No Work for a Woman

by Lynda Calkins

  They began the drive back to Sofia. Sandy was fuming. If he’d had a decent camera, they’d know who had been shooting at them. “You can have a Polaroid, if you want, but not one of your supertoys. We’re too vulnerable as it is. Whatever they may think, we’re not going to give them evidence.”

  That had been her reasoning, but Sandy was convinced it was just her irrational dislike of what she called gadgetry. And he said so. It hadn’t been a very good afternoon for Sandy.

  Jessica knew this and there was none of her usual sharpness when she answered him. “You’re the new breed, Sandy. Electronic eyes, cameras in matchbooks. Those things just aren’t for me. The more you trust in devices, the less you trust yourself and the less you develop instincts you can trust.”

  “You don’t trust the new gadgets?”

  She shrugged.“They’re cute.”

  “But you don’t think they’re as good as your brain?”

  She grinned. “Don’t try to lead me down the garden path, kid. I know I’m an old fogey. I know what they think in the office…”

  He looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if she’d picked up the wrong fork. She waited.

  “They think you’re a good agent, but that you haven’t moved with the times. You and Ray and the others who started in the cold war…”

  “With the cold war, you mean. Ah, Sandy, you do make me feel like an endangered species.” She stopped, remembering Ray’s comment. Sandy was making negative sounds. She grinned again, only just stopping herself from patting his hand. She had to curb this urge to be maternal.

  “It’s all right. I started in the days when we had to use human beings and now that we’ve entered the electronic age, I’m not sure I want to become a walking computer with ‘Made in Japan’ written on my soul.”

  That was going too far for him. “Many of our devices are made in the United States,” he said a little stiffly. “Why, in Cambridge alone…”

  This time she couldn’t resist. She patted his hand. “I know, dear, I’ve been to Cambridge. It’s the envy of a grateful nation.”

  He was not mollified. “If you have a good long range miniature camera taking pictures, you can send them back and experts can go over them and pick up all kinds of things you’d never notice. And you can go back over them and remember things you’ve forgotten,”

  “Oh, Sandy, you can train your mind to do exactly the same things, and you have the advantage of being there, feeling what’s going on. Cameras can lie as effectively as people. I’m sure of that every time I have my picture taken. A camera can record facts, or what look like facts—events, let’s say. But it can’t interpret them.”

  “But you can interpret the events after you see the film.”

  “If it’s not too late. I’ve been on lots of missions where I brought back film, and there’s a place for electronics. I just feel that contrary to the prevailing theory, there’s a place for human beings as well. The camera has no stake in the outcome, Sandy. Human beings do.”

  “The camera doesn’t make poor decisions.”

  “Neither does a good agent.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather depend on a good spy satellite than on someone like Ray who can get himself killed?”

  “I’d prefer Ray. Feeling rather mortal myself.” She sighed. “I understand why you’d rather depend on equipment than on human beings. You haven’t worked with anyone, in or out of the agency, long enough to build up the kind of trust you need to be willing to trust someone with your life. And maybe you won’t get a chance to. It’s your loss, I think.”

  “It didn’t do Ray much good.”

  She looked at him without speaking. He was abashed, but damned if he was going to give in and apologize. All that high flown talk about trusting people with your life. She sure as hell didn’t trust him. Or he her. He certainly wasn’t going to trust her with his life.

  She continued to stare at him, reading at least the gist of his thoughts. And agreeing. There was no reason why he should trust her, and she knew she didn’t trust him. She hadn’t wanted him; he was excess baggage. But he was here.

  “Ray and I,” she said slowly, “had years of working together behind us. We knew certain things. We had, if you will, a common ‘gut.’” She stopped. She might have been speaking Swahili.

  “It didn’t do Ray any good,” he repeated stubbornly. He was aware that he was being childish. Damn the woman-she always reduced him to this. None of the females at Radcliffe, a formidable crew, had ever made him feel so inadequate. “He trusted you with his life; and he lost it.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve missed the point. He didn’t trust me with his life. He trusted me with his death. A much greater responsibility, and one I intend to fulfill.”

  She stopped abruptly. She had said too much. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  *****

  Panov knew about Jessica’s trip to Rila; he had been waiting for her to move. He had not been idle, however. It had taken him a very short time to get Father Vazov’s name, even without the letter which, of course, he had not seen.

  But Father Vazov had gone to Turnova and it had taken Leontov only a short time to ascertain that he had taken an icon with him which did not belong in the Rila collection. Since the two men knew it did not belong in Turnova either, it was likely that he would be returning to Rila with the icon.

  Panov was determined that Jessica was not going to get ahead of him this time. Leaving Leontov to follow Sandy and Jessica and delay them as much as possible, he had set out to intercept Father Vazov.

  Leontov had prepared for his part with his customary thoroughness. He had scouted the terrain, had obtained a rifle with a telescopic sight and a silencer. He was relaxed; wherever Jessica and Sandy might choose to go, he was ready. He was pleased when they decided to walk in the hills behind the restaurant because it made his task easier, but unlike Panov he felt no personal animosity toward Jessica. If he had been ordered to kill her, he’d have done so without a qualm. But he hadn’t been. He enjoyed her singing, even going so far as to stop her after a set and offer his compliments, to Panov’s fury.

