The Kremlin Letter (33 page)

“Is there much pain?” he asked impassively.

“I'll get by,” answered Rone.

“Someone will look after you when we get there,” he told him over his shoulder.

Rone reached down and continued searching Kosnov. What he had hoped for was not there. The Eurasian's gun had not been planted on the corpse. He continued going through the clothing.

The car came to a stop. The back door opened and the two men pulled out Kosnov's body. Rone tried to raise himself up.

“Just stay where you are,” Ward told him, sticking his head into the car. “The less you see, Nephew, the better off you'll be.” He slammed the door. “Go on ahead with him,” he told the Eurasian.

They had driven several minutes before Rone managed to sit up in the seat. He took long, deep breaths. The Eurasian kept his eyes on the road. Rone could see they were in the area of Nikolayev Square heading toward the Kremlin.

Rone slipped off his belt and held it in his lap. He exercised his fingers and rubbed his arms to increase the circulation. He tried to watch both the road and the driver with his one open eye. He took short breaths to ease the pain in his ribs and side. They were nearing a construction site. Rone knew exactly where he was now.

He reached down and tied a knot in the belt. He pulled it as taut as he could. The effort weakened him. He slid toward the door until he was directly behind the driver. He lunged forward, looped the belt over the Eurasian's head, and jerked it back against his neck. Rone pushed his feet against the back of the seat and pulled the belt with all his strength. The driver's head snapped back. His hands left the wheel and reached for the belt. Rone continued pulling. The car ran off the road and down along a culvert. Rone was thrown against the door as it tipped over.

The Eurasian was motionless. Rone reached over the front seat and took his gun. The car was on its side. He stood up and opened the door. Slowly he eased himself out of the car and started running as best he could into the construction site.

He slid down an excavation and stumbled along a water-filled ditch. He stopped and listened. There was no sound. He splashed forward until he reached a wooden ladder, arduously clambered up and crawled over a pile of fresh earth. He lay prone, twisted his body around and peered over the top toward the boulevard. He could see dark forms. Another car had stopped on the road.

Rone scrambled down the embankment. He made his way through the cement skeleton of a new building, crossed an unpaved road and staggered behind a wooden construction shack. His legs were giving out. His breath came in short, painful gasps. His nose had begun to bleed, and a cut on his neck had opened. He clung to a wooden window sill for balance. He looked around. He saw the outline of several large gravel trucks through the darkness. He started unsteadily for them. One leg buckled, toppling him over. He picked himself up and forced his body forward. He fell twice more before he reached them. He hid between two vehicles. He slid himself along a fender and reached up to the handle of the cab door. He raised himself onto the narrow running board. His arms were heavy with pain as he pulled himself over the cab. He knew he had little strength or consciousness left. He fell into the open truck body, landing face first in a pile of moist clay and dirt.

He stopped to listen. He heard a voice calling in the night. It was far away from him now. He burrowed weakly into the dirt, scooping it over his arms and legs. Then he collapsed.

Wet mud showered down over him. Rone wiped his face clean and looked up into the dangling jaws of a dirt scoop. It swung away. His body was almost completely buried. He dug his hands free and cleared breathing space between his face and the side of the truck. He heard the crane swing back over him and the bucket door squeak open. Once again mud thundered down.

He heard shouts. The Diesel engine of the truck whined to a start. The truck lumbered forward and turned onto a dirt road. Rone knew where he was going now. He had passed the trucks on his walks. He dug himself free and crawled to the opposite side of the truck. He raised himself upright. The truck turned again. They were on pavement. It wouldn't be far. Just one more turn. Rone tried twice to pull himself onto the edge. The third time he made it. The truck turned. He fell to the street, got up and began running toward the gates. Anyone would do. He passed the startled guard, climbed the steps to the front door, burst into the embassy and once again collapsed.

The room was cheerful. Rone sat up in bed sipping the rich Italian coffee.

“How long did I sleep?” he asked.

Amadeo Grano, vice-consul, moved one leg over the other, brushed a piece of lint from his black pinstripe, hooked his thumbs in his vest pocket and sat back in the winged chair.

“The better part of two days,” he answered in Oxford English. “How do you feel?”

“Stiff.”

“The doctors say it is nothing serious. If you consider two cracked ribs and a fractured cheekbone trivia, then you can agree with them.”

“Did you contact the American Embassy?”

“The day you arrived,” answered Grano. “You were barely conscious. Perhaps the information you gave us was, shall we say, confused?”

Rone paused. “What did the embassy say?”

“They have never heard of a Charles Rone.”

“Well, have them contact the United States Navy.”

“They have apparently contacted everyone they feel obliged to. There never was a Charles Rone in the Navy, nor do they have a record of issuing such a person a passport.”

“The idiots,” Rone snapped.

“I suggested that they send someone over to talk to you. They were rather curt in their refusal.”

“When can I go over there?”

“Once you leave us you are free to go wherever you like, but I doubt if the Americans will be of much help. They maintain that Charles Rone does not exist. From their attitude I must infer that you are an impostor—or at least not an American.”

“You hear my English—does that sound counterfeit?”

Grano stood up and brushed his fingertips quickly along his lapels. “While you were delirious you spoke in Russian,” he told Rone as he began pacing the room. “What is more, you were carrying a French passport. We have consulted the French Embassy and they tell us that even though the passport itself is authentic, one was never issued with the name or number yours bears.”

Grano stopped at the foot of the bed and turned toward Rone. He slapped his hands against his jacket pockets and then held them, palms up, as he spoke. “My dear friend, what am I to say? We even spoke with the British. No one seems to claim you. In fact, it is my impression that the Americans and British have gone out of their way to ignore you, but then again I have a tendency for the melodramatic. And we here also have a problem.”

Rone looked up at him.

