It’s clear enough, Durell thought heavily. Mikhail did not have it in him to be a conspirator. In his innocence, he had served as an unwitting decoy, a weathervane that, because of his movements, always and unerringly gave the opposition the key to all of Valya’s activities, and through Valya, to the first of the organization. Perhaps even Mikhail‘s original meeting with Valya had been arranged with that purpose.
‘And last night?” he asked. “I want the truth, Mikhail—not just for myself, but for Valya.”
I saw no one. I was panicked, yes; I fled in torment because Valya chose you over me. I admit it was in my mind to go to the missile base and tell them everything. But I did not do it! I swear I didn’t! I sat and thought about my life and Valya and I knew I was at fault for everything that had gone wrong. I knew that Uncle Sergei had made a fool of me, as usual. And I came back here when I could, to help you, to tell you all this.”
Gregori’s brows curved in a beetling scowl. “What do you think?” he rumbled.
“He’s telling the truth."
“And what do we do with him?"
Durell turned back to Mikhail. “You didn’t answer one question. Do our enemies know about us here?”
“No, I swear it!”
“Do they suspect?”
“I cannot say. I never breathed a word of it.”
“One more thing. What is your Uncle Sergei’s real name?"
Mikhail looked at Gregori, at Durell, and at his hands.
“Zadanelev,” he whispered. “He is Comrade Z."
Chapter Seventeen
SLEEPING, Durell dreamed of nightmare things. He lay on the rocky ledge overlooking the bridge and the road, wrapped in a thin blanket, the rifle under the blanket beside him under his hand, protected from the dew. Vassili kept watch nearby, a thin shadow merged with the trunk of a tree. The night was warm. Mosquitoes whined hungrily around them. There was moonlight and the road and the guards in the sentry tower were clearly visible, outlined in silver and jet against the dappled rise of land on the opposite side of the gorge.
Sleeping, Durell knew he was far from home, on the other side of the world from all that was safe and familiar and of value to him. He knew he was in a place of death. He saw Dickinson McFee’s grave face again, briefing him in Washington; he spoke to Marshall, dying, and heard Marshall’s voice coming to him from the roiled current of the black Neva. He saw Valya lost, alone on a plain of barren emptiness that stretched from horizon to horizon. She ran toward him, her mouth wild and imploring. He called to her that he could give her safety, and he knew he was lying . . .
“Gospodin Sam. Wake up.”
He opened his eyes to brilliant sunshine. Vassili’s haggard, bearded face bent over him. “You were getting noisy, gospodin."
“I was dreaming.”
“That I could easily guess. And not pleasant dreams, eh?”
“What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock. It is time enough. Look.”
Vassili pointed down into the ravine. Durell rolled over, untangled the blanket, and brought the rifle to position before he followed Vassili’s pointing finger. The bridge was partly in morning shadow, partly in bright light from the slanting rays of the sun. Two command cars had stopped by the sentry tower, and several officers stood there in angry conversation with the guards. Durell saw at once that in place of the two guards who had been stationed there up to now, there were six—no, eight. Two more soldiers had come out of the sentry shack. They went trotting across the bridge to take up posts at the nearer end; two more scrambled down the sides of the gorge to the bed of the stream at a sharp command from one of the officers. They began checking the underside of the bridge. Another pair lifted a 50-caliber machine gun from the back end of one of the command cars and set it up at a vantage point that commanded the long, curving approach to the bridge.
“He must be coming," Vassili whispered. His lips looked dry and cracked. “He will be coming soon.”
“Go get the others," Durell ordered.
Vassili looked at him with tight eyes. “You will not fail us?”
“No,” Durell said.
He did not know when the final decision had come to him. He felt better, now that he had voiced it. He felt more sure of himself. There was no other way out, and he knew he would be dead before the sun set.
“Wait,” he said.
The second officer was pointing directly up the side of the ravine to the ledge where he crouched with Vassili. All of the men in the watchtower looked up, following the officer’s words. It was exactly as if the officer knew they were there and was pointing at them and discussing them. Durell felt a cold sweat break out on his hands. He did not move. Vassili was carved of stone.
