Again the calm, deep voice reached him from the darkness.
“Now I will give you some time to think. I’ll be back in a little while.”
The light was extinguished, and he was left alone in total darkness with the coppery scent of his own blood filling his nostrils. He had never felt so helpless and desperate in his life. He didn’t pray because he didn’t believe in God.
He was beginning, however, to believe in Hell.
CHAPTER 23 – Small Talk
A man waited at the side of the building with a gurney onto which they heaved Stankov’s unconscious killer and trundled him away through large metal double doors that closed with a clang worthy of the gates of Hell.
As bollixed as this was, there was a bright side – Harry Connolly was worse for wear, but Harry Connolly was still alive.
It was important to determine the identity of the killer and who he represented. I was not a fingernail yanking kind of guy, but I needed one now. Sasha’s large friend looked like he might be just what the doctor ordered, so to speak, especially if he represented Israeli intelligence, not the friendliest sort of people.
A somberly dressed middle-aged woman, her hair pulled tightly back in a bun, led us inside and up a short flight of stairs and through a plush carpeted hallway to a small but tastefully decorated sitting room containing two sofas facing one another across a coffee table with a highly polished marble top.
There was a large richly framed oil painting of Golda Meir on one wall that flattered the former Prime Minister’s well-known but homely visage. Our guide indicated that we should sit, an invitation most welcome to my battered body.
We waited in silence, me, ragged and mystified, Sasha with a Mona Lisa smile on her face, and Golda Meir regarding us like a benign grandmother. I almost expected an offer of chicken soup.
Sasha handled the formalities when her companion re-joined us. “Harry Connolly, this is Eitan Ronan.”
The man possessed a broad frame atop which, mounted like a tank turret, sat a massive square head with closely cropped black hair liberally salted with gray, and bushy brows that sheltered slits that were home to vivid blue eyes.
I rose to shake his extended paw and then, again feeling the exhaustion, sank back onto the sofa. Ronan removed his jacket to reveal a tight-fitting black pullover stretched over a torso that would have been the envy of any pro football player. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he belonged to the Israeli military or the Mossad.
Having insured that we were comfortably installed, Ronan excused himself and disappeared through the door.
Sasha took note of the sorry state of my hands and clothing and showed me through a short hallway off the sitting room to a white-tiled bathroom where I gratefully washed the dried gore from my hands and splashed cold water on my face. In the mirror a bleary-eyed stranger looked back at me with shocked eyes. It took a few moments to calm my breathing and I splashed more cold water on my face before returning to the sitting room. Our silent hostess was just placing a tray with a tea service on the table.
The fact that I was conscious meant that I was only just a little less confused than the guy with the bashed in head they had hauled away on the gurney. Until the Israelis had interfered, he and I had been perfectly aware of what was going on: I was meeting Stankov, and the other guy was trying to kill us. We each had a job we understood. I couldn’t get Lewis Carroll out of my mind. Now we were down the rabbit hole, and I wondered how Stankov’s killer was handling his encounter with the Mad Hatter.
Sasha had removed her Loden coat, and her dark gray, knit dress defined some not entirely unexpected curves. Her controlled demeanor led me to revise the estimate of her age to somewhere between late twenties and mid-thirties. She filled two cups with hot tea and sat back, crossing her long, boots-encased legs. She looked splendid.
The fact that I ached all over, was disheveled, in other words looked like crap, as I sat within three feet of this extremely attractive young woman did nothing to improve my disposition. My trousers were torn at the knee baring a shin still bleeding from the collision with the sidewalk. My neck hurt like hell from having been twisted nearly off my shoulders. This was not the most propitious moment for long dormant hormones to kick in, but the little devils had certainly been stirred to unaccustomed wakefulness.
My head hurt from more than the pounding it had taken. A discreet mission to Vienna to gather information quietly had instead produced the sudden death of Stankov on a public street, a deadly attack on me, and the completely inexplicable involvement of the Israelis.
Sasha asked, “Would you like some milk in your tea?”
When I looked up she was leaning solicitously across the table, creamer in hand.
“No, thanks,” I croaked, my voice was still raspy from
the assault on my throat.
I needed to get my bearings.
“What are we doing at the Israeli Embassy, Sasha?”
Her eyes went wide and innocent. I wondered if this was learned behavior or something all women are born with so they can disarm brutish men at will. I decided they were born with it.
“You said we needed a safe place to question the attacker.” She said this as if choosing the Israeli Embassy as a safe haven were the most natural thing in the world.
“Yeah, but to repeat, what are we doing at the Israeli Embassy, and where did your big buddy, Ronan, come from?”
“Eitan thought he should become directly involved after we learned of your reason for being here.”
Everybody seemed to know more than I did. I silently cursed Jake Liebowitz.
“And how did you learn that?”
“From your friend Volodya, of course.”
Of course -- her tone was matter of fact.
“Given what happened I should think you would be grateful that he brought us in. Had Eitan not been there ...” Her voice trailed off, but I knew what she meant – I would have died next to Stankov.
