"You don't have a chance in the world. Do you think I'm the only one he'll send after you?"
The party came to a sudden halt right there. Frenzied gaiety has a value only when the obvious is left unstated. Once it is out in the open, no amount of graveyard whistling, desperation drinking, or witty words will serve to mask the terror. The terror came down to sit on their shoulders then. and the taste of the wine was suddenly sour.
"Hard words," said Emerson. "You really believe that?"
Vasily nodded. Uncharacteristically hesitant, he said. "I'm sorry that I put it so bluntly." He shrugged. "But it's true."
"Of course it's true," snapped Rusty. "We're not idiots; we realize that. The question is, what are we going to do about it?"
"That exactly is the question, madam." Vasily was struggling to rebuild his facade. "And that's why we are gathered here around this table. You might call it a council of war."
"I call it a convention of drunks, and stop calling me madam. I haven't been impressed with old-world charm since my junior year in high school." Rusty stood up abruptly. "Nothing is going to get accomplished here while you people sit around and swill cheap wine. I'm going to bed."
Vasily protested, "The wine is anything but cheap. I laid down these bottles myself."
"The Chablis is second-rate and the Rioja I had at lunch was definitely corky." She turned to her husband. "Are you coming, Jim?"
Emerson looked apologetically at the two other men. "Maybe some sleep is what we all need. The morning is the time for decisions."
Vasily watched the Emersons leave with a sour look on his face. "Corky," he muttered. "And to think that through a pair of Zeiss binoculars that woman looked like a goddess."
Upstairs in their bedroom, Emerson and Rusty undressed quickly and in the warmth of the night lay uncovered on the bed. Moonlight slipped through louvers and painted stripes on their bodies, but they did not notice them. They lay silently, side by side, right hand clasping left, and stared at the ceiling. Over the hills, a coyote called and was answered.
Rusty asked in a small voice, "How scared are you?"
"Plenty."
"Me, too. It's funny. I wasn't scared this afternoon in the pool. Everything was frozen. But now ..."
"I know."
"It all seems so hopeless. We thought we were safe, and now this. I hate it, Jim. And I don't like the people we're mixed up with."
"Eddie's all right. We owe him a great deal."
"Eddie's a killer, no matter what we owe him. He's no better than the other one, Borgneff. We've put ourselves in the hands of two professional thugs."
"They're hardly thugs." He forced himself to laugh. It was a short one. "Besides, I don't see what choice we have."
She was silent for as long as it took the distant coyote to place anoiher call, ring five times, and hang up. Then she said, "There is another choice."
She saw him nod in the darkness. "There always has been. The Russians. I thought we had pretty well covered that subject."
"Things have changed since then. Then we had an option; now we don't. We're backed into a corner."
"A man always has an option," he said slowly.
"A man does. Did you hear what you said? You're talking about machismo ideals. I'm talking about life and death."
She propped herself up on an elbow so that she could look down at him. "I said before that I was scared, but I didn't say of what. I'm not too much afraid of what could happen to me, Jim, but I'm scared silly of being a widow. I don't think I'd make a very good one."
"What are you asking me to do?"
"I'm not asking you anything. I'm telling you how I feel."
"You're asking me to go over. You're asking me to call Anya Ignatiev in Washington and tell her that I'm ready to go. You're asking me to give in."
She sighed. "If anything, I'm asking you to make a choice between life and death."
"Downstairs, just now. You didn't like all that talk about honor, did you?"
Instead of answering, she ran a finger over his lips, touched his cheek with her fingertips, reading his features in the dark. He caught her hand and held it, forcing a reply.
"It's a male concept," she said. "It doesn't move me much. I'm far more concerned about the life of the man I love."
"Enough to ask him to do something dishonorable?"
"If necessary, yes."
"I could not love thee, dear, so much, lov'd I not honor more." He chuckled. "Richard Lovelace. Let Vasily cap that one."
"Is that an answer to my question?"
"For the moment, I'm afraid, it will have to be."
He drew her down to him and held her. There was no more talk, but sleep did not come quickly. After a while he realized that she was quietly crying, as she had on the night he had said good-bye to his paintings. His last thought before sleep was the uncertain hope that Eddie would think of something.
Such thoughts are sometimes best born of wine, and the idea came after another hour of drinking and reminiscences, the two old warriors trading stories of other, better times, while Ginger listened avidly and tried to drink along with them. Both tasks were difficult. The men were into the wine with muscle now, making no pretense of savoring after-taste and bouquet, and at one point she had the feeling that had she not been there they would have been drinking the stuff straight from the bottles. Their conversation, too, was difficult to follow, laced as it was with references to exotic chemicals, toxic gases, and explosive devices. Even though the technical aspects of it defeated her, she was fascinated by the dialogue. The two men spoke casually, almost disparagingly, of adventures that seemed to her to represent the height of daring, laughing the loudest as they recalled each other's failures. After a while she had the floating feeling of being transported in time to some pirate's den of long ago, listening to the buccaneer captains recounting their exploits as they gnawed on greasy bones and flung bottles crashing into walls. The scent swam in front of her, and with a muttered excuse she left the table and barely managed to make it to the couch, where she curled herself up and was instantly asleep.
