Sandy was clearly impatient to be off. She looked over to where he sat behind the controls. “You know how to get there?”
He smiled. At last, he was in control of the situation. “I know how to get there.”
She smiled back. “You’ve done a good job.”
He looked at her a trifle suspiciously, but she seemed perfectly sincere.
“Thanks.”
She looked down at Ilya. She was still holding his hand. “Well, this is it, chum. You’re in good hands.”
He nodded. She searched for a light touch, but for once she had none. She squeezed his hand and shrugged. “You win some…” she stopped, looking grim, “And some you don’t.” She let go of his hand, patted him brusquely. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She raised her eyes to Sandy. “Remember the Capitol Beltway.”
She stepped down and away from the machine. As Sandy started it, she joined the three men further up the road. They watched as the helicopter lifted off the ground and turning north headed toward Sofia. She waited until the winking lights disappeared and then turned to the others.
“Do we have a way back to Sofia?”
It appeared Karl had a car, an official looking black Volga. She crawled gratefully into the back and put her head against the seat. Jim sat beside her, Karl and Stefan in the front. Waves of fatigue washed over her as the car began to roll toward Sofia. She drifted into an uneasy sleep, her mind a blank screen with shadowy images flitting across it. They were in the suburbs of the city, passing dark rows of houses, when the questions surfaced.
Who had shot Ilya? Was he the target? Or had the Russians decided that it was time to move? If she had been the target, why hadn’t they stayed to finish the job? Maybe the arrival of Karl and Stefan had scared them off. But how had Karl and Stefan gotten there, and how had they linked up with Sandy? She felt as if her mind were wrapped in a damp grey fog.
*****
Dawn was streaking the sky with pink as they reached the center of Sofia and Jessica’s hotel.
She said goodnight to Jim and Karl.Stefan was slumped in his corner sleeping the sleep of the just. She walked into the deserted lobby of her hotel which had the sullen air of uninhabited public rooms. She felt very much the same herself as she approached the desk. The sleepy looking youngster behind the desk handed her the room key, then glanced nervously across the lobby. She turned, sure of whom she would find.
Major Borov was sitting in an armchair near a pillar. He rose as she came toward him.
“Hello, Major Borov.”
“You’re out late, Miss Winter.”
“Or up early.”
He looked at her drawn face. “You evidently did not sleep well.”
A slight smile reached almost to her eyes. “You’re very gallant, Major. Do you check to see if every singer in town sleeps well?”
“Only the bloodstained ones.”
She glanced down at her slacks. Although they were dark, the smears of blood from Ilya’s leg were clearly visible. She sighed. She never had felt she was a match for Micha Borov. At this point the only thing she could think of was ten hours of sleep.
“You have an explanation for those?”
“Do I need one?”
“In a murder investigation, a bloodstained witness is always interesting.”
“Murder investigation?” She was waking up.
“The Chief of Bulgarian Security has been killed.”
But she had seen that helicopter airborne with a very much alive Ilya. She hadn’t seen it come down though, had she? And where was Sandy? She sat down abruptly in the chair facing Micha Borov’s. He sat down as well, looking at her calmly. Her mind was working furiously. She had been criminally negligent to let the two of them out of her sight. What had Sandy done? She had left Ilya defenseless; she realized with a shock that she still had his gun. She said finally, much too late, “How did he die?”
Borov smiled slightly.“We found his body in the wreckage of a helicopter. He had been shot. We think you shot him and sent your colleague to dispose of the body.”
She liked the story; it stuck to the facts. It was almost true. There wasn’t anyone around who was going to deny it. Her fatigue was a positive factor now. She was hearing what he was saying, but she was not getting the full impact or the implications for her.
“Would you like to hear an Americanized version of that story?”
He glanced around the quiet, shadowed lobby and shrugged. “We’re alone here.”
“I think you shot Ilya and sabotaged the helicopter. Did you think I’d be on it?” She waited. Same facts, somewhat different interpretation.”
“You Americans are very creative.” His voice was neutral. “But why would I do such a thing?”
It was her turn to show a card. “I heard you at Agushev Konak, Major.”
He might have been made of stone. Only his eyes moved, flicked over her, then rested on the shadows across the empty room. It was a portentous moment. If she had known it, he was feeling exactly as she had only days before, tempted to lay the whole thing out, to explain. It passed, as her temptation had. All he said was, “You’re a very mobile young woman.”
“Mobile, yes, young, no.” Her voice was hoarse with fatigue. She felt lumpy. Tiredness absorbed her like a sponge, but her eyes were sharp. “He trusted you, you know. He never did believe you meant him harm. The Godfather of his sons.”
His eyes remained on the shadows, seeking sanctuary. Finally, he spoke. “Would you like a few hours sleep before making a statement?”
It was an enormous concession and she received it expressionlessly.
“Of course,” he said, “It would be foolish to attempt to leave Bulgaria.”
“It would be tacky to try,” she agreed dully. “Even if I had the energy.”
