One of those functions was the supervision of storage operations, the unofficial confinement of opposition agents being held for future use. It was, essentially, a tiresome and thankless job, particularly in the case of Vasily Borgneff, who was an active and tireless complainer. On this particular morning he was in top form.
"I hardly expect to be treated according to the rules of the Geneva Convention," he told Swan, "but may I ask if I am being used in some form of medical experiment?"
"Certainly not. Whatever gave you that bizarre idea?"
"The so-called food I've been getting. It occurred to me that your people might be trying to determine how long a civilized man can manage to exist on pig swill."
"I'm sorry that you don't like the food, but we do the best we can," said Swan. "I'd hardly call it swill."
"You would if you had to eat it."
Swan made a note in a small black book. "I'll have it looked into. Any other complaints?"
"Yes, these cretins of yours who guard me. Not one of them plays chess, and half of them move their lips when they read. Really, Swan, where do you recruit such people?"
"They weren't chosen for their intellects," Swan admitted. "I'm afraid you'll just have to put up with them. Any other complaints?"
"Does a mushroom complain in the cellar?" Borgneff's voice was high and angry. "I haven't seen the sun in seven months. I'm going out of my mind with boredom."
"I thought you seemed a trifle grumpy today."
"At least you could let me upstairs to play in the Fun House."
"You're not supposed to know about that," Swan said reprovingly. "Aren't you getting your sunlamp treatments?"
"Sunlamps just make me feel more like a mushroom."
The room was large and comfortable, with an oversupply of sofas and chairs and thick cushions. The walls were bare but clean, and the blank eye of a television set stared out of a corner. Borgneff paced nervously from one side of the room to the other, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a hawklike man, tall and stooped. His face was long, the features drawn fine, and he wore a black patch where his left eye once had been.
Swan sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, his legs crossed casually, an untouched cup of coffee steaming on the table beside him. "Boredom is concomitant to captivity," he noted. "Better bored than dead, no?"
"Not necessarily." Borgneff turned on him with a savage look. "Swan, I respect you the way one respects a worthy opponent. So I mean no disrespect when I point out that you are an elderly and proper gentleman, and therefore you probably don't know what it's like to be without a woman for seven months. Or if you ever did, you've forgotten."
"I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with my memory."
"Seven months! I'm not even counting the three months in the hospital. I'll give you those. I admit it, I couldn't have used a woman then under any circumstances. But seven months more? Really, Swan, for a man of my temperament this is impossible."
"Temperament," Swan murmured, amused by the word. "You should have said something sooner. I'm sure I'll be able to arrange something."
"You'll arrange nothing," Borgneff exploded. He took three quick steps and stood over Swan, almost threateningly. Behind a door, an unseen guard stirred and then subsided. "Do you think I want one of your tame birdbrains, all tits and ass? Someone to drain me dry and keep me happy?"
"We have some excellent connections," Swan said stiffly.
"I don't want a connection, I want a woman. I want to sit across a table from her and toast her eyes with wine. I want to share a meal with her, and music, and starlight. I want to trade dreams with her."
"Nothing more?"
"Of course. Then I want to fuck her to exhaustion. But only then, not before."
"You're not talking about a woman," Swan pointed out. "You're talking about freedom."
Borgneff ran his fingers through his hair nervously. "Yes, I suppose I am." He sat down abruptly, leaning forward. "Look, Swan, please talk to me frankly. What sort of a future do I have? Will I ever get out of here?"
Swan put a finger along the side of his nose. "You are rather a problem for us, you know. We don't know quite what to do with you. We could trade you back to your own people, of course, but..."
"I would die very painfully," Borgneff said simply.
"No doubt you would. But as I was saying, there is no one that your people have whom we want right now. A few dissidents, one or two Jews, but no one important. The other alternative would be to put you to work for us."
Borgneff sat up, alerted. "You mean you haven't replaced Eddie?"
"No one could replace Eddie Mancuso. Except you, of course. But the truth of it is, we've more or less gone out of the death-and-destruction business. Changing times, you know. We're quite a respectable outfit now."
Borgneff grinned knowingly. "The Agency itself, perhaps, but not the Fifth Directorate."
Swan's hand described a languid acknowledgment. "Oh, we still have our moments. Individual jobs, one-time extractions. But nothing of a volume that would warrant your creative talents. No, I'm afraid we'd have nothing for you at all."
"So I sit here until I rot," Borgneff said bitterly.
Swan shrugged. "I certainly don't want it that way. Perhaps someone will come up with an idea that will make you useful to us. Unless that happens . . ."He shrugged again.
"I thought you might get around to that." Borgneff nodded slowly. "You'd sanction me? Just like that?"
Swan looked hurt. "My dear Borgneff, you know how it is. We spent a great deal of money to keep you alive, but the cost of your upkeep is staggering. All these men, and the supplies. We have to answer to auditors, you know. Changing times, as I said before. It's a whole new world out there."
Borgneff was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on a point above Swan's head. Then he said slowly, "What if I could give you Mancuso?"
"What makes you think that we want him?"
