It had been just before dusk when her train pulled into the station at Kievsky Vokzal Square. Petrov had told her to hire a cab and given her an address in a suburb built along the Moscow River. Her driver was the gregarious sort who kept up a lively monologue; several times he tested her availability, but with caution. Suggestive remarks were followed immediately by laughs in case she reacted badly. Talia took no offense from such overtures; like many men, he was an emotional child. Like love, anger was much too valuable to waste on life’s petty moments.
The twilight drive afforded her a fleeting view of Moscow. After sixteen years the predominant color was still gray, but there had been a massive amount of new construction. The modern buildings were dreary multistory boxes, one identical with the next, standing where there formerly had been row upon row of traditional wooden houses. Though it was getting dark, the buildings were poorly lit; when she had last been in the city it had been blacked out at night, and now it looked nearly so. Muscovites still moved with their distinctive shuffle, their walk a product of long winters and sidewalks seldom clear of ice. The roads were packed with green trucks filled with young soldiers; they seemed to be everywhere. She absorbed everything as if it were fresh air. Tanga was now her home, and in sixteen years away from the capital she had seldom thought about the city that Soviet citizens called the Center. Now that she had returned, she felt unexpected nostalgia; whatever she was now had been forged here, and she promised herself that she would pay attention to every detail so that she could tell her sons about the city where they had been born.
The taxi driver went silent when he stopped in front of her destination. “How much?” she asked.
“Whatever you want,” he said quickly. There was heavy perspiration on the back of his neck. While she looked for rubles in her purse, three soldiers came down to the cab and peered inside.
“Never mind,” the driver said. “It’s not necessary.”
“I insist,” she told him. “After such pleasant conversation I want to be sure you’re adequately compensated.”
The driver produced a strangled sound. “God will reward me,” he gasped.
“I think not,” she said, passing the fare to him.
One of the soldiers tapped his gloved hand on the driver’s window and motioned for him to move on. When Talia got out, the cab shot forward with its rear door still flapping.
Now the General Secretary rose and signaled her to follow him. “Petrov asks that we billet you here,” he said with a grin. “An outrageous man. He has large balls,” he added.
“So do I,” Talia added, at which Khrushchev’s explosive laugh filled the room.
48 TUESDAY, MARCH 14, 1961, 8:30 A.M.Moscow
Gnedin had gone to the Heart Institute while Melko went to arrange quarters for them. Bailov arranged to meet them later and rushed off to find Raya. She blinked once when she saw him in front of her desk, but it was the only indication that she was surprised. He was dressed like a common laborer: gray coat, brown sweater, heavy canvas trousers, mud-spattered boots. “Interesting costume,” she said coolly.
He looked for some sign that she was glad to see him, but found none. “I have some time on my hands,” he said.
“What has that got to do with me?” There was a hard edge to her voice.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“I’m on duty.”
Bailov moved around her desk, grabbed her by the arm, pulled her to her feet and led her between a stack of books toward a study room. “We have an appointment,” he explained to a male librarian who peered down from a ladder as they passed. When they were inside, he jammed a chair under the doorknob and tested it to be certain it was secure.
“This is outrageous,” Raya said. “Let me out.”
“I was called away on special duty. It was very sudden and there was no time to let you know.”
“And now your duty has ended, so your leisure takes precedence over my duty, is that it?” Her eyes were on fire, her checks flushed.
“I’m sorry,” Bailov said.
The muscles in her jaw tightened. “If I remember correctly, we began our—acquaintance—on an identical note.”
“Acquaintance?”
Her hand swung before he could react and caught him flush on the jaw. “That’s reality,” she snapped. “How do you like it?” He rubbed his cheek. “I won’t have you walking in and out of my life without warning,” she said. “I won’t. Do you understand?”
He stepped back. “I’m sorry, but when a soldier receives orders he obeys. That’s my reality.”
“I knew it was a mistake from the beginning,” Raya said. “I’ve known other soldiers. You’re all alike.” His stomach churned at what he took as an allusion to previous lovers. “Why should I expect any more from you?”
“Because I care for you, Raya.”
“I care for my birds but I know them for what they are,” she snapped.
“I’m not one of your damned birds,” he shot back.
“You’re always flying away from me.” Suddenly she was in his arms sobbing. “I thought you were dead,” she said. “Or worse.”
In the middle of the night he awakened to find her on her side, her head propped in her hand, staring at him. “Was I snoring?” he asked.
“I was just reminding myself what a fool I am,” Raya said. “I thought I’d lost you; now that I have you back I’m not sure it’s what I want.”
“You seemed sure enough a couple of hours ago.”
She slapped his chest gently. “I’m serious, Taras Ivanovich. Before I met you I was content; my life was full. If I needed a man it was easy enough to arrange. You’d be surprised how easy it is in Moscow. We were compatible, I knew that, and there was none of the tediousness afterward that normally goes with such relationships. From the beginning I knew it was different, but then you were gone and I didn’t know what to feel.” She bit him gently on the lower lip and her hips pressed against him. “How long do I get you this time?”