  Leontov was no fool. He was aware that the assignment was not going well for Panov, and that he had been making mistakes. Leontov was taking care that these mistakes did not reflect on him. He had his own sources and he knew more about both sides of the mission than Panov realized. It was not his place to interfere, but neither was he going to be left holding the baby.

  Panov was beyond caring what Leontov or anyone else thought. Each setback had led him a little further from the kind of clear, rational analysis he usually brought to an assignment. He had not told Leontov how he planned to intercept Father Vazov. Leontov had not asked.

  He had driven over the winding road which led to the monastery several times, searching for a spot suitable to carry out his plan. The area was mountainous and heavily wooded and the road curved sharply in several places. There were large stone monuments placed at intervals along the road, marking the death of bands of partisans who had fought the Nazis. Finally he found an area which he thought would be perfect. It was an S-curve with a sharp drop into a deep crevice cut by the small but swift running river which ran past the monastery into the valley below.

  He picked up the car carrying Father Vazov and his driver on the main road. He kept his distance until they turned off into the road which led up to Rila Monastery. There was little traffic on the road. Panov had chosen the spot for its isolation. He didn’t want any witnesses; he had no intention of leaving the priest alive for Jessica to talk to. Even with the icon in his possession, he wasn’t going to feel safe.

  He drew closer to the car ahead as they neared the curve. Father Vazov’s driver glanced in his mirror at Panov, dismissed him as a tourist. In spite of the fact that he drove the road daily and was familiar with it, he gave it his full attention as he approached the sharp bend. He was unaware of Panov’s movement until he realized that Panov was beside him, trying to pass. He swore
bitterly and jerked the wheel to the right, startling Father Vazov who had been reading, oblivious to the drama. Father Vazov had time to glance curiously at the other car before it became apparent to the driver that Panov was trying to force them off the road. It was too late to recover. Panov’s car edged closer and closer and barely touched the priest’s car before it tore through the guard rail and sailed into the valley below.

  Panov began to brake carefully. He glanced at the broken railing and was swinging back around the bend when the army lorry loaded with heavy crates came hurtling around the curve directly in his path. He jammed the brakes to the floor and the car swerved sideways. The lorry driver didn’t even have time to hit the brakes before the front of his vehicle hit Panov’s car broadside. It crashed to the valley floor and settled barely forty feet from the car containing Father Vazov. The two soldiers sitting beside the driver hit the windshield and the two sitting among the crates in back were hurtled forward. The driver managed to stop the lorry at the edge of the road and sat slumped over the wheel, tears running unnoticed down his face. There was no sound except the rush of the river far below.

  Panov had been right. This one was his.

  *****

  Jessica received confirmation of the priest’s death the next morning. Within an hour she was seated in a restaurant with Ilya.

  “Father Vazov was killed yesterday in that car crash,”

  He nodded.

  “I was on my way to see him when he died.”

  He waited.

  “He had an icon which had been sent to Rila by mistake-I had a letter from the restorer. I was going to pick up the icon.” She stopped.

  “It’s what you are looking for?”

  She nodded.

  “Did he have it with him?”

  “I don’t know. He had been to Turnova; I don’t know why. Perhaps he realized the icon didn’t belong at Rila.”

  “Do you know what it looks like?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “NO. And everyone who might have told me is dead,”

  He got up and stood looking down at her. “I’ll look into it and see what can be done. I’ll call you when I have found something.”

  It was early evening before the phone rang. “I have arranged for us to visit your friend,” Ilya said. “Perhaps when you are finished this evening?”

  She finished around two-thirty in the morning.

  “That would be very nice,” she said.

  “I’ll pick you up at the club,” he said and rang off.

  He appeared at the back of the club as Jessica headed toward her dressing room.

  “You look wonderful, but I hope you’re going to change.”

  She looked down at the Halston which fell to the floor in a clean line of deep orange silk. “You don’t think this is suitable for visiting?”

  “In a helicopter, no.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “My dear, you do deliver.”

  “Compliments of the management,” he said modestly.

  “I’ll change.”

  She emerged in a few minutes in dark slacks, a polo-necked sweater, and a nylon windbreaker.

  He nodded approvingly and taking her arm led her out the back door to a waiting black Volga.

  As the door closed behind them, the tall figure who had been standing in the shadows at the end of the hall moved slowly back to the bandstand.

  Karl took one look at Stefan’s troubled face and said, “Is something wrong with Jessica?”

  “I don’t know.” He was sullen, but there was an undertone of anxiety in his voice. “She just left with Colonel Christov.”

  “With Colonel Christov?” The anxiety was in Karl’s voice as well. “Where did he take her?”

  “She went willingly, she was not a prisoner.” Stefan’s outrage was greater than his anxiety now.

  “How do you know?” Both Karl and Stefan glanced over in surprise as Jim’s voice cut in laconically.

  “They were talking like friends. Good friends,” Stefan said bitterly.