"You want him, all right. Just like my people want me."
"Perhaps we do, but this sounds like desperation. You have no more idea of where Eddie is than we do, and we've had an intensive search going for almost a year."
"Any leads?"
"Nothing," Swan admitted.
Mexico, thought Borgneff. If he's not in the States, he's in Mexico. He has to be. He's probably down there right now in that house that's half mine, sitting in the garden and drinking margaritas. No one knows about that house but Eddie and me. "I'm not surprised," he said casually. "You won't find him, not the way you're going about it."
"And you could?"
"You have to remember that no one knows Eddie the way I do." Borgneff stood up and started to pace again. "There was a time when we were like brothers. Closer than brothers. I know what his reactions are, his instincts. I know what trail he takes in the jungle. Yes, I could find him for you. Given the time and the support, I could find him."
"It's a thought. It's something to consider." Swan looked at his watch and stood up. "It's nothing I could agree to on the spot, but I'll think about it. Right now I have to get back to town."
"When can you give me an answer? Next visit?"
"Perhaps sooner than that." He smiled, a bleak attempt at cordiality. "And now I really must be going."
"You'll do something about the food?"
Swan tapped the notebook in his breast pocket. "As I promised."
"Please don't forget. Frozen fish fingers lose their charm after a while."
"Frozen fish . . .?"
"And canned chili."
"Good God!"
"And something called toaster waffles."
"Borgneff, I had no idea." Swan was truly shocked. "I'll take care of it at once."
CHAPTER FIVE
Anya Ignatiev rose from her chair as Emerson came through the door. She came around the desk with a smile on her lips and her arms extended. She stood off from him, examining him with her head cocked over to one side.
Finally she said, "Of course
, I've seen your pictures in the papers, but I had to be sure. You're still my Yuri, no mistake about that. And now you're supposed to tell me that I haven't changed a bit. It would be a lovely lie, and you really should say it."
"Actually, you look much as I remember you."
Emerson chose his words carefully, a compound of truth and gallantry. Obviously, this woman bore only a fleeting resemblance to the girl who had been his lover so many years ago in the valley of the Elbe River, but, given her age as he knew it to be, she was still remarkably well kept and attractive. The lazy violet eyes still shone, the full lips pouted, and the contours of the opulent body were only slightly softened by the years.
She must be in her late fifties, he thought, and she looks about forty.
As if reading his thoughts, Anya laughed delightedly. "America helps keep Joy Mackenzie looking young. The health spas, the cosmetics, things like that, you know?"
Emerson neither knew nor cared, but he kept his voice natural. "How long have you been Joy Mackenzie?"
"Long enough, long enough," she said vaguely, looking around the room. "I guess you might say that this place helps to keep me young as well."
It was, Emerson decided, one hell of a setting for a clandestine meeting. The back room of the House of Joy was filled with stacks of pornographic magazines and books, cartons of video cassettes, cardboard display panels touting the joys of hand-held vibrators, rubber and plastic dildoes, tubes of creams and balms, jars of hormone energizers, vials of musk-ox oil, and leather devices the uses of which he could only guess at. Outside, in the front room, the same merchandise was offered to a steady stream of customers, along with ten booths featuring X-rated loop films and a glassed-in enclosure that framed the antics of three girls dancing in topless, bottomless, absolutely nothingness.
Anya had followed the movements of his eyes, and she laughed. "It's a touch on the flamboyant side, of course, and very nikulturni, but it makes an effective cover. Totally secure, too." She still watched him closely and finally nodded with some touch of apparent sympathy. "This must be something like a dream to you," she said.
"That's too mild a word." A fist clenched in his stomach, and he fought down a spasm. "That notice in the paper. It was like being hit over the head with a club."
"Did you think we had forgotten about you?"
I was sure as hell hoping you had, he thought bitterly, but he kept his voice bright and enthusiastic. "No, I never lost faith. Remember, I was trained to expect a long wait."
"Even thirty-five years?"
He forced himself to nod soberly. "Even that."
She beamed her approval. "Exactly as we expected. I want you to know that none of us ever doubted that, Yuri."
"If you please, I prefer the name James Emerson."
She looked at him questioningly. "James Emerson died thirty-five years ago."
"And the name has been mine ever since. I'm accustomed to it."
"I can understand that. But to me you will always be Yuri, the boy who meant so much to me."
"That boy is dead, Anya. He died the same day that Emerson did." He willed himself to appear eager. "Enough of the past; tell me about the future."
"It's a very bright future, Colonel Volanov."
"I really do prefer . . ."He stopped. "Did you say Colonel?"
"I am instructed to inform you that on December tenth of last year you were promoted colonel."
Emerson remembered that it was the custom of the secret service to issue periodic, but secret, promotions to agents on long-term field assignment, but it was strange to realize that through all the years he had been progressing in rank.
"First. I have several procedural points to cover," said Anya. "I am instructed to inform you that your accrued salary for the various ranks held while on service in the field, together with hazard pay for external service, plus adjustments to conform to the Uniform Pay Code of 1957 ..."
