The Kremlin Letter Read online

  “You better leave Erika a note so she don’t get all worked up. Then let’s cut out of here.”

  “That isn’t necessary. I can get hold of her.”

  “Don’t get the little lady upset. We may need her.”

  Rone scribbled out a fast letter to Erika as Ward watched. They left the apartment and took the subway into the University district. Ward led him into a modern industrial building and up a flight of stairs. He took out a key and opened the door to a modern chemistry laboratory.

  “Know anything about science?” asked Ward.

  “Not too much.”

  “Better learn pretty quick, ’cause that’s what we are now.” Ward handed Rone new identity papers. “How’s your French?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Well, we’ll have to get by on mine. As you can see from the passports and identification cards, we’re exchange embryologists.”

  “How did you manage this?” asked Rone.

  “Uncle Morris set it up. I would have told you sooner, but you were so damn cocky I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. As long as I am in a complimentary frame of mind, let me throw another one your way. That was a pretty nifty little gimmick of yours.”

  “What was?”

  “Having Erika give that cock-and-bull story about Polakov’s second contact.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Take a look.” Ward led Rone into a small bedroom off the laboratory. He pulled open a dresser drawer and took out a small receiving set. It was one of B.A.’s emergency radios which had been in Potkin’s apartment. “B.A. brought it over here the morning of that bad day. She beefed it so we could pick up Kosnov’s from here. I heard the whole thing last night. Figured you had to be behind anything as wild as that.”

  “I thought it might take some pressure off,” Rone admitted.

  “Off who?”

  “Kosnov.”

  “Explain yourself, Nephew Yorgi.”

  “It wasn’t Kosnov who raided the apartment. It was Grodin and Bresnavitch and Potkin.”

  “And why would they want to do this without the colonel knowing?”

  “To discredit him. Ostensibly, Bresnavitch doesn’t want the investigation. Neither do the other Kremlin big-wigs. What better way to boot Kosnov out of his job? What better way to put in Grodin, and whitewash over the whole thing?”

  “I don’t know now, Nephew, I don’t know. It seemed like the long way through the woods. Why don’t they just kill Kosnov and be done with it?”

  “They probably will when they can find the way.”

  “You’re beating me at my own game. I thought I was the only one who talked riddles.”

  “It isn’t easy to kill Kosnov. First of all he’s well guarded.”

  “Since when?” asked Ward.

  “Since that night he had dinner at Bresnavitch’s. He suspects something. He has two men with him all the time. His own men.”

  “How did he manage that?”

  “Flew them in from somewhere. He also has two emergency teams on constant standby. Erika overheard him talking in the dining room, giving orders to the group. She thinks Grodin doesn’t know anything about this—or maybe he does. I have no way of telling. To kill him you would have to catch him without his two men and somehow cut off communications with those goon squads. That will be a nice trick to begin with. Second, you can’t bump off the head of one of Russia’s largest intelligence organizations without there being a little ruckus. What excuse can they use?”

  “You can always find an excuse,” Ward said glumly. “It’s finding a method that might be tricky. Are you sure about this new security setup?”

  “Everything Erika has told me up to now has been accurate. I believe her.”

  “Well, it looks like we got a little revolution going within the revolution, but that still doesn’t convince me Grodin raided our apartment.”

  “I saw him.”

  “This Grodin fellow is treacherous. Wouldn’t trust him around the henhouse. Well, what do you say we get going?”

  “To where?” asked Rone.

  “Out to celebrate. I think this information of yours deserves some real spending. What say we take in the opera?”

  “Are you mad?” Rone replied in disbelief. “Grodin and Potkin probably know our faces. A dozen of their men must as well. They’re looking for us right now.”

  “I suppose you think we should pack up our bags and skedaddle back West?”

  “We should damn well consider it.”

  “And let all that money slip through our hands?”

  “We’ll get enough.”

  “I want the full check.”

  “It won’t do us any good if we can’t spend it.”

