The Matarese Circle (16 page)

Which was why the waiting was so important now. And the master strategist of East Berlin and Riga and Sevastopol was an expert in patience.

“The waiting paid off, Mr. Congdon,” said the excited voice over the phone. “Scofield’s on a charter out of Tavernier in the Florida Keys. We estimate he’ll arrive in the Virgin Islands the day after tomorrow.”

“What’s the source of your information?” asked the Director of Consular Operations apprehensively, clearing the sleep from his throat, squinting at the clock on his bedside table. It was three in the morning.

“The hotel in Charlotte Amalie.”

“What’s the source of
their
information?”

“They received an overseas call asking that the reservation be held. That he’d be there in two days.”

“Who made the call? Where did it come from?”

There was a pause on the other end of the State Department line. “We assume Scofield. From the Keys.”

“Don’t assume. Find out.”

“We’re confirming everything, of course. Our man in Key West is on his way to Tavernier now. He’ll check out all the charter logs.”

“Check out that phone call. Let me know.” Congdon hung up and raised himself on the pillow. He looked over at his wife on the twin bed next to him. She had pulled the sheet over her head. The years had taught her to sleep through the all-night calls. He thought about the one he had just received. It was too simple, too believable. Scofield was covering himself in the haze of casual, spur-of-the-moment traveling; an exhausted man getting away for a while. But there was the contradiction: Scofield was not a
man ever exhausted to the point of being casual about anything. He had deliberately obscured his movements … which meant he
had
killed the intelligence officer from Brussels.

KGB. Brussels. Taleniekov.

East Berlin.

Taleniekov and the man from Brussels had worked together in East Berlin. In a “relatively autonomous section of KGB”—which means East Berlin … and beyond.

In Washington? Had that “relatively autonomous” unit from East Berlin sent men to Washington? It was not unreasonable. The word “autonomous” had two meanings. Not only was it designed to absolve superiors from certain acts of their subordinates but it signified freedom of movement. A CIA agent in Lisbon might track a man to Athens. Why not? He was familiar with an operation. Conversely, a KGB agent in London would follow an espionage suspect to New York. Given general clearance, it was in his line of duty. Taleniekov had operated in Washington; there was speculation that he had made a dozen trips or more to the United States within the past decade.

Taleniekov and the man from Brussels;
that
was the connection they had to examine. Congdon sat forward and reached for the telephone, then stopped. Timing was everything now. The cables had been received in Amsterdam, Marseilles and Prague nearly twelve hours ago. According to reliable informants, they had stunned the recipients. Covert sources in all three cities had reacted to the news of Scofield’s “unsalvageable” behavior with some panic. Names could be revealed, men and women tortured, killed, whole networks exposed; no time was to be lost in eliminating Beowulf Agate. Word had been relayed by early evening that two men had already been chosen as the killers. In Prague and Marseilles; they were in the air now, on their way to Washington, no delays anticipated regarding passports or immigration procedures. A third would be leaving Amsterdam before morning; it was morning now in Amsterdam.

By noon, an execution team totally disassociated from the United States government would be in Washington. Each man had the same telephone number to call, an untraceable phone in the Baltimore ghetto. Whatever information had been gathered on Scofield would be relayed by
the person at that number. And only one man could give that information to Baltimore. The man responsible: the Director of Consular Operations. No one else in the United States government had the number.

Could one final connection be made? wondered Congdon. There was so little time and it would take extraordinary cooperation. Could that cooperation be requested, even approached? Nothing like it had ever happened. But if it
could
be made, a location might be uncovered, a dual execution guaranteed.

He had been about to call the Secretary of State to suggest a very unusual, early morning meeting with the Soviet Ambassador. But too much time would be consumed with diplomatic complications, neither side wishing to acknowledge the objective of violence. There was a better way; it was dangerous but infinitely more direct.

Congdon got out of bed quietly, went downstairs, and entered the small study that was his office at home. He went to his desk which was bolted into the floor, the lower right-hand drawers concealing a safe with a combination lock. He turned on the lamp, opened the panel and twisted the dial. The lock clicked; the steel plate sprung open. He reached inside and took out an index card with a telephone number written on it.

The number was one he never thought he would call. The area code was 902—Nova Scotia—and it never went unanswered; it was the number for a computer complex, the central clearing station for all Soviet intelligence operations in North America. By calling it, he exposed information that should not be revealed; the complex in Nova Scotia was not supposedly known by U.S. intelligence, but time and the extraordinary circumstances overrode security. There was a man in Nova Scotia who would understand; he would not be concerned about appearances. He had called for too many sentences of death. He was the highest ranking KGB officer outside of Russia.

Congdon reached for the telephone.

“Cabot Strait Exporters,” said the male voice in Nova Scotia. “Night dispatcher.”

“This is Daniel Congdon, Undersecretary of State, Consular Operations, United States Government. I request that you put a trace on this call to verify that I’m
telephoning from a private residence in Herndon Falls, Virginia. While you’re doing that, please activate electronic scanners for evidence of taps on the line. You won’t find any. I’ll wait as long as you wish, but I must speak with Voltage One,
Vol’t Adin
, I think you call him.”

His words were greeted by silence from Nova Scotia. It did not take much imagination to visualize a stunned operator pushing emergency buttons. Finally, the voice replied.

“There seems to be interference. Please repeat your message.”

Congdon did so.

Again, silence. Then. “If you’ll hold on, the supervisor will speak with you. However, we think you’ve reached the wrong party here in Cape Breton.”

“You’re not in Cape Breton. You’re in Saint Peter’s Bay, Prince Edward Island.”

“Hold on, please.”

The wait took nearly three minutes. Congdon sat down; it was working.

