry to Helsinki?” he asked the girl at the desk.

  “I can book it for you by phone,” she said, and dialed a number. Soon she had booked him a single cabin on the evening sailing. “The ferry leaves at six and arrives in Helsinki tomorrow morning at nine,” she said. “Just pick up your ticket at the terminal an hour before sailing.”

  He thanked her and left. As he walked through the narrow streets of Stockholm’s Old Town, looking at the fair Swedes and their city, something came to him that he had not had the time to consider. He was alone in a Western city with an American passport, credit cards, and a lot of money. It would be perfectly possible for him to take a taxi to Stockholm airport and buy a ticket to anyplace in the world. Majorov would never find him. Or would he? Could the credit card charges be traced? Would the passport hold up under scrutiny? And how would he earn a living when the money ran out? He had been trained to survive in a foreign city for a few days, but did he know enough of western life to survive on a long-term basis without tripping up? With luck, maybe, but probably not.

  There was another alternative, though; he could take a taxi to the American Embassy and present himself to the authorities there. Better yet, he could board a plane for New York or Washington. With what he knew or suspected about Malibu and Majorov’s plans, he would surely get a warm welcome. Still, he knew something about how the KGB worked, and the CIA would certainly not be much different. Would they believe him? Would they think he was a plant? Would they torture him for information he did not have? He suddenly felt very much alone and lost.

  Then he thought of Trina Ragulin, and he didn’t feel lost anymore. She was at Malibu, waiting for him, and where she was was where he wanted to be. If he went back, they had a future together. Majorov had promised him promotion and command if he performed well, and he had done that. The buoy was precisely where Majorov wanted it, and if Sokolov was dead, that would be all right with the colonel, too. His instructions had been to kill her if they had to abandon, and Helder had done just that, however inadvertently. By all rights, he should return as a hero, having earned Majorov’s gratitude, and he had seen what patronage could do for an officer’s career in the Soviet Navy. He could go back, marry Ragulin, rise in rank, and send their children to the best schools, ascend to that level of living which so few Soviets achieved. Could anyone in the West offer him more than that?

  He emerged from the narrow streets into an open area and heard martial music. His map told him he was at the royal palace. He walked into a cobblestone courtyard and joined a crowd of tourists watching the changing of the guard. He followed the young men in their neatly pressed uniforms with their weapons held rigidly before them as they performed their routine. He wondered what they would do if they knew that he was a Soviet spy with an automatic pistol tucked into his belt. Probably drop to one knee and fire on him. He chuckled at the thought of the tourists scattering, the bullets ricocheting about the square.

  When the performance ended he walked down a long flight of stairs to the water and looked about him. Stockholm reminded him a bit of Leningrad, with its expanses of water in the center of the city. He leaned against a stone railing and took his sketch pad from his bag. He sketched the palace, the water before it, the palace guards in their comic-opera uniforms, an old man on the street, whatever caught his eye. He felt a hunger pang and was surprised to look at his watch and see that more than two hours had passed.

  He walked back up the steps and into the Old Town again. He had passed a restaurant in a little square earlier and thought he would go back. A girl seated him at an empty table for four on a glass-enclosed terrace which looked out over the square to the Swedish Academy across the way. The place was obviously popular, for it was filling fast. Helder ordered a beer and looked over the menu.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said.

  Helder looked up to find the hostess who had seated him standing with a man at her side.

  “Would you mind sharing your table with this gentleman? I’m afraid we are quite full.”

  Helder looked quickly at the man. He was tall, dark hair, late thirties; casually, but elegantly dressed; English, Helder guessed. He didn’t look like a Swedish policeman.

  “If it’s inconvenient, I don’t mind waiting,” the man said, misreading Helder’s hesitation.

  “No, please sit down. I’m afraid I was daydreaming, and it took a moment for the penny to drop.”

  “Thank you,” the man said, and sat down. He ordered a drink and picked up the menu. “Do you know this place? Can you recommend something?”

  American, not English. Some sort of regional accent, Helder thought. Southern, maybe. “No, I’m a tourist; my first time here.”

  “British?” the man asked.

  “No, American.”

  “Really? So am I. Where are you from?”

  “Minnesota, originally. I live in New York, now.”

  “There’s something about your accent I can’t place. That business about the penny dropping is an English expression, so I thought you might be British.”

  “You’re right, I picked that up from an English girl I know. As for my accent, my parents were Swedish; maybe that’s colored it a bit.”

  “You speak Swedish?”

  “Not really. The folks, once they were in America, wanted to be Americans. They insisted on speaking English when I was growing up. As for something to eat, you might try the gravlax; that’s marinated salmon with a sauce of mustard and dill. My mother used to make it.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The waitress came back and they ordered.

  “You’re a New Yorker, then,” the man said. “I love that city, especially the restaurants. Do you know Café des Artistes, on the Upper West Side?”