  “We’ll live to spend it,” Ward said stubbornly.

  “Then I suppose you’ve figured out how the two of us are going to do what five could not. On top of that, no one was looking for the six.”

  “Singing saints,” Ward grinned. “I never knew you was such a worry wart, Nephew Yorgi.”

  Rone was irritated. “Then you tell me how we find Polakov’s man and the letter.”

  “I may do just that.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “I’m not sure of that, but there’s a pretty good chance we’re going to have that letter in our hot little fists before very long—maybe within two weeks, maybe sooner.”

  “How?” Rone was bewildered.

  “Just ’cause you was lucky, shacking up the last two weeks, doesn’t mean the whole world closed down. Some of us early birds was out pecking behind the barn.”

  “But how?”

  Ward shook his head and winked. “Uh, uh, Nephew. Little by little. The suspense is good for your soul. When I’m sure I’ll tell you. Now you just gather your bones into the tub and splash about a bit. I’ll race out and see if I can scare up some opera tickets.”

  “I’d rather know now,” Rone persisted.

  “Yorgi boy, you gotta learn to take some things on faith.”

  “As I remember I took a lot of things on faith. Three men are probably dead because of it.”

  “Occupational hazards.”

  “Hazards my ass,” snapped Rone.

  “If you think you’re going to ruffle my feathers with all this carrying on, then think again, Nephew. I told you I’ve made contact to get the letter and I have. Now if that won’t do you and yours and you want to trundle on back West, you’ve got my blessings, except that I could use an extra hand. If you stay, you gotta act civilized. You gotta spread your wings a little. We’ve got five or six days to wait until we hear about that little piece of paper, and I don’t intend to spend it cooped up in here That kind of thing could drive a man neurotic. I didn’t travel ten thousand miles only to look at your face. So just go into that bathroom there and get yourself washed, shined and polished. You wouldn’t want to miss all that pretty singing, would you?”

  In the intermission they mingled freely. Rone was uneasy. Ward seemed to be having the time of his life, but during the second act Rone noticed a change. Ward was sitting slumped in his seat looking down into his palms. His cheeks were sucked in and from time to time he bit his lower lip. He gave only token applause at the curtain calls.

  “When will you be seeing the girl again?” he asked Rone as they walked home.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you make it soon?”

  “I don’t know,” Rone repeated.

  “I’d like it to be tomorrow. We may need her.”

  “Erika and I have split up.”

  Ward frowned. “How bad?”

  “It’s over.”

  “No way to patch things up?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Well, maybe it’s for the best. By the way, were there any other reports on that last day?”

  Rone had not yet told him about Uncle Morris’ visit. “No,” he answered, “there was no more information.”

  They both remained silent un
til they were in front of the laboratory.

  “I got a little calculating to do,” said Ward. “Feel like walking some more?”

  “Not really,” answered Rone.

  “See you in the morning then.”

  35

  The Sacrifice

  “Today may be the day,” Ward announced to Rone four mornings later.

  “For the letter?”

  “Could be. Meet me at the Ararat Restaurant at 4 Neglinnaya Street at five-thirty sharp.”

  Ward waited until Rone left. He went to the drawer, took out a pair of rough leather gloves and pushed a gun into his belt.

  Erika watched the fashion show at the GUM store until eleven-twenty. She was at the shoe counter exactly at the half hour.

  “I’m Yorgi’s friend,” Ward said, inspecting a pair of, slippers next to her.

  “What has happened to him?” she asked calmly.

  “He was picked up this morning.”

  “By whom?”

  “We think it was your husband.”

  “Oh no, dear God no.”

  “We might still be able to do something,” he said without looking at her. “Wait ten minutes, then walk right along Gorki Street for three intersections. Take another right. In the middle of the block is an alley. Go in and wait at the end.”

