“No matter what happens, there’s always something else that can be done. You lose all options only when you’re in the ground. I saw him last night,” she said. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“If you say you saw him, then I’m sure you think you saw him.”
“He slipped, fell, got up and looked in my direction, but didn’t see me. I saw his face.”
“It was dark.”
She sipped the brandy, then held up her glass to admire the amber liquid, rolling the glass left, then right. “I can see my fingers,” she announced.
“Bad news for optometrists.”
“He grabbed hold of a railing. I didn’t remember that until today. I saw him grab the rail with both hands and pull himself up. Our people went there today and brushed it for prints.”
“That’s good,” he said. “They’ll be processing the prints of half the population of Zurich.”
“A lot you know,” she said. “The FBI can do it. The prints will go to them by wire tonight.”
“You’ve been a busy girl.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped, and held out her glass for another refill. “He’s set up a meeting for us with the Russians,” she said.
Valentine froze. “Arizona?”
“Sunday in Geneva,” she said, chewing her lower lip.
“Did he tell you what the hell we’re supposed to do with them?”
She used a finger to lower the neck of the bottle and stuck her glass under the opening. “He said we should tell them the whole story.”
“Just like that?”
She shrugged. “Every fact, every speculation, every fear—everything, including the warts on your asses. His words, not mine,” she added as she let her empty glass drop to the floor.
“You don’t tell your enemy you’ve been in his knickers,” Valentine said.
“You have an unusual way of putting things, have I ever told you that?” She took the bottle away from him and tossed it to the other end of the sofa.
“It goes against all the rules.”
Sylvia smiled. “Screw the rules,” she said. She held her hands out to him, led him into the bedroom, pushed him backward onto the bed and began to undress while he watched in a state of shock.
“Do I get to take my clothes off?”
“Shut up,” she said. “I’m making the rules tonight.”
“But what if I’m not that kind of boy?”
“You will be when I’m done with you,” she said, biting his shoulder.
108SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1961, 11:50 A.M.Geneva
Valentine stood outside the front door of the cottage and watched the volleyball game limp along. “Hot game?” Sylvia asked as she came up beside him.
“The endomorphs are slaughtering the ectomorphs,” he muttered. “The fat ones can’t move but they take up so much space that the skinny ones can’t get a ball past them.”
They were in a nudist camp called Sun Bird, which was built in a grove of stunted pines north of the city along the rocky south shore of Lake Geneva. “I remember an old saying about there being no secrets between naked people,” she said, kissing his shoulder and leaning against him.
He pulled away. “I’ll never be able to go outside as long as you’re around,” he said.
“Think of it as an exercise in self-discipline,” she said with a soft laugh.
109SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 1961, 9:30 A.M.Geneva
The cabdriver flashed a knowing grin when they gave him the address, but neither of the Russians made anything of it. Even when he dropped them at the gate and left them standing on the grass with their suitcases they didn’t understand. There was a high wall of gray stones and a gate for automobiles, but Talia saw that it was chained and that pedestrians had to pass through a gatehouse with a red-tiled roof. Several people in blue shirts and white trousers were just inside the gate. They were greeted inside the gatehouse by a man with a silver mustache and horn-rimmed glasses. “Reservations for Grundheim?” Talia asked.
The man had a practiced smile, which he flashed dutifully as he paged through the registry. “Here it is, Cottage Eleven. Your friends are next door in number twelve.” He gave them a small map, showed them the route and tapped a bell.
A young woman in blue and white appeared, bowed and asked them to follow. She took them to a larger gatehouse set into a brick wall. It was surrounded by tall red pines and thick rhododendrons. “Leave your things here for inspection,” she said. “You can undress in there.” She pointed to a room with a door.
Bailov tried to say something but Talia elbowed him and pushed him forward. When the door was closed she pushed a chair against the wall under a high window and stood on it to look out. “It’s a nudist colony,” she reported.
“What?”
“A nudist colony.”
“There must be a mistake.”
She shook her head and climbed down. “You’re the one who said the Americans were unpredictable. Even you must admit it’s an interesting choice,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“We can’t—”
“They have important information about Lumbas,” she reminded him as she slid her dress over her head.
He pulled off his shoes, tossed them across the room, sat down and peeled off his socks.
“You can wear the shoes,” she said.
“Should I be consoled by that?”
“I offer it only as information, comrade.” They were giggling like schoolchildren.
When they emerged, their guide pointed to the open suitcases. “Everything is in order,” she said. “The forecast is for warmer weather and continued sun.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Talia asked Bailov, who rammed his clothes into his suitcase and held it in front of him to shield his groin.
“You’re acting like a priest in a brothel,” she whispered as they walked.
“With justification,” he snapped.
“Be brave, Taras Ivanovich,” she said, fighting back a smile.
Cottage Eleven was made of cedar with a fresh coat of green paint. The interior was sparsely furnished, a single room with ancient upholstered furniture and several posters proclaiming the benefits of sun worship. There was only one bed. “How do we manage that?” Bailov asked disgustedly.
