Shift: A Novel (32 page)

“Such as?”

“The need for an organization. Going rogue requires a flight of inspired lunacy. But going solo is just insane.”

Ivelitsch’s words were so similar to Song’s that Melchior wondered if they were conspiring together. But he managed to keep his face and voice impassive.

“And what makes you think I’m going rogue?”

“Rip Robertson’s corpse for one thing. And Orpheus for another.”

Melchior tapped the paper. “Rip’s death hasn’t made the news, so I take it this is your way of telling me you’ve got a man inside CIA. However, I was just batting cleanup on Orpheus, so whoever your man is, he’s only getting half his facts.”

“Our man is Stanley.”

“Stanley?” Melchior did his best to keep his voice level. “The mythical mole who penetrated MI-5? He’s the British version of the Wise Men.”

“He’s Kim Philby,
¹¹
and he’s every bit as real as the Wise Men. He has lunch several times a week with James Jesus Angleton
¹⁰
whenever he’s in DC. After three or four gimlets, there’s very little Mother won’t tell his old friend.”

This time Melchior made no attempt to hide his surprise. “Why in the world would you tell me that?” he said, although he knew there could only be one answer. “Philby’s been missing since January.”

“He’s in Moscow, drinking all the vodka his liver can stand. Now, turn around, you half-caste moron, before you attract attention.”

Melchior looked forward again. He stared at the shrouded faces of the wet commuters, wondering if any could even begin to imagine what was happening while they raced toward their trains.

“You’re rogue too,” he said, and again wondered if Ivelitsch and Song were in cahoots—it seemed like an awfully big coincidence (the very thing that BC had said about Melchior’s presence on the train, come to think about it) that she would ask Ivelitsch to turn against KGB when, in fact, he already had.

“I prefer the term enlightened,” Ivelitsch was saying now. “The Cold War is a lose-lose scenario. The United States and the Soviet Union can’t make a serious move without risking nuclear reprisal. They put on frivolous headline dramas like the Cuban Missile Crisis or mount expensive but largely pointless proxy wars—the Baathists versus General Qasim in Iraq, say, or Movimiento 26 de Julio in Cuba, the North and South Vietnamese—and send them to the slaughter. What’s needed is a smaller organization, more nimble, more obscure, free of the restraints of dogma and politics that neither side actually believes, let alone adheres to.”

Melchior flicked a picture of President Kennedy shaking hands with Martin Luther King on the cover of his paper.

“I think both of these men would disagree.”

Ivelitsch looked at the two beaming faces as if he couldn’t tell them apart.

“As a Negro, Reverend King leads the only American manifestation
of a phenomenon so common in the old world, namely, the remarkable tenacity of ethnic groups to resist integration into the modern heterogeneous state. His idealism is tribal, which makes it resistant to compromise, but also confines it to his own constituency. The last I checked, Negroes made up about ten percent of the U.S. population, which is a number that means more to retailers than pollsters. President Kennedy, by contrast, wants to have it both ways. His optimism is ridiculously naive—ridiculously American, one wants to say—but his cynicism is Irish to the core. He’s trying to appease everyone—the hawks and the doves, the businessmen and the beatniks, the New Men and the Negroes. In the end it’s going to be the death of him.”

Something about Ivelitsch’s use of the word “death” suggested it wasn’t a euphemism.

“Lemme guess,” Melchior said. “The mob. Johnny Roselli? Jimmy Hoffa? Sam Giancana maybe? Pissed off that Bobby isn’t giving them quid pro quo for Cuba?”

Melchior’s tone was joking, but Ivelitsch responded to it seriously. “Have you heard anything specific?”

“Let’s just say that if you want to get away with knocking off the president of the United States, you probably shouldn’t go around telling everyone that that’s what you intend to do. Have
you
heard anything?”

Ivelitsch shrugged. “Mafia men dislike Communists even more than they dislike Kennedys. But if and when it happens, we need to be ready to take advantage of the chaos that will surely follow. Until then, there’s the question of Orpheus, and, of course, the bomb. We need to get the former out of the country, the latter in.”

Melchior could only shake his head at Ivelitsch’s candor. The man was working as hard as possible to prove his break from his employer. Either that or he planned on shooting Melchior as soon as he found out what he wanted to know. Of course, Melchior was considering the same thing, assuming he could get Ivelitsch to stop talking about U.S. politics and tell him where the hell Naz was, or what he wanted for her return.

