Requiem For a Glass Heart (22 page)

K
RUPATIN DIDN’T WASTE ANY TIME.
H
E PUSHED THE
M
ERCEDES
hard toward Texas under a clear half-moon. It was a little over three hundred miles to the border, and luckily the coastal highway was not particularly crooked or heavily populated. Slumped behind the wheel, he drove somberly, as if he were on the Autobahn, flat out, the Mercedes sucking at the black asphalt that ran north in straight stretches—with occasional slight adjustments in direction—between the Gulf of Mexico and the Sierra Madre Oriental. In silence they hurtled through the star-sparkling night toward another country.

It was Irina’s job to navigate, using a road map that had been provided with the car. Every time an intersection appeared out of the darkness, she gave Krupatin the highway number he was to take and the name of the next town or village. Her directions were the only words spoken for several hours as the headlights of the Mercedes flashed over the roadside terrain, giving a fast-forward, tunnel-vision glimpse of Mexico’s isolated coastal spaces. There were miles and miles of nothing, vague notions of desert, glimmerings in the distance, a collection of shacks, a stalled truck and the faces of two bewildered men caught for an instant in the Mercedes’s lights. More vague notions of desert. The moon followed them, racing over the Gulf of Mexico outside Irina’s window.

When the dim lights of Reynosa finally appeared in the distance, the Land Rover escort pulled to the side of the paved road and wheeled around. The red taillights signaled that Sergei and Irina were alone.

The border station was not difficult to find, but Krupatin turned into a street a block away and pulled to the curb. The streets were poorly lighted and had more potholes than pavement. Mexico did not put its best foot forward in its border towns, and Reynosa was no exception. Krupatin had parked on a street filled with bars, but it seemed to be a sluggish night and there was a scarcity of clientele. Only a few cars were parked along the high curbs, and a haze of dust hung suspended in the night, casting a romantic veil over the neon lights that quivered above the sidewalks.

“We had better check with the border guard,” Krupatin said, lighting a cigarette. “Go in there,” he said, nodding at an open bar and pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket, “and call this number. Ask for this name.” He looked at her. “He’s on the U.S. side. When he identifies himself, hang up.”

She did as she was told, a blond, fair-skinned woman in a dark cantina, dark faces turning her way, white eyes flashing. Jerky music, accordion and guitar and horns, obscured her conversation. The man she wanted eventually gave his name, in a twangy accent like those of Texans in the movies.

Before she was even inside the Mercedes, two men appeared at the door of the club to see where she had gone. They watched as she closed the door of the car behind her.

On the Mexican side of the bridge they were waved on. It was too late at night even to engage in a little game for a
mordida.
They drove slowly across the darkness, and only once did Irina see a brief glint of moonlight on the little bit of water. She thought fleetingly of the Neva.

On the U.S. side she pretended to be asleep. It was brightly lighted and only one agent came out of the building. He was a Mexican and did not look like his name would be the name written on the piece of paper. When he spoke, she knew he wasn’t. She kept her head against the back of the seat. He asked Krupatin for their papers and read them. Why are you coming to the United States, Mr. Kurner? Tourists. How long are you planning on staying? Two weeks. Where are you going? San Antonio for a few days, then to Dallas.

Irina turned restlessly in her seat and through squinted eyes looked inside the station. Another agent was studying a computer screen in the bright fluorescent light. He glanced up once, but continued working on the computer without taking notice of the routine procedure outside. The two agents did not communicate. Then the agent questioning Krupatin handed their passports back, told him to enjoy his stay in the States, and backed away from the car.

Krupatin never showed the slightest concern. He had been crossing borders all his life.

They drove seven miles in from the border to a town called McAllen, where Krupatin stopped at a service station and made another telephone call, Irina watched him as he made a few notes on a piece of paper, looking down the street and nodding, asking a question, looking down the street and nodding again. Finally he hung up, and they drove down a palm-lined boulevard until he pulled off at an all-night café. He parked in a corner of the parking lot, away from the street-lamps, and they went inside, where he chose a booth next to a window. They quickly ordered something to eat, neither of them having had anything since they left Tampico.

As he always did, Krupatin looked around at the people in the cafe to see whose company he was keeping. It was well after midnight now, nearly two o’clock, and the few other diners scattered around in the booths and at the tables were a sober-looking lot, people who were familiar with the small hours of the morning and who tended to keep their own counsel. When the waitress brought them coffee, Krupatin lighted a cigarette.