There was a basket of fruit on the table and an envelope underneath. Talia opened it and read the message. “Time to attend to business,” she said.
When they knocked at the door of Cottage Twelve they were ushered inside by a small woman with black hair, olive skin and the narrowest waist Talia had ever seen. As they stepped inside the woman handed them towels. “These arrangements were imposed on us,” she said apologetically. On the far side of the room was a large man in a towel. He was considerably taller than Bailov, with huge shoulders and long, heavily muscled arms. He seemed vaguely familiar and gave her a look that seemed to suggest a similar feeling. Had they met before?
“Is English all right or would you prefer German? I’m afraid our Russian is not very good,” the woman said apologetically.
“English,” Talia said after another glance at the man.
“Shall we get directly to the point?” Sylvia asked.
“Please.”
Bailov and Valentine traded stares across the room while Sylvia followed Arizona’s orders and laid out the history of the Lumbas arrangement, the still-ambiguous relationship to the Albanians and their search for Frash. Throughout this the Russians gave no hint of their thoughts.
“This is an unprecedented meeting,” Talia said when Sylvia had finished.
“All the more reason for us to speak openly,” Sylvia answered.
“You say that Lumbas is dead.”
Sylvia opened her purse and took out some photos. “The first has Lumbas with Frash. The second was taken in the morgue.”
Talia looked at the photos, then passed them to Bailov. “Your source claims that Lumbas was killed by our people?”
“Yes.”
“Is
it a reliable source?”
“She traded the information for political asylum.”
“We would want to question her.”
“She’s dead,” Sylvia said. “Murdered along with our chief of station. We’re assuming it was a Yugoslav response, but that’s speculation at the moment.”
“What do you expect of us?”
“The fact that you’re here at all suggests that you have your own concerns,” Sylvia pointed out.
Talia paused for a long time before answering. Petrov had given no instructions, not even guidelines, and there had been no time to talk it through with the team. No time even to take Ezdovo aside and hear his advice, which over and over had proved to be insightful. No, she was alone in this, forced to weigh the decision on her own; now she understood the sort of pressure that weighed on their leader. Taking charge in Tanga was one thing; this was something entirely different. What to do? The Americans appeared to be in earnest. They had answered every question she had thrown at them, but it was clear that their primary interest was in their own man, not Lumbas. Go with your instincts, she thought.
“We have been searching for Lumbas,” she said. “With no luck.”
“Until now,” Bailov interjected, returning the photographs to Sylvia.
“Lumbas was inexplicably transferred from Tyuratam,” Talia began, and seeing that the name made no impression, she added, “It’s our Cape Canaveral. Lumbas was a scientific technician with expertise in electronic ignition systems. Last October there was an accident at Tyuratam. Many people were killed and there was the customary investigation. Initially it was suggested that had Lumbas still been there the accident might have been averted.”
“We’ve heard nothing about an accident,” Sylvia said.
“It’s not national policy to announce our failures,” Talia said. “The Soviet people have been led to expect perfection in all technical matters. As it turned out, Lumbas’s absence was not a contributing factor, but the investigation revealed that he had been transferred illegally. Our own investigation has led us to conclude that the technical aspects of his transfer were engineered by an individual in the KGB.” How far did she dare take this?
Sylvia interrupted. “You said an individual in the KGB. Does this mean that Lumbas was KGB?” The Russian woman had said “our investigation.” Separate from others?
“That’s what you Americans would call a loose end,” Bailov said. “It is like your man. His relationship with Lumbas was supposedly CIA-inspired, but can you say that their Albanian interests, whatever they may have been, were also CIA?”
“Correct,” Talia said. “Our guess is that Lumbas was not involved in an official KGB operation, but we haven’t entirely ruled it out. Do all the top officials in your CIA have knowledge of every covert operation?”
“No,” Sylvia said. “It more or less depends on the sensitivity of a particular situation. There are times when our top people need to be able to deny certain events for political reasons.”
Bailov smiled. “In this regard we are different. Nothing may occur officially unless it is approved from the top, and liquidations must always have before-the-fact approval at the Politburo level, including the General Secretary.”
“Did the Lumbas killing have such approval?”
Talia glanced at Bailov and shook her head. “Like your man, Lumbas simply disappeared. Until now we had no idea of his fate. Or his whereabouts,” she added.
Valentine tightened the towel around his waist, pulled a chair between the two women and sat down. “The espionage connection keeps getting in our way,” he said. “Frash and Lumbas may have used it to cover whatever it was they were up to in Albania. If not, Frash wouldn’t have disappeared after Lumbas was killed. That he ran tells us that he thinks he has a problem with the Company, but why he has chosen to stay in Europe is a mystery.”
110MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1961, 7:00 A.M.The Lido, Venice
The Lido is a narrow spit of sand a twenty-minute boat ride across the polluted lagoon from Venice. Although it was only mid-April, the city was already beginning to swell with tourists. Frash relished Venice; here virtually anything was permissible with no questions asked. You could do as you pleased and anyone could become invisible. Other people came here to have their little adventures; the Venetians who could afford it crossed over to the Lido and indulged their fantasies quietly and privately. It was Venice’s pressure valve, an escape hatch, which was precisely what he needed. The mornings were cool and sunny. Breezes swept in from the Venetian Gulf to be absorbed by low, pastel-colored buildings. Unlike Venice, which remained a sort of boisterous fish market, the Lido represented a higher order.
