The Matarese Circle (14 page)

“There is a way,” said the merchant seaman simply. “We’ll head over the northwest coast, then south into the mountains. You’ll be in Greece in three days.”

“How?”

“There’s a convoy of trucks that go first to Odessa.…”

Taleniekov sat on the hard bench in the back of the truck, the light of dawn seeping through the billowing canvas flaps that covered the sides. In a while, he and the others would have to crawl beneath the floor boards, remaining motionless and silent on a concealed ledge between the axles, while they passed through the next checkpoint.
But for an hour or so they could stretch and breathe air that did not reek of oil and grease.

He reached into his pocket and took out the cipher from Washington, the cable that had already cost three lives.

Two codes. One meaning.

With his pen, Vasili wrote out that meaning beneath the cipher.

Beyond the American killer’s brutal decision, the most electrifying aspect of Scofield’s cable was the fact that he was no longer in the service of his country. He had been separated from the intelligence community. And considering what he had done and the pathological forces that drove him to do it, the separation was undoubtedly savage. For no government professional would murder a courier under the circumstances of this extraordinary Soviet contact. And if Scofield was nothing else, he was a professional.

The storm clouds over Washington had been catastrophic for Beowulf Agate. They had destroyed him.

As the storm over Moscow had destroyed a master strategist named Taleniekov.

It was strange, bordering on the macabre. Two enemies who loathed each other had been chosen by the Matarese as the first of its lethal decoys—ploys and diversions as old Krupskaya had called them. Yet only one of those enemies knew it; the other did not. He was concerned solely with ripping scars open, letting the blood between them flow again.

Vasili put the paper back into his pocket, and breathed deeply. The coming days would be filled with move and countermove, two experts stalking each other until the inevitable confrontation.

My name is Taleniekov. We will kill each other or we will talk.

Undersecretary of State Daniel Congdon shot up from the chair, the telephone in his hand. Since his early days at NSA he had learned that one way of controlling an outburst was to physically move during a moment of crisis. And control was the key to everything in his profession; at least, the appearance of it. He listened as this particular crisis was defined by an angry Secretary of State.

Godamn it,
he
was controlled.

“I’ve just met privately with the Soviet Ambassador and we both agree the incident must not be made public. The important thing now is to bring Scofield in.”

“Are you
certain
it was Scofield, sir? I can’t
believe
it!”

“Let’s say that until he denies it with irrefutable proof that he was a thousand miles away during the past forty-eight hours we must assume it
had
to be Scofield. No one else in clandestine operations would have committed such an act. It’s unthinkable.”

Unthinkable?
Incredible.
The body of a dead Russian delivered through the gates of the Soviet Embassy in the back seat of a Yellow Cab at 8:30 in the morning at the height of Washington’s rush-hour traffic. And a driver who knew absolutely nothing except that he had picked up
two
drunks, not one—although one was in worse shape than the other. What the hell had happened to the other guy? The one who sounded like a Ruskie and wore a hat and dark glasses and said the sunlight was too bright after a whole night of
Wodka.
Where was he? And was the fellow in the back seat all right? He looked like a mess.

“Who was the man, Mr. Secretary?”

“He was a Soviet intelligence officer stationed in Brussels. The Ambassador was frank; the KGB had no knowledge he was in Washington.”

“A possible defection?”

“There’s no evidence whatsoever to support that.”

“Then what ties him to Scofield? Beyond the method of dispatch and delivery.”

The Secretary of State paused, then replied carefully. “You must understand, Mr. Congdon, the Ambassador and I have a unique relationship that goes back several decades. We are often more candid with each other than diplomatic. Always with the understanding that neither speaks for the record.”

“I understand, sir,” said Congdon, realizing that the answer about to be given could never be referred to officially.

“The intelligence officer in question was a member of a KGB unit in East Berlin roughly ten years ago. I assume in light of your recent decisions that you’re familiar with Scofield’s file.”