  “No, I live in Greenwich Village, and I spend most of my time there, I guess.”

  “Good eating in the Village, too. Know La Tulipe, on West Thirteenth Street?”

  “I’m afraid not. My girl friend’s quite a cook. We eat at home more often than not. I work at home, too, so I guess I don’t get around as much as some people.” The man was beginning to sound like one of Mr. Jones’s legend drills.

  “Can’t blame you,” the man laughed. “Me, I do most of the cooking for my girl friend. What do you do?”

  “Commercial artist. Illustrator.”

  The man craned to see Helder’s sketch pad. “And a good one, too, I expect. That’s very nice. May I see what you’ve been doing?”

  Helder handed him the pad.

  “Very good, indeed. Do you ever have a show?”

  “Oh, no. By the time I finish doing advertising work and book jackets, I don’t have much energy left for my own work. Vacations are
the only time I have to draw for myself.”

  “Pity. Have you been in Stockholm long?”

  “Arrived yesterday, and I’m off to Helsinki tonight. I have an aunt there I haven’t seen since I was a child.”

  “Nice to have someone show you around in a strange city,” the man said.

  “What part of the country are you from?” Helder asked, anxious to turn the questioning from himself.

  “Georgia; small town called Delano. I’ve got a law practice there with my father.”

  “You on vacation, too?”

  “Yes, in fact, I’ll be in Helsinki in a couple of days, but only to change planes.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Place on the west coast called Pietarsaari, or by its Swedish name, Jakobstad. I’m picking up a new boat from a yard there for a friend; sailing it to Copenhagen:”

  Helder’s interest was piqued. “What sort of a boat?”

  “Sloop, forty-two feet, a Swan. You sail?”

  “Oh, I did some dinghy sailing on the lakes in Minnesota. Finns, mostly.”

  “Singlehanded, huh? I’ve done some of that myself, but in larger boats.”

  “I don’t think I know the Swan,” Helder said.

  The man looked surprised. “No? They have the reputation of being the best production yachts in the world.”

  “Well, I guess there weren’t many Swans on the Minnesota lakes,” Helder laughed.

  Their food arrived, and they chatted easily through lunch. Helder rather liked the man, and he enjoyed the mental exercise of holding up his end of the conversation, relying on the training Jones had given him and his own ability to improvise. They finished their coffee and divided up the check, then rose to go.

  “Well, have a good stay, both in Stockholm and Helsinki,” the man said. “And keep drawing. You’re good.”

  Helder was grateful for someone to talk with and was sorry the lunch was over. “Would you like one?” he asked, holding up his sketch pad.

  “Oh, thanks, but I’m sure you’ll want them for the memories.”

  “I’d be very pleased to know one of my things was hanging in a lawyer’s office in Georgia,” Helder said. He really would, too. It amused him to think the man would never know who had done the drawing, and there would be a little of himself in America, even if the CIA didn’t get him.

  “Well, thank you very much. I’m partial to the one of the palace guards, I think. May I have that one?”

  “Of course,” Helder said, tearing the drawing from the pad. He signed it quickly and handed it over.

  “We never introduced ourselves properly,” the man said, “and I’d like to know whose work will be hanging in my office.” He stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Carl Swenson,” Helder said, returning the handshake.

  “It’s good to meet you, Carl. If you ever find yourself in Delano, Georgia, look me up. My name is Will Lee.”

  They parted the best of friends.

  27

  RULE blinked in the dazzling Roman sunlight, shading her eyes with a hand, and searched the crowd in vain for Emilio Appicella. She was seated in an outdoor cafe in the Piazza Navona, feeling like death, and suffering a major continental disorientation. She had taken a night flight from Washington and arrived at the crack of dawn, gone straight to a room at the Hassler-Villa Medici, where they remembered Simon, if not her, and slept restlessly for two hours. The walk from the Hassler to the restaurant had passed like a stroll on another, but oddly familiar planet, waves of heat from the paving stones riffling through the throbs of her jet lag.

  She had made a luncheon appointment with Appicella before leaving D.C.; he had agreed to see her with alacrity, even eagerness. What had Jim Gill told the man about her, anyway? Appicella had suggested lunch, suggested the restaurant, an old favorite of hers from her Rome station days, but he was twenty minutes late, and the ice in her San Peligrino had melted. She waved at a waiter for a refill and searched the crowd in the square again, wondering what he looked like. (“I will find you,” he had said when she asked.) She had a feeling he would be an Italian version of that well-known American breed, the computer nerd.

