“Let me drive,” Durell said.
“We must wait for Mikhail.”
“Do you think he’s coming?“
“He will not betray us. He will come if he can.”
Durell knew they could not wait indefinitely. Every moment added to the chance of their capture by the men who had tried to detain them at the opera house. The narrow lane was dark and deserted, and only a few lighted windows gleamed in the functional facades of the concrete apartment houses. The wind keened in the telephone and power lines strung overhead. The girl shivered suddenly.
“He isn’t coming,” Durell said, when several minutes went by. “Where does Mikhail live?”
“He is one of the fortunate ones; he has an apartment in the Winter Palace district." She drew a deep breath that plumed in the wet, icy air when she exhaled. “Perhaps we had better see if he is there, after all.”
They got into the Pobeda again. The girl insisted on driving. The city had darkened considerably since their first ride along the avenues. The politseyskis at the intersections had little to do. A light, freezing rain began to fall again, stiffening the banners erected for May Day.
Mikhail’s apartment house was new, obviously set aside for the upper-income brackets of Soviet society. It stood behind a row of saplings that rattled barren branches in the icy wind. Valya drove by slowly and nodded to indicate the uniformed man standing in the doorway.
“That is Josef, but we have nothing to fear from him. Let me talk to him first.”
She parked and walked across the broad sidewalk. Durell waited while she spoke to the old man. Apparently there was no cause for alarm. She signaled him and they went into the steam-heated and ornate lobby and up an elevator to the fifth floor. The building was quiet except for the strains of a modern concerto coming from behind a closed door as they passed. Valya had a key to the apartment. She knocked lightly, then opened the door with her key and pulled Durell inside. The living room was furnished comfortably, even sumptuously, softly lighted by porcelain lamps. Durell wished he had a gun. He smelled danger around him. But it had been decided in Washington that no weapon would be of help if his identity were ever suspected.
“Miko?" the girl called.
The dancer appeared suddenly in a doorway. “Lock the door, Valya.“
She stared at him. “What happened to you?”
“They cut me off. I had to come here. I don’t know how much time we have. I’m sure they will arrive soon.”
“Would they dare?” the girl asked. “You are a respected artist, a great name in our theatre. How would they dare to interfere with you? In any case, Uncle Sergei would see to it that you are kept safe.”
The slender man shrugged wryly. His manner toward Durell was formal. but not completely unfriendly now. His narrow face glistened with sweat. Durell could understand the agony of a physical coward. The man had not taken off his velvet-collared coat or his dark fedora. Valya crossed to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek, then looked back at Durell.
“Let’s get to Marshall,” Durell said. “Tell me where he's hiding. Neither of you have to take me to him or risk yourselves further. I’ll go alone."
The girl and the man exchanged a swift glance. Mikhail seemed to be listening for something outside, then he went to the window and looked down at the dark street for a long moment. When he turned, his face was pale.
“You might as well know. Marshall is here. Your friend must have come here during the performance tonight. He is in my bedroom.” He indicated the room, then paused and swallowed. “But I think he is dead.”
Durell saw the dismay on Valya’s face as he crossed the room with a quick stride and flung open the door into the bedroom. A dim light shone inside against the heavy plush draperies drawn across the windows. There was a large walnut bed against the wall and other heavy furniture of Empire design. There was a. smell of blood and sickness in the room.
Marshall lay on his ‘back across the bed, his arms flung wide, his eyes closed. There was a great stain of blood across his chest where a wound had opened and soaked through crude bandages under his shirt. His face had the mark of death upon it. His teeth glistened under gray, parted lips.
“Luke?” Durell said softly.
The girl made a small sound behind him, but he did not turn. He was aware of deep shock at the change in Marshall. He had known Luke back in the old OSS days, when they were both younger and more reckless. Those days seemed a century ago, in another time and another world. Luke hail grown stout in his late forties, although his mind was keener. He had developed a fat man‘s optimism along with the paunch. He had a pleasant, rosy-faced wife back in Connecticut and two sons in prep school, slated for Yale because Durell had gone to Yale. He had visited their home many times, an ancient helter-skelter warm and cozy place on ten rocky acres of woodland.
But Luke was not fat and jovial now. The flesh had wasted from his bones, and his face was sunken and gray. You’re a long way from home, Durell thought.
