Whirlpool

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Davinian,” Hudson said quietly.

  “Ah, Damon,” the old jeweler said, turning toward the voice. “I was not expecting you from that direction. I did not see your limousine pull up.”

  “I walked.”

  “Walked?” Davinian shook his head. “Next you will be jogging, to help you appear young again.”

  “Here, I brought you some iced tea from the Crimean restaurant.”

  As Hudson spoke, he rummaged in the paper bag he’d carried to the meeting. After a moment he held out a plastic cup that rattled with ice and liquid. When Davinian took the cup, Hudson reached into the bag and got his own drink. He sat on the bench near the old jeweler and uncapped his tea. A sip told Hudson it was just as bad as he remembered.

  “Lemon?” Davinian asked, cocking his head to one side and looking at his own drink.

  “Double lemon, just like always.”

  “Thank you,” Davinian said, saluting him with the cup. “It is already a warm day.”

  In silence Davinian sipped at the dark, bitter tea and watched the other old men. They sat as he did, enjoying sunlight filtered through lacy leaves and the faint wail of the balalaika.

  “I love this place,” he said. “It has become like the neighborhood in which I grew up. Someday I suppose I must go back to Moscow, just to see how much it has changed.”

  Hudson made a sound that could have been laughter. “I was there last month. It has changed far less than you might have wished.” Certainly less than Hudson had liked.

  “Maybe in the society you frequent. The trough has remained the same, and the biggest swine still eat first.” Davinian sipped more tea and sighed. “But down at the level where the rest of us live, things are different, very different.”

  “Are they?”

  “The generals stayed in place, but the people who were my colleagues—the colonels, the majors, and the captains—they are all gone. All of them, gone.”

  “Does that mean you weren’t able to learn anything?” Hudson asked sharply.

  Davinian shrugged his thin, slumped shoulders. “I found out a little, but very little. There is a whole generation of men, good men, capable men, men who were my comrades, after a fashion. They have been cut out of power as though they suddenly became senile.”

  “Spare me the sad tale. I’m not one of the ones left behind. I’m still in the game. I need all the information I can get.”

  Davinian drank a bit more tea, drawing out the moment. Like the other old men in the park, he had little else of interest to do that day.

  “I was able to obtain some information on the woman, Toth,” Davinian said finally. “It was just as you suspected. She has worked for Moscow several times, mostly in spreading stories that Moscow wanted spread.”

  “What kinds of stories?”

  “There was no pattern. Her first notable work came when she was very young, still in college. It was during the Olympics here in Los Angeles.”

  “The Russians boycotted that one.”

  Davinian nodded his head. “The Second Directorate mailed threatening letters to some of the black African delegations. It was made to appear that the letters came from the Ku Klux Klan. It was a small effort to embarrass the organizers of the Olympics.”

  “Crude.”

  “Such methods often work.” Davinian sipped. “However, the Olympic authorities intercepted the letters and diverted them. The entire stunt would have been a failure, except that someone was able to leak copies of the letters to your Miss Toth. She publicized the matter in the college newspaper and turned it into an international incident.”

  Expectantly Davinian looked at Hudson.

  “That won’t help me,” Hudson said. “It’s ancient history.”

  “More recently,” Davinian said, sipping lightly, “Toth was unusually helpful in publicizing an example of grievous misconduct by an American FBI agent. It was a major news story that did much to establish her reputation as a national journalist.”

  “What story?”

  “Surely you remember the incident? The FBI special weapons team killed two terrorists who had taken the South African consul general hostage here in Beverly Hills. The killings came at the end of days of negotiations and threats. There were television cameras everywhere.”

  “Oh, that.” Hudson remembered it only because he’d maintained a cordial relationship with the South African diplomat who had replaced the consul general. The diplomat had been helpful in Hudson International’s acquisition of coal gasification technology from his homeland. “What does it have to do with Toth?”

