“First, locate the two targets. When you do that, you’ll be given your instructions.”
After Ribkin left, Tolkachev lit a cigarette. He was facing a delicate dilemma: Could the swallows network still be saved? As far as he knew, none of its members had yet been identified. Zhanna Khrenkov hadn’t had time to do any damage, and Lynn Marsh didn’t know anything. Which left Alexei Khrenkov.
A ticking time bomb.
—
Looking weary behind his steel-rimmed glasses, Khrenkov listened to Malko impassively. It was the first time the two men had had a real conversation.
Malko laid out the American proposal: Khrenkov and Marsh would be taken to the United States, given passports and new identities, and protected for a long time. This was something the CIA and the FBI knew how to do.
“So you and Dr. Marsh will be able to live wherever you like,” he concluded.
Khrenkov eventually broke the silence that followed.
“I need to talk to Lynn. Where is she?”
“I’ll take you up to her.”
The Russian followed him without a word. When Malko knocked on the suite door, Gwyneth opened it, then immediately stepped aside. Malko glimpsed Lynn in an armchair in the living room.
He discreetly waved Gwyneth out of the suite, and they went downstairs together.
The final act had begun.
Chapter 25
For a moment, Alexei Khrenkov and Lynn Marsh just gazed at each other, almost shyly.
Then he rushed to her. Their bodies collided and remained welded together. His face buried in her hair, Khrenkov muttered something in Russian that she didn’t understand. At last she lifted her face to him, and they shared a passionate kiss.
They stood in each other’s arms, breathlessly swaying on the flowered carpet, unable to let go. It was the first time they’d touched since the Royal Garden Hotel in London.
Khrenkov led the young woman to a yellow sofa with big cushions, and they tumbled onto it together. He started taking off her clothes roughly and clumsily. He unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled down her bra and pressed his face to her lovely breasts.
Lynn strained excitedly against her narrow skirt to spread her legs, eager to receive him. She shuddered as he took one of her nipples in his mouth. Moaning with desire, she took Khrenkov’s head in both hands and pulled it even closer.
He dropped to his knees on the carpet. Releasing Lynn’s breast, he shoved his face between her thighs. She bucked like a wild horse, and a seam on her skirt split, baring her thigh to the crotch. Now out of control, Khrenkov yanked at the black nylon triangle of her panties, ripping them.
Lynn lay back on the sofa, one leg draped over an armrest, and gave a hoarse cry when her lover roughly entered her. He started violently thrusting.
They were both too excited for it to last long. With a final thrust, Khrenkov pushed deep into her and came with a shout.
After a moment, he pulled out partway. He had lost his glasses in the melee, and his vision was blurry.
“Ya lubliou tebya,” he murmured—I love you.
Lynn hugged him tight, still feeling his stiff cock inside her. In just a few minutes he had erased weeks of terror.
She would never leave him again.
—
General Ribkin had returned to Tolkachev’s office with the latest information. In Vienna, his men had seen Alexei Khrenkov entering the Hotel Imperial. They also saw that the hotel was crawling with people who could only be CIA.
That was a bad sign, thought Tolkachev. The presence of the Americans meant Khrenkov was betraying the lastochkas. And in that case, there was nothing left for the Russians to do.
Except to make an example of him.
The spymaster looked up at Ribkin.
“Liquidate both of them,” he said quietly, “with as little collateral damage as possible.”
The general’s face betrayed nothing. This wasn’t the first time he’d been given an impossible assignment. The Americans were professionals, and they would be on their guard, so he was sure to lose some men. He hated that, but you didn’t disobey an order from the Kremlin.
The spymaster already seemed to have turned his mind to other things. He stood and genially walked the general to the door.
—
It had been four hours since Malko brought Khrenkov up to the hotel suite. Richard Spicer and Gwyneth Robertson were waiting out in the hallway. Chris Jones and Milton Brabeck were stationed in the lobby. Though at loose ends, the two guards were on high alert. Malko had warned them that they were up against a determined team of the best Russian intelligence agents.