He felt Marshall’s pulse. For a moment he sensed no flicker of life under his fingertips. Then a dim beat like the flutter of a bird’s wing made itself felt. He saw the blue of cyanosis around Marshall’s mouth and then heard the faintest of sighs as the dying man drew a thin breath.
Durell pushed back Marshall’s wispy hair with gentle fingers, but his voice was sharp as he swung to Mikhail. “Get some brandy. We‘ve got to revive him. Hurry, man!”
Mikhail did not move. His teeth chartered faintly.
“The blood they will know—I am ruined—”
Durell saw the bright glaze of hysteria in the man's eyes and the spasmodic jerk to the left corner of his handsome mouth. Durell slapped him, the sound of his palm against cheek like a pistol report. Mikhail staggered against the wall. Durell slapped him again, harder. It had no effect. Valya ran from the room.
A trail of spattered blood led from the bed to a door
across the bedroom. Durell followed it down a short corridor to another heavy door at the rear. It was bolted. When he opened it, he saw a concrete stairwell going down. Standing there, he thought he heard the scrape and slide of a shoe against cement, far down in the dim shaft. The blood led down the steps, but he didn’t follow it further. He cursed the luck that had thrown him into the hands of these amateurs, and listened for more sounds; he thought he heard the ghostly whisper of a voice in the gloom below, but he saw nothing. It could have been the He went back to the bedroom, bolting the door behind him.
Valya stood there with a bottle of Caucasian brandy. Mikhail had slipped to a sitting position on the floor, eyes staring, teeth still chattering. Valya’s lips were white.
“Your friend must be trade to talk,” she said tightly.
“Otherwise we all are lost.”
“I think our other friends have already arrived,” Durell said.
“They will not dare to come in at once,” Valya’s voice was steady. “Mikhail is too important to trifle with. The MVD, of course, is another matter. They will discover Marshall‘s identity, and yours, and we will he finished.
“Give me the brandy."
Gently, Durell forced the liquor between the wounded man’s teeth. It spilled and dribbled from slack blue lips. With his fingers he massaged Marshall’s throat and forced a few more drops into his mouth, working the neck muscles until a reflex swallowing was made. Marshall coughed feebly. His eyes popped open, sightless, and closed and he coughed again and a bright stain of fresh blood spread swiftly through the bandages on his chest.
“Luke,” Durell said softly. “It‘s me, Sam Durell. I’m here. Can you understand me?”
The lips moved and a low muttering came from Marshall. Durell eased more brandy between his lips. Desperation gripped him. The girl stood in the bedroom doorway, detached from what was between him and the dying man. She watched, and she had a cool grip on herself. Her poise evoked Durell’s admiration, even though he suspected it was basically a Slavic fatalism.
“Sam?”
His sigh was a whisper of cool wind drifting between brittle twigs. Luke Marshall’s eyes opened Wide, looking up at him, seeing him. His mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. “Hello, you—Cajun.”
“Can you hear me, Luke?”
“Got a-—Cajun accent. More brandy?"
Durell raised the man’s head with a touch as gentle as a mother’s hand. Marshall drank greedily.
Durell moved the wasted body to a more comfortable position and sat on the edge of the bed; Marshall’s hand fumbled out and caught his in a grip of surprising strength. He spoke in English.
“Going to check out. Sam, so don’t kid me. Don’t stop my
talking. Been saving it for you. Sukinin reached you, eh?
I've been here six months—like six years. I’m homesick, Cajun. Like to see Lucy. My stone fences in Connecticut—hear the peepers this spring. You go see her and listen to ‘em for me, huh?”
“I’ll do that.”
“But first you‘ve got a lot to do."
Valya came to the bedside and her eyes regarded Marshall with objective interest. “lie must not talk like this. It will kill him, Do not press him to talk, Durell, if you love him.”
Durell looked into Marshall’s eyes. “Luke has to talk. I love him like a brother, but if he doesn’t talk, we’re all dead.”
Marshall closed his eyes. Durell felt his pulse. He felt nothing. Then he saw Luke’s chest heave with a long. Painful breath. The heart beat stronger again as the brandy took hold. Marshall looked at him.
“Have we got much time, Sam?”
“No."
“Did they follow me here?”
“I think so."
