The Domino Conspiracy

by Joseph Heywood

  “Seen anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Better to wait.”

  “It’s too quiet. We need to know for certain. This could be a waste of time.”

  Melko shrugged and followed Bailov downstairs, thinking how easy it might be to die in this crazy game. Petrov had saved him from Camp Nine, but he had not asked for help, which meant there was no obligation. Or was there? Petrov was in Moscow; the others were strangers. He liked them well enough, but he was the outsider; what would happen to him when Petrov died? Look out for yourself. He had given considerable thought to his options. It would be easiest to slip away after the General Secretary arrived and while they had more important things to worry about. Khrushchev was not scheduled to leave Vienna until Monday after the summit, which Melko guessed would give him the two full days during the meetings to disappear. A destination was no problem. In the old days he had traded with the Turks. He was certain there would still be an organization in Istanbul, and it would be easy enough to find. They would help him make contact with the Armenian Brotherhood; with them as partners he could work a black-market operation from outside Russia that would be far more lucrative than safecracking.

  A touch on the shoulder brought him back to the present. “You take the door,” Bailov said.

  “And you?”

  “In the street with the Americans. Give me ten minutes to get down there. I’ll cover the front.”

  Melko waited a few steps above the landing wanting a cigarette, but he knew from experience that it was better to keep both hands free. Earlier he had checked several locks on his way up to the roof; they were all the same. He estimated ten seconds to get one of them open, maybe less. He gave Bailov twelve minutes to get into position, approached the door, listened for a while, heard nothing and turned his attention to the lock, sensing that the place was empty.

  When the lock clicked open, he inhaled, rotated the knob slowly, pushed gently on the bottom of the door, let it swing open and ducked back. If the Albanians were inside, the hall light would make him an easy target. Had the others picked him for this task because he was expendable? Another good reason to think about a future apart from the group.

  The flat was empty. Going to the window, he called down, “Get the others.”

  Damp towels in the bathroom, unmade beds and a half-eaten loaf of bread in a paper bag on a kitchen counter told them the place had been occupied.

  “Did we spook them?” Valentine asked.

  “It would have been easy enough for them to get out when I was here alone,” Sylvia said. “I couldn’t watch everything.”

  Valentine wondered if she had fallen asleep, but kept this to himself. They went over the place methodically. Melko saw thread and two small strips of black fabric next to a table leg. He had looked at the spot several times but had not seen it until he was in the right position for the light to reveal it.

  “Could be off something the owners took with them,” Valentine suggested.

  “Or not,” Sylvia said, examining the cloth. “Odd texture.”

  It appeared that whoever had been there had departed in a hurry. “It’s like looking for air,” Melko said.

  “We were close,” Valentine said.

  “Close isn’t good enough,” Bailov said curtly.

  187SUNDAY, MAY 21, 1961, 1:10 A.M.Klosterneuburg, Austria

  Valentine snored evenly, his mouth open, arms at his sides. The Russians had given them space in the winery that served as their headquarters north of the city; the small, unpainted room had two cots and smelled of fermented fruit. Sylvia saw that he slept diagonally to minimize the amount his legs hung over the end; he looked uncomfortable. The world wasn’t made for him, or perhaps it was the other way around.

  There had been no conference when they got back to the winery and no interest in eating; they each had gone their own way, but tired as she was, Sylvia couldn’t sleep. She had fallen asleep outside the Albanians’ flat—not for long, but perhaps long enough—and she was still sore and cold from more than twenty-four hours outside. The issue was not self-pity but trust, and she was ashamed. Beau’s life—indeed all their lives—depended on each of them doing their jobs, and she had failed them.

  “You think too damned much,” Valentine growled softly from the other bed.

  His voice startled her. “I fell asleep,” she said.

  “That’s usually why people go to bed.”

  “Last night on the steps.”

  “We all did,” he said. When he rolled onto his side the cot squeaked.

  “You’re just saying that. In any event, if it’s true, then we’re all too dangerous to be worth a damn to each other.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I made it up.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “It’s unprofessional.”

  “Downstairs,” Valentine said as he shifted his weight again.

  “What?”

  “Lumber, hammers, nails, a do-it-yourself crucifixion kit. Everything you need.”

  “Don’t make jokes.”

  “You want to wallow in the Boo Hoo Sea, go ahead; just don’t keep me awake. If you stretch your endurance, sooner or later your body takes a hike. It’s happened to me plenty of times. What you did is normal, so get it out of your head that you’re special.”

  The way he said it made her believe him. “It’s never happened to me before.”

  “And you probably got all A’s on your report cards too. Some people can go longer than others, but nobody can go indefinitely without sleep. Welcome to the human race. You just hope that these little lapses don’t happen at the wrong time.”

  “They could have slipped away while I was asleep.”

  “They also could have cut your throat, but they didn’t. What’s done is over. Concentrate on the future.”

  “I can’t get it out of my mind.”

  “You will after it happens enough times.”

  “I want to sleep,” she said, “but my mind won’t shut off.”