Frash’s successes in Holland and Switzerland had pleased him, and the banking transaction had gone flawlessly. Just as Schiller had promised, the bank in Genoa handed over the cash with not so much as a single question. With money and passports he now had the flexibility to do what needed doing. Mother would be proud. Even so, all was not well; the Company’s agents had been waiting for him in Zurich, which meant they wanted him. But how much did they know? With them on his back he’d have to be extra careful now, which would be difficult because it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep Ali at bay. He could not afford a serious loss of control now, another downward spiral driven by volcanic internal fires that defied reason or logic. Ali had triumphed in Belgium, Albert in Holland, and the killing in Zurich had been necessary for both of them, which meant that the ledger was still more or less even. Albert thought his way through and around life’s obstacles; Ali destroyed them. For years Albert was convinced that Ali was contained, sealed off by his strength, but the assassination of Viliam in Belgrade seemed to have cracked the seal. Could Ali be endlessly restrained? Myslim had been a shared outcome; Ali had wanted vengeance, pure and simple, while Albert judged coolly that Myslim was a dangerous thread in need of cutting. Brother or not, Myslim’s death had been the result of a rational decision. France, Belgium, Holland, Switzerland. Three of them in Albert’s favor. This comforted him.
The Hotel Excelsior was the right choice: old and distinguished, with three-star ambience and the usual stiffness that went with such exclusiveness. The hotel itself was not perfect, but the rich paid for service and attitude, not appointments. There were gaps under the doors, offering the free movement of sound, but guests took care to make love in muted tones and the hotel staff tried to quietly satisfy their guests’ needs. Albert guessed that the recalcitrant Ali could be tamed here, but only by regimentation. He awakened early every morning, walked three kilometers and ran several more, finishing with a hard kick, then moved to his balcony to cool down and do his daily ration of push-ups and half sit-ups, the latter making his rippled belly strong and lean. Sometimes Ali made his presence felt during the adrenaline surge of the final sprint, but the cool-down effectively banished him.
In the afternoons Frash went to the beach to read and rest. The weather was still too cool for the locals, so he usually had the sand to himself. In the evenings he walked the narrow, tree-lined streets and ate in small restaurants, never the same one twice. Albert ate for nourishment; Ali ate to satisfy his needs for textures and flavors. Albert limited alcohol to one glass of Barolo at each meal, while Ali craved glasses of chilled vodka. Albert bought two suits in traditional styles; Ali forced the purchase of new Italian briefs and relished asking a female clerk how his penis should be arranged to keep it in check. She had smiled and offered to help Ali in the fitting room, but Albert had declined politely and gotten them away before there was a scene.
Last night Frash had read about speculations from Washington that Kennedy would soon meet Khrushchev, and he thought about this as he undressed for bed. Kennedy claimed heroic deeds during the war. Would he be so brave with a 9 mm in his rich Catholic face? The knock on his door did not alarm him, but it put him on guard. His papers were impeccable and his appearance had changed. He had peroxided his hair and let his beard grow, and he now wore heavy-framed glasses. His
passport said he was Adolf Van Geer, a German schoolteacher. He opened the door to find the woman from the tailor shop holding a blue-cloth hanging bag out to him.
“Final fitting,” she said. “I’m Sultana Fregosi.” She was short, with close-cropped black hair, large brown eyes and a grayish-black mole on her left cheekbone. She wore a blue silk blouse with puffed sleeves, a dark skirt that hung almost to her ankles and sandals with modest heels.
“I can come down to the shop in the morning,” Albert told her politely. “This isn’t necessary.”
The woman stepped past him and looked around the room. “A gentleman should always have a final fitting in private,” she said. “Especially a gentleman who stays at the Excelsior.” She was businesslike as she draped the suit bag over the chairback, unzipped it and laid the suits side by side on the bed. During the actual fitting she worked silently, asking only if each adjustment was to his satisfaction. When she had finished she put the suits back into the bag, informed him that the tailor would require one more day, and that she would deliver the suits on Thursday.
“It’s no trouble for me to come to the shop,” Albert repeated.
“I insist.”
“Then I insist on buying you dinner,” he said with a quick look at his watch. It was out before he could weigh the consequences.
“It’s late,” she said. “Everything closes early here.”
“Room service, then.”
“It’s really not necessary.”
“And perhaps not proper?”
She smiled. “Propriety is a personal matter. It’s just that I’m really not that hungry.”
“Something light, then, and a glass of wine?”
Now it was morning and he was late for his workout, his eyes still filled with sleep. As he always did after waking he remained still for several seconds in order to clear his mind, and only then realized that he was not alone. The woman’s leg was draped over him. “You’re a deep sleeper,” she whispered.
The Domino Conspiracy Page 41