“Do they see us?" Vassili whispered.
“I think not. Be silent.”
The first officer said something in a sharp, irritated voice. Two of the guards who had started across the bridge came to a halt and stood indecisively, waiting for the argument between the two officers to be decided. It was clear that the second man wanted to post two men on the crest of the ridge, exactly where Durell lay watching. The first officer did not think it was necessary.
The first officer had his way.
The two guards, recalled by a sharp command, went into the sentry shack, trailing their bayoneted rifles. The two officers got into the command car and drove away, directly under Durell’s vantage point. There was more conversation among the guards, commanded by a huge sergeant who finally laughed and slapped one guard on the back and went inside. Then the sergeant came out again and stared for a long time at the slope of the hill opposite him. He shrugged again and vanished for good.
Durell exhaled softly. “All right, Vassili, go get the others. It won’t be long now."
Vassili bobbed his head and slipped away as silently as a snake in the bush. Durell dried the palms of his hands and studied the terrain again. The extra guards made things infinitely more difficult. The sentry shack across the bridge could be turned into kindling with one grenade, but the tower beside it was another problem. it was sturdily built on high pilings, with a log blockhouse above it, slitted for machine gun and rifle posts, much like the early blockhouses of American frontier days. There was a small balcony jutting out from the tower, facing this way, with a crude log railing, and while he watched, the huge mustached sergeant came out and stood there pensively, leaning on the rail.
Durell adjusted for the erratic breeze, wished it would either grow steady or vanish altogether, and sighted along the telescope sights of the rifle until he got the sergeants head lined up in the cross-hairs. It was startling to see the man’s enlarged face through the scope. He had broad, Slavic features, prominent cheekbones, and narrow, restless eyes. There was a huge mole on his left cheek that he scratched now and then. His mustache was large and flourishing, evidently the sergeant’s pride and joy.
The breeze came in irregular puffs. Durell adjusted the range to three hundred yards, laid out a clip of five .30-09 cartridges on the smooth rock before him, emptied the clip in the gun, checked each cartridge, reloaded, drew back on the pump slide and heard the first bullet snick into the chamber. He looked at the extra clip, with the snobby black bullets in their gleaming brass jackets. The gun worked smoothly, with oiled precision.
There was a rustling sound behind him and he turned his head to see Gregori and Valya. Gregori’s skin was stretched tight around his temples and jaw. Valya ventured an uncertain smile at Durell and touched his hand.
“You are going to do it, Sam?”
“There is no alternative. Where is Vassili?”
“He has his orders,” Gregori whispered hoarsely. He laid out two grenades on the granite ledge beside Durell’s extra clip. “He is crossing the stream a few hundred meters to the south, and he will circle up behind the tower on the other side of the bridge. He will know the car when it comes and he will throw the first grenade. That will be your signal. After that—” Gregori shrugged and grinned. �
��After that, perhaps I will learn how to pray."
“What about Elena and Mikhail?”
“Elena. is with Vassili, to help him if she can. She has the soldier’s rifle you got the other night. I have the thirty-eight.”
“Mikhail?”
“In the dugout.”
“Tied up?“
“Of course.”
Valya looked down and away, with lowered eyes and a serene detachment from what was said that made uneasiness ride in Durell for a moment. Then it faded. He wanted to ask if Valya had been the last to be with Mikhail, but he cut off the question. Gregori adjusted his bandaged arm, looked with approval at Durell’s preparations, and settled himself beside him. His eyes were fever-bright, and there was an unhealthy flush under the bristles of his beard. Valya sat against a tree nearby.
“Now we will wait," Gregori said quietly.
It was a beautiful, calm day.
It was the First of May.