He rose and helped her from her chair. “I will come upstairs with you,” he said as he pushed the button for the elevator. In spite of herself, she was grateful. As they approached her door he reached down and took the key from her limp hand. He opened the door and stood looking at her. It was so hopelessly reminiscent of a first date that she almost giggled. Oh, God, she thought wildly, do you kiss on the first arrest? He solved the problem by pushing her gently toward the middle of the room. For his part, he was torn. He sensed she was near collapse. Should he put her into bed?
He wasn’t sure if he left her standing there that she wouldn’t be standing there when he returned. She solved that problem by walking to the bed, drawing back the covers, and climbing in, bloodstained clothes and all. She was asleep before he got out the door. He locked the door and went downstairs, leaving word with the wide-eyed clerk that Miss Winter was not to be disturbed until he returned.
She slept for twelve hours. The sun was setting when she opened her eyes and looked around the room. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. It was only when she moved and realized she was fully dressed that her mind began to function. She looked with distaste at the bloodstained trousers, got up, and stripped everything off. She was standing under the shower before the enormity of the night’s events hit her. Ilya, Sandy, dead. Everyone who had helped her, no matter how innocently, under arrest. Micha Borov with a story that it would take an Act of God to disprove. She couldn’t, in her misery, think of anything she had done to deserve an Act of God.
The Russians would never have called it an Act of God. As she stood under the shower, Micha Borov was taking a phone call from Ilya’s father-in-law, the head of the Bulgarian Communist Party. After the formal condolences were received, the old man got down to business. It was, he said, a terrible tragedy for all of them, his daughter was prostrate, the boys heartbroken. But it was obvious that it had been an unavoidable act of fate, an accident.
Micha Borov gripped the phone tightly and stared grimly at the wall in front of him. Christov’s voice continued. Their neighbors to the northeast were anxious that there be no scandal, which he was sure Micha would understand. He did. Perhaps Micha would undertake t
o see that Miss Winter got out of the country without difficulty? Micha grunted assent. She was, the voice continued, an honored guest, an artist, and a friend of his son-in-law. It would be natural that she wish to return to her country after the shock. They must do everything possible to smooth the way. Micha grunted again.
There was a hint of steel in the old man’s voice. “We will consider the matter closed. The funeral will be held day after tomorrow. The American’s body has been turned over to the embassy. We will speak later of a replacement for my son-in-law.” He rang off.
Micha Borov put the phone down and continued to stare at the wall in front of him. How much did the old man know? Or suspect? Why the hell did the Russians keep interfering? If she was working for the Russians, why didn’t they tell him so? Had they? Was that part of the significance of her reference to Agushev Konak? Whoever she was working for, she was better than she appeared to be at first glance. She certainly had a knack for landing on her feet. He sighed deeply, pushed back his chair and rose. He felt heavy and stiff. The night without sleep was catching up with him.
*****
Out of the shower, Jessica dressed and sat looking at the icon. The medium was the message. That much was clear. Ray had assumed she’d get the whole thing in Varna and get out. But was the microfilm on the icon? For some reason, she no longer thought so. She stared at the plump figure in the picture and her weariness deepened. Sunk in lethargy, she could only sense that she had missed something. Finally she rose and went to the desk where her music lay. She flipped through it and took out Ray’s note. What exactly had he said?
She read the note without emotion this time, analyzing each sentence, trying to take nothing for granted. He said he was leaving the film. OK. He said to ask Mrs. Christopolis about the icon. He said nothing about bringing it back. It was clear now that he had simply wanted her to see that icon. And for his pursuers not to. Sorry, Ray. She’d done everything but put it in a traveling medicine show. So what did that leave? What had he said? She stared at the card in frustration. He said, “Bring home the puppy biscuit.” She closed her eyes. Walter Mitty, flying his plane, topoketa, topoketa; standing with his back against the wall, waiting to be shot. Puppy biscuit. He said, “Bring home the puppy biscuit.” She ran her fingers lightly over the letters. The dot over the first i in biscuit was raised slightly.
God damn! She collapsed into the chair, staring incredulously at the card in her hand. There it was. She’d had it all along.
Good old literal Ray. Always explicit, always saying exactly what he meant. He’d been so sure he could trust her to do precisely what he said. That was her forte, wasn’t it…obeying instructions? She’d come so close to burning the damned note after reading it. Only the fact that it was her last physical link to Ray had made her thrust it in among the sheets of music. She’d considered it a sentimental weakness. Another instance of Providence protecting the feeble minded.
Now all she had to do was get it out of the country.
Well, she thought grumpily, so much for your famed analysis of the problem. She was grateful but wary at the turn events had taken. Last night it had been hard to imagine how she was going to get out of the country with the microfilm. This morning she was standing at the airport with a Bulgarian State Security escort. It hadn’t been a good night.
“I appreciate your coming with me, Major,” she said politely.
“I wished to be sure you got on the plane safely.” His voice matched hers in bland suavity.
She probed a little, her voice still carefully casual. “Yesterday you believed I was a dangerous criminal; today I’m an honored guest. Fortunes change swiftly in Bulgaria.”
“Our ties with the Russians go back many years.”
Surely an irrelevant comment? She waited.
“When the Russians asked us to be certain you returned safely, we were, of course, pleased to assist you.”