“Sorry. Mikhail and Valya—okay. They‘ll help. Good people, want the right thing. Risk their lives for it. Underground fighters. Not for us, though. For themselves. For Soviet. There's a difference, understand?”
“Go on." Durell said, and his voice was calm and waiting, a mask for the pity that tore at him because of Marshall’s ebbing life. He was doing what he had to do, and he couldn’t change anything. “What have you left unfinished Luke?
‘What were you looking for?"
“The missile—five-thousand-mile range. They beat us to it."
“Will they use it?"
Marshall nodded. “Yes.”
Durell gave him more brandy. The room felt suddenly cold, as if a presence had silently entered and stood waiting in a corner, radiating the cold from its non-being as it watched Marshall. The dying man’s whisper fought against it.
“Sam, things have changed here a. hit. Don‘t count on it too much but you know how they've desanctified Stalin, coining out with the truth against him . . . trying collective leadership in the Politburo . . .”
“Yes.”
“Could mean peace for a time . . . can’t tell. But it's a chance. if it continues. But man in charge of missile project . . . wants to be a new vozhd, new Stalin . . . dictator. Might make it if he can start war.”
“Who is he?”
“Nobody knows. In charge of missile project, not a major member of Politburo. They call him Z. Wants to begin with a surprise attack. Valya, Mikhail . . . part of group fighting it underground. They don’t know-—plan to assassinate Z when he goes to missile base a. few days from now. I’ve been trying to get our Moscow Embassy—”
“To make the plan public and scotch it that way?” Durell asked.
“Right. I figured if our people knew and had proof—Z wouldn’t dare move. They‘d finish him right here. But Mikhail and Valya—they wouldn‘t let me get to our people. Figure it’s their own problem—and don’t trust us, either. It’s up to you, Sam. Get to Holbrook, at the Embassy. Don’t let either side stop you. Don’t get mixed up in the assassination plot, whatever you do. None of our business, hear?”
Durell looked at Mikhail and the girl. Valya understood what was being said, but her cool beautiful face told him nothing at all.
Marshall whispered painfully: “Go to Moscow, Sam. Take Valya. Change identity. They’re on to Valya and Mikhail. But don’t let her stop you from reaching our Embassy. It’s our best bet.”
“All right," Durell said. “They won’t stop me.”
“And take Valya to her people, too. Owe it to her—for their help. Go to No. Forty-two Kamenevsky Ulitza. Men there waiting for me . . . I'm supposed to take them to missile base.”
“Doesn’t Valya’s crowd know where the base is?”
“No. But I found it.” Marshall grinned grotesquely. “Got a map . . . my pocket . . . use it for bargaining . . .”
Durell felt in Marshall’s clothing. A folded piece of paper had been glued together at the edges by the bleeding of Marshall’s wound. He did not attempt to open it.
“Who shot you, Luke?”
Marshall shook his head, closed his eyes. “Don't know—came out of the dark. Got pneumonia, like a damned fool . . ."
“All right, don’t talk any more, Luke. Let me recap, and just check me if I'm wrong. The Soviets have an ICBM ready to go. Most of the Politburo consider it a defensive weapon, as we do. But the man in charge of the program has political ambitions and a private army of sorts. He wants to emulate Uncle Joe. And there’s an underground movement to stop him. All they know about him is that he’s called Z. They want to assassinate him. But the missile base is securely hidden and they don’t know where it is. Z is there now, presumably—"
Marshall shook his head.
“He isn’t?” Durell asked. “Then he’ll be there in a few days, when the missile is fired that starts the war. After that it will be too late and Z hopes to use the war to get in the saddle over here. Right?”
Marshall nodded, tried to speak, and closed his eyes. Durell put down the brandy bottle. He had been holding it so tightly his fist ached. He looked at Valya and Mikhail. The ballet dancer was on his feet again, staring at Marshall with hypnotized eyes. The girl watched Durell with calm animosity.
Durell said, “There are men in Moscow waiting for this map you gave me, Luke. When Z goes to the missile base, they plan to assassinate him. And you promised to tell ’em where the base is hidden. Right?”
Marshall nodded very slightly.
“Your idea to stop this whole thing is to let our Embassy people know about it. Get it to Alex Holbrook, right? But Valya and Mikhail won’t let you do it. They’ll try to stop me, too. But for now, I’ve got to work with them. When the right time comes, we break it up.”