“Try to understand the condition in Moscow. We are never sure. Asylum is the constant ruse of the infiltrator. It has been used from time immemorial.”

“What you're saying,” Rone interrupted, “is that you want me to go.”

“My dear friend,” Grano said, returning to the chair and crossing his legs. “You create an embarrassment. I do not know who you are or what it is you have to say, but I am aware that no one wants to listen. At least not in Moscow.”

“Is that what the American Embassy said?”

“The American Embassy said nothing; it is my interpretation of their silence you are hearing. If you are not an impostor, and there is every indication you are, then obviously you represent something they would rather forget. That is the way of diplomacy. Many things must be expendable to maintain one's façade. I have a feeling you have been placed in that category.”

“If you give me my things I'll go.”

“To where?”

“Obviously not to the British or American embassies.”

“We believe certain elements in Moscow are looking for you.”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

“Were you connected with the Kosnov murder?”

“Never heard of the man. Just give me my clothes and I'll go.”

“They are in the closet. We had them cleaned.”

Grano sat calmly in his chair lacing his fingers as Rone got out of bed and walked unsteadily across the room. He watched him begin dressing.

“You realize,” said Grano, “that you will never make it out of Moscow.”

“Maybe I like it here.” Rone's shoulders and arms were stiff. His right knee bent with difficulty.

“Perhaps if you gave me the information, I could pass it on to the Americans.”

Rone turned toward him.

“It would save everyone embarrassment,” Grano pointed out.

“Which embassy suggested that?”

“None. It is a thought I have come up with completely on my own.”

“Forget it.” Rone eased himself into a chair and painfully bent down to put on his shoes. A new pair had been provided.

“If you are who I think you are, then bravery and integrity should come second to practicality. The facts are simple. You will never make it through Moscow. Someone is obviously looking for you. We know it, you know it, and three other embassies know it: They will do nothing. You are the sacrificial calf for their pretensions. If you like, we will work a deal with you.”

“And what do I get out of it?”

“Delivery to the West.”

“Why?”

“My country is not as obsessed with the ridiculous war of information and deceit as are many others. At the same time we are not unaware of its importance. We, like the others, have a certain degree of prestige we prefer to maintain in such matters. Also our position with the Russians is not as sensitive as those of certain of our neighbors and so-called allies. We can gamble. I am willing to gamble with you. Tell me who you are and what it is you wanted to relay to the Americans and we will get you out of Moscow and into the West.”

Rone was fully clothed, “What if I'm an impostor? What if I'm not, but don't know anything?”

“That is the risk we take. It will not be the first time I have played the fool.”

Rone searched through his pockets. They were empty. Grano pointed to a dresser drawer. Rone opened it and found his personal possessions.

“I'll save you the embarrassment of being taken,” he told the Italian. “I know nothing.”

“We could also arrange for money,” Grano added.

Rone went through his things. He flattened out a slip of crumpled paper. On it was the address Erika had given him.

“Yes,” Grano said, “a sizable amount of money could be arranged.”

“I'm a French embryologist,” Rone told him. “How much is that worth to you?”

“And how much is your own life worth to you?”

“I'll be going now,” Rone told him. “Which way out?”

Grano stood up and slapped his arms against his sides. “Wait until dark. We don't want bloodstains on our marble. We can get you a few blocks away. In the meantime, think about what I have said.”

“It won't do any good,” Rone answered.

Grano slid his finger along the pencil mustache. “Your gun is in the bottom drawer. It may be of some assistance.”

SECTION SIX

39

The Escape Route

The waiter paid no attention to him. Nor did the students at the adjoining table. All were watching the exotic girl with black braided hair mimic her internal medicine instructor. Rone also smiled. He could not tell if she was Chinese or Mongolian. He finished his dish of sweet cream and sipped the glass of hot tea.

Rone looked at the address and instructions again. Erika had told him this was Polakov's escape route. Rone wondered why Polakov had never used it. Maybe he had been caught before he could. Rone could not question it. It was his only chance. Ward and the others would be looking for him. As Grano had warned him, the others were Russians.

The Oriental girl's impersonations had put the next table into hysterics. Rone paid his check and trudged slowly out to the street. He did not have far to go.

The shadows of the University buildings loomed ahead of him. The stiffness was leaving. He still ached, but he could walk with more authority. He turned the corner and saw the building described in the instructions. The main structure went up ten stories. Two wings spread from either side. In the middle was the passageway.

Rone walked through and came out into a courtyard. He followed the diagonal path until he reached the iron fence. He turned in the third gate, eased himself down the five steps, passed the infirmary entrance and went to the back of the building. He knocked on the gray metal door three times. He waited exactly a minute and knocked three more times. He heard footsteps approach from within, then stop. Another minute elapsed. He knocked again. The footsteps began once more. Rone automatically put his hand in his pocket and gripped the gun.

The door slowly swung open. The figure of a large man was outlined in the entranceway.

“I was told you could help me,” said Rone.

“Who told you?” asked the figure in perfect Russian.

“A friend of Polakov's.” Rone could see two more figures standing farther down the hallway.

“You knew him?”

“I knew his wife.”

“Come in.”

The door closed behind him and the lights snapped on.

“We have been waiting for you, Yorgi,” said the Kitai, revealing his two metal front teeth.

Charles Rone did not hesitate. He pulled the gun from his pocket and fired point-blank. The Kitai spun back against the wall and slid, arms outstretched, to the floor. The two Chinese down the hall turned and began running. Rone hit them both. He threw open the door and ran into the courtyard. He did not stop until he was back near the restaurant. He leaned against the tree to catch his breath.

“That bitch,” he told himself. “That damn bitch tried to have me killed.”

He walked five blocks before he found a phone booth. Rone remembered the number. He put in the coins and dialed.