  “She was the conduit through which our people were able to discredit the FBI agent who actually did the killing. The media had portrayed him as something of a hero, until it was suggested that the young terrorists had tried to surrender after executing the South African consul general.”

  Hudson became still. “Go on.”

  “There was a hint, nothing more, that this agent Rowan might have meted out some informal justice, dealing more harshly with the terrorists than the courts would be expected to do. The suggestion became even stronger when the Los Angeles Times printed a picture of the agent attending a neo-Nazi rally.”

  Watching Davinian carefully, Hudson drank some of his tea. The old jeweler shifted uneasily on the bench, as though its slats were too hard. He sipped at the tea in his hand, then looked at the cup.

  “Did I put in too much lemon?” Hudson asked. He held out his own tea. “Here, would you rather have mine?”

  “No, thank you.” Davinian drank a little more, just to be polite. There was indeed too much lemon.

  “Was the neo-Nazi rally picture a fraud?” Hudson asked after a moment.

  “Of course. We gave it to her.”

  “That’s not much help for me. It’s an open secret that aggressive reporters don’t worry too much about whatever ax their source might want to grind.”

  Davinian smiled. “Ah, but Toth knew precisely where the photo came from. She also knew it was a lie. It had been taken six months before, when the FBI agent was working undercover. He was investigating the neo-Nazis, not participating in their rallies.”

  “Surely the FBI knew that too.”

  “Their investigation was still alive. They could not tell the truth without jeopardizing their work and, apparently, several of their informants. The agent was publicly pilloried and eventually resigned in disgrace.”

  “So?”

  “So Toth won several significant journalistic prizes for her stories. That photo was her springboard to a national reputation as a slayer of conservative dragons. She has never looked back. Nor have we stopped using her.”

  “Then I was right,” Hudson said. “Your old colleagues are behind this effort to blackmail me.”

  The old jeweler shook his head. “That I cannot tell you. The people I talked to are all out of power. There could be an operation of some sort involving this woman, but those men would be the last to know of it.”

  Hudson hissed a word between his teeth. “I have to be certain, old man. You don’t take on a tiger like Toth with a wet noodle for a whip. Is that all you found out?”

  “I was fortunate to find out anything. The new government has taken over the apparatus. My old contacts are either frightened or desperately bored. One of them would still be talking to me now, if I had not finally hung up.”

  “You can just pick up a phone and call these men in Moscow?” Hudson asked in genuine amazement.

  “But of course. The American Telephone and Telegraph satellite links are every bit as efficient as any the Soviet Union ever put up.”

  “Dangerous. Anyone could listen in.”

  “I have worked with these men for decades. We need to say very little to make ourselves understood. In any case, my comrades no longer have enough power to be under surveillance by secret police.”

  “So that’s it, huh?” Hudson asked. “Toth may or may not be getting her information straight from Moscow.”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  “Nothing to add?”

  “I am sorry. I have done all I can. I am weary of the game.”

  “I see that,” Hudson said. “I won’t bother you after this. You have my promise.”

  31

  Karroo

  Tuesday 11:05 A.M.

  “You’re slow, white boy. Too slow, way too slow. Where’s your speed? You leave it on the jet? Was that a try for me or are you scratching your arse?”

  The taunting voice was British Oxford English, softened by the rhythms of Scotland and mixed with America’s western tier. Gillespie was a hand taller than Cruz. His head was shaved and shiny with sweat. The sergeant-major moved with the agility and strength of a professional athlete in peak condition. He was barefoot. He was crouched in a position that looked awkward but allowed him to shift direction instantly without disturbing his center of gravity.

  Cruz was dressed in a black judo smock and loose trousers. He also was barefoot, circling clockwise on a thick white workout mat, his arms loose and limber at his sides. His eyes were fixed on the tall, muscular, dark man who circled with him. The sergeant-major’s skin had been browned by genes as much as by the desert sun. Like his color, his eyes, nose, and mouth were a mixture of two races.

