Assignment - Suicide

by Edward S. Aarons

  They landed in the afternoon at Moscow’s Vnoukovo Airport, twenty miles from the city. The air was appreciably warmer than in Leningrad. There was no difficulty with the white-aproned porters or at the cheek point in the hangar. The papers Valya had procured for them received only a cursory glance. The man with the bandaged head was met by two uniformed officials, and rode off in an ambulance that had been waiting at the edge of the field. The Red Army officers and the Polish colonel were drunk as they filed down the ramp. Durell felt Valya slip her arm in his. Mikhail was among the last to debark, with the French correspondent and the Intourist guide. The dapper Intourist man looked curiously at Valya, as if he half-recognized her, but she stared coolly through him until he turned away. They ate at Vnoukovo, in the airport stolovaya. The meal consisted of hashed meat. potatoes and fresh tomatoes flown up from the Crimea. Small bottles of vodka were served as a matter of course at each table. Next to them sat three gentlemen from Turkestan wearing gigantic sheep's-wool hats.

  There was no opportunity to talk among themselves then or in the battered limousine they shared on the highway into Moscow. The Red Army men sat on jump seats and Mikhail was in another car with the American couple. The army men were noisy and boisterous, but since they ignored the other passengers, Durell felt they were no threat.

  The lights were just coming on in the city when they got out of the limousine at the Metropole Hotel. The second car carrying Mikhail was not in sight. The broad avenues were wider than in Leningrad, and Petrovka Ulitza’s department stores and furniture shops were bigger and brighter. The G.U.M. department store on the vast area of Red Square was crowded, and the five-pointed red stars above the onion spires and crenellated walls of the Kremlin glittered against the purpling spring sky.

  Here was the heart of empire in this brooding, dangerous land of enormous extent, sprawled over half the face of the globe, a composite of many nations, races and cultures. The city was alive and vital. The crowds were animated, perhaps by the premature spring weather that prevailed today and the approaching festivities of May Day. People stood in queues at the shop counters of Stoleshnik Periulok. Durell’s trained eye noted the preponderance of uniforms. the number of Chinese, the far greater number of private cars on the broad boulevards since his last visit here. It was as if the death of Stalin‘s oppressive shadow had slowly animated the people of this city.

  Durell took Valya’s arm and they swung into the crowds on the wide sidewalk in front of the ornate hotel and moved toward Red Square. He was relieved to be separated from Mikhail by a trick of fate that placed them in different cars at the airport. He could control the girl. She had lost much of her inherited enmity toward him. He had the feeling she had been trying to understand him from the moment of their first meeting, and he knew enough about women to consider without egotism the possibility that she was interested in him as a man. There were little nuances in the things she did that betrayed her. His own feelings were mixed, but she was beautiful and he had never retreated from a beautiful woman.

  “You are determined to go to the Embassy?” she asked as they waited for a traffic light to change.

  “Right now,” he said.

  “Could we not have dinner first? l am very hungry, and there an Uzbek restaurant nearby, just off Arbat Ulitza.”

  “You don‘t have to some with me now, Valya.”

  “I understand that. You do not need me anymore, and you have Marshall‘s map. Part of the bargain was that you turn it over to us.”

  “I need it to convince the Embassy people my story is true."

  “And do you think they will believe you?”

  “They know I am the country. They’re waiting to learn what Marshall discovered on his mission here."

  “‘You will never got to the Embassy," Valya said. “You will see." She paused to look up at him, her face somewhat innocent perturbed. “Kronev has not been idle today. Do not do anything foolish, I beg you. They will kill you.”

  “Are you concerned for me?”

  “Promise you will not take any foolish chances."

  “I think we had better part company now,“ he said. “It will be better for you if you aren’t seen with me now.”

  “I will go part of the way with you. I know l cannot stop you. It was a mistake for us to trust Marshall. It was a mistake to believe that you would help us, too. Sukinin died for nothing.”

  “But I am helping you in the best way I know. I don’t want any part of assassinations. It’s not my job to interfere in your internal problems. I just want my country to be safe."

