An Honorable Man (22 page)

Suddenly, a cry. Someone had found the canoe. Mueller was on his feet. He took a measure of the darkness all around and settled on the excited voices—two men at the shore. Their flashlights illuminated trees and brush in search of the owner. Their cries brought a group of men down the mansion's steps and they hustled in a chaotic pack astride the driveway.

Think!
Mueller looked at the corpse. He moved earth to cover his discovery, but his hands couldn't undo in a minute what they had taken fifteen to accomplish. Men from the house were spreading out along the driveway and entered the trees at intervals. The two men at the shore moved their search to the slope. Mueller quietly filled the hole with scattered leaves, working quickly, but in haste he snapped a twig.

Mueller saw one man's beam shift, seeking the source of the sound. In that instant, Mueller looked toward the bay's shimmering surface. He knew that a run to the water risked alerting them to his presence, but there was a greater risk of being found at the grave. The corpse's garroted throat filled Mueller with dread. That could be him. He looked left to the man coming
up the slope with a beam pointed head-on, washing him in light. The man held a gun. Men from the house formed an arc closing around Mueller.

“Hey, you,” a nearby voice said in a husky accent.

Mueller waited a moment, but then took off. His arms pumped as his legs sprinted in long strides to avoid fallen logs, darting one way, changing direction when he saw a clearer path, hunters in pursuit. The first report of a gun came quickly, followed by the dog's incessant barking. Darkness cast by the canopy of trees covered his escape, but his thrashing through the brush left a trail of sound. Excited voices all around. He kept himself fixed on the beacon of reflected moonlight on the open water. His pursuers had made a judgment about Mueller's intentions and they too changed course and headed to shore. Their flashlight beams bounced erratically as they ran.

Mueller stopped at water's edge. He undid one laced shoe and then did the same with the other. His fingers ripped off socks. He shoved his thighs into the shocking water, stepping from one stone to the next until he climbed a flat rock projecting from the surface. He made a long leaping shallow dive into waist-deep water. Cold locked in around him, knocking out his breath, and the frigid embrace of the bay numbed him. He rose to gulp air and saw tiny splashes to his left where their shots had missed their target. More reports from a gun. In his luckless adventure his fortune changed. One cloud moved in, blocking the full moon, and made it hard to be seen. He went under again, hands pulled in a breaststroke as his legs pushed with froglike thrusts. When his lungs could resist no longer he surfaced, gasping, greedy for
air, and then went under again. This he did in an unthinking pattern until completely exhausted.

He had no sense of time. He had counted four shots, but there might have been more. His hand struck a piece of splintered wood floating on the surface and near it, a chunk of scoured Styrofoam.

Mueller paused, head bobbing on the surface, and looked around. The only markers were the distance he'd come and the amount left to swim to the opposite shore. The shrieking in his ears began to subside. He looked back where he'd left the shore. Dark shapes stood at some distance, looking across the dark water with flashlights. Head barely above water, Mueller gasped, and took a measure of the danger. He saw he'd come halfway. Beyond the cove the ghostly four-masted barque rose like a chimera from the water's surface.

Loud voices from homes along the cove called into the night. The gunshots and barking dog had brought out residents who wanted to know what the commotion was all about. Jazz from one brightly lit home filled the evening and guests had moved to the docks and peered across the cove to the Soviet compound. These witnesses gave pause to the Russians who stood beside their docked motorboat.

Mueller moved his arms in the water in a weak crawl and headed to the nearest spit of land. He felt the smallness of his body in the immense indifference of the water.

  •  •  •  

Mueller paused when he approached the cottage. He didn't think he'd left the porch light on. He was further surprised when he
found the kitchen door open. Mueller glanced at the driveway, and then back to the county road, but he saw no cars and no sign of trespassers. Was someone inside? He peeked in the cottage's window, saw nothing, and then he cautiously entered.

“Hello?” Quiet. He listened. “Hello?”

