Very quietly, methodically, I said in Russian: “It is very important to me that you are telling the truth about this whole thing—about my wife, about Thompson, about everything.”
He spoke: “Of course I am!”
I didn’t respond; I listened, the quiet of the room broken only by the dog’s loud whimpering, but then something flooded into my consciousness.
Of course I am telling you the truth!
But was he, in fact? Was he thinking this? Or was he instead about to say this—two very different things? What made me think that I possessed the ability to divine the truth?
Clutched by this uncertainty as I was, I was hardly prepared for the next thing I heard.
A woman’s voice, pleasant and deep, a contralto, but not a spoken voice.
A thought voice, calm and assured.
You can hear me, can you not?
I looked up at the woman, and her eyes were once again closed, vanished into that frightful landscape of welts and tumors. Her small mouth appeared to be arched slightly upward into a crude semblance of a smile; a sad, knowing smile.
I thought: Yes, I can.
And, looking at her and smiling, I nodded.
A beat of silence went by, and then I heard: You can hear me, but I cannot hear you. I do not have the ability you have. You must speak aloud to me.
“The tape—” Berzin began to say, but his wife put a finger to her lips to shush him. Puzzled, he fell silent.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I can. How do you know?”
She continued to smile, her eyes still closed.
I know of these things. I know of James Tobias Thompson’s projects.
“How?” I said.
While my husband served as a clerk in Paris, I was kept behind in Moscow. They liked to do that—to keep the husband and wife separated so that they would have leverage over you. My job, in any case, was very important. Too important for me to give up. I was the chief secretary to three successive KGB chairmen. I was, in effect, the gatekeeper. I handled all of their secret papers, their correspondence.
“And so it was you that found the MAGPIE file.”
Yes, and many other files.
Berzin said, bewildered: “What is going on?”
His wife said soothingly, “Vadim, please. Silent for a few moments. I will explain all.”
And she went on, her thoughts as clear and understandable as her spoken voice.
All of my life I have had this disease. Her left hand fluttered toward her face. But when I reached my forties, it attacked my face, and soon I became … unsuitable … to occupy a position of such visibility. The chairmen and their aides could no longer bear to look at me. Just as you cannot bear to look at me. And so they removed me from my job. But before I left, I took with me a document that I believed would at least let Vadim leave for the West. And when he visited me in Moscow, I gave it to him.
“But how,” I persisted, “how did you know about—about me?”
I didn’t know. I guessed. In my position, I learned of the program that Thompson was working to develop. No one at the First Chief Directorate headquarters at Yasenevo believed such a thing was possible. But I believed it was possible. I didn’t know if he would ever succeed. But I knew it was possible. It’s a remarkable, remarkable thing you have.
“No,” I said. “It’s a terrible thing.”
Before I could tell her, explain to her, she thought: Your wife’s father got us out of Russia. It was a generous and good thing for him to do. But we had more to offer than this tape.
I furrowed my brow, silently asking, What?
Her thoughts continued to flow, impassioned and clear.
This man, James Tobias Thompson. Your mentor. MAGPIE. He continued to report to Moscow. I know; I saw his reports. He tells of people inside and outside the CIA who plan to take power. They cooperate with the Germans. You must find him. Thompson will tell you. He regrets what he did. He will tell you—
Then suddenly the dog’s whimper became a sharp, loud bark.
“Something is wrong with Hunter,” Berzin said. “Let me go find out—”
“No,” I said. The sharp barking grew steadily louder, faster, more insistent.
“Something is wrong with him!” Berzin said.
Then the bark became a horrible, horrible, piercing yowl, a cry that was almost human, almost a shriek.
And then there was a terrible silence.
I thought I could hear something, a thought. My name, thought with great urgency, from somewhere very close by.
I knew the dog had just been brutally slaughtered.
And that we were next.
