The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  "Their side?" asked Natalya, raising an eyebrow.

  "Sorry," Benjamin said. "I guess that sounds a little paranoid."

  "I am a professional paranoid, Mr. Wainwright," she said, standing. "Anyway, why don't you wash up. I need to let them know at the center I will be in late today. If at all."

  "I hadn't even thought of that," Benjamin said. He looked at her, an expression of concern on his face. "I'm sorry to have gotten you involved in all this, Natalya." He paused. "I believe I know how Sam Wolfe felt when he last spoke to me."

  "Your Dr. Fletcher involved me," she said. She stood up. "And anyway, chto bylo to bulyom poroslo. As you would say, it is no good to cry over milk already spoiled."

  "Spilt," Benjamin corrected.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Never mind, I understand," Benjamin said. He looked at her appreciatively. "I think Dr. Fletcher knew exactly what he was doing when he wrote to you. Even if we don't yet know why. " Then he set his coffee down and went off to the bathroom.

  Natalya waited a moment, then went into the kitchen to the telephone. She dialed the number of the Cultural Center. When someone there answered, she asked for Yuri. "All right," she said, "I'll try him at home. Oh, and would you tell them I won't be in for a while today. Perhaps late this afternoon? Spasiba, " and she hung up.

  She went to the window, stood staring out again, deep in thought.

  She was still there when Benjamin came out of the bathroom. He was drying his hair with a towel. He still had on the tuxedo shirt, cummerbund and pants, and black socks. "Are my shoes around here somewhere?" he asked.

  "Yes, there," Natalya said, pointing under the couch. "I took them off last night."

  Benjamin sat down and began putting on his shoes. "I've decided the best thing for me to do is go to Anton's, see if he's home. And if he isn't… well, I'll cross that bridge then."

  "To where?" Natalya asked.

  "I don't know," Benjamin said. "But I don't think you should be involved in this any further. Perhaps I should just go to the authorities with what I already know."

  "Which really isn't that much," said Natalya. "Without Anton's explanation for Dr. Fletcher's program, all you really know is that there was some sort of secret group among the American Puritans nearly three hundred years ago, and some odd occurrences at this American Heritage Foundation this weekend. Secretive groups in the history of any country are hardly, well, secrets, are they. And these odd occurrences… I am certain such people will be able to explain them to any authorities you contact. Believe me, I have experience with these kinds of people. More than you realize. To deal with them, you must have kozyr, an ace up your sleeve."

  "Well, yes-," he began.

  "And in the meantime, you have stolen property belonging to this Foundation, and no witnesses to back up your version of the story."

  Benjamin sighed. "Please," he said, "if this is a pep talk…"

  "Pep talk?" asked Natalya.

  "Uh, never mind," he said. He stood up. "All that may be true, but as I said, I don't know where else to go from here." He began putting on the tuxedo jacket.

  She rose and came over to him.

  "Mr. Wainwright," she said, looking into his eyes. "Benjamin." She smiled. "I think I do. But you will have to trust me. Do you think you can do that?"

  Benjamin looked at her. He'd felt he could trust her from the first moment he'd seen her, but he wasn't sure he could trust that feeling. After all, weren't femme fatales always beautiful women you wanted to trust? That's why they were femme fatales.

  He started to say something, thought better of it, shrugged.

  "All right," he said. "Apparently we're in this together. So, what do we do next, Ms. Orlova?"

  CHAPTER 36

  Their first stop was at the nearest clothing store, across the street. It obviously catered to the college crowd of D.C., and the best Benjamin could do was some khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, a pullover with GEORGETOWN in blue letters on a gray background, and some low Bass Weejuns. Natalya pronounced him "an invisible American college guy."

  "I'm afraid," he said, looking at her, "it's a little harder to make you invisible."

  "A compliment?" she asked, tilting her head.

  "Well, yes, I guess so," he said.

  "Ah," she said, "then not the truth."

  He started to protest, but she smiled and said, "It is okay," and they left the store to find a taxi.

  Once they were on their way, he asked her, "Where are we going?"