  He walked faster now, along Arbat Ulitza. He knew the way to Spasso House, and he did not ‘talk to Valya anymore. The choice of coming with him or going on her own was hers. He knew she could probably summon help from her own people to try to stop him. Perhaps she already had. He was sure that Mikhail was trying to do that at this moment. His whole plan depended on moving faster than the others, in being sure and decisive in his actions.

  The girl walked with him in silence, her hands thrust into the pockets of her coat as she matched his long stride through the darkening streets.

  Durell had slept a little on the plane, but it had been a watchful dozing, and he felt the drag of exhaustion in his muscles as he slowed his pace near the white loom of the Embassy building. The street was wide and quiet, with a little park across from Spasso House, an old residence of French style flanking the huge estate. He felt irritated at Valya for her insistence on coming with him. Her meek surrender to his decision to go to the Embassy did not delude him. There was an opaque reserve in her eyes, a sense of patient, expectant waiting.

  “Be careful,” she said at last. “We are being watched. Do not cross the street here; walk to the next corner." She tucked her hand in his arm and laughed so that her laughter could be heard along the broad sidewalk, as if he had said something very amusing. She spoke loudly to him about a play being presented at the Bolshoi Theatre.

  “Where are they?" Durell asked, his lips thin.

  "In that doorway. And here. As we go by.”

  The width of Arbat Street was peculiarly deserted compared to the avenues they had crossed. It was as if the American building were deliberately shunned by the local citizenry which was probably true, Durell thought wryly, since it was dangerous for the ordinary Soviet man to be associated with any Westerner. They passed the deeply recessed doorway of an ornate, dark mansion diagonally across from the Embassy building. Two dim, bulky shadows stood against the glass doors within the marble entry. Durell felt their eyes touch him and the girl, return to him and follow him until he passed.

  “We‘ll try the back entrance,” Durell murmured.

  “It will be the same. I am sure Kronev telephoned from Leningrad. He is a cold and efficient man. He’ is terrible."

  Durell turned left at the corner, the girl matching his stride. Her blonde hair gleamed in the lights from the tall windows of Spasso House. The wide streets were mostly dark now, but the street lamps of Moscow were more than adequate for the springtime dusk. A chill wind began to whip along the clean, empty avenues of the vicinity. A small Moskva car was parked nearby and two other men sat in it, talking and smoking. Their eyes followed Durell and Valya to the corner. Two more here, in another doorway. They took no chances and worked in pairs.

  The lights from the Embassy windows were tantalizing. Somewhere in there Alex Holbrook was waiting for word from him. He wondered what would happen if he suddenly made a break for it, dashing across the street to the tall gates where the US. Marine guard stood at stiff, alert attention. He passed a heavy Zis limousine where more shadows sat, waiting. The motor of the car idled softly in the dusk. The street was very wide. He knew very well what would happen if he ran for it.

  They had almost circled the Embassy, and he saw no loophole in the cordon of silent Watchers surrounding the elegant building. He knew that if he reappeared on the first side of the Embassy and was seen again by the watchers there, he would become immediately
suspect.

  "Be careful,” Valya said again. “Come this way.”

  She led him down a side street, away from the Embassy.

  Durell had no choice but to follow. The wind felt cold and cutting on his angry face.

  “Give up for now,” Valya urged. “Please! It is suicide."

  He said angrily: “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Where is Mikhail, by the way? Why aren’t you concerned about him?”

  “Mikhail can take care of himself. It was necessary that we separate at Vnoukovo."

  “How do I know these are Kronev’s men? They could just as easily be members of your underground outfit.”

  “Yes, they could be. But they are not.”

  “Mikhail could have alerted them.”

  She paused suddenly on the street. The wind tugged at wisps of her braided, honey-colored hair. He saw that her impatience matched his own, and he recognized a strength in her that might well be as great as his, in some ways. “Durell, at some point you must learn to trust someone,” she said. “One of us, and I believe both of us, must accept the other on simple faith. You must trust me. I understand what you want to do. I know your duty requires that you reach your countrymen in the Embassy. But I do not want to see you die. It would be a waste. I am almost fond of you.” Her lips curled in a wry smile. “For an American, you are not so terrible. You would die trying to reach the Embassy tonight. Believe me.”