  Each man was watching the other for an opening with the intensity of a mongoose watching a cobra. They were so focused that they didn’t notice Laurel standing and watching them from behind a glass partition, her cheeks flushed from the desert heat.

  “You’re tipping,” Gillespie taunted. “You’re giving yourself away.”

  Without warning the sergeant-major reversed and began circling in the opposite direction.

  Cruz feinted.

  “Bloody hell,” Gillespie said in disgust. “Why don’t you just wear a neon sign?”

  To underline the point, he took a swift step forward, pivoted on one straight leg, and aimed a blindingly fast roundhouse kick at the left side of Cruz’s chest. Cruz had anticipated the attack and was already turning to face it. He caught Gillespie’s foot with both hands and quickly levered upward. The sergeant-major executed a brilliantly coordinated somersault in midair and rolled through to a standing position.

  Laurel wiped her forehead and watched the men with a combination of anger and fascination. She’d never seen such powerful, lethally graceful men face one another in unarmed combat.

  It was Cruz who drew her eyes most. Cruz, who had just tossed at least two hundred pounds of sergeant-major ass over teakettle. Cruz, who had saved her life. Cruz, who had kissed her as if she was the first and last woman on earth.

  Cruz, who had systematically lied to her.

  She’d driven him to the airport because he told her he was too banged up to drive. He’d even nicely agreed that, given her martial arts experience, he wouldn’t want to try carrying her aboard the aircraft against her will.

  She winced at the memory.

  Her seven years of unarmed combat workouts wouldn’t keep her in the ring with Cruz for seven seconds. Yet what was really infuriating was that he’d known her well enough to understand that if he dragged her kicking and screaming onto the plane, he wouldn’t be able to keep her at Karroo without shackles and a jail cell.

  The two men were circling again, feinting, testing each other with a muscular, sweaty pleasure only another male could appreciate. When she opened the glass door to the exercise room, neither man noticed. They were totally focused on attack and defense.

  “What do you say now, old man?” Cruz asked sarcastically, mimicking Gillespie’s British accent. “How much have I lost?”

  “I say you’re quick to compensate. Let’s see how long you can keep it up, laddie boy.”

  “As long as I have to.”

  “Good,” Laurel said from the doorway. “Now I can stop feeling guilty for the bullets you took.”

  Cruz spun toward her. A single look told him that whatever he said wouldn’t be good enough to get past her anger at being deceived.

  “Take it easy,” he said quickly. “You don’t have any idea what is—”

  “Shove it,” she cut in. “I know when I’m being made a fool of for your convenience. Too bad I didn’t have—”

  “Honey, if you’d just—”

  “—as much fun playing the game as you did, but solitaire is like that. Fun for one only.”

  “Laurel, I didn’t—”

  She kept right on talking coldly over Cruz. “I’ll be leaving this place Alpha Sierra Alpha Papa.”

  He blinked.

  She turned to Gillespie. “You’re right. Cruz is slow today. ‘As soon as possible’ isn’t a difficult concept. And that’s when I’ll be leaving. ASAP.”

  “No,” Cruz said flatly.

  Gillespie looked from Laurel to Cruz.

  “Yes,” she countered, without turning back to Cruz.

  “You said—” Cruz began, only to be cut off again.

  “I suppose your job would be easier if I’d stayed dumb, slow, and manageable, but shit happens,” she said.

  Gillespie fought a smile. “And it just happened here, is that it?”

  “A whole bagful,” she agreed grimly. “So ring up your pilot or your chauffeur or whatever. I’m out of here.”

  “No,” Cruz said.

  So did Gillespie, more quietly. “That wouldn’t be wise, Ms. Swann.”

  “So Cruz lied about that too,” she said. “I’m a prisoner.”

  “You’re a valued guest,” Gillespie corrected.

  “Wrong. Nobody values a fool. Especially the fool in question.” She spun to face Cruz. “You think I’ll help you find Dad.”