FIFTY-NINE
It is amazing, really, how fast you can think when your life is at stake. Both Vera and Vadim started at the dog’s earsplitting, agonized scream, and then Vera shrieked and jumped up from the couch and began awkwardly to run in the direction of the sound.
“Stop!” I called out to her. “Don’t move—it’s not safe! Get down!”
Confused and terrified, the old couple grabbed at each other, arms flailing wildly. Now the old woman began to moan loudly, and her husband sputtered in protest.
“Quiet!”
Startled, they fell silent, and immediately there was an ominous, unearthly quiet in the apartment. An absolute silence, in which I knew someone—or several people—were moving stealthily. I didn’t know the layout of the apartment, but I could surmise: the apartment was on the second floor—le premier étage, as the French designate it—and probably a fire escape wound up the rear of the building, where I assumed the kitchen was located, where the dog had been tied up—and into which the invaders had come.
The invaders. Meaning?
My thoughts raced: Who knew I was here? There was no transmitter to guide my pursuers; and I hadn’t been followed, to the best of my knowledge. Toby Thompson … Truslow … were they working together? Or at cross-purposes, against each other?
Had this old Russian émigré couple been on a watch list? Was it possible that someone with excellent access to Agency secrets—and that described either Truslow or Thompson—knew of the deal Molly’s father had struck with this couple? Yes, certainly it was possible. And I was known to be in Paris; and it would be natural to intensify a watch that might otherwise have remained dormant.…
In no more than a second or two, these thoughts flashed through my brain, but as I paused momentarily, I saw that both of the Berzins were rushing, or really lumbering, toward the tiny dark hallway, presumably toward the kitchen. Fools! What were they doing? What were they thinking?
“Get back,” I said, almost shouted, but they had already reached the doorway, frantic and crazed as frightened deer, unthinking and illogical and reflexive. I lunged toward them to pull them back, to get them out of the way so that I could move unencumbered by fears of their safety, and as I moved I saw a flickering shadow in the hallway, a silhouette of a man, it seemed.
“Down!” I shouted, but at that very instant there was that sibilant, dull phut phut phut of a silenced automatic, and both Vera and Vadim began to slump forward and then topple in a grotesque, balletic slow motion, like fallen trees, great ancient trees that have been sawn at their base, and the only sound was a lowing, a deep caterwauling that suddenly emanated from the old man as he crashed to the ground.
I froze, and without thinking fired a volley of shots into the dark hallway. There was a shout, a high-pitched scream of pain that seemed to indicate I had hit someone, and several rapid, male voices shouting at once. Now the shots were returned, splintering the doorjamb. One bullet grazed my shoulder; another hit the television screen, and the set exploded. I sprang forward, grabbed the door handle, and fell against it, slamming the door to the sitting room, turning the lock as I did so.
For what? So that I could be trapped in this room? Think, dammit!
The only way out was the hallway, where the gunman or gunmen were, and that made no sense, but now what?
I had no time to thi
nk; there was time only to react as swiftly as possible, but I had put myself into this treacherous corner, and as I desperately calculated, a round of bullets was fired against the door, through the heavy wooden door.
Where now?
Jesus, Ben, move it, for Christ’s sake!
I whirled around, saw the wooden chair on which I had been sitting just a few seconds earlier, and flung it toward the window. The window shattered, the chair lodged in between slats of the aluminum venetian blinds. I raced toward the window, yanked out the chair, and used it to clear away the remaining jagged edges of glass.
Another volley of shots came behind me; the doorknob was rattled; and then more shots.
And just as the door somehow came open behind me, I leapt—without looking—out of the second-floor window and into the street.
* * *
I bent my legs, bracing for the impact, my arms spread to protect my head in case I pitched forward.
I moved, it seemed, in slow motion. Time, for a moment, had stood still. I could see myself fall, almost as if I were watching on a movie screen, see myself tuck my legs in, see the street as it zoomed up toward me, shrubbery and concrete sidewalk and pedestrians and …
And in an instant I felt myself slam against the sidewalk, a crushingly hard blow: I had landed on the bottoms of my feet and vaulted forward, almost sprung upright, my arms outstretched to restore my balance.