“His wife?” Congdon sat down. “The man was one of those who killed Scofield’s
wife?
”

“The Ambassador made no reference to Scofield’s wife; he merely mentioned the fact that the dead man had been part of a relatively autonomous section of the KGB in East Berlin ten years ago.”

“That section was controlled by a strategist named Taleniekov. He gave the orders.”

“Yes,” said the Secretary of State. “We discussed Mr. Taleniekov and the subsequent incident several years later in Prague at some length. We looked for the connection you’ve just considered. It may exist.”

“How is that, sir?”

“Vasili Taleniekov disappeared two days ago.”

“
Disappeared?
”

“Yes, Mr. Congdon. Think about it. Taleniekov learned that he was to be officially retired, mounted a simple but effective cover, and disappeared.”

“Scofield’s been terminated.…” Congdon spoke softly, as much to himself as into the telephone.

“Exactly,” agreed the Secretary of State. “The parallel is our immediate concern. Two retired specialists now bent on doing what they could not do—or pursue—officially.
Kill each other. They have contacts everywhere, men who are loyal to them for any number of reasons. Their personal vendetta could create untold problems for both governments during these precious months of conciliation. This cannot happen.

The director of
Cons Op
frowned; there was something wrong in the secretary’s conclusions. “I spoke with Scofield myself three nights ago. He didn’t appear consumed with anger or revenge or anything like that. He was a tired field agent who’d lived … abnormally … for a long time. For years. He told me he just wanted to fade away, and I believed him. I discussed Scofield with Robert Winthrop, by the way, and he felt the same way about him. He said—”

“Winthrop knows
nothing
,” interrupted the Secretary of State with unexpected harshness. “Robert Winthrop is a brilliant man, but he’s never understood the meaning of confrontation except in its most rarefied forms. Bear in mind, Mr. Congdon, Scofield killed that intelligence officer from Brussels.”

“Perhaps there were circumstances we’re not aware of.”

“Really?” Again the Secretary of State paused, and when he spoke, the meaning behind his words was unmistakable. “If there
are
such circumstances, I submit we have a far more potentially dangerous situation than any personal feud might engender. Scofield and Taleniekov know more about the field operations of both intelligence services than any two men alive. They must not be permitted to make contact. Either as enemies intent on killing one another, or for those circumstances we know nothing about. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Congdon? As director of Consular Operations, it is your responsibility. How you
execute
that responsibility is no concern of mine. You may have a man beyond salvage. That’s for you to decide.”

Daniel Congdon remained motionless as he heard the click on the other end of the line. In all his years of service he had never received such an ill-disguised if oblique order. The language could be debated, not the command. He replaced the phone in its cradle and reached for another on the left side of his desk. He pressed a button and dialed three digits.

“Internal Security,” said a male voice.

“This is Undersecretary Congdon. Pick up Brandon Scofield. You have the information. Bring him in at once.”

“One minute, sir,” replied the man politely. “I thick a level-two surveillance entry on Scofield came in a couple of days ago. Let me check the computer. All the data’s there.”

“A couple of days ago?”

“Yes, sir. It’s on the screen now. Scofield checked out of his hotel at approximately eleven
P.M.
on the sixteenth.”

“The sixteenth? Today’s the nineteenth.”

“Yes, sir. There was no time lapse as far as the entry was concerned. The management informed us within the hour.”

“Where is he?”

“He left two forwarding addresses, but no dates. A sister’s residence in Minneapolis and a hotel in Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands.”

“Have they been verified?”

“As to accuracy, yes sir. A sister does live in Minneapolis and the hotel in St. Thomas is holding a prepaid reservation for Scofield effective the seventeenth. The money was wired from Washington.”

“Then he’s there.”

“Not as of noon today, sir. A routine call was made; he hasn’t arrived.”

“What about the sister?” interrupted Congdon.