“Be careful . . .” Marshall whispered.
“One more thing. How much time, Luke? A week? Do you know, exactly?"
There was no answer. The room was cold and silent.
Durell felt for Marshall‘s pulse and there was no pulse. He tried to catch a whisper of Marshall’s breathing, but there was no breath.
Someone pounded heavily and with authority on the front door of the apartment.
Chapter Five
GO TO the door,” Durell said. “Let them in.”
He spoke to Mikhail. The ballet dancer stood with his knees slightly bent, trying to peer from the bedroom doorway across the living room to the outer door where the pounding came from. He did not move. Mikhail looked as if he wanted to spring into the air, do a pirouette into nothingness and disappear. A clattering came from the steam pipes in the room.
“Open up!” someone shouted.
“Answer him," Durell whispered harshly. He put a hand on Mikhail’s back and shoved him toward the door. The dancer stumbled, recovered with reflex grace, and stood frozen again. Durell looked at the blonde girl. She was frightened, but there was calm in her, too.
“We are finished when they find your friend here,” she whispered. Her head swung slightly toward the bed, but she did not look directly at the body. “There will be questions we cannot answer, so we will be shot or sent to the labor camps. It is all over, all finished."
“Damn you both,” Durell said harshly. “It hasn’t even begun! Answer that door!”
The girl s
hrugged and moved around Mikhail to the doorway as another knock echoed through the apartment. She moved slowly and deliberately. Then she shrugged again and pulled the bolt aside and opened the door and stepped back one step and said: “Come in, citizens.”
Two men stood there. One was the fat man with the saddle nose: Lieutenant Kronev, from the dacha. His fur hat looked ratty and sodden with rain. Durell closed the bedroom door behind him before the fat man could look inside. The second man was a uniformed politseyski who stood uncomfortably a little behind Kronev.
“We meet again so soon, citizens,” Kronev smiled. “And at the apartment of such a famous artist. One would think such a meeting were merely a social gathering of good and true friends, am I right?”
“Why are you following us?” Durell demanded.
“You people from the Moscow branch are accustomed to asking all the questions, I can understand your annoyance, citizen." Kronev spread fat hands toward Durell and when he smiled again he looked like a squat, grinning gunman. “We think someone else is here."
"What do you moan, we?” Durell asked. “By what right do you intrude here?”
“Please let me look through the apartment.”
“Why should we?"
“We know who is here. We know all about him. Has he died yet?"
Durell looked past him down the outer corridor and saw it was empty. He could not be sure there were no others with Kronev, but what he saw gave him hope. Then he looked at Mikhail and tried to tell the dancer with his glance what he expected of him, but Mikhail stared at the fat man like a bird hypnotized by a snake, and there was no chance of help there. He did not consider the girl at all, in this.
Kronev said heavily: “Step aside, citizen, and do not interfere. Possibly you are here in political innocence.” He smiled at Valya. ”Gaspasha, you know me. I am Kronev. You will not interfere, either.”
“You are perfectly right," Durell said. “Please help yourself. I am sure Mikhail will not object to a search."
Mikhail said nothing. Durell stepped back and the fat man jerked his head at his uniformed companion and started directly for the bedroom door. When he was one step beyond him, Durell turned as if to speak to the girl and brought the hard edge of his palm in a slashing stroke against the back of Kronev’s neck, just above the fold of flesh over his coat collar. He heard a dim cracking sound of bone buried in suet and as Kronev fell to his knees, mouth open like a fish straining out of water, Durell chopped at the politseyski who was fumbling to get his gun in hand. He was off” balance and the blow was not very effective. The politseyski fell back and hit the wall with a thump, dull surprise in his eyes. He was a big man with a. round, stupid face and a shaggy mustache. Durell struck at his mouth, heard a tooth break, and yelled at Mikhail for help; but Mikhail stood at the windows and simply stared. Durell hit the policeman again and the other swung a fist like a ham and the blow drove Durell halfway across the room. He tripped over the sprawled legs of the fat man and went down and then started up and looked into the gun in the politseyski’s huge hand. Blood dribbled from the man’s broken mouth. His eyes were no longer stupid. They were sullen and angry.
Assignment - Suicide Page 4
