“No,” the nervous waiter whispered to him in heavily accented English as he moved sideways to block Scanlon’s way. “Please… here, for you,” he said as his eyes darted around the room. The kid had a folded paper napkin in his hand, which he wrapped around the stem of a fresh champagne glass. “For you,” he repeated as he offered it to Scanlon with a slight bow. “Please,” he almost begged as Scanlon saw the sweat rolling off the back of the kid’s hand.
“Okay,” Scanlon said warily as he took the glass, watching as the kid turned away and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Whatever he was supposed to be, he was not very good at it but he had balls.
Scanlon quickly glanced around at the people and faces in the room, but he saw nothing unusual. No one seemed to be watching or paying the slightest attention to him, but he was not convinced. He knew to always pick his own glass from a full tray and never take the one offered, so he raised the glass to his nose and sniffed the wine. It had the same aroma as the last glass and the same bubbles. He looked down into the glass, through the wine, and then held it up to the light. There were no crystals or undissolved powder and nothing appeared to be floating on the top or bottom. The wine looked perfectly normal, not that he had any intention of drinking it. Had they laced it with drugs or poison? Unlikely, but as he held the glass up, he saw a smudge of black appear on his fingertips and realized it came from the napkin. The hair stood on the back of his neck as he realized it was ink. Something had been written on the napkin; but between the condensation on the glass and the nervous sweat from the waiter’s hand, it had smeared and the message was now running down his fingers.
Calm down, he told himself, as his heart raced. Take a deep breath and relax. He raised his eyes and quickly scanned the crowd one more time but again saw nothing. At a steady, measured pace, he walked away, smiling and nodding to a half-dozen guests along the way. Relax, he told himself. After all, this is the US Embassy. It is American soil, and despite what Art Jenson had said, you aren’t some damned new guy. Still, even the sharpest blade can go dull over time, but not his. The instant he saw that ink-stain on his fingers, he felt his pulse quicken and the old juices begin to flow.
Fifty feet to his left, he saw a side door out of the ballroom. Because it led to the first floor of the embassy proper, they posted a large Marine guard there to keep the comrades on one side and the embassy offices secure on the other. There probably were not many secrets within these walls that the KGB did not already know, but there was no sense making it easy for them either. Scanlon nodded to the Marine, and the man let him pass through. With the door safely closed behind him, he quickened his pace and hurried down the hallway to the first open room he found. His hand was shaking badly now and he barely had time to set the glass down on a table before it slipped from his trembling hand.
“Damn it, relax,” he told himself, but not even a direct order seemed to work. Moscow! Like a gentle tug on a single loose thread, the cocktail napkin was all it took for the delicate fabric of lies he had so carefully woven for his own protection begin to unravel. Moscow! He was shaking and sweating worse than that dumb kid with the tray of champagne glasses.
Let’s face it, Edward my boy, you’ve been sitting behind a desk for far too long. You’ve rusted again like the Tin Man, and rust never forgives or forgets. Neither do the scars. Scanlon balled his hands into two tight fists and punched his thighs, like a safecracker trying to get the feeling back into his finger tips, afraid to try them on the wet, tissue-thin napkin for fear it would shred. Finally, he laid the soft, wet paper on the tabletop and knelt down. Ever so gently, he picked at a corner and then at another until it opened like a fresh rose, one damp, delicate petal at a time. Sure enough, there was something written inside in black, badly smudged ink. The words were in German and they said:
Noon. The North side of St. Basil’s. It is not written in the book yet, Liebchen. Not until we write it ourselves.