“So,” he said, moving the conversation in that direction. “Where do you propose we move Orpheus? With Miss Haverman?”

“Is that her name?” Ivelitsch said. “A lovely girl. Beguiling, I have to say. I can see why she’d have such a hold on Orpheus.”

“How much do you know about that?”

“Rather less than you, I think,” Ivelitsch said. “Edward Logan’s records on Project Orpheus seem to have disappeared from the Boston office. Ditto Joe Scheider’s from Langley.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Melchior said.

“I didn’t think so,” Ivelitsch said, smiling wryly. “At any rate, Miss Haverman is enjoying the comforts of one of the luxury suites in the basement of the Soviet Embassy for the time being. As for Orpheus, I think he’d be better off in the Soviet Union.”

Melchior snorted. “Putting aside the fact that that is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard, I thought you were leaving KGB?”

“Why would I do something like that? KGB has access to the kind of money and manpower you and I could never raise, at least in the short term. And unlike you, I’ve been nothing but a model citizen my entire career. My superiors have no reason to suspect me.”

“If only they could hear this conversation,” Melchior said. “All right then. Orpheus to Russia. And the bomb?”

“We haven’t found it yet, but you have to realize that it’s only a matter of time. It’s leaking—badly. A dozen people have already fallen ill. It’s a trail of human bread crumbs. You need to tell me where it is so I can send someone to fix it before the Cubans or my team find it or, even worse, it’s no longer good for anything.”

“And then you look the other way while I move it again?”

“We move it here.”

“Here …?”

“To the States. We can bring it in through the Keys or New Orleans or even Houston.”

“And then what? We blow up the White House? The Empire State Building?”

“Don’t be stupid, Melchior. You can only blow up a bomb once. But you can threaten to blow it up forever, or at least until people no longer believe you, at which point you can always sell it.”

“Or actually blow it up.”

Ivelitsch smiled. “Or actually blow it up.”

Melchior shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re crazy or insane.”

“Those words mean the same thing.”

“And you’d have to be crazy insane if you think I’m going to tell you
where either Orpheus or the bomb is. But in any case, we’re going to have to settle this question another day. We got company.”

“I love it when you go working class. It’s almost as charming as your autodidacticism. I assume you mean the gentleman at two o’clock. Navy pinstripe, rep tie.”

“Andover. Nice catch. But I was actually referring to your man. Seven o’clock. Gray suit, poorly fitted.”

“Sartorial socialism at its finest. What gave him away?”

“He’s doing the crossword and he keeps saying
‘Blyat’
under his breath. Russian for ‘whore,’ as I recall.”

“Well, that’s a good enough reason to kill him, I suppose, although he also has a habit of singing ‘The Internationale’ at three in the morning after he’s polished off his nightly bottle of vodka.”

“I’d practically be doing you a favor.” Melchior’s chuckle faded into the vast open space of the waiting room. “We have to kill them, don’t we?”

“For my sake, no. KGB knows of the work you did for Raúl, so it was easy enough to convince my superiors that I was meeting you to see if I could turn you. But you’re already under suspicion, and if word gets back to Langley that you spent a half hour chatting with a top Soviet operative—”

“You flatter yourself.”

“—it will look bad. Angleton already suspects you’re working for the Castros, and Drew Everton can’t be too happy about the fact that you apparently killed Orpheus rather than recovering him, and then there’s poor Rip. At some point they’re going to call you in for a meeting, and you’ll be lucky if you get out before Kennedy loses the election next year.”

“You know more about my career than I do. Okay then. How do you want to play this?”

“Attempt to take me into custody. The commotion will bring Ivan into the fray, during which I’ll escape and Ivan, alas, will die. I’ll go for rep tie, but if I fail, he’ll at least report that you attempted to apprehend me.”

“So you’re saying I have to kill Ivan solely on the chance that you miss Andover? You’re a cold-blooded bastard.”

“Remember the bad singing.”

“Andover won’t be alone. Not after Rip.”

“Have you made his partner?”

“Not yet, but he’ll make a move during the fight. Keep your eyes peeled. Oh, and—”

“Yes?”

