by Erika Holzer
It was an eternity—it was a full thirty seconds—before Kiril could bring himself to ask, “Depends on what?”
“On whether you can convince me I won’t be in any real danger of getting caught. My wife tells me that Mongolian thug seldom lets you out of his sight. You even share the same room. How were you planning to deal with him?”
“Infused diazepam—valium.”
“Administered when?”
“When my ‘shadow’ is asleep. He’ll stay that way for at least four hours. I have some diazepam in my room. And I’m sure I don’t have to prove to another doctor just how fast the infused diazepam will kick in,” Kiril said eagerly.
“It’s a damned effective drug, all right. Next question. What happens if you run into trouble between here and the border? Were you able to smuggle in a gun?”
“No. They search us too well for that.”
“I take it you have an alternative?”
Kiril smiled. “Morphine sulphate. I picked up a bottle of it, along with a hypodermic needle, in the clinic this morning.”
“Powerful stuff. Your English is surprisingly good, Dr. Andreyev. Your American slang is even more impressive.”
“What’s the question?”
“Are you good enough to impersonate an American?”
“I’ve had long years of practice. They can’t jam all the foreign radio broadcasts. Sometimes they don’t even try.”
“Your plan won’t work.”
Kiril felt as if he were on a roller coaster—up and down up and down He closed his eyes. “Why not?”
“Our hair. How can both of us walk out of here with white hair?”
“Oh, that,” he said with a flood of relief. “What do you think I was doing in your bathroom? Washing the brown out of my hair.”
“But do you have enough? What if you run out?”
“I won’t. I had the foresight to fill an extra bottle with brown rinse. More than I’ll ever need.”
Brenner stood up, one hand gripping the iron bedpost for support, his decision made. “I have to go,” he said.
“So what’s the plan? You refuse to succumb to my brother’s blackmail and insist on leaving tonight or—”
“Not quite. As soon as I finish packing, my plan is to see a man about a trade—mutually beneficial, of course,” Brenner said softly. “Colonel Aleksei Andreyev hands off his damning evidence against me in return for my equally damning evidence about his brother’s defection plan. In exchange for my silence about diazepam, morphine sulphate, and brown hair rinse, he’ll hand over a primitive tape recorder and a spool of wire. The authorities here will never believe that Colonel Andreyev wasn’t in on his own brother’s escape plan. Brothers help each other.”
Brenner’s words were tumbling out one after another, as if he couldn’t wait to get out of a room that threatened to suffocate him.
“You people don’t operate on proof over here,” Brenner said, avoiding eye contact. “All your intelligence apparatchiks need are suspicious circumstances. He’s smart, your brother. He’ll agree to my terms now.”
“You know your man, all right. My brother Aleksei will frame me for something that can’t possibly reflect on him. Then he’ll have me shot.”
“You’re exaggerating. He’s your own brother! You’d say anything to stop me.”
And do anything.
Kiril caught Brenner off balance with a single blow.
Chapter 40
The man with brown hair, lying on the four-poster in the bedroom of the Brenner suite, wore a shabby blue suit and dark glasses.
The man bending over him wore a dress shirt, a black bow toe, and a tuxedo. His hair was white.
The white-haired man straightened up, went into the bedroom, and examined himself in the floor-length mirror. His lips curved into a practiced smile—contemptuous, amused. With an impatient gesture, he brushed away a few rebellious strands of hair that had fallen onto his forehead before stepping back for a final appraisal.
Closing Adrienne Brenner’s suitcase, still on the bed, he put the other suitcase in the closet. A gown and a bathrobe hung there, along with a raincoat and a woman’s cape. He put on the raincoat, took the cape, and picked up Adrienne’s suitcase.
He was about to shut the bedroom door when he spotted the glass on the bureau. Not much gin and tonic left, but the twist of lime was still there. He squeezed a few drops of lime juice into the half-sprawled man’s left eye, once again adjusted the dark glasses on the comatose face, and did one last check No more brown spots on the neck. A small spatter of the rinse had washed off easily.