“Again a routine call. She confirmed the fact that Scofield called her and said he’d stop by, but he didn’t say when. She added that it wasn’t unusual; it was normal for him to be casual about visits. She expected him sometime during the week.”

The director of
Cons Op
felt the urge to get up again, but he suppressed it. “Are you telling me you don’t really know where he is?”

“Well, Mr. Congdon, an S-level-two operates on reports received, not continuous visual contact. We’ll shift to level-one right away. Minneapolis won’t be any problem; the Virgin Islands could be, though.”

“Why?”

“We have no reliable sources there, sir. Nobody does.”

Daniel Congdon got up from his chair. “Let me try to understand
you. You say Scofield’s on a level-two surveillance, yet my instructions were clear; his whereabouts were to be known at all times. Why wasn’t a level-one put on him? Why
wasn’t
continuous visual contact maintained?”

The man from Internal Security answered haltingly. “That wouldn’t be my decision, sir, but. I think I can understand it. If a level-one was put on Scofield, he’d spot it and … well, sheer perversity would make him mislead us.”

“What the hell do you think he’s just
done?
Find him! Report your progress hourly to this office!” Congdon sat down angrily, replacing the phone with such force that it jarred the bell. He stared at the instrument, picked it up, and dialed again.

“Overseas Communications, Miss Andros,” said the woman’s voice.

“Miss Andros, this is Undersecretary Congdon. Please send a cipher specialist to my office immediately. Classification Code
A
maximum security and priority.”

“An emergency, sir?”

“Yes, Miss Andros, an emergency. The cable will be sent in thirty minutes. Clear all traffic to Amsterdam, Marseilles … and Prague.”

Scofield heard the footsteps in the hallway and got out of the chair. He walked to the door and peered through the tiny disk in the center. The figure of a man passed by; he did not stop at the door across the way, the entrance to the suite of rooms used by Taleniekov’s courier. Bray went back to the chair and sat down. He leaned his head against the rim, staring at the ceiling.

It had been three days since the race in the streets, three nights since he’d taken the messenger from Taleniekov—messenger three nights ago, killer on the Unter den Linden ten years before. It had been a strange night, an odd race, a finish that might have been otherwise.

The man could have lived; the decision to kill him had gradually lost its urgency for Bray, as so much had lost urgency. The courier had brought it upon himself. The Soviet had gone into panic and pulled out a four-inch, razor-sharp blade from the recesses of the hotel chair and attacked. His death was due to Scofield’s reaction; it was not the premeditated murder planned in the street.

Nothing ever changed much. The KGB courier had been used by Taleniekov. The man was convinced that Beowulf Agate was coming over, and the Russian who brought him in would be given the brassiest medal in Moscow.

“You’ve been tricked,” Bray had told the courier.

“Impossible!” the Soviet had yelled. “It’s Taleniekov!”

“It certainly is. And he chooses a man from the Unter den Linden to make contact, a man whose face he knows I’ll never forget. The odds were that I’d lose control and kill you. In Washington. I’m exposed, vulnerable.… And you’ve been taken.”

“
You’re wrong!
It’s a white contact!”

“So was East Berlin, you son of a bitch.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Earn some of my severance pay. You’re coming in.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

The man had lunged at Scofield.

Three days had passed since that moment of violence, three mornings since Scofield had deposited the package at the embassy and sent the cipher to Sevastopol. Still no one had come to the door across the hall; and that was not normal. The suite was leased by a brokerage house in Bern, Switzerland, to be available for its “executives.” Standard procedure for international businessmen, and also a transparent cover for a Soviet drop.

Bray had forced the issue. The cipher and the courier’s dead body
had
to provoke
someone
into checking the suite of rooms. Yet no one had; it did not make sense.

Unless part of Taleniekov’s cable was true: he
was
acting alone. If that were the case, there was only one explanation: the Soviet killer had been terminated, and before retiring to an isolated life somewhere in the vicinity of Grasnov, he had decided to settle an outstanding debt.