  “There’s ways to handle that,” he said, his voice low and tantalizing.

  “Guaranteed?”

  “Money back, but you’ll have to come over to my place. I don’t make house calls for common insomniacs.”

  “There’s nothing common about me,” she whispered as she crossed to his bed. “You’re awfully noisy,” she added as he shifted to make room for her.

  “Let those Russians bastards eat their hearts out.”

  “How do I know you’re not just making this up?” She put her hand on his bare chest and held him back.

  “You don’t.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “I’ll administer the second treatment free of charge.”

  She slid her arms around his neck. “Can we start with a hug?”

  “That just happens to be the first step in the cure.”

  188SUNDAY, MAY 21, 1961, 4:00 A.M.Vienna

  Ezdovo had watched people move in and out of the building earlier in the evening, but now it was quiet and there was no more traffic. He had recognized Mignonne Mock right away from her photograph. More attractive than he had expected, but she moved with confidence and an air of being in control. He had seen her twice, the first time at 3:30 P.M., then an hour later, both times alone. There had been no sign of the American masquerading as the Italian. The flat was on the fifth floor and a light was on, but she had the shades pulled and was staying away from the windows. The nameplate in the lobby said RAGOTZY, A.

  At least the rain had stopped. He sat cross-legged on the wet ground in heavy rhododendron cover in the park across the street from her building. The night reminded him of fall hunts, when the leaves were down and before the tracking snow fell. What were his boys doing? In the morning he would call the others, but for now it was enough to be patient, to watch, and to remember a simpler life.

  189SUNDAY, MAY 21, 1961, 4:30 A.M.Vienna

  Frash was stretched out on the sofa, neither awake nor asleep, but somew
here on the fringe of consciousness, trying to see through the walls with his ears. A train’s whistle moaned in the distance and he sensed the movement of air pushed by the occasional vehicle in the street. It occurred to him that these were imaginings rather than reality, but how could one be sure? The woman was in the bedroom; she was real. There had been a single muted telephone ring snatched up immediately, and then her whisperings. He went to investigate.

  She wore a robe and was curled up on the bed, protecting the telephone as if it were a suckling infant. There was no direct light, only reflections from outside the building, barely enough to illuminate her freckles. He watched her ease the phone back onto its cradle and fumble to light a cigarette, cupping the match in her hand to shield the glow.

  “Odd hour for a phone call,” he said. He saw her jump at the sound of his voice.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “A wrong number.”

  “Do you always have such long conversations with wrong numbers?”

  She mashed her barely smoked cigarette in a glass ashtray. “It was Dickie.”

  “He’s your lover?” Ali stirred at the thought of her warm flesh.

  “Don’t let your imagination run wild, Sirini. The Russians have been asking questions about you. Dickie was simply alerting me.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Did you have problems with the Russians in Rome? You told me you were clean. It was part of our deal.”

  The Russians again. “There must be a simple explanation,” he said, but the time of the phone call contradicted this.

  “It’s about your credentials.”

  Curious. “They’ve already been issued.”

  “They’re just being paranoid,” Mock said. “It’s their nature.” She stretched her legs out and let her robe fall open.

  “They want to revoke them?”

  “No,” she said too quickly. “Their security people are nervous. I’ve seen them in action before. They need somebody to push around in order to justify their overdeveloped sense of self-importance. Dickie thinks that once their main delegation arrives they’ll settle down. They’ve got a case of the jitters, that’s all.”

  Frash saw it differently. “What does your Dickie advise?”

  “They want to talk to you. He thinks you should cooperate.”

  “You think I should do that?” There was no way; she was simply a cover. If the Russians had concerns, it was time to move on.

  She chewed on the edge of the sheet. “I didn’t say that.” Then, “I don’t know.”

  “If I talk to them they might try to make an example of me and revoke my credentials.”

  I’ve already considered that. As long as you stay away from them until Khrushchev gets here, we should be all right. Dickie says they’ll settle down, and I think he’s right. We simply have to keep out of their way until they have more important things to think about.”

  It sounded as if she was trying to reassure herself. “Maybe they’ll pull your papers as well.” It was not like the Russians to let go of anything so easily.

  “I’m going to get my story no matter what,” she said through clenched teeth. “We’re not going to overreact to this.”

  “This isn’t your place,” Frash said, changing the subject. The flat was barely furnished and had no feminine touches. This had bothered him since they arrived.

  “What’s your point?”

  “Your friend Dickie knew how to reach you here. If he can find you, perhaps the Russians can too.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “The number’s not written down. A friend of mine owns it, and he only uses it for entertaining.”

  “Does this friend know we’re here?”

  “He’s in London until next month. I have my own key. I don’t have to ask permission.”

  A deflection. How long had she been on the telephone? Three minutes, five? Perhaps long enough for a trace, and if two people knew about the hideaway, then others might also know. “He shouldn’t have called you here.”

  “Now who’s being paranoid? Dickie was simply trying to help us.”

  More like protecting his own ass.

  “What are you doing?” she asked nervously.