Mueller crossed the kitchen, containing his fear so it didn't subvert his ability to think clearly. Mueller knelt at his duffel bag and fumbled with the zipper, catching the fabric, biting his tongue against an urge to curse. He jerked the tab through and felt for the old sock with his Colt service pistol. His breathing slowed when he had the gun in his hand.

“Hello!”

He saw a tan raincoat covered in nettles thrown across the back of a kitchen chair, and beside the chair, a battered leather suitcase covered in faded luggage stickers. A man's muddy shoes were on the floor near the door to the sun room. Mueller followed the progression of clues.

A sound. Behind. Mueller pivoted, pistol raised.

“Shit,” Mueller growled. He lowered the pistol.

Vasilenko laughed. “I frightened you, my friend. Didn't I? You're jumpy.”

“You did,” Mueller said. “Yes, you frightened me. Frightened me so much that I almost put a hole in your head.”

Vasilenko wiped his hands with a towel he'd taken from the bathroom. He shrugged. “No one was home. Fall in the water?”

Mueller flicked the room's wall switch, flooding the room with light. “
No one was home?
That's not an invitation to enter. Are you alone?”

“You should change your clothes. Your lips are blue. Here.” Vasilenko tossed his towel at Mueller. “Am I alone? Yes, I am alone. Very alone. But I'm not crazy. The water is freezing. You must have a good story.”

“How did you get in?”

“A child could get in.”

“It's late. Why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” He paused. “I need a place to stay. He looked at Mueller, evaluating his bare feet, wet hair matted to his skull. “I need help. You need to change.”

“Help for what? What's up?”

Vasilenko shook his head disparagingly. He offered his judgment without raising his voice. “You are a fool. A bloody fool. A wet bloody fool. There is so much you don't know.”

Mueller put down the towel. “What's going on?”

“I have not been working for you.”

There was a beat of silence. “What does that mean?”

Vasilenko went to the unopened bottle of scotch on the counter. “May I?” Vasilenko gulped one glass and poured a second. He slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, legs stretched in front of him, and stared at Mueller. His fingers caressed the glass. “What does that mean? Yes, a good question. What does it mean,” he repeated almost to himself. He looked up. “Sit, George. Join me. Change your clothes and join me. I have something you will want to hear. It is better if you aren't shivering.”

Mueller returned in dry clothes and took the chair opposite the Russian.

“You made contact in Washington,” Vasilenko said. “Do you
remember? There was the offer you made of the shotgun. An obvious lure. I reported the contact to the
rezident.
He said proceed. Let yourself be recruited, but don't make it look too easy. So I went along with your game and I let myself be surprised when the cleaning girl approached me.”

Vasilenko paused. He glanced at the door, an instinct. “You were sloppy, like your door here. Amateurish. I saw the man's ring on the night table, and I knew you were behind the mirror. But it was my job to let you think you were landing a fish.” He hands gestured wide and theatrically. “A big fish.” He laughed his mocking gruffness. “So we let the CIA have its little victory.”

Vasilenko was quiet. His head turned to the window at the sound of a car traveling along the shore road, and when the car was gone he looked again at Mueller. “It's not safe for me. How much am I worth to you?”

“What's happened?”

Vasilenko waved off the question and threw back another drink. The smoky scent of scotch made Mueller want to pour himself a shot, but he rose and took milk from the refrigerator and drank from the bottle. “What was in the bag you left in Union Station?” he asked.

“I don't know. I was the delivery boy. I never saw what I turned over. They said take it, so I took it. Chernov is the handler. He's the one you want.”

Vasilenko leaned forward. “I want to defect.”

Mueller was quiet, thinking, hand on his chin.

Vasilenko spoke. “There are changes. Arrests. Old grudges are being settled. Chernov.” He spat the word. “
Mudak
.”

Mueller looked at the Russian. “Why?”

“Why?” he snapped. He had risen excitedly in his chair, but he slumped back down. “You were getting close to Protocol. Asking too many questions. Chernov couldn't risk having his prize asset compromised. It would be a big loss. Now is not a good time for a big loss. What I gave you . . .” He searched for the word. “I was a plant.”