The breeze died away all at once. A bronze beetle with abnormally long hind legs crawled over a dead leaf near the muzzle of Durell’s gun and fell a tremendous distance, all of two inches, to the gray granite, where it kicked awkwardly for a moment before righting itself and hurrying on about its business. A small clinking sound came from Gregori as he put aside a bottle of vodka. The bottle was empty. Durell suddenly felt an irresistible craving for a cigarette. He had not smoked for almost two days, and although he was not a heavy smoker, he felt the need for a cigarette now. He pushed the thought from his mind and looked at Valya and smiled reassurance at her. She did not smile in return.
From down in the gorge came the distant throbbing of a motor car. Durell lifted his head and listened and relaxed a bit.
“It's a half-track,“ he said.
Gregori nodded. The sound came rapidly nearer, a rattling of heavy, swiftly moving treads above the pulse of the motor. It came into sight at the far end of the gorge, a gray-green, dusty military vehicle with an armored cab and a stake-body truck assembly above the steel caterpillar treads. The half-track was loaded with a squad of armed guards whose bayonets winked in the bright, peaceful sunlight. At the near end of the bridge the vehicle slowed, crept around the sharp turn, and then crawled over the wooden bridge to the white-painted barrier beside the sentry tower. An arm was extended from the driver’s side of the cab, holding a piece of paper, and the burly sergeant appeared briefly, took the paper, scanned it, and nodded before he stepped back. The motor of the half-track snorted, coughed a cloud of black exhaust, and crawled up-grade and around the curve to vanish beyond the high scarp across the little river.
Durell looked at the pattern of brown and green vegetation on the opposite hill. There was no sign of Vassili and Elena.
Gregori’s round head lifted suddenly, listening.
“Do you hear that?” he whispered.
Another vehicle was coming down the road, moving at a fast clip. This time there was no clanking and rattling. It was a big, fast-moving car, and as Durell lifted his rifle higher, feeling the cool damp of sweat on his palms again, the limousine appeared, a big black Zis with green-tinged, bulletproof glass windows and windshield. A cloud of dust boiled up behind the speeding, rocking car and it skidded slightly as it took the curve that brought it into sight below.
Durell looked at Gregori’s tight, flushed face.
“That it?”
“Da. Good luck, my friend."
A whistle skirled at the sentry tower, and the two guards at the machine gun stiffened to attention. The other two guards in the stream bed under the bridge came into sight, their faces stamped with simple curiosity. The last two sentries in view took posts opposite each other at the approach to the bridge.
The Zis was compelled to slow down for the right-angle turn onto the bridge.
“Wait for Vassili’s grenade,” Gregori muttered.
The limousine was turning slowly now, and the front wheels thudded onto the wooden planking of the bridge. Durell tried to see inside the car. There was more than one man in the back seat. He saw dimly through the tinted rear window that there were at least two men there, and possibly three. He started to ask Gregori a question, doubt suddenly in him, and Gregori cursed with soft violence.
“Vassili! Throw it! Throw it!”
The car was halfway across the bridge, still moving slowly, an easy target for a lobbed bomb, when the shot came. It echoed sharply across the gorge, a high, spiteful crack that ended the chattering of birds and squirrels as suddenly as if a sound-track tape had been snipped. Durell scanned the opposite slope, but there was nothing to see. Gregori lunged to his knees, hugging his bandaged arm to his side. His teeth gleamed under stretched lips.
Valya whispered: “What could that be?"
A whistle shrilled from the sentry tower. The burly sergeant ran out, holding up his hands in a signal for the limousine to halt. The sergeant glanced nervously back over his shoulder at the slope where Vassili and Elena should have been, and then the man shouted a command.
The car halted.
“Where is Vassili?" Gregori groaned.
The sergeant ran down on the bridge and pointed downstream, talking quickly to the driver. Durell focused the hairline sights of his rifle on the man’s face, saw the agitation of his mouth under his Mongol mustache. A thin wild shout caused him to raise his head from the scope and look downstream, where the little river ran glinting in the sun over a rocky bed. The shout was repeated. At first Durell saw nothing but the shine of the sun on white water, the motionless trees with their newly budding leaves, the high wall of the ravine where the river turned and the road swung out of sight toward the missile base. Then from behind a whitish boulder appeared the figure of a man, black against the glinting water behind him. It was Mikhail.