They had been there twenty minutes, Krupatin had finished his cigarette, and they were already eating when another Mercedes pulled into the parking lot, made its way over to their car, turned in beside it, and parked. Krupatin watched it with unconcern, with no more particular interest than that with which he had been watching the occasional car passing on the boulevard.

A man got out of the Mercedes, which was dark blue and larger than the one they were driving, and opened the trunk. Then he went around to the passenger side of their car and opened it. Krupatin had left the keys in the ignition. The man took the keys and opened the trunk of their car and transferred
the luggage that was there to the dark blue Mercedes. When he had done that, he closed the trunks of both cars, got into their Mercedes, and drove away.

If anyone in the cafe had noticed this little transaction, Irina could not tell. It had taken no more than three or four minutes, during which Krupatin’s expression had never changed. He had continued eating, not even bothering to watch the exchange of luggage.

It was two-thirty when they pulled into a large motel a few miles down the road. It was a new establishment built like a Spanish hacienda, with balconies and arched walkways. There were palm trees and magenta bougainvillea and potted plants all around the swimming pool, which was bright and clean.

As soon as they checked into their room, Krupatin opened a briefcase on the table near the windows. The briefcase was full of neatly organized identification documents: travel visas, passports of various colors, credit cards, and papers identifying them as a variety of married couples as well as unrelated individuals. Helen and Gunther Kurner had disappeared with the pearl-gray Mercedes. None of the data they had presented at the border would ever be seen again.

Now they would be whoever Krupatin wished them to be. Irina knew that he would play these documents skillfully, so that their drive to Houston would leave no trace whatsoever. How he would use these identities in the city was another matter. It all depended on how invisible he wished to remain.

Once he finished with these documents, satisfying himself that he had received what he had ordered, he returned everything to the case and closed it. Then he opened a second briefcase. This one contained cash in American dollars. He counted it—this man who had billions in foreign accounts all over the world—counted this cash as if he were a traveling salesman, carefully, meticulously tallying up the day’s receipts to make sure every penny was accounted for so his commission would not be shorted.

Irina was exhausted. She hung up her two dresses, hoping most of the wrinkles would hang out of them during the night. She took off her underclothes and took a shower. Then, with a towel wrapped around her, she washed out her underclothes and draped them from hangers to dry during what
remained of the night. When she finished Krupatin was still at the table, almost through counting. She lay down on the bed farthest from the windows, farthest from him, and turned out the bedside lamp. Stoop-shouldered, he continued to count, his profile to her, the room lighted now only by the lamp beside his table. A hank of hair fell over his brow. He was tired and looked tired, but would not stop.

She went to sleep holding the locket that hung around her neck, as the Devil counted his money a few feet away. The dollars might just as well have been souls, his tally for the day, another score sent to hell. The Devil was insatiable, gathering to himself every tiny soul, never enough, never enough, greedily raking the lost into his abyss like so much loose change, a shekel, a kopek, a penny, a life. It was all the same. Profit and loss.

A
T SEVEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING
, C
ATE AND
A
NN
L
ODER
left the off-site and drove to Gate’s apartment, where she picked up more clothes, this time nicer dresses that would be more appropriate for her relationship with Valentin Stepanov. Then they drove to a restaurant just off the West Loop and had breakfast.

Cate was hungry, but her stomach was uneasy and her breakfast did not settle well. She guessed it didn’t have anything to do with the lousy meals they had been having for the past forty-eight hours. Lousy meals were part of her routine. But she suspected it had everything to do with what she was about to throw herself into.

“Butterflies?” Ann asked, holding a cup of coffee in both hands, looking at Cate.

“It shows that much?”

“Actually, not at all. I just knew you’d have them.”

Cate nodded. “I feel a little weird.” She turned her wrist up on the tabletop, exposing the inside of her arm. “These things are going to take some getting used to.”

“You’d do best just to forget about them.”

“Oh, sure,” Cate said. “That’s best. I’ll do that.” She ate another bite of her egg and spread a bit of orange marmalade on a piece of toast. She put down her knife.

“Last night, when we tried them out—how sensitive are they?”