  "To a friend," she said. "I hope."

  "Perhaps you should call this 'friend' first, make certain he's alone?"

  "I left my cell phone at the apartment," Natalya said. "It was one issued by the embassy, and, well, under these circumstances, I think it best not to use it. And you?"

  Benjamin laughed. "Back at the Foundation, with my clothes."

  "Well," Natalya smiled, "let us rely on our wits rather than our technology."

  Twenty minutes later found them at an apartment building not far from the Cultural Center. When they exited the cab, Natalya walked up the front steps of the building. She pressed the button with the name YURI ANDROPOV above it. She spoke briefly and they were buzzed in. They took the stairs to the second floor, and stopped in front of 201.

  Natalya raised her hand to knock, but before she did she turned to him.

  "Let me do the talking, all right?" she asked.

  Benjamin nodded. What else can I do, he thought.

  She knocked, and after a moment a man came to the door. Benjamin realized he'd seen him the night before, at the reception; he was one of the men with an earpiece and a watchful attitude, the one that had told him to look for a beautiful woman in a red dress. Now, he was wearing a bathrobe and looked quite rumpled, as though he'd just gotten out of bed.

  The man smiled at Natalya but gave Benjamin the same questioning look he'd used the night before.

  "Vkhoditte," he said, motioning for them to enter.

  Once they were inside, Yuri and Natalya carried on a conversation in Russian. Of course, Benjamin couldn't tell exactly what they were saying, but it was clear Natalya was suggesting something to Yuri of which he did not approve. Several times during their conversation, Yuri glanced over at Benjamin; once he indicated Benjamin and asked Natalya what was obviously a very pointed question.

  "Nyet," she replied. "Prosto znakomiy."

  At that, Yuri's resistance to whatever Natalya was asking of him seemed to weaken.

  Finally, he sat back, shook his head. "Te pozhaleyesh," he said. Then he rose and went into another room. Benjamin could see through the door that he went to a desk, began looking through a small book he had there.

  Natalya turned to him. "I have asked for his help," she said.

  "To do what?" Benjamin asked.

  "To get us into Russia," she said.

  Before Benjamin could ask her about the "us" part, Yuri came into the room and handed a piece of paper to Natalya. He asked her something again, and she replied, "Spasiba, nyet." Then she kissed him on the cheek and they left, Yuri shaking Benjamin's hand on their way out-though it seemed a reluctant shake, at best.

  After they'd gone, Yuri walked back into his study. He picked up the telephone, dialed an international number. While it was ringing, he pressed a small button on the side of the phone.

  He spoke for several minutes. When he was finished, he hung up, then sat for a long time, smoking and thinking.

  ***

  Once outside Yuri's apartment, Natalya and Benjamin began looking for another cab to hail. There were several questions in Benjamin's mind; he finally settled on the one uppermost.

  "Is Yuri…," he stumbled. "Well, are you two-"

  "Chiort!" Natalya said with some exasperation. "Men! Do you know, he asked me the same thing about you?"

  "Oh," said Benjamin. For some reason, Benjamin felt flattered. "But then, what did you ask him, exactly? And what's this about going to Russia? About us going to Russia?"


  By then a cab had pulled up, and they climbed into the backseat. Natalya gave the driver an address.

  "I have a diplomatic passport, of course," Natalya said. "But I think it would be better not to use it, at least not to enter the Russian Federation. And as for you, if there are indeed people following you-"

  "I'm going with you, then?" Benjamin asked.

  Natalya was still somewhat upset. "Would you rather stay here and wait for your shadow from the library to find you?" she asked, not looking at him.

  Benjamin didn't have to answer that. "But then, what was all that about?"

  Now Natalya looked at him.

  "I told you, Yuri is FSB. They keep track of people who deal with this sort of… situation. I explained it was very important that I see my father as soon as possible. Basically, I asked him for a name. A name of someone who could help us."

  "A travel agent?" Benjamin asked, trying to make a joke.