  “And you don’t want me there, anyway.” he pointed out.

  “I am not sure. I have been thinking of it all day. You may be right; your way may be the only way. But I have not decided about it yet.”

  His glance searched the girl’s face. He wanted to believe her. And she was right about reaching a point where some things had to be taken on faith. Abruptly he took her arm and guided her back toward the bright streets radiating from Red Square. “Let’s find that Uzbek stolovaya and have some shislak or rice pilaf, eh?”

  She laughed with the relief of a child reprieved from punishment. “I am truly starving. While we eat, we can decide what to do."

  The clientele of Muscovites in the restaurant she led him to exhibited a vivacity and conversational appetite that would have shocked those of a ‘Nest European establishment. A hub-bub of spontaneous voices reached across the tables. Durell saw that more than one party usually shared the same table, and he sought out one of the few designed for just two. A stocky, middle-aged waitress took their order from the Spartan menu, and Durell looked about the room until he spotted a telephone in an alcove at the rear.

  In Moscow there was no officially published telephone directory, but there was a number in his mind which he had committed to memory in McFee’s office, in Washington. He took several kopeks from his pocket and asked the operator to connect him with the number. While he waited, he saw with some surprise a large color-television screen recessed in a wall across the restaurant, broadcasting a soccer game from Dynamo Stadium. He waited. If all went well, his call would connect him with an Embassy phone that was rarely used. Alex Holbrook would be ready for him. The line would probably be monitored, but if he could just alert the staff in time—

  A burst of raucous laughter came from a nearby table crowded with Kazak men who seemed in the process of celebrating something. Their table was littered with dishes and bottles of vodka and Crimean champagne.

  The operator's voice said: “Are you sure you have the correct number, citizen?"

  “Yes. Please hurry.”

  “I always do my best, citizen.”

  He felt as conspicuous as a bayou duck before a blind in the open booth, although none of the diners in the stolovaya seemed to pay attention to him. He looked across the crowded tables to the nook where he had left Valya. She sat with her hands cupped under her chin, but she was not Watching him. Her glance was fixed on the street entrance, and Durell looked that way. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark coat and gray fur hat came in. He stood there scanning the tables, only his eyes moving in his broad, flat face. Beyond the restaurant windows, Durell could see the crowds on the sidewalk under the bright streetlights, the occasional swift passage of a car, and the ornate buildings a cool draft of air from the street door as it was opened across the way. The man in the doorway finally met Durell’s glance and quickly looked away, drew off a glove, studied his hand with interest, and put the glove back on again.

  “Operator,” he said.

  “I am ringing now, citizen.”

  He heard the signal buzzing in the phone. His mind rolled hack to McFee‘s office in Washington. Contact Alex Holbrook !here—nobody else. His cover job is as a C-5 clerk. He’ll know what to do for you. Alex will be briefed on Operation Dart.

  A voice with a rich Southern accent said: “United States Embassy. Who is calling, please?”

  “I want to speak to Mr. Holbrook,” Durell said in English.

  “Who? Please speak louder.”

  Durell looked at the nearby table of revelers. Their drunken shouting and laughter made it difficult to hear, and the roars from the TV set did not help, either. He did not dare raise his voice while he was speaking English. “Holbrook—Alex Holbrook. It’s urgent and he’s expecting me. Tell him it's Dart calling.”

  “Who?”

  “Dart. Just Dart! He’ll understand. God damn it, will you hurry?"

  “Just a moment,” the voice said icily.

  There were clicks and buzzings on the line. Durell looked at the man in the restaurant doorway. He had not moved. He did not look at Durell. Valya was still at her table. He thought she seemed a little pale, her Slavic face turned away from him to study the man in the doorway.

  A woman’s voice rattled on the phone: “Are you the party calling Mr. Holbrook? Please identify yourself, sir.”

  “Dart,” Durell said.

  “Is that all?”