“Pretty good,” Ann said. “Pretty damn good.”

Cate took a ballpoint out of her purse, pulled a clean paper napkin from the dispenser on their table, and wrote, “Can they hear me peeing?”

Ann grinned. “Well, I don’t know if I’d worry about that …”

“Goddamn.” Gate rolled her head and wadded up the napkin.

“Come on. Look, it’s not that sensitive, really.” “Yeah, well, I believe you, Ann … really.” “That ought to be the least of your worries.” Cate looked away, out the window to the expressway. “No, I don’t have any shortage of worries.” “You remember the code word?”

“‘I’m burning up’ or ‘I’m hot’—some reference to that.” “Okay. Just make sure you’re not vague about it.” “You can bet on that.”

Ann studied her for a moment. “I shouldn’t say this, but you can back out anytime you want to.”

Cate looked at her across the table and said evenly, “I wouldn’t back out of this if my life depended on it.”

The phrasing was unfortunate; both of them realized it but chose to ignore it.

“That sounds determined,” Ann said. “It also sounds like you think you’ve got something to live up to—or live down.”

“Maybe. Both, maybe.”

Ann shrugged. “Well, that’s a lot of baggage to carry into this. But people go into this work for all kinds of reasons. Any way you cut it, this is a pretty strange business, when you just back up and look at it.” She set down her coffee cup and picked at a crumb beside her plate. “People have all kinds of reasons.”

“Why do you do it?”

Ann looked up. “No, I
don’t
do it. I’m always sitting back at the home fire.
You
do it. People like you. Erika does it. People like her. I’ll run you, but that’s it. That’s enough pressure for me. I won’t go out. I won’t do it myself.”

Cate studied her. She wanted to ask why she wouldn’t do it, but she was afraid to. She had no idea what Ann’s answer
might be, but now was not the time for her to hear it, no matter what it was.

By the time they got back to the off-site at nine-thirty, Valentin Stepanov had called and left instructions for them to meet him in an hour at a particular location in the parking lot of the Town and Country Village, a shopping mall in the northwestern part of the city, at the intersection of Interstate 10 and the Sam Houston Tollway. Just as Cate and Ann were getting their things together to leave, one of the telephones rang on the table. Hain’s bank of equipment seemed to be growing. Still another telephone and computer monitor had been added, and the tangled drapery of wires and cables that provided intravenous power to these systems was threatening absurdity.

Erika raised the telephone. “Cate.”

She took the telephone.

“Are you bucked up for this?” It was Ennis Strey. She was relieved to hear his voice.

“I’m ready,” she said, trying to sound game and to ease any anxieties he might be feeling on her behalf.

“You’ll do fine.” There was a slight pause. “I’m in the tech room. We’ve got someone on you round the clock, too. You’ve got lots of company.”

“Thanks, Ennis. I appreciate it.”

“Take off,” he said.

Cate hung up and grabbed her purse. Hain was instantly beside her. His aging schoolboy face was concentrated as he walked beside her through the living room toward the front door.

“Careful not to slip and let Stepanov know about the mikes,” he said, stooping a little toward her as he spoke.

“Fly on the wall,” she said, not slowing down.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s about it.” One, two, three, four steps. “Any last-minute double-checks? Anything you want to reconfirm? Clear up?”

“Not a thing.”

They were at the door. She turned and glanced back at Ometov. He was waiting for that, with his hands in his pockets, his face smiling. He nodded and gave a small tilt forward from the waist, a baggy bow of deference to her temerity and a quiet sign of his respect for what she was about to do.

Outside, Neil Jernigan’s car was waiting behind Ann’s.
John Parmley was sitting in the front seat wearing tiny headphones and looking down at his lap, undoubtedly already tuned to her body’s receptions.

Jernigan opened her door for her, a means of having one last word with her.

“Cate, I know I don’t have to caution you, but be careful with any verbal communication you might want to make directly to us. Even if you’re alone. When you’re in their territory, you’ve got to assume you’re in bugged territory. They’d pick it up. If you want to talk to us, do it rarely and carefully.”.

She nodded. “Okay, Neil, thanks.”

“Good luck,” he said, and closed the door.

Within ten minutes of leaving the house, Jernigan’s car dropped out of sight. For the next few minutes the only words spoken were Cate’s occasional directions to Ann. When the telephone rang, Cate picked it up.