I was hurt; that seemed clear; and I was in great pain. But I was alive, thank God, and I could move, and as I heard the bullets whistle by from behind and above, I lurched to one side, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my feet, ankles, and calves. I ran with a speed I didn’t even know I was capable of, instinctively down the street toward Les Halles. All around me passersby screamed and shouted, some pointing, some cringing as I tore through the crowds, but it was the crowds that would save me, I knew; the crowds would serve as underbrush to hinder the progress of any pursuers. But were there, in fact, any pursuers? Had I eluded them entirely? Were they all upstairs, in the apartment that had belonged to the Russians? Or were—
But they were not all upstairs. No. I glanced back and saw that several men in dark suits, and several more in nondescript dark street clothes, were running after me, their faces set in grimaces of determination. I zigzagged around a mound of bricks, and something about them—
Hurl the goddamn bricks at them, dammit!
—reminded me that I had something more effective than bricks; I had a good, reliable pistol, with probably ten or twelve more rounds left in it, and I whirled around and fired off one shot, aiming as precisely as I could so as not to wound anyone I didn’t intend to, and I saw one of the men in the dark suits go down, and now there was one of them, and I kept running, turning down the rue Pierre-Lescot, past a tabac and a bar, a bakery, weaving through the rush-hour crowds. I was a moving, darting, weaving target; a poor target for my one—was it one?—pursuer. He would face the choice of either stopping to aim with some degree of accuracy or to run as swiftly as he could, and my strategy seemed to be working: he chose to run, to try to overtake me. I could hear him behind me. It was just him and me now, the world had shrunk down to just him and me, life or death, no crowds, no passersby, just the man in the dark suit and fedora and black glasses coming after me, gaining on me, and I ran as I’d never run before. I was ignoring the siren of pain, ignoring the warning signs, and my body was punishing me for it. And now, as I ran, my abdomen and sides were gripped with terrible knifelike cramps. It was all I could do to keep going; my body, out of shape after years of practicing law and not tradecraft, was commanding me to stop, to give myself up: What could they really want from me now? Information? Give it to them! Was I not too valuable to hurt, someone with my ability?
Just up ahead loomed the modernistic forum of Les Halles, and as I ran toward it—why? what was the goal? was I planning to simply run myself into exhaustion, was that it?—my body warred with my mind. My poor body, racked with pain throughout now, tangled and screamed at my steely mental resolve, importuning and pleading, then cajoling silkily, Give yourself up, they won’t harm you, they won’t harm Molly, all they want is your assurance of silence, and yes they might not believe you, but you can stall for time, you can play along with them, give yourself up, save yourself.…
The footsteps, accelerating now, thundered behind me, and I found myself now in some sort of ground-level parking garage, at one end of which was a door marked with a red sign: SORTIE DE SECOURS AND PASSAGE INTERDIT, and I pulled it open and shut it behind me. It gave off a rusty metallic groan, and then I was in a small, dimly lit stairwell which stank of garbage. A tall, overflowing trash barrel stood near the door.
It was made of aluminum: too light to serve as a useful obstruction.
Something slammed against the door from the other side. A foot, perhaps, or a shoulder; but the door didn’t give way. Desperately, I tipped the barrel over. Trash, trash, more trash … and a battered half of a pair of scissors. It might do; it was worth a try.
Another thud against the door, and this time it came partway open: a sliver of light winked in the twilit stairwell and then was gone. I reached down, grabbed the slender elbow-shaped steel piece, and slid it into an opening in the door hinge, as far in as it could go.
The door thundered again, but this time no sliver of light: no movement. As long as the scissor would hold, the door was secure.
I vaulted up the stairs, which led directly into a corridor, which soon gave onto a bustling arcade.