“You gave the all-clear signal when you walked down Kaertner Strasse. What was that all about? You didn’t see that goon on Stankov’s tail?”
“Oh, we saw him all right, but only after you had made contact. He wasn’t following your man, at all. He knew exactly where the meeting was to take place and obviously was waiting for you. Eitan decided we should let you go ahead with the meeting and see what happened.”
“It just seemed like a good idea to let me walk into a trap?”
My frustration definitely was moving in the direction of highly pissed off.
“A man was killed, for Christ’s sake!”
Sasha lost a fraction of her composure and sipped her tea to avoid meeting my eyes.
“It was already too late to stop the meeting. The assassin had already found you. Eitan will explain it to you,” she said and lapsed into silence.
So much for small talk. There was no way the Israeli could explain to my satisfaction playing with our lives. But I had begun to consider another problem.
No one other than Jake, Volodya Smetanin, and (thanks to Volodya) the Israelis should have known I was in Vienna. It was possible that the killer had been on Stankov’s trail and had caught up with him just at the time of our meeting. I didn’t automatically have to accept what the Israelis said – far from it, as a matter of fact. Such neat timing, however, would have required a lot of coincidences, and to belabor a hackneyed expression, I don’t believe in coincidences.
What had the Russian possessed that Moscow Center wanted badly enough to kill for? And if they only wanted to kill Stankov, why wait until he was meeting with me? And why had my old friend Volodya invited the Israelis to the dance?
All I had was questions.
Just as my brain was beginning really to hurt, Eitan Ronan returned and dragged a chair to the table. His expression was sour, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. He studied me solemnly for several seconds before speaking.
“Mr. Connolly,” he rumbled in his Middle Eastern accent. “I must apologize
for my lack of manners. I had some immediate business to attend to downstairs with our new friend.”
The Israeli was well-tanned, unusual for a Vienna-based individual, especially in winter, and there was something red under his fingernails.
“You seem quite well informed about me.”
“Harold Bradley Connolly, 45 years old, senior CIA field operative, multi-lingual, Vietnam combat veteran ...”
“OK, OK,” I held up a hand, annoyed. “I get the point. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t already know? For example ...”
The Israeli interrupted. “All of that in good time, I promise. Right now, don’t you think it would be a good idea for us to examine the items you removed from Stankov’s body?”
CHAPTER 24 – Moscow, February 15
Shurgin joined Morozov in the latter’s sumptuous office on the exclusive 23rd floor of the SVR Headquarters central tower at “The Forest.” He stood at the window overlooking the surrounding heavily wooded countryside in the direction of the Ring Road, his hands behind his back. Snow had fallen again, and the laden branches of the fir trees drooped under the weight.
Morozov picked up a dispatch that rested squarely in the middle of his desk and held it up to the light in his meaty hand. Shurgin turned as Morozov read the message.
“Has he been eliminated?”
“We don’t know.” Morozov furrowed his brow. “Drozhdov has not reported, and we have had no contact with him since we passed him the details of the CIA contact plan. He had to move quickly and with little time to prepare.”
Shurgin considered this and shrugged.
“Drozhdov is a highly capable and disciplined officer. He will report when he has news for us.”
“Perhaps we should send him some help,” ventured Morozov.
“No!” Shurgin was adamant. “This activity must remain strictly compartmentalized. The Rezident in Vienna is not one of us, and I don’t want our other friends involved unless absolutely necessary. This operation must remain entirely within the purview of Directorate S. This will not change.” He turned back to the window. “You know better than most,” he said, his eyes following the contrails of a jet high overhead in the pale winter sky, “what is at stake, Yuriy Ivanovich. As I said, Drozhdov is capable. He'll report when he can. We know about the CIA officer, Connolly, sent to find Stankov. Stankov, the little shit, will be desperate by now. He will appear at the meeting point because he has nowhere else to go. If Drozhdov hasn’t eliminated him within a few days, we have your other options in reserve. For the moment a subtle approach is our best option.”
Morozov was not reassured. “I’m still concerned about killing a second CIA officer. This could have consequences.”
Shurgin smiled. His quick fox mind already had analyzed the situation and weighed the possible consequences.
“You know why it must be done as well as I. His death will serve a good purpose. Don’t worry. Our plan will yield success. There will be no consequences. The objective circumstances have changed from the Cold War days. Mother Russia is threatened by the Americans and their allies from all sides even more than before, and I don’t give a fuck how many of them we kill. They don’t have the balls to retaliate in any case. They’d rather just talk.”
The absence of news was nettlesome but not unusual. Officers on field assignment were expected to be self-sufficient, and Drozhdov had been handpicked by Morozov himself for this “wet work.” He had been inserted into the West for just such a mission as this – to protect their most valuable secret.
CHAPTER 25 – Israeli Embassy, Vienna
February 15 – 1:30 AM
The contents of Stankov’s pockets and the items taken from our captive lay in two neat piles on the coffee table. Not included was the small, flat packet I had surreptitiously retrieved from the deceased Russian’s coat pocket. I saw no reason to reveal its existence to the Israelis.