Voltage One
got on the line. “Please wait for a moment or two,” said the Russian. There followed the hollow sound of a connection still intact but suspended; electronic devices were in operation. The Soviet returned. “This call, indeed, originates from a residential telephone in the town of Herndon Falls, Virginia. The scanners pick up no evidence of interference but, of course, that could be meaningless.”

“I don’t know what other proof to give you.…”

“You mistake me, Mr. Undersecretary. The fact that you possess this number is not in itself earthshaking; the fact that you have the audacity to use it and ask for me by my code name, perhaps is. I have the proof I need. What is this business between us?”

Congdon told him in as few words as possible. “You want Taleniekov. We want Scofield. The contact ground is Washington, I’m convinced of it. The key to the location is your man from Brussels.”

“If I recall, his body was delivered to the embassy several days ago.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve connected it with Scofield?”

“Your own Ambassador did. He pointed out that the
man was part of a KGB section in East Berlin in 1968. Taleniekov’s unit. There was an incident involving Scofield’s wife.”

“I see,” said the Russian. “So Beowulf Agate still kills for revenge.”

“That’s a bit much, isn’t it? May I remind you that it would appear Taleniekov is coming after Scofield, not the other way around.”

“Be specific, Mr. Undersecretary. Since we agree in principle, what do you want from us?”

“It’s in your computers, or in a file somewhere. It probably goes back a number of years, but it’s there; it would be in ours. We believe that at one time or another the man from Brussels and Taleniekov operated in Washington. We need to know the address of the hole. It’s the only connection we have between Scofield and Taleniekov. We think that’s where they’ll meet.”

“I see,” repeated the Soviet. “And presuming there is such an address, or addresses, what would be the position of your government?”

Congdon was prepared for the question. “No position at all,” he replied in a monotone. “The information will be relayed to others, men very much concerned about Beowulf Agate’s recent behavior. Outside of myself, no one in my government will be involved.”

“A ciphered cable, identical in substance, was sent to three counter-revolutionary cells in Europe. To Prague, Marseilles, and Amsterdam. Such cables can produce killers.”

“I commend you on your interception,” said the Director of
Cons Op.

“You do the same with us every day. No compliments are called for.”

“You made no move to interfere?”

“Of course not, Mr. Undersecretary. Would you?”

“No.”

“It’s eleven o’clock in Moscow. I’ll call you back within the hour.”

Congdon hung up and leaned back in the chair. He desperately wanted a drink, but would not give in to the need. For the first time in a long career he was dealing directly with faceless enemies in Moscow. There could be no hint of irresponsibility; he was alone and in that
solitary contact was his protection. He closed his eyes and pictured blank walls of white concrete in his mind’s eye.

Twenty-two minutes later the phone rang. He sprang forward and picked it up.

“There’s a small, exclusive hotel on Nebraska Avenue.…”

Scofield let the cold water run in the basin, leaned against the sink, and looked into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, the stubble of his beard pronounced. He had not shaved in nearly three days, the periods of rest cumulatively not much more than three hours. It was shortly past four in the morning and no time to consider sleeping or shaving.

Across the hall, Taleniekov’s well-dressed decoy was getting no more sleep than he was; the telephone calls were coming every fifteen minutes now.

Bray’s former lover from Paris was doing her job well. She had asked only one question when he had made the request that she keep up the calls.

“Are you in trouble, darling?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll do as you ask. Tell me what you can, so I’ll know what to say.”

“Don’t talk over twenty seconds. I don’t know who controls the switchboard.”

“You
are
in trouble.”

Within an hour, or less, the woman across the hall would go into panic and flee the hotel. Whatever she had been promised was not worth the macabre phone calls, the escalating sense of danger. The decoy would be removed, the hunter stymied.

Taleniekov would then be forced to send in his birds and the process would start over again. Only the phone calls would come less frequently, perhaps every hour, just when sleep was settling in. Eventually, the birds would fly away, there being limits as to how long they could stay in the air. The hunter’s resources were extensive, but not
that
extensive. He was operating in foreign territory; how many decoys and birds were available to him? He could not go on indefinitely calling blind contacts, setting up hastily summoned meetings, issuing instructions and money.

No, he could not do that. Frustration and exhaustion would converge and the hunter would be alone, at the end of his resources. Finally, he would show himself. He had no choice; he could not leave the drop unattended. It was the only trap he had, the only connection between himself and the quarry.

Sooner or later Taleniekov would walk down the hotel corridor and stop at the door of suite 211. When he did, it would be the last sight he’d see.

The Soviet killer was good, but he was going to lose his life to the man he called Beowulf Agate, thought Scofield. He turned off the faucet and plunged his face into the cold water.

He pulled up his head; there were sounds of movement in the corridor. He walked to the tiny circular peephole. Across the way, a matronly looking hotel maid was unlocking the door. Draped over her right forearm were several towels and sheets. A maid at four o’clock in the morning? Bray silently acknowledged Taleniekov’s imagination; he had hired an all-night maid to be his late-night eyes inside. It was an able move, but flawed. Such
an individual was too limited, too easily removed; she could be called away by the front desk. A guest had had an accident, a burning cigarette, an overturned pitcher of water. Too limited. And with a greater flaw.

In the morning she would go off duty. And when she did, she would be summoned by a guest across the hall.

Scofield was about to go back to his basin when he heard the commotion; he looked once more through the glass circle.

The well-dressed woman had walked out of the room, her overnight case in her hand. The maid stood in the doorway. Scofield could hear the decoy’s words.

“Tell him to go to hell!” shouted the woman. “He’s a fucking nut, dear. This whole godamn place is filled with nuts!”