  Natalya smiled, relaxed. "In a way, yes," she said. "But a very expensive travel agent. Our 'tickets' into Russia will cost perhaps five thousand dollars each, Yuri thinks. So, I am going to my bank, to see if I can somehow-"

  Benjamin had an idea. He leaned over the seat. "Wait," he said to the driver. "Do you know where the Credit Agricole bank is?"

  "Yes," said the driver.

  "Take us there," Benjamin said.

  He leaned back. Natalya was looking at him questioningly.

  "Remember Anton's note?" he said. "I don't know how much this will help, but it's worth a try."

  When they reached the bank, Benjamin realized he had no idea what would happen. Perhaps Henri Vielledent no longer worked there; perhaps he would insist on some sort of notarized signature from Anton, and they'd simply be out of luck. He didn't relish the thought of looking the fool in front of Natalya.

  But in fact Henri Vielledent did indeed still work at the Credit Agricole-and high up enough in their organization to rate a rather ornate office on the second floor. Benjamin and Natalya were shown in and found behind the desk a rather short man with a goatee and a manner so reserved as to be almost hostile. Benjamin's confidence dropped yet another notch.

  But the moment Benjamin mentioned Anton Sikorsky's name, Henri became entirely different. Now it was all " Monsieur Wainwright" and " s'il vous plait " and " merci. " And when Benjamin gave him the account number from Anton's note, Henri looked very impressed, indeed.

  "And how much would Monsieur Wainwright wish from this account?" he asked.

  "Well, all of it, I suppose," he said.

  "All of it?" Henri said, surprised.

  Benjamin glanced at Natalya. "Well, yes. Those were Mr. Sikorsky's instructions," he lied.

  "Let me think." Henri tapped his fingers nervously on his desk. "Do you have a valise, a briefcase?"

  "A briefcase?"

  "Well, yes," Henri said. "Or were you perhaps planning on leaving with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in your pockets?"

  "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?!" said Benjamin. Then he tried to recover his composure. "No, of course not."

  The solution they settled on was considerably smaller than a valise. Henri had disappeared for a while, then reappeared with an envelope. He handed the envelope to Benjamin.

  Benjamin looked at him, at Natalya, and back to Henri. "And what's this?" he asked.

  "A carte de solvabilite, " said Henri. "It will provide you access to the account from almost any bank in the world. Just use the card and enter the account number."

  "And the password?" asked Benjamin.

  Henri smiled. "For this type of account," he said, "a password is not required."

  They stood and Benjamin thanked Henri, shaking his hand. As they were leaving, Henri said, "When you see Monsieur Sikorsky, give him my greetings."

  Benjamin hesitated a moment, then said, "I will, certainly."

  Once outside and another cab hailed, Natalya turned to Benjamin.

  "A quarter of a million?" she said. "In dollars? I thought you said Anton taught at Georgetown. That seems a bit affluent for an academician."

  "I know," said Benjamin, looking worried. "Perhaps it was some sort of… settlement from the government. For defecting."

  "But from which government?" asked Natalya.

  Benjamin looked at her. Then, oddly, he smiled. "I see what you meant about a 'professional paranoid,' " he said. "But for now, let's go with the flow."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Uh… let's assume the best," he said. And then Benjamin realized he didn't know where that flow was taking them.

  "Where now?" he asked. "Where is this friend of Yuri's with the expensive passports?"

  Natalya leaned over the seat. "Reagan airport," she said to the driver. "The international terminal."

  Then she leaned back and turned to Benjamin.

  "Have you ever been to Nice?" she asked.

  ***

  Eight time zones away, an old man hung up a telephone and sat back, lighting a cigarette. But whereas Yuri's had been a Camel, this one was a Kosmos.

  Had Benjamin been in the room, he would maybe have recognized the old man-from the photos in Anton's hallway. But now, rather than wearing the broad officer hat and wide military epaulets, he was dressed as so many other ex-Soviet pensioners, with no outward sign that he'd once wielded enormous power.