  “He’ll understand. Please get him at once. This is a priority call.”

  “Mr. Holbrook has gone to a reception at the British Embassy. One moment, please. I’ll try to get him there."

  He felt angry and impatient at the supercilious voice. He started to argue, then realized she was no longer on the wire. There were more clicks, a long buzzing sound, then a steady tick-tick-tick that came with soft regularity, beating in the ear-piece. He knew at once that the line was being tapped. He began to sweat. It was hot in the stolovaya. Then he sensed a cool draft of air from the street door as it was opened again. A second man had joined the big watcher in the doorway.

  It was Kronev.

  The squat MVD man looked around the big room with a swift objective sweep of pale eyes that appraised the diners with split-second accuracy. Valya stood up, gathering her gloves and began to walk toward Durell. Durell saw Kronev’s eyes fix on her with bright satisfaction, then his pale glance lumped to him. Their eyes met. Recognition flared in the MVD man’s stare. "

  A man’s voice suddenly rattled in the telephone receiver.

  “Hello, Dart. Sam? I’m. sorry it took so long old man—”

  At that moment, Kronev started toward him.

  Chapter Seven

  SEVENTY FEET separated Durell and Valya from Kronev mid his man in the doorway. Between them were the crowded, noisy tables occupied by the Kazak clientele. Across the heads of the diners, Durell saw Kronev’s grinning face shine with triumph. A loud burst of laughter came from the table nearest the telephone alcove. Valya tugged at Durell’s sleeve.

  “There is a back way. Come. It may be guarded, too.”

  He followed the girl as she swung to the rear of the restaurant, wondering how Kronev had tracked them to this exact spot. Perhaps one of the watchers in the cordon around the Embassy had identified him; or it could be Mikhail’s work, somehow. It didn‘t matter. He knew this was a trap that would take a miracle to escape.

  There was a double-leafed back door that led into the kitchens of the stolovaya where the waitresses came and went. Durell slapped the doors open and plunged through, pulling Valya with him. A dim shout wa
s flung after him, audible above the clatter of tableware and conversations. A huge red-faced man blocked Durell’s way into the kitchen. His chin dripped sweat.

  “Citizen, it is not permitted—"

  “Get out of my way!"

  Durell straight-armed the giant into a steam table. A shrill cry came from a Waitress nearby. From behind her came another shout of warning.

  “Come on,” he gasped to Valya.

  “The door—over there.”

  He plunged toward it and the girl kept pace with him. A chef swung at him with a cleaver, and missed, the blade hissing behind his head. A whistle skirled in the main dining room. Sudden silence fell in the kitchen as Durell reached the back door.

  “Go ahead,” he snapped to the girl.

  She darted through. He looked back and saw Kronev slap aside the double doors to the dining room. A gun crashed. He swung and dived down a short flight of steps to the back street.

  Valya waited for him. Her face was stark and white.

  “This way—to the Metro.”

  The street behind the stolovaya was narrow and poorly lighted. A car blocked the far corner, and he halted, caught it the girl and ran the other way. Kronev’s men had not been completely organized. The girl matched his pace as they ran across the rough cobbles of the street. There was a lithe grace to the way she ran. Behind them came the roar of a motor racing, and headlights sliced through the gloom and pinned them against the dark brick wall they followed. A gun crashed again. The bullet struck a spark from a piece of metal in the brick wall. Valya suddenly staggered and Durell’s heart lurched, fearing she was hit.

  “To the left," she gasped,

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, saving her breath. The car was almost upon them when they reached the corner. There was traffic on the wide avenue and crowds on the sidewalk. The blue-uniformed politseyski across the way was standing in puzzlement. the whistle between his teeth. People jumped aside as they ran around the corner. The car that pursued them screamed out of the alleyway and halted with a screech of brakes in the middle of the thoroughfare, rocking on its springs. Three or four men tumbled out, abandoning the car in the center of the traffic flow. The politseyski blew his whistle angrily and ran toward the car. Half a block ahead were the lights of Moscow‘s famous subway system. The distance seemed endless.