“Uncle Sergei!” he called. The voice was a thin, lost echo screaming in the gorge. Durell looked quickly at Valya. She was biting her lip with anxiety and there were sudden violet shadows under her eyes.
“Did you untie him?” Durell asked quietly.
“He promised me he would stay there.”
Gregori cursed in explosive monotones. Mikhail’s slender figure was clearly visible now. There was still no sign of Vassili and Elena on the opposite slope. Mikhail began to run awkwardly upstream, toward the bridge. His course was erratic, his gait staggering, as if the single shot that bad preceded his appearance had found its mark somewhere in his body. His face was only a small white patch in the distance. The voice of the sergeant came sharply up the slope and the two guards at the machine gun suddenly jumped to their weapon and began to swing it around to cover Mikhail’s approach along the bed of the river.
Nobody got out of the armored car.
“Sergei!” Mikhail cried again.
A rifle cracked. And another. Mikhail stumbled, fell splashing into the stream, and got up again. Valya made a little moaning sound and crammed the back of her hand against her mouth. Gregori heaved to his feet. His face was a pattern of utter despair. He held a grenade in his left hand and he gave a tremendous, bull-throated shout as he heaved it with all his strength down the slope.
The limousine had begun to slide forward past the barrier to the sentry tower. Durell saw the small, spinning bulb of steel arc down through the clear, still air. Everything seemed to stop. Time came to an end. He saw Gregori standing straddle-legged in defiance on the ledge; he saw the limousine still inching forward; he saw the sergeant turning slowly, his mouth open under his luxuriant mustache, his eyes astonished. Mikhail had fallen and vanished.
The grenade landed a few feet behind the Zis and exploded.
The burst of noise was monstrous in the ravine. A plank of the bridge went lazily end over end into the air and came down with a slow, echoing clatter. The limousine halted. Smoke billowed up, hiding it from sight.
The grenade had lifted the rear end of the car with a jolt and swung it askew, so that it stood at a slant to the roadway. But still no one got out. Gregori bellowed again, a raw animal sound of
rage, and bent for a second grenade. Durell shouted a warning too late. The machine gun clattered and a curious grunting sound came from Gregori and he bent slowly forward from the waist, his left hand holding his stomach, and pitched out of sight off the ledge. Durell cursed and squeezed off a shot at the machine gunners that spattered dust at their feet, as he intended. He saw the face of one of the gunners in the cross-hair sights and aimed a few inches to one side of the man‘s head and squeezed off a second shot. The two machine gunners retreated hastily from their weapon. staring in surprise and fear at the ledge.
A screaming sound came from out of sight, over the lip of rock where Durell sprawled with the rifle at his cheek. It was a steady, unbroken noise that seemed impossible from a human throat. It was Gregori. At the same moment, the burly sergeant stepped out on the platform of the tower, a carbine in his hand. He was looking at something just below the ledge, where the screaming came, and then he carefully raised the carbine to take aim. The rifle in Valya’s hand cracked sharply, once, and then again. The big sergeant dropped his carbine and folded over the rail of the platform. His legs came up like the end of a lever out of balance, and then he toppled head first from the high tower. His body made a faint thudding noise when he struck the bridge, and a little burst of dust flashed up around him.
Silence came back to the ravine.
Durell looked at Valya. She was calmly reloading the rifle.
Her face had changed to hard competence, from which all femininity and indecision had been erased. She looked at him with the eyes of a stranger.
“Gregori is trapped down there. He would have shot him."
“I understand,” he said quietly.
“Can We do anything for him?”
“I don’t know. It looks hopeless.”
She said angrily: “Are you blaming me because of Mikhail? They’ve killed him. He’s down in the stream there. He tried to betray us, and I did not want to believe he would do that. I thought because he loved me—well, I deluded myself about him, that is all.”
Assignment - Suicide Page 15