Malko glanced at his watch.
“I’m going upstairs,” he said.
Gwyneth was inside Suite 522, and Spicer on a bench opposite the elevator. Malko rang the suite doorbell once, twice, three times without result. Finally, he leaned on it until Lynn Marsh finally opened the door. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and no makeup. She looked annoyed.
“What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you and Alexei. The less time you spend in Vienna, the better. The Russians are going to do everything they can to kill you.”
Over her shoulder, Malko glimpsed Khrenkov coming out of the bedroom, also wearing a bathrobe. The young woman stepped aside to let Malko in, and the three of them sat down around a coffee table. The two lovers were glowing. They barely reacted when Malko asked:
“What have you decided? We can’t stay here forever. Are you going to cooperate with us?”
The Russian took off his glasses and toyed with them.
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I’d rather not betray them. They would never forgive me.”
“They already want to kill you, Alexei. Like they did Zhanna.”
As if he hadn’t heard, Khrenkov went on calmly:
“I phoned somebody at the embassy. I’m meeting him later.”
Malko felt his blood run cold.
“Where, at the embassy?” If that were the case, Khrenkov would never come out alive.
“No, at a café.”
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and read from it: “Café Central, on Herrengasse.”
A classic Viennese gathering place, Café Central featured art nouveau wood paneling, Gothic vaulted ceilings, white chandeliers, and big marble columns. All Vienna went there for the white chocolate cake and Einspänner—strong coffee with a dollop of whipped cream. While in exile in Vienna during World War I, Leon Trotsky was a regular customer.
“Why are you meeting them?” asked Malko.
“I’m going to offer them a deal. I’ve put the list of my network agents in a safety-deposit box in Switzerland. If the Kremlin leaves me alone, the list will stay there forever. But in case of my death, the bank has orders to give the list to the American embassy in Bern.”
Malko was dumbfounded.
“The Russians will never agree to that! To them, you’re too much of a threat.”
Khrenkov shook his head.
“I want to try it, anyway,” he said stubbornly.
“And you two have talked this over?”
“Of course. And Lynn agrees.”
Malko could sense that he wouldn’t be able to change Khrenkov’s mind.
“What time is your meeting?”
“Five o’clock.”
“All right. We’ll arrange protection for you at the café.”
—
The main room at Café Central was crowded, as usual. Customers sat at little tables or on long benches along the walls. Light filtered through high, arched windows. A grand piano stood in the middle of the room. The café seemed not to have changed in a century, though in fact it had recently been remodeled.
There were few women; they still preferred tea rooms, even after smoking in the café was banned. Most of the customers who came alone ordered coffee and spent their time perusing the newspapers clipped to wooden rods.
Malko looked around without spotting Khr
enkov, though he knew he had entered the café. When he went into the next room, he saw him at a table facing a man in an ill-fitting suit with the square, inexpressive face of an apparatchik.
Malko went back out to Herrengasse, where the CIA guards were waiting in an embassy car.
“Our customer is in the second room,” he explained. “It’s empty, so pick a table where you can watch the entrance and make sure nobody else comes in.”
The two Americans got out of the car with a clinking of weaponry. Chris Jones was carrying what looked like a black attaché case. In actuality, it unfolded into a bulletproof shield that could stop a .357 Magnum slug.
The second car remained at the curb, in radio contact with him.
Malko went back into the restaurant and took a table near the piano, from which he could see the two Russians.
—
Vladimir Robov was listed as a second secretary at the Russian embassy, and his soft voice and elegant language made him quite convincing in his role as a diplomat. In fact, he was a colonel in the GRU, the military intelligence service.
“I quite understand your anxiety,” he told Khrenkov soothingly, “but Rem Tolkachev would like you to come to Moscow to explain what happened. I know that you’re not to blame for any of this, but were dragged into it by your wife’s jealousy.”