Vasily looked at the sleeping girl with approval. "A lovely creature. It's a pity that the two of you can't stay here and enjoy the house."
"That's finished. Got to run again."
"When? And where?"
Eddie shrugged. His eyes were heavy and his head was low.
Vasily said carefully, "I take it then that you are committed to staying with Emerson?"
Eddie's head came up. "Yeah, I'm committed, all right."
Vasily nodded toward the couch. "Because of her?"
"Mostly."
"It's suicide, you know. Anybody who stays close to that man is bound to get caught in the line of fire."
"Maybe." His lower lip came out and muscles twitched along his jaw.
Vasily said quickly, "Please don't give me the tough-kid act; I've seen it before. You know as well as I do how these things work. He's going to get hit. Maybe next week, maybe next month. His car will crash, or his plane will go down, or he'll catch a whiff of VX gas . . . something that looks like an accident. But it's going to happen, and if you're in that car or that plane you're going to get it, too. You know that, Eddie. It's not a question of odds anymore. It's a sure thing."
"I don't believe in sure things. I'm sticking." He looked away, and, in a voice so low it was barely audible, he added, "I was sort of hoping that you'd stick, too."
As if he had not heard, Vasily said, "When I was in Washington I heard some news of Benny Zahn. Remember Benny?"
"The Israeli? Didn't he do that car job in Oslo?"
"Yes. He's in Colombia now, working on his own out of Bogota."
"So?"
"I heard he's doing very well making gadgets for the South American trade. It's a big market now."
"Benny's a field man. He doesn't know shit about UKDs."
"That's just my point. If a slob like Benny is doing well, we could clean up."
Eddie shook his
head. "I don't need the money."
"It isn't just the money, my friend. New sciences, new horizons, the other side of the mountain."
"Is that where you're headed?"
"Maybe."
"If you do, you'll be going alone."
"Going down with the ship?"
"The ship isn't sinking. I've got plans of my own."
"Plans of your own! You are a very stubborn son of a bitch. You're as bad as that man upstairs." Vasily threw up his hands in disgust. One of those hands held a bottle, and wine spilled across the table in a pale yellow arc. He ignored it and shouted. "All right-stick! Stick to him like glue, and you'll get blown away when he does. Of all the idiotic, quixotic gestures! If you think you can take on the entire Central Intelligence Agency and get away with — "
He stopped speaking abruptly, a look of surprise on his face. That look was replaced by a fixed set of concentration, and as if to aid that concentration he closed his eyes. Seconds went by, stretching; then he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. He opened his eyes. Eddie was grinning at him.
Vasily said, "Actually, it isn't the whole CIA, is it?"
Eddie shook his head, still grinning. "It's just the Fifth Directorate."
"Not even that much." Vasily smiled, too. "Just the Gang of Four. Swan, Krause, Andriakis, and Wolfe. Christianson and the rest of the Agency probably don't know anything about it."
Eddie grunted, "Your brain is finally beginning to work. The Director - that guy Christianson - would never issue a contract on Jimbo. He's under too much pressure from Congress. Only Swan and his friends would have the balls to try it, which means that they're the only ones who know that Emerson is Homefire. Eliminate them and our boy walks free."
"And so you're going to extract them." It was a statement, not a question.
"We are."
"Oh? We are?" Now it was very definitely a question.
"That's right, we. You and me. A couple of hours ago you were yelling for Swan's ass. The son of a bitch has to go, that's what you said. Bye-bye, Swan. Well, I'm gonna give you a chance to send him on his way. What do you say?"
Vasily stared at him silently.
"Come on, what about it? Was that just a lot of noise, or do you really want to take him out?"
"I want it, all right."
"Then let's start figuring how to do it."
Vasily yawned, stretched his arms, and was surprised to find that he still held a bottle of wine in his right hand. He set it down carefully and said, "I think someone had best make some coffee."
"That's me. Your coffee tastes like a UKD in disguise."
Two hours later Vasily stretched again, reached for the coffee pot, shook it, and found it empty. He grimaced and drank what was left in his cup. It was cold, and he grimaced again. He looked down at the four sheets of paper in front of him. They were covered with closely written notes and were headed: Swan - Washington, Krause - Brissago, Andriakis - Corfu, Wolfe-Barcelona. Under these headings he and Eddie had listed everything they knew about the individual involved: every professional fact, every personal foible, every rumor that had ever reached their ears.
"Difficult, almost impossible," he said. "The trouble is we would have to get them all. Even three out of four would be no good. As long as one of them is alive, your boy is as good as dead."
"It can be done." Eddie had built himself a monster of a cheese sandwich, and he nibbled away at the edges of it. "I've done tougher ones. So have you. We've done them together."
"It's not the hits I'm talking about. Four separate hits in four different parts of the world . . . difficult but not impossible. But there are two time factors that are going to beat you."
"How so?" asked Eddie, chewing.
"Time factor number one. Five days from now Swan doesn't hear from the delightful Elena, and he knows the contract here has gone wrong. At that point he has to figure that his life is in danger, and he heads for the Fun House. Do you know about the Fun House?"