  Erika found the alley without trouble. She walked up the brick paving stones and waited in the doorway at the end. She leaned back against it as footsteps approached. The sound was fast and choppy. They ran quickly, then stopped, started again and once again stopped. There was a pause, then they started directly for her.

  Erika looked up into the face of a dour Chinese.

  “Where did he—” was all he uttered before falling forward with Ward’s knife in his back.

  “This way,” Ward commanded, pushing Erika through the door. Ward pulled her quickly through the hallway and out onto the street. He opened a car door, shoved her in and slid in beside her.

  “Can we go to your mother-in-law’s apartment?” he asked as they started off up the street.

  “Can’t we talk here?”

  “Look, little lady, if the colonel finds out about you and Yorgi, I think Moscow might be rather uncomfortable for you. We’ve got a lot of figuring to do. A car isn’t the place. Now what about that apartment?”

  “All right,” said Erika uneasily.

  Erika sat stiffly in the living room. Ward handed her a small bundle of clothing.

  “These were Yorgi’s,” he told her. “I thought you might want them.”

  “How was he caught?” she asked without emotion.

  “We don’t know. He was just picked up off the street.”

  “And how much does the colonel know?”

  “He knows that you and Yorgi used this apartment.”

  Erika stood up and paced the room, hugging her arms close to her. She lit a cigarette and looked out the window. Her back was to Ward as he slipped on the gloves. When she turned back toward him a fist drove into her face.

  Ward carried her into the bedroom and tossed her on the bed. He ripped off her dress and underclothes. When Erika regained consciousness she saw him standing naked beside her. She tried to fight. She dug her nails into his back and drew blood. Ward knocked her unconscious again and raped her. After he had finished he raised the motionless body into a sitting position. He began beating her around the face and shoulders. He punched her arms and body and legs. Blood covered her face and torso. Then he strangled her.

  Ward took off the gloves and tossed them on the floor. He bathed, dried himself, placed a linen towel on his back to stop the bleeding and dressed. He undid the bundle of clothing, neatly folded each piece and placed it in the dresser drawer. He slipped a card into her purse. On it was written “Yorgi” and an address.

  He left the apartment and drove to the Leningradskaya Hotel. He gave the car to an attendant and began walking along Kalanchovskaya Street. He stopped to admire a baby in a pram. He pinched it on the cheeks, doffed his hat to the nurse and continued, sprightly, on his way. He began to whistle softly to himself.

  36

  Shadows from Gethsemane

  “Hey there, Nephew Yorgi,” Ward shouted from a rear table as Rone entered the Ararat Restaurant. “Order and eat up. This looks like our lucky night.” Ward beamed a viperous smile.

  “The letter?” asked Rone.

  “The letter, little Nephew, the letter,” Ward confirmed. “There’s every chance we’ll have it before morning—and guess what else?”

  “What?”

  “I got us tickets for the ballet tonight.”

  The Bolshoi Ballet’s performance of Swan Lake was captivating. There were times when Rone almost relaxed, almost forgot his predicament. The première danseuse moved with perfection; her grace was unparalleled. From time to time Rone glanced at Ward. His companion was completely transfixed by the performance. Every now and then he would nudge Rone with his elbow and motion to the stage with approval. “If you live to be a hundred,” he whispered, “you may never see anything like this again.”

  At intermission they pushed through the crowded foyer. “Wait here,” said Ward. “I have to make a call.”

  When he returned he slapped Rone on the back. “Get cutting, Nephew,” he said. “We’re about to become rich.”

  They walked rapidly through the overcast night.

  “Will we get the man as well as the letter?” asked Rone.

  “I doubt it. Had to move heaven and Texas just to wrangle the paper itself.” He stopped abruptly and grabbed Rone by the arm. “It’s a funny thing,” he began softly, “but suddenly I miss the others. I wish to Christ they were alive right now.”

  “You’d have to split the money,” Rone reminded him coldly.

  “The money be damned. They were a good lot. They should be in on this.”

  “Sentiment doesn’t become you.”