Where was it? A station—the Métro station, yes, that was it. Chatelet les Halles. The biggest underground station in the world. A maze. Many directions to go now; many directions to lose him now if—if only my body would stay with me, if only it would permit me to keep on going.
And then I knew what to do.
SIXTY
It is fifteen years earlier, and I am a young man, a younger man, freshly graduated from the CIA’s Camp Peary, newly posted to Paris, “wet behind my ears,” as my boss and friend James Tobias Thompson III liked to jibe me. Laura and I have arrived in Paris that morning, having flown TWA coach from Washington National, and I’m exhausted. Laura’s asleep in our bare apartment on the rue Jacob; I’m half asleep, sitting here in Thompson’s office in the U.S. Consulate on the rue St.-Florentin.
I like the guy; he seems to take to me. It’s a good beginning to a career I have had more than my share of apprehensions about. Most of the young field officers take an instant dislike to their superiors, who treat them as the callow and unreliable young guys they are.
“I’m Toby,” he insists. “Either we’re both on a last-name basis, in which case you’re Ellison and I have to act like some fucking marine drill sergeant, or we’re colleagues.” Then, before I can thank him, he shoves a stack of books at me.
“Memorize them,” he says. “Memorize them all.”
Some of them are guidebooks available to any tourist (Plan de Paris par Arrondissement: Nomenclature des rues avec la station du Métro la plus proche) and some are published by the Agency for internal use only (detailed, classified maps of the Paris Métro, top secret listings of diplomatic and military sites throughout the city, suggested escape routes by train and car).
“I hope you’re joking,” I say.
“Do I look like it?”
“I don’t know your sense of humor.”
“I don’t have one.” Spoken with just enough of a set to his mouth to indicate otherwise. “You’ve got a photographic memory. You can retain a hell of a lot more than the farina I’ve got upstairs.”
We laugh: he’s dark-haired, lanky, youthful in appearance.
He says: “Someday, friend, this information might come in handy.”
* * *
Someday, Toby, I now thought, eyes casting about the enormous Métro station to get myself oriented. It had been years since I’d been here. Never thought it would come in handy against you, did you?
Physically, I was a train wreck. My arms, th
ough they hurt much less, were still bandaged; my legs, feet, ankles, all gave off sparks and spirals of fierce jabbing, searing pain like some Fourth of July firecracker.
Chatelet les Halles. At forty thousand square meters, it is the largest underground station in the world. Thanks, Toby. Came in handy, all right. Ah, me and that old photographic memory.
I glanced behind me, saw nothing, but didn’t allow myself to experience that sense of relief that means lassitude. He had doubtless followed me up the stairs, delayed only by a quarter-inch of rusty, distressed steel, which at any second would probably snap or buckle with the application of repeated force.
When you’re pursued, the biggest mistake you can make is to give in to ancient, atavistic human survival instincts like the fight-or-flight response that saved the lives of our cavemen ancestors. Instinct makes you react predictably, and predictability is the enemy.
Instead, you put yourself into your opponent’s mind, calculate as you think he would, even if it means crediting him with more intelligence than he possesses.
So what would he do?
Just about now, if the door did not yield, he’d search out the nearest alternate entrance. No doubt one would be nearby. He’d enter the station, put himself in my head, decide whether I would choose to leave the station for the street—no, too risky—or whether I would attempt to lose myself in the maze of corridors (a good possibility), or whether I would try to put the greatest distance possible between myself and him, and find the nearest train (an even better possibility).
And then, calculating, he would double back, eliminate the best (and therefore most obvious) escape route … and search for me in the concourses. Anywhere but a train platform.
I scanned the crowds. A stringy-haired teenage girl nearby was singing in French-accented English, in a dreadful twittering imitation of Edith Piaf, “On the Street Where You Live,” against a synthesized background of swelling strings and angelic obbligatos emanating from a Casio machine. People were tossing francs at the coat spread out on the floor before her, more out of pity, I guessed, than appreciation.
Extraordinary Powers Page 40