He picked up the telephone and dialed, bracing himself for the tense voice on the other end. “Sorry it took me so long,” he told Aleksei in Russian. “I know I said I’d call right back, but things got a little unpleasant… No, nothing like that. Brenner’s initial panic is over.”
Kiril continued in Russian. “… Get ahold of yourself, Aleksei. You sound ‘drunk as a skunk,’ as the Americans say. Yes, he’s agreed to everything. However, he has one precondition. Hold on. Brenner wants to tell you himself.”
Kiril held the phone against his chest, wondering if Aleksei could hear the rapid beating of his heart. After a few seconds, he lifted the receiver as a string of American slang expressions flashed through his mind. “You win, Colonel,” Kiril said in English, his voice more sonorous, and more than a little belligerent. “But get this straight. Any blackmail threats you people concocted against my wife are out of bounds. I’m taking Adrienne to Zurich out of harm’s way… .Of course I’ll be back! I can’t afford not to, can I? It won’t be forever, you said… . Right.”
A pregnant pause.
“One more thing, Colonel. That ‘unpleasantness’ your brother alluded to just now? Forgive my crudeness, but it seems that ever since he laid eyes on my wife, he wanted to get into her pants. He’s about to find out what I think of that offensive notion.”
Hanging up before Aleksei had a chance to reply, Kiril grabbed suitcase and cape and rushed down an empty corridor to his room. After stuffing a few items into the suitcase, he hurriedly dumped the brown hair rinse bottle into a waste basket in the bathroom, along with the diazepam and the syringe, then covered the contents with soiled towels.
For a long moment, Kiril closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, he was walking with brisk authority down the hallway toward an elevator in the characteristic stride he’d zeroed in on the moment Dr. Kurt Brenner had stepped off a plane in East Berlin.
When he realized that he’d begun to swing the suitcase as if it were a tennis racket, he felt a surge of adrenalin.
Maybe, just maybe, I can pull this off!
* * *
Aleksei had left the table he’d shared with his brother and Adrienne Brenner and was huddled with the press contingent in a lounge just outside the banquet room. When Adrienne’s husband headed for the table, Aleksei cast a suspicious glance at the suitcase in his hand.
“My wife’s things. She’s no part of this. Adrienne is not going anywhere near the Soviet Union. Given her political sentiments, I could barely get her to East Berlin,” he said waspishly.
Aleksei made his way back toward the table out of earshot of the press, teetering slightly, as if he were crossing the deck of a sailboat.
“Where’s my brother?” he asked.
“In the master bedroom—out cold on the bed. I trust you won’t take it personally.”
“I always take family matters personally but not in the way you mean. I picked up on my brother’s attraction to your wife. Nor do I rule out the possibility that it was mutual,” Aleksei added, unable to resist chipping away at Brenner’s pride after all the trouble the bastard had put him through. “Romance aside, Dr. Brenner,” he said, his words slightly slurred, “what will you tell your wife about your forced separation?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Indeed. Is my brother badly hurt?”
“He’ll wake up with an aching jaw and a good-s
ized lump on his cranium where his head hit the bedpost. Does that disturb you?”
“Actually, it pleases me.” Aleksei downed a slug of vodka like it was water. “Kiril’s independent nature has always needed a few hard knocks.”
“I presume you have a limousine waiting?”
“A limousine to take you and your lovely wife to the airport, where you’ll board an executive jet for Zurich. The same plane will return you and me to Moscow in the morning.”
“Then let’s get to it.” He headed for the table where Adrienne Brenner sat leaning back in her chair.
Aleksei’s hand shot out, stopping him in his tracks.
“I have my own precondition, Dr. Brenner. A group of extremely curious newsmen are waiting impatiently in the lounge. They’re expecting to hear something out of the ordinary. Naturally, I cannot disappoint them. As soon as I invite them in, you will announce your intention to defect to the Soviet Union. Then you may escort your wife to Zurich.”
