Yakushin’s anger was genuine.
Malko gave the storm time to pass, then carefully gathered the papers in front of him.
“I was given very precise instructions,” he said. “The agreement I proposed can only be completed with the delivery of all four of the prisoners named. I should remind you that the United States deadline expires tomorrow.”
Malko stood up.
“Dasvidanya.”
He left the conference hall in dead silence. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had time to join Alexandra for a light lunch at the Sacher’s Rote Bar.
The call came through at 2:34 p.m., just as he was about to go upstairs for an erotic nap with Alexandra. “Your damn spooks never give us a moment’s peace!” she snapped, frowning in annoyance.
—
Yakushin’s face was so contorted, he looked like a bulldog. He barely gave Malko time to sit down before brusquely saying:
“President Medvedev has agreed to pardon Gennady Vasilenko.”
From his scowl, Yakushin apparently viewed the Russian leader as practically a traitor to the nation.
Malko nodded.
“That’s a decision that does him great credit,” he said smoothly. “In that case no further obstacles remain to putting our accord into effect.”
“President Medvedev will sign the pardons this evening,” said Yakushin shortly. “We can have a plane here from Moscow tomorrow.”
“That’s perfect,” said Malko. “I will see to the arrangements for transferring your citizens. The two planes should arrive at roughly the same time. The flight to Vienna is longer from the United States.”
Yakushin was already on his feet.
“Just let our embassy know. Someone is always on duty.”
—
Vienna International Airport lay baking in the July sun, and heat rose shimmering from the American ambassador’s Cadillac. It was parked next to a Boeing 777 from New York about half a mile from the main terminal. The area had been cordoned off by the Austrian police.
The Boeing’s door was open and a stairway was in place, but no one had yet come out.
“I certainly hope they show up!” said Malko with a sigh.
He hadn’t seen his Russian counterparts since the second meeting. The final details of the accord had been settled on the telephone.
A yellow Volkswagen from the control tower drove over to them. An airport employee stepped out and said:
“The flight from Moscow is on final approach. It will land in a quarter of an hour.”
Above the main runway, a white twin jet came into view, bearing a red-and-blue stripe and the name of a Russian charter company.
It was still taxiing when the Russian ambassador’s Mercedes appeared. Vice Minister Vasily Yakushin and his two clones stepped out. Malko went over to meet them. The men did not shake hands.
The Russian twin jet rolled closer, and the howl of its engines soon made it impossible to speak. When they finally fell silent, the plane’s portside door opened, and the airport ground crew rolled a ladder over.
Yakushin turned to Malko and said:
“Davai!”
Malko spoke some instructions into his cell phone. Everything had been programmed in advance, second by second.
It was like in the days of the Cold War when spies were traded across the Glienicke Bridge. There too, every step of the ceremony was carefully orchestrated.
In a few moments, three women emerged from the Boeing. They walked down the ladder and went to stand in a cordoned-off area between the two planes.
Twenty seconds later, a man emerged from the Russian twin jet and went to stand in the cordoned square.
And so the exchange went, three for one, until they were down to the fourth and last passenger aboard the Russian plane. A tall man in a broad-brim fedora appeared, and he stepped down the ladder onto the tarmac.
Yakushin turned to Malko and said, somewhat aggressively:
“Harasho? Are we finished?”
Malko looked at him coolly and said:
“Nyet, Gospodin Yakushin.”
—
The Russian official started, his face reddening.
“What’s the matter?” he snapped. “We have held up our end of the agreement.”
Malko pointed to the final passenger to emerge, the tall man in the hat.
“That isn’t Gennady Vasilenko.”
For a moment, he thought the Russian was going to choke.
“How can you say that?” he practically shouted.
“Because I know him.”
Which was true. Malko had secretly met with Vasilenko on one of his assignments in Moscow. That was one reason the CIA had chosen him to oversee the spy swap.
A heavy silence followed, which Malko eventually broke.
“I don’t imagine you’re foolish enough to have left Vasilenko back in Moscow. If he doesn’t come out of that plane in three minutes, the whole deal is off.”
After a long pause, Yakushin waddled toward the Russian jet with the grace of an angry elephant and climbed the ladder. Moments later he reappeared in the company of a tall, hatless man who shouted in Russian to the phony Vasilenko in the fedora. The latter tore off his hat and threw it to the ground before striding back to the plane.
The deported Russian spies soon followed him up the ladder into the twin jet.
In ten minutes everything was concluded, and the two planes’ doors closed. Malko watched as the Boeing’s jets started up.
It gave him some satisfaction to know that the victims of the lastochkas affair hadn’t died in vain. He had managed to free four people from Russian prisons, where they would certainly have perished.
At peace, he walked back toward the ambassador’s limousine. Yakushin had already gotten into the Russian car, stoking his rage.
—
Several months later, Malko watched the snowflakes whirling against the bedroom windows. Alexandra was still asleep after a very late night and some love games that had left them both exhausted.
He reached for his beeping cell phone. It displayed a British number, and he took the call.
“Malko?”
It was Richard Spicer.
“Hello, Richard! What’s the good word?”
The CIA station chief paused before answering.
“The word’s not good at all, Malko. Dr. Lynn Marsh was just found drowned in the Thames close to her home. It seems she slipped and fell while jogging along the river.”
About the Translator
William Rodarmor (1942– ) is a French literary translator of some forty books, including four Malko Linge thrillers for Vintage: The Madmen of Benghazi, Chaos in Kabul, Revenge of the Kremlin, and Lord of the Swallows. Now retired from a career as a magazine writer and editor, Rodarmor has won the Lewis Galantière Award from the American Translators Association and worked as a contract interpreter for the U.S. State Department.
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