“This one’s for Song.”

Melchior drove his elbow into the side of Ivelitsch’s face. He wanted to surprise him to make it look real, in case the watchers did get away, and he also wanted to let him know who was going to run this partnership, should it survive its first test. There was a snap—probably not a broken jawbone, but maybe—and Ivelitsch rolled to the left. The two men fell to the floor, briefly out of sight of the KGB and CIA agents.

“We’ve got to switch guns,” Melchior hissed.

Ivelitsch had to pop his jaw before he could speak. “What?”

“Forensics needs to find Makarov slugs in both Americans.”

“Good point,” Ivelitsch said. He swapped guns with Melchior, but before he got up he grabbed Melchior’s arm.

“For this to work everyone who knows you has to die. Frank Wisdom and Drew Everton and—”

“I understand.”

“Everyone,”
Ivelitsch said. And then: “Say it.”

“Say—”

“You know.”

Melchior rolled his eyes.

“Timor mortis exultat me.”

“If I were a girl I’d kiss you,” Ivelitsch said. “But since I’m a man …” He smashed his forehead into Melchior’s nose.

The Russian was up first, the magnum he’d taken from Melchior already level. A woman screamed before he fired the first shot, which only missed Melchior because he rolled behind the bench. He knew Ivelitsch
would
shoot him if he got the chance. This was a test, for both of them, and it was pass or die.

As Ivelitsch had predicted, Ivan was in motion. The second KGB man didn’t seem to realize that the two fighting men were aligning themselves so that—

Ivelitsch aimed, and Melchior threw himself to the floor. He heard the shots, turned to see Ivan falling backward with two dark holes in his
chest, a last silent
“Blyat!”
passing his lips. Melchior jumped up a few yards to the right of his former position, gun already aimed. He could have sworn his shot grazed Ivelitsch’s back. It caught Andover in the meat of his left shoulder. He staggered backward, but he was also reaching into his jacket for his weapon.

Melchior took a second to aim. If he missed, if Andover got away, it was all over before it began. His second shot blew the fedora off what was left of the agent’s skull, but Melchior was already scanning the crowd before the hat hit the ground.

He saw what he was looking for halfway down the station: a man moving quickly but calmly amid the frenzied crowd, heading for the front exit. Something flashed in the man’s hand. Not a gun. Worse—car keys.

“Mashina?”
he called out.

“Nyet,”
Ivelitsch yelled back, still squeezing off shots as he made his way toward the gates, where, presumably, he’d hop a train as it pulled out of the station or escape through the tracks. The Russian was making this a little
too
real. Melchior had to duck and zigzag his way across the waiting room, all of which let the second Company man get farther away. When he’d finally put enough people between himself and Ivelitsch’s gun, he stood up straight and ran for the front exit. The Company man was already outside. Melchior spotted him getting into the driver’s seat of a taxi parked in the rank of livery vehicles on Massachusetts Avenue.

There were two tickets under the windshield wiper of Song’s bathtub Porsche. Melchior would’ve preferred a Catalina or a Fury or even a Corvette, but Song had assured him the 356 would get him where he needed to go. He’d had to leave the top down because the car was too damn small for him otherwise. He vaulted the door, slid his legs under the steering wheel, jerked the choke, pumped the gas, turned the key. The Porsche whined like a half-grown lion cub.

The agent didn’t seem to have seen Melchior leave the station. He pulled his taxi onto the semicircular road that would give him access to Columbus Circle and a half dozen streets. Melchior pulled into the one-way drive’s exit to cut him off, weaving in and out of the heavy afternoon traffic. The agent spotted him and jerked the taxi over the curb, tearing across the strip of park that separated the station’s access
road from Columbus Circle. He barely slowed as he shot across eight lanes of traffic, heading straight for Delaware Avenue.

Melchior was acutely conscious of how tiny the Porsche was as he followed—not just because his left knee slammed into the underside of the console every time he shifted, but because all he could see were the enormous grilles of Fords and Chryslers and Chevies closing in on him like a pack of Saint Bernards. He shot onto Delaware, straight toward the Capitol, less than a hundred feet behind the bright yellow Crown Vic. At that point Melchior had to give the little car its due. He punched it and it sprang after the taxi as though a leash had snapped from its collar.