Bailov had no idea.
49 WEDNESDAY, MARCH 15, 1961, 10:15 A.M.Odessa
Living in the sanatorium was like being kept in an elegant brothel with a prepaid tab. In the Yablonovy Mountains one had to work hard every day simply to stay alive. You built your own shelter, made your own clothing, and if you were to eat you had to go out into the forest and gather the food or kill it. Here it seemed that all you had to do was let a desire creep into your mind, then reach for what you wanted because, whatever it was, it would be there magically. Ezdovo hated it. Talia and the others were gone and he had been left behind. He expected Petrov to keep him busy with tasks, but it had not turned out that way.
In the mornings Petrov stayed in his room; Ezdovo remained close by in case he was wanted, but his leader never called. In the afternoons Petrov sat on the veranda in the shade, facing the Black Sea, bobbing in a wooden glider, his eyes half closed. When he spoke, it was only to complain about the wind (too much or too little), the sun (too bright or under clouds), the black sand (it got into the food and bedding), or the food (too much, too little, too spicy, too bland). On and on it went, with Petrov grumbling and Ezdovo thinking more and more that the resort was a prison. After so many years in the taiga and winters of fifty below, the warm sun and salty air soothed him initially, but in no time at all this passed and he became restless. It was not just the idleness; he could handle that if there was a goal looming somewhere ahead. In the taiga with his sons, nature sometimes demanded idleness, but always in the context that the delay would be temporary, part of a larger plan. This was different; here there appeared to be no expectations or future, and Talia and the others had gone to Moscow. Damn Khrushchev! Since the war Ezdovo’s entire life had revolved around his beloved wife and her sons. They were the center around which he orbited. Life was full and there was purpose. Without her he withdrew into himself, his mood growing darker by the hour.
Today he had walked along the beach for nearly three hours and returned to
the sanatorium shirtless and sweaty. As he climbed up the steps he saw Petrov on the veranda. His head was tilted to the side, his flesh was yellow, and dark blood was trickling from both nostrils.
In an instant Ezdovo had the employees of the facility scrambling to his orders. Petrov was taken up to bed, a doctor called, his leader’s bloody clothes changed, wads of cotton inserted in his nose and ice packs applied to stem the nosebleed.
The doctor who came was young, in her mid-thirties, a short, slightly built woman in a full skirt with a flower pattern. She carried a small carpetbag and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her examination was over in minutes, but she had a concerned look as she wrestled a cigarette from her skirt pocket. “There will have to be tests,” she said.
“Then take him to the hospital.”
“Not here. In Moscow,” she said. “Here they dip arthritics in mud baths, treat tuberculosis with sunlamps and induce abortions with coat hangers.”
“It will take time to get him there.”
“Tests can be done anywhere, comrade. It’s the therapy that counts, and Moscow, I fear, is superior to Odessa. Marginally better, but an improvement nonetheless.” The doctor dropped her cigarette in a vase. “Soviet medicine is like Soviet democracy: a contradiction in terms.”
“You criticize your own profession?”
The doctor smiled crookedly. “I’m Russian and I speak truth. If it insults you, don’t listen. If you need to worry about patients, go ahead. I prefer to worry only about whether the day will be sunny and the sea trout is cooked properly.” She took several steps down the hall, stopped, looked back over her shoulder and said, “When you get to Moscow, find a butcher who knows something about cancer.”
The word played over and over in Ezdovo’s mind as he entered Petrov’s room. His leader was awake.
“I’ll call Gnedin,” Ezdovo said. “He’ll know what to do. Khrushchev will send a plane.”
Petrov blinked. “Why?”
“The doctor said we should move you to a hospital in Moscow.”
“I’ll decide when we move,” Petrov said, his high voice firm. “Have you forgotten who commands?”
“But she mentioned cancer.”
Petrov waved his hand in dismissal. “A word, no more.”
“Cancer is . . . serious.”
“Life is serious,” Petrov said. “Cancer is merely terminal. We stay here and let our comrades do their work.”
50 WEDNESDAY, MARCH 15, 1961, 10:00 P.M.Belgrade
Inspector Peresic was dressed in loose black trousers and black wind-breaker, her blond hair brushed back and held in place by a small comb. She leaned down to look into the taxi that was parked in an alley between warehouses along the Danube. Gabler motioned for her to get into the backseat, where Valentine was curled up on the floor. What’s going on?” he asked her as Gabler drove them away.
“My husband’s coming back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Tito uses him for a variety of tasks. If he’s coming back, it’s Tito’s idea.”
“It’s going to be dicey,” Gabler said from the front. “There hasn’t been time to tie up all the loose ends.”
“But you can get me to America?” It was clear that she was worried.
“Eventually, but there’s going to be an intermediate stop.”
Valentine saw her tense. “Where?”
“If it’s not good enough you can get out now.”
“No,” she said. “I no longer have a choice.”
“The name of the dead man?” Valentine asked.
“Lumbas,” she said. “Villam Pavelovich Lumbas.”
“Embassy staff?” Gabler asked.