“You killed her!” said Khrenkov sadly.
“We have to defend the rodina,” said Robov, unmoved. “Zhanna made a very serious error. You didn’t.” He paused. “So, what should I say to my superiors?”
“Tell them I’ll think it over,” said Khrenkov.
“You’re wrong not to trust me,” said Robov. “In fact, I’m prepared to prove our sincerity in resolving this. Do you have your passport on you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It expires in twelve days, I believe. Give it to me, and we’ll renew it for five years, without any restrictions. I hope that will make it clear where your interest lies. The Americans want to use you, not help you. We would like to work things out in a way that satisfies everyone. I have always favored negotiated solutions.”
Coming from Robov, that was a sick joke. During the 1989 Tbilisi riots, the GRU colonel had picked up a shovel and cheerfully beaten anti-Soviet demonstrators to death.
Khrenkov hesitated. An expired passport wasn’t worth much, he knew. He handed it over.
“I’ll have it brought to you at the Imperial tomorrow,” said Robov, pocketing it. “Shall we meet the next day, at the same time? You can give me your final answer then. If it’s yes, I’ll accompany you back to Moscow myself.”
Robov put a ten-euro note on the table and headed for the door. Khrenkov watched the massive figure disappear. He felt torn, but something about the man from the embassy inspired trust. Then he remembered something and caught up with him as he was leaving the café.
“Gospodin Robov,” he called. “If I accept your proposal, can my friend Lynn Marsh accompany me to Moscow?”
Stunned by so much naïveté, it took Robov a moment to produce a warm smile.
“Absolutely! I will give her a tour of our beautiful capital myself.”
—
“You’re out of your mind!” Lynn screamed. “You want to go to Russia after those people tried to kill me? Never!”
Khrenkov cowered under the barrage of reproaches. The dentist, who’d been getting ready for a romantic evening, was furious. He didn’t know which way to turn and eventually took her in his arms.
“Please don’t be angry!” he said. “You know I would never do anything without you.”
Lynn relaxed a little and lit a cigarette. She felt caught between two worlds, aware that her past life was over. More calmly, she said:
“I’m going to be sacrificing many things for you: my life in London, my friends, my job. And I know that from now on I’m going to be living in fear. But too bad; I love you.”
“What do you want to do?”
“You’re the one who’s going to do it: take the American offer. I want to go far away, somewhere sunny. I want us to enjoy life.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell them I’ll do the deal.”
—
Malko hadn’t spoken with Khrenkov since the Café Central meeting. When he saw the Russian emerge from the elevator and walk toward him, he crossed his fingers, silently hoping that he hadn’t been taken in.
“We have to talk,” said Khrenkov.
They went into the empty tea room, and the two CIA men immediately went to stand guard at the entrance.
“I’ve decided to accept your offer,” he said.
The tension in the pit of Malko’s stomach abruptly eased.
“I think that’s the right decision,” he said soberly. “After that, you won’t be in any further danger.”
“I want to leave Europe, with Lynn. As soon as possible.”
“That will take a little time to arrange,” said Malko. “The Russians have to completely lose your trail, and that means false papers and a secret departure. We’ll need a couple of days.”
“I don’t need any papers for the time being,” said Khrenkov. “When I get my Russian passport back, it will be extended for five years.”
To a dubious Malko, Khrenkov outlined Robov’s apparently generous offer.
“That seems dangerous. Are you sure you can trust Robov? The man you met is no diplomat,” said Malko, who had been briefed by the Vienna CIA station chief. “He’s a GRU colonel with a reputation for viciousness. I doubt he’ll give you a passport without wanting something in return.”
“He’s doing it to encourage me to go to Moscow to explain myself.”
“That’s crazy! You’d never come back, Alexei!”
“I know that. I wouldn’t feel safe on Russian soil. But here, it’s another story. And I can buy myself all the protection I need.”
After a pause, Malko continued.
“Incidentally, when are you going to give us your network list?”