  She watched a man walking slowly through the restaurant and smiled to herself. He was not her lunch date. He might have stepped out of a Mastroiani film. He was outrageously handsome, dressed in a white suit, the jacket draped over his shoulders, and a Panama hat. A pale yellow silk shirt was open at the throat, and the only spot of color was a wildly pattered silk handkerchief in the jacket pocket. He moved easily through the crowd, shaking a hand here, kissing another there, tossing a wave to somebody across the terrace. He had a habit of running a finger along his thick, dark mustache, which gave him a rakish air, and the waiters lined up to speak to him. He was a caricature of everything Hollywood believed about Italian men, and she wished forlornly that she was having lunch with him, instead of some half-baked computer pirate, who, she knew, would turn up in a wrinkled polyester suit with a lot of pens stuck in the jacket pocket. It was no way to spend her one day in Rome.

  The man eyed her as he stopped a couple of tables away, and she returned his gaze frankly. If her man didn’t show, what the hell? He exchanged a few words with the couple at the table, then moved toward her and stopped, removing his straw hat to reveal a dark headful of gorgeously barbered hair. She looked up into the dark eyes and tried not to giggle.

  “Signorina Rule, I believe,” he said, smoothly in comically accented English.

  She was speechless.

  “I am Emilio Appicella,” he said. “I believe we have an appointment. May I sit down?”

  “Of course,” she said, recovering slightly.

  He lifted an eyebrow, and a waiter instantly materialized at the table. Appicella spoke to him for half a minute in Italian too rapid for her to follow, and the waiter vanished.

  “I have taken the liberty of ordering for you,” he said. “I hope you do not mind.”

  “No,” she said, putty in his hands already.

  “Well,” he breathed, leaning back in his chair and looking at her, “you are certainly the loveliest CIA agent I have ever seen.”

  “Jesus Christ!” she hissed at him, rattled. “Will you keep your voice down!”

  He laughed loudly. “Ah, Signorina Rule, nobody here is listening to us. Not on a day like today.” He waved a hand. “They are all too busy making plans to take each other to bed immediately after lunch.”

  The waiter materialized again, bearing a tray with a pitcher of orange juice and a bottle of cold champagne.

  “It is a wonderful drink I am ashamed to say I discovered in England,” Appicella said, supervising the pouring of equal measures of the two drinks. “It is called a Buck’s Fizz, and it is far too cheerful and sunny a concoction for such a dismal place. They do not deserve it.” He placed a glass in front of her and raised his own. “To successful missions,” he said, conspiratorialy.

  “Mr. Appicella,” Rule said quickly, “I think you must have the wrong idea about who I am. I …”

  He held up a hand. “Please. First we will have a good lunch, then we will talk of spying and such things.”

  Rule tried to relax and enjoy herself, though she had a late afternoon plane to catch. A huge platter of antipasti arrived, followed by pasta with sour cream, cheese, and flakes of smoked salmon, followed by tiny lamb chops and a salad. They chatted like new friends, about the heat in Rome and Washington, the best restaurants on the Amalfi coast, the best hotels in Venice. Appicella was familiar with them all.

  Finally, over coffee, Appicella leaned back, belched discreetly, and said, “Now, to business. I expect you wish me to spy on Firsov for you, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Rule replied. She was too surprised to say anything else. She had been preparing for a long exercise in subtleties and, perhaps, some batting of the eyelashes.

  “All right,” he said, “I will do it.”

  “You will?” she asked, weakly.

  “Of c
ourse. Did you think I was some communist, or something?”

  “Well, no . ..”

  “Do you wish me to photograph documents?”

  “Emilio, I haven’t brought you a camera or any other paraphenalia. It would be extremely dangerous for an ama … a nonprofessional to try that sort of thing.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish. I will be happy to take photographs if you like. I have a Minox of my own.”

  She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that. I simply want to know where Firsov is and what he might be up to. Look, I don’t have authorization for a fee, but I might be able to…”

  He stopped her with a glare. “Do you think I do this for money? Good God, woman, didn’t Gill tell you about my grandmother?”

  “He said she was Russian, and that was why you spoke the language.”

  “My grandmother was a countess,” he said, “married at nineteen, twenty when the revolution came. The Bolshevik bastards murdered her husband and stole everything she had. She arrived in Italy in a third-class railway car, penniless, then she had the good fortune to meet my grandfather. Soon, she was an Italian countess. My parents were killed during the war, and I lived with her from my early childhood. She spoke nothing but Russian to me, and she told me everything I ever needed to know about the communists. I will be very pleased to do whatever I can to hurry their downfall. I take their money,” he smiled, stroking his mustache, “in order to impoverish them. I do for them only small things, not things for war.”

  “I understand,” Rule said, “and I am grateful for your help.”

  “What, exactly, do you wish me to find out for you?”

  “Firsov’s exact location and as much as possible about his activities. I want to know in what sort of place he is working, and what, if any, military equipment is in evidence around him. I want lots and lots of detail, whatever you see and can remember. It could be very important to a great many people. Lives could be saved, you understand?”

  “Of course. I will do as you ask. How will I be in touch with you?”

  She wrote down her home telephone number. “Please memorize this number; don’t take it into the Soviet Union written down.”