“So that after I leave, it will be difficult for me to change my mind.”
“Can you blame me? But you also benefit. Your parents are already in Zurich. Think of how your decision to take a—shall we call it a sabbatical?—in Moscow will soften the blow for them. By the time you reach Zurich, they’ll have had time to absorb what happened. I will arrange everything. We have friends in all the key Western cities who will make sure the press is alerted.”
“The ultimate argument, Colonel. The hostage game. And I’m not even on Soviet soil yet.” Arching a contemptuous eyebrow, he said, “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”
“One last piece of advice. Your announcement can be as brief as you like. Just make sure it lacks the flavor of coercion. Keep in mind that a decision to defect is not made on the spur of the moment between cocktails and dinner.”
“I’ll do my best. Now if you’ll give me a moment alone with my obviously inebriated wife…” Without waiting for an answer, he moved to the table and took Adrienne’s hands in his.
She looked up at him. “Where’ve you been? Honestly, Kurt, making an entrance is one thing but… uh oh, I think I’m tipsy.”
Gently, he pulled her to her feet. “I know you are, dear, and I’m sorry. We’ll leave in about five minutes. Will you do something for me in the meantime?” he asked as he draped the cape around her shoulders.
She nodded, embarrassed by the state she was in. Disarmed by his uncharacteristic solicitude.
Noticing her suitcase in his hand, she said, “Where’s yours?”
“Later. I have an announcement to make to some newsmen— something you won’t begin to understand. But as soon as we board the plane, I’ll explain. Until then I don’t want these people to see your reaction. Mind waiting for me in the lounge outside? The press is about to come bursting in. The minute I finish dealing with them, we’ll take the elevator down and a limo will take us to the airport. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Shall I call the newsmen in, Dr. Brenner?” Aleksei asked.
“How about a simultaneous transition? You open the doors for the press while I move my wife outside to that bench near the bank of elevators. She avoids pandemonium, you avoid distraction.”
“Tit for tat. How American! Fine by me,” Aleksei said with a shrug.
As Adrienne Brenner was escorted out, Aleksei waved the press in, cautioning Brenner to hold off while the lights and television cameras got ready to swing into action. That done, he signaled Brenner to mount the platform.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the distinguished-looking white-haired gentleman, microphone in hand, “I think I have spoiled your dinner, or at least delayed it unconscionably, for which I deeply apologize. In that spirit, my announcement will be brief.”
A good beginning, Aleksei mused.
“I have kept you waiting because I was in the throes of a difficult decision,” he continued.
And paused to take a deep, almost labored, breath. “To better serve the humanitarian goals to which my professional life has been devoted, I have decided to practice medicine in the Soviet Union. For how long,” he added quickly, “I am not yet certain. I’m sure you realize that a decision to defect, even for an indeterminate period of time, is not something one makes between cocktails and dinner.”
Aleksei positively beamed.
“Suffice to say, my decision is the culmination of a great deal of soul-searching.”
He stepped off the platform, fought his way onto the main floor of the banquet room, and was swept along by a frenetic tide of people. At least the tide was moving inexorably toward the exit.
Poor Adrienne was being engulfed by a rush of eager faces and unintelligible questions. Just before he got to her, a reporter flashed his press credentials in her face, and asked if she planned to join her husband in Moscow.
“No comment,” she said, her expression dazed. “Please, I have nothing to say.”
Seizing her arm, he propelled her to the bank of elevators—and got lucky. An elevator door slid open and the car was empty. He pressed a button and down they went.
Not so lucky. The elevator had slowed instead of going all the way down. Could they possibly be stopping on the same floor that housed what had euphemistically become known as “the Brenner Suite”?
* * *
Galya leaned against the elevator car, disheveled and in obvious distress.
I must say goodbye to Adrienne Brenner before it’s too late!