Hanni
Scanlon’s eyes went wide as he stared at the wet paper napkin and felt an icy chill run down his spine. He immediately recognized the handwriting. It was hers, no doubt about it. One look at the style and the graceful curve of the letters sent his mind racing back across the years to 1944, to Germany, and, as always, back to Leipzig.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"You’ll do just fine, Mister Scanlon. We’ll be right behind you," Art Jensen patiently explained. “We’re going to park the car on Nikolskaya Street. Two blocks further on, it runs along the side of the big GUM department store before it dead-ends at Red Square. When we stop, you get out of the car and start walking, not too fast, not too slow, just walking toward the square. When you reach the first corner, I’ll get out and follow you. When I reach the corner, Grimes will get out and play caboose. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it, Art." Ed Scanlon looked into the Deputy Station Chief’s eyes to let him know the light bulb inside was still lit. Hard to blame him, though. Scanlon had been in a daze all night and half the morning, ever since he read Hanni’s note. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t. His mind was fixed on Hanni, so Art Jensen’s handholding was well deserved.
“With your field experience, Mister Scanlon, I’m a little embarrassed here. You’re the one who ought to be setting this thing up, not me.”
“No, Art. That was a long, long time ago, and this is your town, so it must be your Op.”
“Okay. The KGB will tail us as soon as we go out the gate, but things have been quiet lately. They’ll probably only have a handful of teams watching the embassy, so they’ll send one, maybe two cars to tail us. It’s like when we came in from the airport, because they won’t expect us to be stopping. Shorthanded like they are, when we get out and start walking, they’ll need to hang back and stay behind both Grimes and me. That’s why I brought this bright blue blazer and a white Panama hat for you to wear. They are butt ugly, but we want you to stand out, even from a distance. So put on the coat,” Jensen said as he handed them to Scanlon, who was wearing a pair of conservative dark blue slacks and a cheap, nondescript, short-sleeve gray Russian shirt.
“Like I said,” he went on, “when you get out of the car, walk straight down the street, easy and casual. When you get to the side door of GUM, go inside and take the stairs down. At the bottom is a men’s restroom. Here’s twenty kopeks,” Jensen said as he handed him a small coin. “You’ll see an old Babushka attendant sitting behind a small table. Drop the coin in her dish and duck inside. Charlie Benson, my assistant, will be in there waiting for you. He’s about your size and he’ll be wearing a floppy, black beret. Give him your coat and switch hats. He’ll come back up to the first floor and wander around shopping, keeping his back to them. We’ll stick with Charlie, and I’ll bet the KGB will, too. When he goes upstairs, you walk all the way through the basement to the other end of the store and out the side door. St. Basil’s will be right ahead of you. If we move quickly, it should be a piece of cake, Mr. Scanlon, a piece of cake.”
“Don’t say that, Art.” Scanlon cringed. “I’ve had my fill of cake.”
“Sorry, I didn’t…”
“Nothing personal, but it’s been bad luck for me.” Scanlon had fifteen years to consider the infinite number of ways he had screwed it up the last time — fifteen years of self-recriminations, of lying awake at 3:00 a.m. staring at the ceiling, and of asking himself questions for which there were no answers. Now the day had come when he might finally get some. “It’s your turf, Art. Just get me there.”
“Shouldn’t be a big deal, Mister Scanlon,” Jensen tried to reassure him. “I gotta admit, whoever set this thing up for you didn’t do a half-bad job. High noon. Red Square on a hot summer day. Half of Moscow’s going to be out there milling about, and the goddamned KGB ‘suits’ should stick out like a sore thumb. Sure, you’re rusty, but good instincts never go away. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, just turn around and leave. You got that? Don’t go near any cars or talk to anybody in an overcoat or a cheap suit. If they co
me creeping around, you do a ‘180’ and come straight back to the car, or go on to the embassy… alone.”
Scanlon’s eyes flashed.
“If anything seems hinky, it would be better to come back and try another day," Jensen warned. “If you don’t, you could be putting her in danger too, and I know you don’t want to do that.”
As much as he hated to admit it, he knew the man was right. “What am I supposed to do if she is there, Art?”
“Hard to say,” the Deputy Station Chief shrugged. “You know the lady, not me. My suggestion? Keep your hands in your pockets and stay a couple of feet away from her. They might be forcing her to do this; you never know. So don’t touch her and don’t let her give you anything. That way, even if it is a setup, you won’t be making their job any easier.” Jensen looked over at him and added. “You said she is ex-KGB?”