Stankov’s items included a passport, a ratty wallet containing 2,500 Austrian schillings, a surprisingly large roll of US currency that when we counted it came to nearly 5,000 U.S dollars, and a couple of old photos, one of which I recognized as Stankov’s wife whose birthday dinner I had paid for so long ago in Berlin. The other showed a thin boy about 12 years old at a beach that looked like it might be Sochi. This would be Stankov’s son, who had to be somewhere in his mid-teens by now.
There also was a key with a tag for a room in an obscure hostel in Leopoldstadt in the Second District near the city's center. One of us would have to pay a visit there.
Our basement “guest’s” pocket litter revealed little. There was a key attached to a flat plastic fob that announced it belonged to a rented BMW along with a parking garage claim ticket. The wallet held documentation identifying him as Helmut Reidl of Munich, assorted credit cards in the same name, and about 500 Deutschmarks in cash. “Reidl” was probably an alias, but would be checked out nonetheless by Eitan’s counterpart in Germany. There was no clue as to where the thug might have been staying in Vienna. Perhaps they would find something in the car.
“There is nothing here worth a man’s life,” said Eitan. “Nevertheless, two men now have been murdered, almost three.” He squinted at me. “Would you care to hazard a guess as to what this is all about?”
I decided there was nothing to lose by sharing some information.
“Stankov’s wad of dollars must have come from his earlier meeting with Thackery, our man who was killed before he could return to Washington. Just before he was shot, Stankov told me he had passed something to Thackery. He seemed to think it was important. What happened tonight substantiates his claim.”
“Tell us about Stankov.” Eitan clearly expected an answer.
If the phrase ‘out in the cold’ had any meaning at all, I was now on the edge of the Arctic Circle. Everything I had done in Vienna was unsanctioned, I was already a pariah at CIA Headquarters; no one besides Jake even knew where I was, in the basement was a Russian ‘wet work’ specialist, and, the Israelis were involved.
Thanks, Jake. Did you tell me everything you know? I suspected the answer was no.
Intelligence services do nothing without a reason, and Mossad had not stepped into this fracas out of the goodness of their steely little hearts. Eitan Ronan had not brought us to the Israeli Embassy just because it was a handy hidey hole. No, this signaled ‘official’ and purposeful Israeli interest.
“How do the Israelis fit into this, Ronan?”
The grizzled Mossad officer’s eyes bored into me, and when he responded, it was not what I wanted to hear, but it was the truth.
“Connolly, you are alone, you are clearly in danger, and you have no one but us to turn to. I would prefer that you not answer a question with another question.”
Eitan clearly was an old hand at asking questions but did not excel at answering them.
“Are you threatening me, Ronan? Perhaps I should just leave now.” I wondered if they would let me.
The Israeli made “tsk, tsk” sounds and shook his head from side to side.
“We won't stop you, but where will you go? Will you call it a day and return to Washington? Do you believe this is the end of the matter? They tried to kill you tonight, Mr. Connolly, and they could very well try again the second you step out onto the street.”
As I considered this pleasant idea, I wondered if Stankov’s little envelope, burning a hole in the pocket of my torn pants, contained the answers to all the questions.
“I understand your hesitation.” Ronan leaned toward me and rumbled in his basso profundo, “People like you and I do not part with information easily, but I don’t think you have a choice if you want to pursue this affair to the end, whatever it might be, and remain alive.”
“I'll tell you what: you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
The Israeli smiled in what he might have imagined was a reassuring manner that actually came off as mildly threatening. I suspected that his range of facial expressions was limited.
If Ronan shared any information it would be just enough to achieve his own goal, whatever it was. As a matter of fact, that was my plan, too. Evidently Volodya had shared with the Israelis everything I had told him in Paris, and that gave Ronan an advantage.
But I still had Stankov’s little packet. It might contain nothing or everything. I would keep its existence to myself until I could examine the contents – unless Ronan decided to search me.
“His name was Sergey Mikhailovich Stankov. The last I knew of him, he was working as a mid-level official at Gosbank in Moscow. I don’t know what information he passed to Thackery, and nor does anyone else, except maybe that goon we brought in and whoever is pulling his strings. We had had no contact with Stankov for several years, and his file had been retired. The only reason Thackery came out to see him was to terminate him – amicably - and pay him off. As I said, that’s where the roll of dollars we found came from. He told Thackery to take something personally to me, but I’m guessing that Thackery thought it was all rubbish designed to keep Stankov on the payroll or entice us to defect him. He was instructed to terminate the Russian, and he did it. He took off for a skiing holiday, and I doubt he even looked at whatever Stankov gave him.”
Ronan rubbed his chin, fingers rasping against thick, black stubble.
“Your officer thought a personal ski holiday was more important than reporting to Headquarters? There was no reaction at CIA? There were no official inquiries?”
“I’m afraid not. They want to keep it quiet.”
Ronan shook his head. “Perhaps some action was taken at the highest level, something you would know nothing about.”
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