  “Laurel, honey, I—”

  “Hold your breath until you turn black, honey. It’s your best color.”

  She turned and strode out of the exercise room. The door closed softly behind her.

  Both men would have felt better if she’d slammed it.

  Laurel’s strides never hesitated. She covered the distance to the main building with long, quick strides, her temper hotter than the desert day. This time she didn’t pause to admire the native landscaping or the elegant, shaded walkway from the gym to the rest of the compound. Heat, anger, and humiliation at how easily she’d been fooled burned through her. The emotions flushed her cheeks like sunburn.

  She’d trusted him.

  And wanted him, she told herself ruthlessly. Don’t forget that. You were a world-class sucker.

  She covered the ground to the rest of the compound in record time. Mendoza was still working over the table.

  Laurel ignored her.

  “The ambassador would like to speak with you,” Mendoza said. “She’s in her study.”

  Laurel turned away. “I wouldn’t dream of bothering her.”

  “It would be no bother at all. The nearest town is due east,” Mendoza added, as if the younger woman had asked.

  Laurel hesitated. “How far?”

  “Over fifty miles.”

  Abruptly Laurel stopped moving. Fifty miles.

  “If you plan on walking,” Mendoza said, “wait until evening.”

  Laurel opened her mouth. No words came out.

  “I’m a Soboba Indian,” the other woman continued calmly. “My people have been trekking this country, winter and summer, for the last five centuries. None of us would try five miles of desert under high sun, much less fifty.”

  Taking a deep breath, Laurel fought the panic that was rising in her.

  “Talk to the ambassador,” Mendoza said gently. “She’s very good at sorting out these kinds of things.”

  All Laurel said was, “Where is the laundry room?”

  “Down that hall, third door on the left.”

  Laurel started down the hall.

  “You really should see the ambassador,” Mendoza called after her.

  Laurel kept walking, trying not to panic.

  Trapped.

  No way out.

  32

  Los Angeles

  Tuesday, 11:10 A.
M.

  At the jeweler’s urging, Hudson had stayed for a few more minutes, but he was growing impatient for it to begin so that he could be gone. He smiled rather grimly as he held up his plastic cup of tea in silent toast, touching it against the other man’s and drinking deeply.

  After a slight hesitation Davinian did the same.

  Hudson studied the other man. Bright sunshine only served to accent Davinian’s pallor, his frailty. He was as old and worn out as his colleagues on Dzerzhinsky Square. But unlike them, he no longer cared about the game of power.

  That made Davinian almost as dangerous to Hudson as Claire Toth.

  If the jeweler understood that, he didn’t seem concerned. He lifted his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes. They were red and unfocused. He looked like an owl with a hangover.

  “You look awful,” Hudson said. “You don’t take very good care of yourself.”

  “I do not feel well.” Davinian shifted on the bench, uncomfortable and unsure why. He sighed deeply and wondered why the sun which had felt so warm earlier felt so cool now. “I am too old for this. I have been dozing here in the sun because I missed much of my sleep talking to Russia last night.”

  “You don’t seem worried about what Toth might do, yet you have as much to lose as I do.”

  Davinian shook his head. “I have given the matter some thought. It is not the end of the world. I have only a few years left, if that. I no longer care very much who finds out what I have done in the past forty or fifty years. Even if I am arrested, I would not outlive the trial to go to jail.”

  Hudson’s mouth turned down. He was older than Davinian, but Hudson planned on living a lot longer. Living, not existing. Prison wasn’t part of his plans.

  Turning toward Hudson, Davinian smiled oddly. “You see,” he said in his dry, papery voice, “becoming old has made me free. It is different for you. You are determined to live many, many more years, and to live them as a young man. You even have found a fountain of relative youth. My congratulations.”

  Hudson’s mouth flattened. He should have known Davinian would find out. Just one more reason to bury the past.