  “Jessica is friendly with everyone. Perhaps she doesn’t know who Colonel Christov is,” Karl said.

  “Who is he?” Jim’s voice was still lazy,

  The two Bulgarians looked at each other; it was Karl who answered. “He is Chief of State Security.”

  Jim looked at them for a moment without speaking.

  “If she doesn’t know, it won’t make any difference, will it? She had nothing to do with that man in the dressing room.” But there was just a trace of anxiety in his voice as well.

  Paeter had been standing in the shadows behind the bandstand. “I am sure Miss Winter has nothing to fear from State Security. She is a guest in our country.”

  The others looked at him expressionlessly and he smiled and said goodnight. He left the club by the back door and, turning the corner, entered a small house and made a telephone call which, before the night was over, cost two lives.

  *****

  They landed the helicopter on a small dirt road above Rila Monastery. It was very quiet as Ilya cut the motor. They sat for a moment, then Jessica said, “That was rather impressive, Colonel Christov. I’ve never seen a landing in total darkness from this close up. It isn’t exactly the quietest way to sneak in, however.”

  “You can’t have everything. There’s a torch under your seat. Did you find it? Good, let’s go.”

  They started down the hill toward the monastery enclosure.

  “We think the icon in question has been placed in the church for now,” Ilya said quietly as they picked their way carefully along the rutted road. “It was brought back by one of the priests who found it in the wreckage of the car. No one seemed to know who it belonged to; but fortunately they did know it was not one of the ones they had sent to be restored.” He hesitated a moment. “They tried to send it back to Varna, but it seems the restorer has died.”

  “Yes,” Jessica said grimly. He waited, but she did not continue. They went for several minutes in silence. Finally, Jessica spoke.

  “Do you know what it looks like?”

  “It’s an early Slavic emperor.”

  “How odd. Do you think you’ll be able to identify it?”

  “I think so.”

  They were at the entrance of the monastery compound. “Ilya, where is everybody? Don’t the priests live here?”

  “Yes, but they sleep on the far side.”

  “And they don’t hear helicopters?”

  “They sleep soundly—at peace with themselves and with God.”

  “And with State Security,” she muttered.

  “Quite possibly that as well.”

  They had been talking quietly as they crossed the open compound and headed toward the tiny chapel in the center of the courtyard.

  Neither of them noticed the figure who stood motionless on the open veranda of the monastery, who was, and had always been, one step ahead of them.

  Ilya opened the door of the chapel and they stepped inside. “Is it always open?” Jessica was quietly amused.

  Ilya’s voice was bland. “There is no crime in Bulgaria.”

  “So I hear.” Her voice was equally mild.

  The air inside the church was heavy with incense and candle wax. The only light was from a tall candle burning on the richly adorned altar at the front of the chapel. They made their way cautiously; the light was dim and the space was packed with relics and artifacts. There were icons everywhere—on pillars, on easels, and the altar itself had thirty or more displayed.

  “Do you have the torch?” Ilya said.

  “Yes, I have yours and a small pencil torch. Do you want yours?”

  “You hold it and let me look.”

  She turned on the large torch, playing it carefully over the assembled icons. They all looked similar to her-the Madonna, or wisemen, or ascetic looking saints.

  “It isn’t very big, perhaps six inches by eight.”

  “What is that in centimeters?”

  “Christ…I never know…perha
ps fifteen by twenty?”

  She put the torch under her arm and gestured, “This by this, I think.”

  “Yes, that would be about right.”

  They had reached the end of the altar. Jessica moved the torch to the next group of easels, but Ilya took her arm and moved it back to the last group.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let me look at that one.”

  It was the right size and showed a plump satisfied looking man clutching a sceptre.

  “Looks like Cyril or Methodius to me,” Jessica said doubtfully.

  “In those clothes? With a sceptre? And that cherubic face? This isn’t a Bulgarian icon—or Russian either, if it comes to that.”

  “Well, who is it?” Jessica said impatiently.

  “It appears to be one of the early Holy Roman emperors.” He hesitated, trying to decipher the markings at the bottom of the icon. “Fourteen-fifty-eight, I think it says—my Roman numerals are weak. That would be the Emperor Maximilian. He unified the church in the Balkans.” He rambled on, unaware that he had lost his audience.

  Only a slight tremor in the hand that held the torch betrayed the frisson which began at the back of her neck and sent a chill down her backbone. Ray’s note made a lot more sense. Endangered species. I should bloody well think so, she thought despairingly. Christ Almighty, Super Klutz has struck again.

  Ilya had finished his history lesson and was looking at her expectantly. “Does that sound right?”

  She looked back at him blankly for a moment. “Absolutely on target. What do we do now?”

  “Is it the icon itself that you want?”

  “Do you think I’ve come this far to make a tracing?”

  “Jessica.”

  “Sorry. Yes, I need the icon.”

  He reached over and took it off the stand. “Here it is. After all, it belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess it does. I’ve become the literary executor-or executioner,” she added grimly.

  “Not in my territory, I hope.”

  She touched his shoulder. “I’ll try to restrain my baser instincts until I’m out of Bulgaria. Which had better be later today.”