Her face was impassive and he felt rather than saw the shock which stiffened her body.
He added another bit of information to his stock. She hadn’t known. She was realizing, as the shock faded, that it was not new information. She had known since Aqushev Konak that the Russians were protecting her. She simply hadn’t put the pieces together. She wasn’t being enormously clever to be getting the microfilm out; they had counted on her doing so. Much of the puzzle slipped into place, and she had a penetrating vision of the difficulties Micha Borov had been undergoing on her behalf.
She looked at him with a glint of amusement. Ray had been right; this was a cockeyed one. Her amusement faded. This was undoubtedly their plan for getting her out of the country. It certainly wasn’t hers. She was pretty sure it hadn’t been Micha Borov’s either. She grinned at him. “Some days it’s hard to tell the players without a score sheet.”
He nodded. Their eyes met briefly. Neither of them was in a particularly enviable position, and they both knew it. But they were survivors, and for an instant they shared that knowledge. She didn’t particularly like him at that moment, but she wasn’t liking herself much either.
He knew what she was feeling. He had felt the same baffled self-loathing in the early days of the war. He had been ordered to shoot two women who were accused of collaboration. He had done so and had faced his superior with exactly the face and feeling Jessica was displaying now, “What,” he had demanded of the older man, “What if we were wrong?” The old man, who had, Micha remembered with amusement looked very much the way he himself looked now, had shrugged, palms up, “What if we were right?” He had done it, but he had never been sure, then or later, whether they had been right.
“He was using you, you know.” She was silent. Should he go on?
“He wanted to change things too quickly. He thought he could use American intelligence as an ally. The Russians would never have allowed it. There are ways to do these things.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Major. But we all use each other, don’t we? Although in my case, I gather he had to stand in line.”
He admired the grit. There was a line of white around her mouth, and her face was pale. But she managed a slight smile.
“Weren’t you more concerned that I was using him?”
“In the end, it didn’t matter.”
Her flight was called. He said, “You will be all right?” It was not a question.
For an instant, as she looked him in the eye, she rebelled. She did not want to be all right, damn it.
He saw it and dealt with it like any other rebellion in the ranks. His eyes sharpened and raked her face as he repeated, “You will be all right.” This time it was a command. She smiled slightly and shook his hand formally. “Thank you, Major Borov,” was all she said as she turned and walked through the gate to the aircraft bus. She turned at the door. “Good luck, Major.” He raised his hand. They were both going to need it.
To the other passengers who had been watching them, especially the ones who recognized Micha Borov, it was a rather disappointingly tame scene. Two strangers with nothing to say to each other getting through the last few minutes before a much desired release. In fact, it would have been hard to find two people who had as much in common as they did at that moment.
*****
The flight to Washington was smooth and without incident. She drew fatigue around her like a wall and spoke to no one. She did not eat, although she did finally accept some tea from the distressed stewardess. She dozed intermittently and tried not to think.
Thoughts of Ilya, of Sandy, of the others were pushed back hard and the door slammed. She couldn’t shut out her rage at the way she’d been used. But surely, she said viciously to herself, that was her function, wasn’t it? To be used. Isn’t that what a good agent is? A useful tool. Christ, they’d been so proud of her. “Jessica thinks like a man. She still sees it as a game.” Did she not? Ruthlessly, relentlessly, she’d gone on playing the game long after it should have been obvious to even the meanest intelligence that the rules in this one were slightly a
skew.
Little Miss Marker, American innocence personified. If we’re just nice, it will all come out all right. Hell and damnation! It was so painful she actually squirmed in her seat. The man next to her glanced at her curiously and went back to his import quotas.
Stop it! You’re simply being self-indulgent. God knows that had been the hallmark of this whole exercise. She’d had such a good time. Even after the bodies had started to fall around her, she’d still had a good time. She’d always divided her lives so neatly. But two hadn’t been quite enough, had they? For the people who had been caught up in both of them, it had been one too many.
How had he known just what she would do? Because he knew her very well. Because she was so well trained. By him. She ground her teeth.
She had sent a two-word message.
Maybe it wouldn’t be enough.
Maybe.
Finally, she slept.
*****
It was dark on the second floor of the little gallery, the only light a dim glow from an arc light on the street. Headlights of passing cars would occasionally sweep past, catching the gold of the icons. She sat quietly, waiting for the man she knew would come.
The time passed slowly, but she was not impatient. She had a sense of inevitability, as if she had been moving toward this moment for months.
Finally it came, a little click, no more. If she hadn’t been stretched taut for it, she might have missed it in the sounds of the building settling for the night. A shadow, hardly more, moving silently up the stairs, standing finally in front of the icon.
“Hello, Max,” she said quietly. “It isn’t there.”
“You have been clever, haven’t you?”
“Obviously not clever enough.”
“I didn’t take you seriously enough.”
“So it would seem.”
Why were they standing there, being so polite to one another? Why wasn’t she screaming at him? How could he do this to her? How could he have done it to Ray?
“Ray warned me you were wasted on routine assignments.”
No Work for a Woman Page 17