“I don’t have it here. As I said, it’s in a safety-deposit box in Geneva.”
“So we’ll have to travel through Geneva. After that, your worries will be over.”
Malko smiled at him.
“Since that’s all settled, I’d like to invite you to dinner at a place I know. My friend Alexandra will join us, and we’ll be protected.”
“Good. I’ll go tell Lynn.”
—
The Drei Husaren was another Vienna institution. Founded by three hussar officers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, it featured hearty, traditional Austrian cuisine. With its mirrors and woodwork, the VIP dining room to the right of the entrance was reminiscent of Maxim’s.
“Hasn’t your friend arrived?” asked Khrenkov.
“She’ll be here any minute,” said Malko with a slightly forced smile. Alexandra ought to be on her way, driving from Liezen Castle.
He glanced over at Lynn Marsh. The young dentist looked radiant and relaxed. She was wearing the same scarlet dress as at Christie’s, and Malko found himself staring at her bosom.
Khrenkov was holding her hand as if afraid someone would steal her.
Suddenly Malko saw Alexandra framed in the doorway. Her heavily made-up mouth looked enormous, and her décolletage was so deep it made Lynn’s outfit look like a first communion dress. Alexandra’s gaze fell on the young woman with the affectionate interest a cat might show for a mouse. If her green eyes had been lasers, Lynn Marsh would have been vaporized.
Malko made the introductions, and Alexandra sat down next to him. He familiarly put his hand on her thigh and felt the curve of a garter belt. She was wearing her combat uniform.
And was more desirable than ever.
While the other couple studied the menu, he slowly slid her dress up her long legs and whispered:
“I’m eager to get back to the Imperial.”
“Do you really feel like having sex?” she asked, almost without moving her lips. “Didn’t she satisfy you?”
&nbs
p; Unaware of this incendiary dialogue, Lynn was struggling to decipher the German on the menu. The meal passed fairly quickly: they had truffle soup followed by Tafelspitz, a boiled beef dish that was the specialty of the house.
From time to time Malko looked over to check on Jones and Brabeck in the other room. They were peering at their Tafelspitz with deep suspicion.
Malko ordered a bottle of champagne to go with dessert, and the party toasted the future.
They took two armor-plated American embassy cars to return to the hotel.
On the way, Alexandra turned to him and asked coolly:
“Did you fuck her a lot?”
“Of course not!” he protested. “Alexei is crazy about her.”
“But what about her?” she asked sarcastically. “She likes sex. You can see it in her eyes.”
Malko chose not to pursue this high-risk conversation. Instead, as soon as they reached their hotel suite, he took Alexandra in his arms and stroked her dreamy ass. He slid down the zipper of her skirt, and it fell to the carpet, revealing long, black-clad legs and a white garter belt.
“Do you really want to fuck me?” she asked.
Before Malko could answer, a woman’s cry came through the wall to the suite next door. Alexandra’s lovely lips curled back in an appreciative smile.
“I think your friend Alexei is doing a Cossack number on her.”
Suddenly Malko imagined Khrenkov fucking Lynn Marsh and immediately got a hard-on. Alexandra noticed it when he unzipped his pants.
“I want you,” he said, starting to caress her.
“Are you sure it’s really me you want?”
Alexandra’s eyes were a bit glassy, and when he fingered her, he discovered that Lynn Marsh’s shout had moved her as well. He took her by the hips and turned her around, pushing her over to the bed. Instinctively she arched her back. He spread her thighs with the seamed stockings and plunged in all at once.
It was wonderful to be with her again.
A second shout came through the wall, hoarser than the first, and Malko felt his heart start to pound. He pulled out of Alexandra, set his stiff cock a little higher, and thrust hard, drawing from Alexandra a cry as piercing as Lynn’s.
—
The sexual marathon next door must have continued all night, because Alexei and Lynn didn’t show up for breakfast, just had some food sent to their room.
Lord of the Swallows Page 18