The inner command had broken through her lethargy after she’d learned of the Brenners’ imminent departure for Zurich. From her room on the same floor, she had managed to navigate the corridor, hoping against hope that they hadn’t finished packing yet. If they had, maybe she could still catch them before they left the hotel.
She pressed the down button. The elevator hissed to a stop. The door opened.
A woman was inside, a man behind her, but Galya saw only Adrienne Brenner. Turning to her, she impulsively took hold of Adrienne’s hands.
“You will please to forgive,” she murmured. “I have answered your so wonderful kindness with insults. I am so ashamed.”
Adrienne’s eyes welled up. She pulled Galya into her arms, the two of them swaying slightly.
She half-turned as she heard the man’s voice.
“My wife and I will never forget your many kindnesses, Galina Barkova, when you and Kiril Andreyev were our tour guides.”
Galya froze at the sound of his words, his voice…
She looked into Kiril’s face, then the white hair—
Dear god in heaven, don’t let me give him away! If Adrienne Brenner doesn’t seem to recognize it’s Kiril and not her husband, then neither does Colonel Andreyev…
“Whatever you do, wherever you go, Dr. Brenner,” she said softly, forcing the words past a barrier of pain because she knew she would never see him again, “may it be with good luck and good fortune.”
“You’re very kind.” Kiril reached for her hand and gently pulled her close—close enough to whisper against her forehead, “Goodbye, Galya dear. I will never forget you.”
Chapter 41
Galya was on the bed in her room when a voice cut into her thoughts.
“I think your services will soon be needed elsewhere, Galina Barkova.”
Colonel Andreyev stood in her doorway.
“My brother is unconscious in the Brenner suite. I’ll let him fill you in on the embarrassing details when he wakes up.”
She stood up. “I’ll go at once. What happened to him?”
“Can’t you forget about your lover for two seconds?” he snapped. “This is a time for celebration.”
One look at his bloodshot eyes and Galya realized that the Colonel had been celebrating to excess.
“Dr. Kurt Brenner has defected,” he said smugly. “He just went public at a press conference. He’s coming over to us as soon as he deposits his annoying wife in Zurich.”
“Congratulations, Colonel!”
Her enthusiasm
was forced. Her smile was not.
And when this intelligence “coup” blows up in your face, may your superiors take it out on your hide.
Minutes later, Galya was bending over the inert figure on the couch in the Brenner suite.
Bravo, Kiril! You seem to have thought of everything, even down to the redness in Dr. Brenner’s left eye.
She opened Brenner’s shirt. Sure enough, she found the thin scar she had lightly followed with her fingertip on the beach. As she rebuttoned the shirt, her hand shook a little as she realized it was Kiril’s shirt.
Get on with it.
Straightening the tie, she raised Brenner’s head and pressed both eyelids open. The pupils had shrunk to the size of pinpricks. She wondered what drug Kiril had used. Wondered how long it would last.
As she passed by the bedroom she glanced at the open closet door. She saw a few garments inside.
She saw a patch of beige.
A lovely gown the color of rich cream…
So you’ve left me a gift, after all, Adrienne Brenner. What an odd trick of fate that I no longer want it.
On the way back to her own room, she stopped outside Kiril’s. The door was unlocked. The sight of the cheap suitcase, lying empty on his bed, was hard to bear.
Worse was a closet, because it wasn’t empty. She touched the things he had left behind. A robe. A few shirts and a pair of shoes. The new gray trousers they had picked out together on the day before they had left Moscow for East Berlin.
At least I’ve been spared the hardest thing of all. He never knew what I did. What I became.
She took a last lingering look in case something incriminating had been left behind. In case Dr. Kurt Brenner woke up ahead of schedule.
Nothing.
She checked out the bathroom—a more purposeful examination this time…
Nothing on the metal shelf above the sink. Something in the medicine cabinet maybe—a razor?
As she moved closer for a better look, her foot knocked over a waste basket. Stooping automatically to right it, she spotted an empty bottle—