“NKVD, a Major and one of their very best, back during the war.”
Jensen whistled, surprised and impressed. “That was a while ago, but if this thing is legit — if — she would know the rules without being told.”
“What if she wants to come out, to defect?”
“We can arrange that. Hell, we can arrange about anything, but it would take a few days to work out. You know that, and you know we’ve got to set it all up first.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to put you guys at risk,” Scanlon answered, trying to look relaxed, but he knew he wasn’t fooling Art. Hell, he wasn’t even fooling himself. Allen Dulles had turned him into a desk jockey, a Potomac River Commando. He knew he had no business out here in the field pretending to be something he was not, pretending to be something he had not been since that lovely April afternoon in 1945.
“One more thing I gotta ask, Mister Scanlon.” The Deputy Station Chief shifted in his chair, summoning up the courage. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about this deal, anything I ought to know? ’Cause if there is…”
“No, Art. This thing is purely personal. And you guys don’t have to be doing this if you aren’t comfortable with it.”
“With what? You said you wanted to go sightseeing in Red Square so Grimes and I tagged along. After all, that’s our jobs. The rest is your business. Just stay out of trouble,” he added with an uncertain smile, “and don’t go killing anybody.”
“That’s pure fiction, Art. I’m just a big pussy cat.”
“I’m not sure if Ivan would agree with that,” Jensen sighed. “Just remember, the big GUM department store is at one end of Nikolskaya Street. At the other end, maybe a mile the other way, is the Lubyanka. I’m sure you’ve heard of it before.”
“KGB Headquarters.”
“Good, because I heard a rumor that you had some experience with basements — and nobody needs to do a thing like that twice.”
The sky was a high, riveting blue, and the sun had been set on broil. Nikolskaya Street was a wide street lined with dull brick, four- and five-story nineteenth-century apartment buildings. They offered no shade and the heat shimmered off the pavement in iridescent waves. Looking to the far end of the street, Scanlon could already see part of the red brick Kremlin wall. The Kremlin! Here he was, walking down this sidewalk heading for the very heart of the Soviet capital. He never felt more nervous or out of place in his life, not even during those long, months working undercover in Leipzig. At least he knew the language and the customs there. He had time to prepare and he was young enough, cocky enough, and arrogant enough to believe he could pull anything off. Not any longer.
Scanlon set a brisk pace and kept his eyes aimed straight ahead to avoid the curious glances of the people he passed on the street. Not that it helped much. The average Russian took one look at his bright blue jacket and white Panama hat and immediately pegged him as a foreigner, which meant “very dangerous” and “avoid at all costs.” In Moscow, even in 1959, it was healthier to play with a lit stick of dynamite or a loaded gun than for a Russian to be seen with a foreigner.
The switch in the basement of GUM went exactly as planned and Scanlon soon found himself back outside the other end of the store in his nondescript Russian shirt and the black beret, standing in Red Square looking very much like any other nervous Muscovite. The vast, open expanse of brick and asphalt looked as he had imagined it would. GUM, St. Basil’s, the long Kremlin wall, and the Natural History Museum formed the four irregular sides of Red Square. Photographs didn’t do it justice. The vast expanse of cobblestone was immense.
The low-slung, gray granite Lenin Mausoleum sat across the square to his right, up against the Kremlin Wall. Its roof served as the VIP reviewing stand for the big parades each November and May; that is, for those who had managed to survive since the last big parade. Now, a long line of the faithful, probably bussed in from the collective farms or one of the big tractor factories out in the sticks, was queued outside the mausoleum. They were waiting patiently to have their carefully supervised one minute to walk slowly and reverently past the twin coffins of Lenin and Stalin. Were they looking at the real bodies or just wax dummies under glass? Hard to say, but you would not find very many jaded Muscovites in that line. They had better things to do with their lunch hour, such as stroll around Red Square and take in the sun, arm in arm with a friend or lover. Like their vodka, a sunny day in Moscow was one of the very few pleasures the state would not dare take away.