“Who is Protocol?”

“You think I know!” He paused. “It's not you.”

“How do you know?”

He scoffed. “You? If you are Protocol, it's my death sentence.” Vasilenko looked at Mueller. He lifted a finger to make a point. “The date in Vienna. That evening in May 'forty-eight. You were in the Soviet zone. They picked that date because you
were
there, and Chernov knew Coffin would know. A magician's trick. The eye watches one hand while the real action is elsewhere.” Vasilenko paused. “It's not you because Chernov wants them to
think
it's you.”

Mueller pondered that. “How was he recruited?”

“I want to defect.”

“My question first.”

Vasilenko raised his voice, then calmed himself. “Do you know what is happening in Moscow Center now? The long knives are out. Beria was taken from a meeting of the presidium in handcuffs. The head of state security publicly arrested. Have you any idea what that means? Stalin is dead.
Stalin is dead
.”

Vasilenko lowered his voice, but he arched his eyebrows, and he spoke almost in a whisper. “No one is safe.” He drew a cutting finger across his throat.

“My question first.”

“Are you authorized? Is this an official conversation?”

“No.”

Vasilenko shifted his bulk in the chair. “I have been recalled. My flight is in two days. When I arrive in Moscow I know what to expect. I will be taken directly from the airport to Lubyanka Prison. They will present evidence against me—all made up—for a crime they've made up. I will be declared an enemy of the state. I will be taken to a small cell, hands bound behind my back, asked to kneel. If I refuse they will force me to my knees. A guard will come up behind and put a bullet in the back of my head. This is how it is done.” His face had lost color. “I want to defect. What do you need from me?”

“How was he recruited?”

“Do you have a plan for me?”

“You have to trust me.”

Vasilenko shook his head skeptically. “Our jobs require that we lie to each other.”

Mueller's fingers toyed with the bottle of milk. “I could be lying. That's true. Let's stipulate that I am lying. What choice do you have?”

Vasilenko reached for his whiskey, but stopped when he found the glass empty. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, relaxing with the tobacco. “I am taking you on your word.” He inhaled again. “Here is what I was told. He was compromised by the Nazis in Vienna in nineteen-thirty-nine. He helped the Nazis fence art taken from wealthy Jewish families using his connections to the business world in London. German intel
ligence caught him with an underage boy. Protocol's acquaintance with Goering kept him from arrest and saved him from scandal. He had every reason to believe the incident was covered up. When the Red Army took Berlin they found Goering's private files, which included a record of the incident. Chernov was head of GRU in Berlin at the time and he took possession of all the files. When Protocol came to Vienna after the war Chernov prepared a trap. Chernov had a German boy brought to the Soviet zone and something was done to make the boy available to Protocol. He was caught a second time. Chernov told him, ‘Now you work for us.'” Vasilenko looked at Mueller. “Is that enough?”

Mueller considered the Russian. “How do I know it's true?”

Vasilenko looked at Mueller with a cold, hard gaze. “You don't.” He stood and poured himself another whiskey. “Some of it is true. Some it has to be true so that parts that aren't true
could
be true.” Vasilenko took a shallow breath. “You have one day, maybe two, before Chernov gets to Protocol.”

“How will that happen?”

“I don't know. They will know something is wrong when they discover I'm gone. The plane is the outside date. They know I don't have his name. If they can't protect him they will eliminate him.” Vasilenko's cheeks had the rosy blush of alcohol. He added carelessly, “They have the girl too.”

“Girl?”

“From the apartment. The one who called herself Jane. She was compromised from the start. They say they caught her stealing from the apartments she cleaned. She is being held because
she is useful to them. They'll ask her questions. When they're done they'll dispose of her, or exchange her.”

“Where is she?” Mueller demanded.

“Embassy. Top floor. There's a small room.”

Mueller closed his eyes, pressed fingers into his forehead. “You can sleep on the sofa. I'll get you a blanket. What happens to your wife and son?”

“They are on a train to the border. I have always thought of you as a friend.”