  Across the table from him sat another old man, also from Anton's photos, also now without his military garb. They were sitting in an apartment in a huge complex near the Moscow River. In the thirties when it was built, it had been considered among the most luxurious addresses in all Moscow. Only the highest of the Party faithful were given apartments there. Of course, such largess hadn't been entirely without guile, as was everything in those days. Behind each apartment were narrow hallways where the watchers would stand, listening to every word spoken in those apartments. And by the end of the purges, nearly all the original inhabitants had… moved.

  Out of nostalgia or macabre irony, the old man had appointed the apartment with relics from that time. The table at which they sat-large, rectangular, covered with green felt-was in fact from the old KGB offices in Lubyanka; even the lamp, with its octagonal green-glass shade, was a "signature" of KGB style. He switched it on now, as it was getting dim in the apartment.

  "And who was that, Vladimir," said the old man sitting across the table from him.

  "A former protege, Dmitri," said Vladimir. "Yuri Alexandrovich, now with FSB in Washington. He had an odd request. He asked if I could send someone to look after a friend who will be acquiring an illegal passport."

  Dmitri looked puzzled. "That doesn't sound so important."

  "I'm afraid Andrei did not 'cure' our friend Fyodor Ivanovich quickly enough," replied Vladimir. "The disease has spread."

  Dmitri frowned. "But I thought those insufferable American apparatchiks had quarantined their problem?"

  "Ironic," said Vladimir, "their methods. The more we become like them, the more they become like us. But no, they, too, were too late."

  Dmitri sighed. "After all these years… you would think the ghosts would be at rest."

  "That's the problem with ghosts, Dmitri," Vladimir said, picking up the phone again. "They never rest."

  "And now?" asked Dmitri.

  "Now we send Andrei on another house call."

  "But I thought the Americanski wanted them alive, so they could-"

  "Their methods are too complicated for this simple old soldier," Vladimir said. "And their khren is now in our kitchen." He smiled. "Besides, Andrei deserves this trip. Nice is so much warmer this time of year than Petersburg."

  CHAPTER 37

  Benjamin couldn't quite believe the view. He was looking out on the incredibly blue Mediterranean Ocean.

  It was a clear, bright, even warm morning. He was drinking coffee served in a cup the size of a cereal bowl. Natalya, sitting across the small table from him, looked beautiful and refreshed from her sleep. And perhaps one of the most inspiri
ng panoramas in the entire Cote d'Azur was spread out before him. He could almost forget for the moment why they were here.

  He'd been in France before, as he'd told Natalya; he'd even traveled around the countryside of Northern France during that trip, but not the south. In any case, it wasn't so much the exotic locale that left his head whirling, as the speed of the whole affair.

  One minute he'd been in a taxi in Washington, D.C.-the next minute he was in another taxi, driving down the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, past some of the most expensive hotels on the whole French Riviera.

  Once he'd agreed with Natalya that the most logical, to say nothing of the safest, thing was for him to accompany her to Russia to see her father, they'd gone straight to Reagan airport and booked seats on the next flight to Nice. On such short notice, the tickets had been beyond exorbitant-but the magic carte de solvabilite solved that problem. And so, barely twelve hours later, they'd landed in Nice.

  Immediately after they'd arrived at the Nice airport, Natalya had called the phone number Yuri had given her. The contact-he gave only his first name, Guy-told them it was too late to see them tonight, and that they should come to what he called his "studio" the next morning.

  After the call they'd picked up a taxi. Natalya had asked the cabdriver for a recommendation, someplace quiet they could stay "away from the tourists." And so he'd taken them to La Maison du Seminaire.

  La Maison was on the other side of La Chateau, the small hill that divided the town into the two halves: glass and steel and modern on the west side, brick and pastels and centuries old on the east side. They'd driven past Port Olympia, the small port that jutted into old-town Nice and that was stuffed with oversized personal yachts; past the old customs house on the Place Ile de Beaute that had once served as the clandestine bank of Barbary pirates; along boulevard Franck Pilatte; and finally through the front gates of the Seminaire.

  La Seminaire was, it turned out, a converted Catholic seminary. When it came time to ask about the accommodations, Benjamin had hemmed and hawed for a moment before Natalya took over.