"For God's sake, Anya."
"... have been deposited regularly in the Vneshtorgbank at Serpukhovsky Val Eight in Moscow. Do you wish to know the current balance?"
He shook his head. "I don't believe any of this. I don't even know what a ruble is worth."
Anya went on relentlessly. "I am further instructed to inform you that on the first of January 1971, you were named a Hero of the Soviet Union. The award was made secretly, and the citation was recorded in your file. Congratulations Colonel."
Emerson only nodded as he tried to get a grip on a whirling reality.
"I regret that I must now inform you of the death of your parents," said Anya, the mood of her voice changing to suit the situation.
"When?"
"Your father in 1968, your mother three years later. Both of natural causes."
"I see." The news did not move him. Years ago he had assumed the probable dates of their deaths and had made his private farewells to them then. "Go on."
"I also regret to inform you of the death of your brother, Anatoli Ivanovich. An industrial accident six years ago."
He tried to summon up an image, but all he could remember was a pale-haired child playing with a battered wooden wheel, dragging it around through the garden dirt.
"Anya, this is all meaningless to me, all this family crap, the medals and promotions. What do you want?"
"Nothing much," she said lightly. "I have one further item. I am instructed to convey to you the fraternal greetings of Colonel Andrei Petrovich, Major Boris Radichek, and Captain Pavel Kolodny."
"Thank you," he said absently. "Please convey my greetings in return."
"That won't be necessary." There was mischief in her eyes. "You'll be able to greet them yourself very shortly."
He did not trust himself to speak. He nodded for her to continue.
"Yuri, you should see your face," she said delightedly. "You've guessed, haven't you?"
He managed to say, "I'm not much good at guessing games. What is it that you're trying to say?"
"I'm trying to give you some very good news. I'm trying to tell you that you've been ordered home."
"Home?"
"Home. To the Soviet Union."
"You can't be serious."
"Those are your orders, to return to the Soviet Union. Sometime next week you will be smuggled aboard a Polish freighter in New York Harbor. The ship will leave the next morning for Gdansk. From there you will be flown to Moscow, and let me tell you that I envy you very much."
"Envy? Yes, of course." Moscow, he thought dully. A two-room apartment and a drafty dacha near Zhukovka. Cocktails with Kim Philby and all those other dreary traitors. He forced himself to be calm. "Let me understand this. You're activating me after all these years just to send me back to Russia?"
"You sound disappointed."
"No, no, no at all," he assured her, at the same time conjuring up visions of black bread and herring, lumpy shoes and ill-fitting suits. "It's just that I expected something different."
"An espionage assignment?"
He shrugged. "After all, that was what I was trained for. I don't mean to question orders, Anya, but..."
"You don't have to be so respectful," she said, laughing. "First of all, we're old lovers; and second of all, you're now my superior officer."
No more Baltimore Orioles, he thought. Say good-bye to the Washington Redskins. He realized how frivolous it seemed, on the surface, but what were the roots of patriotism if not the love of childhood's foods and home teams? Pulling himself together, he said, "In that case I'll speak freely. This just doesn't make any sense. Why send me back to Moscow when I could be so much more valuable here?"
"I can assure you that there are reasons, excellent reasons." She leaned forward excitedly. "Look, Yuri. I admire what you're saying. You're willing to pass up a chance to go home, and that's wonderful, admirable. It's the kind of devotion that makes our service what it is."
"It's only common sense," he interjected.
"From your point of view, yes, but you don't see the whole picture, and I can't
tell you everything I know. But take my word for it. Moscow is where you belong right now. And Moscow is where you are going."
And may God have mercy on my soul, he thought. He squared his shoulders and arranged his features carefully, hoping for a noble expression. "I am, of course, prepared to do my duty. If my orders are to return, then that's what I shall do. But I must tell you, Anya, as an old friend, that I cannot see the slightest sense in it. What earthly good will it do for Yuri Volanov to go back to Moscow after all these years?"
"None."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It would have no value at all. That's just the point you're missing. Yuri Volanov isn't going back to Moscow."
He stared at her narrowly, uncomprehending.
"James Emerson is going back to Moscow," she said. "The Assistant Secretary of Defense for Air is about to defect to the Soviet Union." She smiled triumphantly. "Now is it clear to you?"
Suddenly it was all very clear, indeed.
"Aside from the shock you must feel about me," said Emerson bitterly, "you must realize that it's the answer to Operation Homefire. It has to be. I'm it. Don't vou agree?"
"I daresay you're right," said Edwin Swan. "Everything seems to point that way. James, for God's sake, sit down and compose yourself. You're making me nervous with your pacing."
The DD5 sat back in his chair and drew on his pipe. A longtime widower, he had no need for an elaborate establishment, and so he kept himself tidily in a modest suite at the old and respectable Coolidge Hotel. The sitting room of the suite had been tailored over the years to his personality: large, overstuffed chairs; Edwardian prints; a silver tea service on the sideboard; and over it all an aura of genteel mustiness that defined the atmosphere.
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