As he set off walking south through the square, behind him stood the tall, blood-red brick Museum of History. To his right, behind the mausoleum, ran the eastern wall of the Kremlin. This tall medieval fortress, also built of red brick, was an awkward triangle that lay on the bank of the Moscow River. One long exterior wall created a side of Red Square. Halfway down to the river and sitting in the southeast corner of the square stood St. Basil’s Cathedral with its eight oddly sized, onion-shaped domes decked out in bright red, blue, gold, green, and white. Like almost everything else of a religious nature in Moscow, it was now a state-owned museum but it remained the one Russian landmark people recognized worldwide.
Scanlon stopped near the cathedral’s entry sign, about a hundred feet from its front door. His heart raced as he slowly pivoted and looked around. Hanni’s note said noon on the north side of St. Basil’s, and that was exactly where he was standing. So where was Hanni, he wondered. The square was crowded with thousands of Russians in shirtsleeves, out for a walk or some quick lunchtime shopping. Most were women, but that was not surprising. With the millions of men lost during the war, the Russian population remained disproportionately female. At this time of year, with the exception of old widows wearing black dresses and headscarves, most wore colorful, loose-fitting summer print dresses, had their hair tied up in colorful scarves, and carried a shopping bag over an arm in the unlikely event they found something worth buying.
The square did have its share of men. Most were in shirtsleeves, like Scanlon, and no one wore a jacket. Even the unfortunate ones dressed in suits — government workers who had snuck out the Kremlin gate — wore their ties pulled down at the neck and carried their jackets flung over their shoulders. The only ones who had not taken theirs off had to be police or KGB, but they did not appear to be looking at him any more than at the others. Sweat was rolling off him now. His shirt had stuck to his back. With the old beret and a typically Russian cheap shirt, he knew he blended in, at least at first glance. Maybe so, but whether he cared to admit it or not, he knew he was in way over his head this time. He was a senior CIA officer and he was breaking every rule in the book by leaving the embassy and putting himself at risk, even with two “minders.” The note was undoubtedly a KGB setup. Following its instructions to try to find Hanni Steiner, a long-lost Soviet operative, was insane. No, it was more than that. It was suicidal. Yet he knew he had no choice. He had to do it. He had to come.
His eyes swept slowly through the crowd, concentrating on each face he saw. He was looking for that wisp of blonde hair with the sun shining through it, for those vivid blue eyes, and for a smile that would not stop. But he
could not find them. There were thousands of faces, he realized, thousands of them; and they were all wrong.
Suddenly, his eyes stopped. Ahead, not fifty feet away in the shadows of the onion-shaped domes stood a woman in a faded yellow and red flower print dress and white blouse. She had her back to him and wore a brown scarf over her head, tied in back, with her hair tucked up underneath, looking like a thousand other women walking around Red Square that day. However, around the edges of her scarf, he saw blonde hair sticking out; and his heart began pounding in his ears. Slowly, she turned and he saw her face.
It was Hanni.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The world stopped turning. The years of anguish and loneliness melted away. He saw her face and suddenly there was no one else in Red Square except the two of them. It was no longer noon on a scorching summer day in Moscow. One look into those dancing blue eyes, and it was the middle of a snowy alpine night — a night so cold that they could see each other’s breath on the chill air. She was not wearing a summer dress and scarf. He saw her the way he would always see her, lying naked under a blanket next to him in the hay of that old barn outside Leipzig, and she positively glowed.
Perhaps the sun had baked his brain, but he could not think of a thing to do or say, except to stand there wide-eyed and stare at her. To him, Hanni could never change. She turned, made a quick, furtive glance left and right, and then began walking slowly toward him. He did the same, totally ignoring Art Jensen’s warning, until they stood only inches apart. Her long blonde hair was now cut short and streaked with gray; but so was his. She was a bit heavier in the legs and the body now, and time had etched a delicate tracery across her forehead and in the corners of her eyes and mouth. Still, as he looked into her eyes, he saw they had not changed at all. They were the same riveting blue, reaching out to him with the power and intensity of a lightning bolt.
Winner Lose All Page 32