  When his hand moved up the inside of her leg she smiled and put her head back on the pillow. “You might be getting more than you’ve bargained for,” she said as his fingers plunged into her.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” he whispered.

  190SUNDAY, MAY 21, 1961, 5:55 A.M.Vienna

  The others arrived thirty minutes after Ezdovo’s call, spilling out of two panel trucks onto the street that ran behind the park; they spread out and joined him under the trees.

  “You’ve seen him?” Valentine wanted to know.

  Ezdovo stared at the building. “Her. She’s in Number Eleven, Apartment 5D.”

  “What about Frash?”

  “I’ve only seen her.”

  “Then he may not be there.”

  “He’s there.” A hunter knew such things.

  “Is there a back way out?”

  “A service drive with open land behind it. Both sides are open as well. Unless they can fly we’ll catch them.”

  “It’s a big building,” Valentine said. He counted seven stories.

  “We have enough people,” Bailov said.

  “We want them alive,” Sylvia reminded them.

  “We’ll have to surprise them,” Bailov said.

  Valentine doubted that Frash ever dropped his guard. “This might be a bitch,” he whispered to Sylvia.

  “We need him alive,” she repeated loud enough for all of them to hear.

  The fifth-floor hall was poorly lit, the walls cracked, and there were thick spiderwebs in the corners. Melko knelt at the door, listened for a while and shook his head. Bailov signaled with a twist of his hand and Melko tried the knob, which turned easily.

  “Open,” he mouthed without speaking.

  Ezdovo and Bailov chambered rounds in their automatics and checked the safeties off. Melko eased the door open and froze when it squeaked, but still there was no sound within.

  Bailov squeezed through the opening and disappeared into the dark flat. Three minutes passed; then a light snapped on inside and he came back and waved them in. “Bedroom to the left,” he said wearily.

  Mignonne Mock was on the bed, which was soaked with her blood. Her left eye was gone, not shot through, but cut out, and she had been severely mutilated in other ways. Her mouth was stuffed with a blouse. One of her hands had been cut off and placed on her chest, all the fingers except the middle one tied down with a bloody scarf, leaving the middle finger fully extended, mocking them.

  “What does it mean?” Bailov said.

  “It’s a lunatic’s declaration of war,” Valentine said.

  191SUNDAY, MAY 21, 1961, 10:30 A.M.Nussdorf, Austria

  Though Lejla was exhausted, Kasi kept her moving throughout the night. The Russians had disrupted the plan, and now he needed to make some adjustments. If they had found the safe house, it meant that the others were also blown. He wondered how this was possible, but there was no time to think about it now. Perhaps they had been spotted in Rome, or else Soviet agents in Tirana had learned of their departure. Assume that the operation is compromised and revise the plan, he told himself. No doubt there would be trouble this morning, and he hoped the girl would be up to it. This option had not been part of the plan.

  The small white house had a steeply pitched roof of red and black ceramic tiles and a lawn that stretched around the house and sloped down to a whitewashed high wall topped with embedded glass shards. Thick lilac bushes grew down the sides, and climbing roses on wooden trellises covered both ends of a small veranda. They were above the city and could see its landmarks and the Danube, which looked like a ribbon of chocolate.

  The man who answered the door was of average height, slope-shouldered and entirely bald. His goatee was a small gray spot over his chin, his eyes yellow. He wore leather slippers, wrinkled gree
n trousers, black suspenders and a red vest over a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. He looked calm and unfettered by worries, his skin unlined and smooth, too youthful for his apparent age.

  “Too much rain for the flowers,” Kasi said in French.

  “The blossoms suffer but the roots grow deeper,” the man said after a pause to look them over. He stepped back to let them in, looked toward the street, closed the door and locked it. “Why are you here?” he asked as his eyes locked on Lejla.

  “You have a package for me,” Kasi said.

  The man was nervous as he led them into the parlor, where an enameled grandfather clock counted cadence in the corner. There were antimacassars on the furniture. Four shotguns sat in a glass-and-wood cabinet with a carved stag on top. “This is not what I agreed to,” the man said. “This is my home.”

  “You are paid to provide,” Kasi said, “Details are not your concern.

  “This puts me at risk.”

  “Relax,” Kasi said. “We won’t be here long. My associate would like a hot bath, and we need something to eat.”

  “I’ll show her the way,” the man mumbled. He got up and motioned toward the stairs with his hand.

  “Avoid drafts,” Kasi called out as Lejla followed the man up the stairs.

  Kasi was warning her; she began to regulate her breathing. The bathroom was large and white, the floor tiled in blue-and-white diamonds.

  “Let me get you a fresh towel,” the man said.

  She placed herself between the open door and a mirror and turned her back. Your back is a weapon to buy time, Kasi had repeatedly told her during training. All but a true professional will pause when faced with a back, so use it to your advantage. She took off her blouse and dropped it on the floor.

  Kasi stood at the bottom of the stairs. The man peered down, his arm draped with towels. “Have some wine,” he called down. “I won’t be a moment.”