“Cate, it’s Erika. I wanted a few private words before you join Stepanov.” She paused. “I am thinking maybe you should not be too defensive with him. Believe a few of his lies. It will make him a little comfortable. We need his ego on our side.” She paused again, cleared her throat. “It’s just a thought I had.”

“No, I can see that. That’s good thinking.”

“Good luck,” Erika said curtly. She was off the line before Cate could thank her.

Cate put the telephone on the seat beside her. They were all crossing their fingers, tossing salt over their shoulders, rubbing their rabbit’s feet. Ann Loder said nothing.

It was well after ten o’clock and the parking lot of the mall was moderately full. They found Stepanov’s rental car where he said it would be, outside the main entrance to one of the mall’s anchor stores, near an oak tree and a park bench. But Stepanov was not in it. Ann Loder cruised past it, slowed, and went on. They circled on the far side of the lot until they found a vantage point from which they could clearly see the rental car and parked. But no sooner had Ann turned off the ignition than Stepanov came into view, walking across from a fast-food restaurant and sipping a cup of coffee. When he got to the car, he leaned against the driver’s side door and crossed his feet, prepared to wait.

Ann said nothing, watched him a minute, then started the car.

They pulled up behind Stepanov’s car and stopped. He made no display of greetings at seeing them but simply stood upright, pulled his keys out of his pocket, and opened the trunk of the car.

Ann looked at Cate. “We’ll let you know how you can get in touch with us. Circumstances will dictate.”

“Okay,” Cate said.

“Don’t screw up.” Ann grinned at her.

“I’ll hold that thought,” Cate said and opened the door.

They transferred Cate’s bag to Stepanov’s trunk, and Stepanov slammed it shut.

Ann looked at him. “Be careful, Valentin.” It was more a warning than a cautionary remark.

“Oh, I’m sure you will keep a good eye on us,” the Russian said without humor. “I’ll take good care of her, don’t worry.”

Ann nodded and looked at Cate. “Keep in touch. Good luck.”

That was it.

Ann got into her car and Stepanov watched her drive away. “Come on,” he said. “Get in.”

They got inside his car, which was in the shade of the oak, and Stepanov put his keys in the ignition, but he didn’t start the engine. He simply sat there, looking out the windshield at the traffic coming into the mall lot, watching people get out of their cars and walk through the aisles of vehicles to the mall. Then he rolled down his window. He sipped his coffee, looking as though he were pondering just how to say what he was going to say.

Cate thought he was bigger than she remembered from the day before. He filled up the car seat and loomed over the steering wheel, which seemed proportionally too small for him. She studied his profile and in those few moments recognized the strain in his face. Though he was presenting a picture of equanimity, the stress on the inside was manifested in a weariness in his eyes that he could not disguise.

“Well,” he said finally, continuing to stare straight ahead. “Are you wired?” He was almost pensive. The question seemed routine, lacking any real curiosity.

“No,” she said.

“They’ll find it if you are, and that will be the end of it. I hope your people weren’t that stupid.”

“You can check me if you want to,” she said.

He looked at her and smiled. “No,” he said, and then turned his gaze back out the front of the car. “You know, whoever Sergei sends, at some point they will go through everything in our hotel room.”

“I’m okay. There’s nothing to find.”

“They have debugging technology,” he observed. He looked out into the sunlight. “He is going to be surprised at how hot it is here.” He smiled to himself, a gallows smile.

“Your two friends checked into the Chateau Touraine late yesterday afternoon,” Cate said.

Stepanov turned his head to her. “Really?” His face showed no surprise.

“When they came through customs they were disguised.”

“Disguised? You’re kidding.” He shook his head.

“By the time they arrived at the hotel they had removed their disguises, and Ometov has identified one of them as Grigori Izvarin.”

“Izvarin.” He nodded. “Of course,” he said with a weary jerk of his head. “Who else but him? And the other one?”

“Leo doesn’t know him.”

Stepanov raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Leo knows Sergei’s people pretty well.” He sipped his coffee. “That’s interesting. So they’ve checked into the hotel.” He thought about this a moment. Then he shrugged and tossed his coffee cup out the window into the parking lot. “Let’s drive and get some things straightened out.” He turned on the ignition and started the car, then looked at her. “You look nice,” he said.