  “Well I am sorry and I ain’t ashamed to admit it. Especially ’bout that little girl of yours.”

  “Can’t you keep that mouth of yours shut?”

  “Sure thing.”

  They were at a corner two blocks from the laboratory when Ward stopped. “You go on ahead and start packing us up. Just take enough to fill one grip. Leave everything else there.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “To pick up the goods.”

  “The letter?”

  “Yep. I’d ask you along, but my friend is a little jittery. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes—then we split from Moscow.” He slapped Rone on the back and started off down the side street.

  Rone watched him diminish into the shadows. Ward walked with a rolling gait. As the figure grew smaller Rone recognized it. It was the same hunched form he had seen run across the mall and up the church steps in Gethsemane; the same gray figure that had searched for the letter at the base of the statue in Nikolayev Square. Ward was the man with the flashlight.

  37

  Confrontations

  Rone hurried through the darkened laboratory, rushed into the bedroom at the back, flicked on the light and went to the auxiliary receiving set. He snapped on the power and turned up the volume. Static crackled. He checked the tubes and wiring. They were operational. He traced the aerial up the wall to the small cut in the ceiling. It was loose. Rone gave a slight pull. The wire fell into his hands. The ends had not been frayed. The line had never been attached. The set could not have picked up the conversations in Kosnov’s bedroom or anywhere else. There was only one place they could have been overheard.

  Rone now knew that Ward had been in Potkin’s apartment after the raid. It was he who had listened to Erika’s make-believe conversation with the colonel informing him of still another Polakov contact. It was Ward who had gone to the statue to find the message, and it was Ward who had read the word “Wimpleton.” He had never bothered to follow Erika to the apartment, because he knew where Rone was all the time. The only reason he came was to check on the handwriting. Ward had insisted th
at Rone leave a note for Erika under the pretext they might need her in the future. Once he had seen both notes had been written by Rone he blithely announced that he knew Rone was behind the stunt because he overheard it on the auxiliary receiver. He took Rone back to the laboratory to prove it.

  Rone opened the closet and reached up on the top shelf. The Luger was gone. He went to the desk and reached into the cubbyhole. There was no money. Ward would be back in ten minutes. Rone quickly threw a change of clothes into the grip, snapped off the light and started out through the laboratory. He reached the street door and turned the knob. It was locked. He jiggled it and searched through his pocket for a key.

  “You seem in a hurry,” said a voice in the darkness.

  Rone wheeled around as the lights snapped on. A man was on each of his arms. They wrenched them behind him and snapped his wrists into handcuffs. They returned to the center of the room. They fit the description Erika had given him of Kosnov’s bodyguards. The tall blond one boosted himself onto the lab table and sat there with his legs swinging. The second, the bald Eurasian with the jet-black mustache and goatee, wore a square blue skullcap with elaborate white and red embroidery. He leaned cross-armed against the wall.

  Colonel Kosnov stood stiffly in the middle of the room. Beside him sat a gaunt, nervous man.

  “That’s him,” he told Kosnov, raising a limpwristed arm in Rone’s direction. “He was on the street today with your wife. He forced her into a car.”

  “You are sure?” Kosnov asked.

  “That is him.”

  Kosnov motioned and the Eurasian led the man from the room. The colonel remained rigid as he studied Rone. “So this is Yorgi? How long have you known my wife?” The colonel slowly slipped on the blood-stained leather gloves.

  “Your wife?” answered Rone. “I have no idea who you are let alone your wife. What is all this about? What right do you have to do this to me?”

  Kosnov looked down into his gloved hands and opened and closed his fists. “How long has it been going on?”

  “What are you talking about? Why are you here?”

  “Had she told you it was over?” Kosnov was walking slowly toward him, still staring into his hands. “Had she taunted you? Debased you?” He stopped in front of Rone and locked his arms behind his back. He jutted out his chin, but still he could not look up. “Did she force you to grovel?”