"I've heard about it."
"They had me there for seven months, and I can tell you that once he dives for cover in the Fun House we won't be able to touch him. That place is impregnable. And once he's inside he'll alert the other three. Each one of them has a Fun House of his own, a place where he can run for cover. Once they get into their holes, the game's over. Emerson is finished."
Eddie was unperturbed. "That just means the jobs have to be done within the next four days. I've seen operations mounted in less time than that."
"I question that, but let's assume it." Vasily looked distastefully at the window and the grayish light that was just beginning to show through the trees outside. "Christ, it's daylight already. All right, assume it. At that point we're beat by the second time factor. These four people run a close net; they're constantly in touch with each other. So assume that we hit Swan first. As soon as the network is broken, the others go into their Fun Houses, and what have we got? We've hit one out of four, but the ball game is over." He turned his hands palms up. "It's impossible."
"Few things are impossible to diligence and skill," Eddie quoted smugly.
Vasily raised an eyebrow. "Montaigne?"
"Samuel Johnson."
"My Lord, she's civilizing you."
Eddie ignored the thrust. "Look, it isn't impossible. The answer is to hit all four at the same time. The same day, the same hour if we can."
"And how are we supposed to do that?" Vasily asked icily. "Washington, Greece, Spain, and Switzerland ... all on the same day?"
"I haven't got that part figured out yet," Eddie admitted. "We're a little short of hands."
"Just a little. It would take four people to make the hits simultaneously. We only have two."
"You have three," said Emerson, standing in the doorway.
He came into the room. He was wearing a robe and his hair was tousled. "I couldn't sleep. I've been listening. Is there any more of that coffee?"
"We can make some," said Vasily. "Did I hear you correctly?"
"You did." Emerson sank into a seat, his robe flapping loosely around him. His eyes were clear, and he looked at both of them sharply. "What you're trying to do makes sense. It would work. And if you people are willing to do this for me, the least I can do is join the team."
Vasily looked embarrassed. He turned his eyes away and let Eddie say the words. "It's no good, Jimbo. Thanks for the offer, but you're a civilian."
"At the moment. I wasn't always. I'm sure I know enough to follow instructions." He turned to Vasily. "I was trained at Gaczyna. Does the name mean anything to you?"
Vasily nodded. "It means a great deal, but that was over thirty years ago. Also, one hates to sound elitist, but this business of killing ..."
"I'm no stranger to killing," Jimbo said coldly, remembering once again, with dreadful clarity, that night in the barn when he was Yuri Volanov confronting the real James Emerson. "As I've told Eddie more than once, there are certain things that one never forgets. I'm not asking in, Borgneff, I'm dealing myself in whether you like it or not. It's my life that you're playing with. Remember that."
Vasily looked at Eddie, who shrugged and said, "Who knows? If he follows instructions, it could work."
"I'll accept your judgment . . . but it's academic, of course." He looked regretfully at the empty coffeepot. "We still need four people. We only have three."
"You're wrong," said Ginger from the couch. She sat up and pushed back her hair with her hand. The signs of sleep were still with her, and she looked particularly young and vulnerable. "You have all you need. You have four."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The island is called Kerkyra in Greek, Corfu in English, and it lies scythe-shaped and verdant in the Ionian Sea just off the mainland of Greece. It also lies just off the mainland of Albania, for the border between the two countries, if extended across the water, would cut through the curve of the scythe, and so the northeastern tip of the island is only a little over a mile from the towering mountains and sparse
ly inhabited coastline of Europe's most isolated country. The juxtaposition of Communist Albania and carefree Corfu is dramatized by the contrast in terrain. Albania is brown and sere; Corfu is green and lush. Albania lies closed and forbidding, while Hellenic Corfu lies sprawled in the sea with its arms opened wide. In Corfu the silver leaves of three million olive trees tack gracefully to every breeze, orange and lemon groves puff incense, and vibrantly colored flowers cloak the land; yet over it all loom Albania's somber peaks.
Aware of the contrast but indifferent to it and blinded to beauty by a single-minded concentration, James Emerson arrived on Corfu on Monday, July 14, by way of the afternoon flight from Athens. The incoming customs check there had been no more than cursory, justifying the Athenian reputation for the loosest airport security in Europe. The inspectors had never suspected the odd pieces of plastic hidden beneath the liner of his suitcase, pieces which, when properly assembled, would form a modified version of the PPK Walther pistol. They were also indifferent to the small piece of clay statuary, a priapic Pan, that lay nestled between his shirts. Had he been leaving Greece, not entering it, the inspectors would have been interested, indeed, in the statuette, quick to suspect yet another theft of a national treasure, but Emerson anticipated no such problem on his departure. He had no intention of taking the Pan with him when he left.
Following directions and driving an airport rental car, he drove into Corfu town, parked on the Avenue Voulgareos, and visited four real estate agents in quick succession. The first three assured him that there were no villas of any kind available at this, the height of the season. The fourth, influenced by a substantial stack of drachmas, allowed that he did have a hovel of sorts, certainly nothing suitable for such a gentleman, but possessing a stall shower, a decent bed, a working refrigerator —
The Sleeping Spy Page 19