She raised her eyebrows. “There is no more. You asked me for a name and now you have it. I expect you to keep your part of the bargain.” She was visibly nervous now.
“Where did the information come from?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters,” Gabler said.
“From an . . . associate of my husband.”
“How would this associate know this particular name?” Valentine asked.
“He was involved in the investigation. It was from him that I first learned that the dead man was a Soviet. My husband’s associate was instructed to officially inform me that the death was no longer a police matter. Later the case reverted back to us.”
“After another investigation had been completed?”
“Presumably.”
“But you didn’t reopen your own investigation?”
“I’ve already explained that there was no reason. We had already looked at it, and when it was remanded to us again we simply carried it in our open file; there was nothing more for us to do. When I pressed my husband’s associate for details, he told me that the dead man was Russian, and that this should serve to dampen the enthusiasm of the homicide unit. It was a warning I heeded.”
“Nevertheless he gave you the name.”
“I think he wanted me to know,” Peresic said.
“Why?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t say. It’s only a feeling I had.”
“Did the Russian embassy report a missing person to the police?”
“No.”
A dead Russian that the embassy doesn’t miss. This was as strange as everything else. The Russians were particularly careful to keep track of all of their citizens in a foreign country, even that of a quasi-ally. Either the Russians knew he was dead or they didn’t. Or perhaps he was an illegal. But if he was in the country legally the embassy would know, so why hadn’t they inquired? Unless he was someone special and they were afraid to risk disclosure. No. If he was theirs and they had not inquired, then they knew the man was dead; if they didn’t claim the body, they didn’t want it. Unless they knew nothing about him. The KGB did not tell its secrets to embassy people. Sylvia said that only the rezidents, or legal agents, had credentials. Lumbas could have been off the books. Valentine had seen firsthand how thorough the Russians had been after the war; they left nothing to chance. If they knew Lumbas and didn’t want the body, they wanted him dead and anonymous. He repeated the dead man’s name to Inspector Peresic. “Villam Pavelovich Lumbas.”
“Yes.”
When they crossed a bridge, Gabler stopped the car. “Here’s where we lighten the load.”
“Lie down,” Valentine said as he opened the door. As he sat up and made a show of passing the fare to Gabler, he asked, “Anything we should do?”
“Be conspicuous for the next couple of days. Be tourists until you hear from me again.”
“What about her?”
“She’s my problem now. Let’s hope she’s worth the effort.”
“Can you handle it?”
Gabler smiled, pressed the clutch and put the vehicle into gear. “No choice,” he said as if to himself.
51 THURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1961, 5:00 P.M.Bastogne, Belgium
The Hôtel le Sud was a four-story anachronism, battered but not broken during the Nazis’ last-gasp offensive into the Ardennes, now refurbished with comfortable beds, clean floors and community toilets on each floor that were stocked with American magazines. Frash had a corner room on the third floor with a window looking down on a gravel parking lot, and below and beyond that a sunken rail line with two sets of tracks.
There had been heavy rain at noon, but now the dark skies had lightened and the rain came in brief, soft showers. Across the hall a couple made love, the man grunting with workmanlike regularity, the woman ranging from squeals of delight to urgent commands, which Frash understood more by the tone than by the garbled words. He had seen them arrive that morning; the man was short and thick across the chest, immaculately dressed in a houndstooth sportcoat and forest-green tie; she was taller and full-bodied, with long red hair, dangling earrings and thick red lips. He reeked of money, she of followers of the same. Madame had given them the room directly across the hall. Only three guests and all of them placed together; Frash guessed that Mada
me cleaned the rooms herself to save the cost of a maid and put them close to each other to make her work easier. The couple had paid in advance for five days’ lodging and would have their meals elsewhere. From their glow, Albert guessed a tryst. After a while their lovemaking took on a cadence that left his mind clear to think.
His brother had been tougher than he had anticipated, but in the end the truth had come tumbling out. Myslim had been a Soviet agent. He had known Lumbas since their days at university in Moscow; both of them had served the KGB most of their adult lives. As Frash had surmised, the trap in Belgrade had been set for both of them; Lumbas was bait, trigger and target, and had seen only the part he had wanted to see. Myslim had been instructed to provoke the Albanians, so he had asked for Lumbas and his superiors had delivered him. But his brother was more tool than architect and had no sense of the operation’s strategic purpose, or how far up the chain of command it had originated; he had simply been asked to put an operation together and had done so. Finding Frash had been serendipity, pure and simple, and having found him and plumbed his passion for the Albanian cause, Myslim had the perfect foil.
The Soviet rocket information had been legitimate and complete, a calculated giveaway, which meant that the operation had been cleared at the highest levels, perhaps even by the Politburo. Myslim needed Frash to believe in Lumbas down to his soul, so what they had given him was stunning. Space and the Soviet defense rocket program were not compatible; the Kremlin had been duped by its own scientists. This was known by a few now, but eventually would be widely known, Myslim said, so giving it to the West made no difference ultimately.
Myslim had died hard but he had died broken, spilling everything.
The Domino Conspiracy Page 22
