The Matarese Circle (19 page)

He rammed the woman, hammering her back into the wall with such force that a stream of saliva accompanied the expulsion of breath from the snarling lips.

“
Bastard!
” The scream was swallowed as the gun clattered to the floor. Scofield dropped the table, slamming it down on her feet as he reached for the weapon.

He held it, stood up, and grabbed the bent-over woman by the hair, yanking her away from the wall. The red wig beneath the ruffled maid’s cap came off in his hand, throwing him off balance. From somewhere beneath the uniform, the gray-haired killer had pulled a knife—a thin stiletto. Bray had seen such weapons before; they were as deadly as any gun, the blades coated with succinyl choline. Paralysis began in seconds, death seconds later. A scrape or a superficial puncture was all the attacker needed to inflict.

She was on him, the thin knife plunging straight forward, the most difficult thrust to parry, used by the most experienced. He leaped backwards, crashing the gun down on the woman’s forearm. She withdrew it quickly in pain, but no suspension of purpose.

“Don’t
do
it!” he shouted, leveling the gun directly at her head. “Four shots were fired; two shells are left! I’ll kill you!”

The old woman stopped and lowered the knife. She stood motionless, speechless, breathing heavily, staring at him in a kind of ethereal disbelief. It occurred to Scofield that she had never been in this position before; she had always won.

Taleniekov’s bird was a vicious hawk in the guise of a small, gray dove. That protective coloration was her insurance. It had never failed her.

“Who are you? KGB?” asked Bray, reaching for the towel on the bed, and holding it against the wound on his neck.

“What?” she whispered, her eyes barely in focus.

“You work for Taleniekov. Where is he?”

“I’m paid by a man who uses many names,” she replied, the lethal knife still held limply in her hand. Her fury was gone, replaced by fear and exhaustion. “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know where he is.”

“He knew where to find you. You’re something. Where did you learn? When?”

“When?” she repeated in her bloodless whisper. “When you were a child. Where? Out of Belsen and Dachau … to other camps, other fronts. All of us.”

“
Christ.…
” uttered Scofield softly.
All of us.
They were legion. Girls taken from the camps, sent to the war fronts, to barracks everywhere, to airfields. Surviving as whores, dishonored by their own, unwanted, ostracized. They became the scavengers of Europe. Taleniekov
did
know where to find his flocks.

“Why do you work for him? He’s no better than those who sent you to the camps.”

“I have to. He’ll kill me. Now you say you will.”

“Thirty seconds ago, I would have. You didn’t give me a choice; you can now. I’ll take care of you. You stay in contact with this man. How?”

“He calls. In the suite across the hall.”

“How often.”

“Every ten or fifteen minutes. He’ll call again soon.”

“Let’s go,” said Bray cautiously. “Move to your right and drop the knife on the bed.”

“Then you’ll
shoot,
” whispered the old woman.

“If I was going to, I’d do it now,” said Scofield. He
needed
her, needed her confidence. “There’d be no reason to wait, would there? Let’s get over to that phone. Whatever he was paying, I’ll double.”

“I don’t think I can walk. I think you broke my foot.”

“I’ll help you.” Bray lowered the towel and took a step toward her. He held out his hand. “Take my arm.”

The old woman placed her left foot in front of her painfully. Then suddenly, like an enraged lioness, she lunged forward, her face again contorted, her eyes wild.

The blade came rushing toward Scofield’s stomach.

Taleniekov followed the man from Amsterdam into the elevator. There was one other couple in the car. Young, rich, pampered Americans; fashionably dressed lovers or newlyweds, aware only of themselves and their hungers. They had been drinking.

The Hollander in the black overcoat removed his gray homburg, as Vasili, his face briefly turned away, stood next to him against the paneled wall of the small enclosure. The doors closed. The girl laughed softly; her companion pressed the button for the fifth floor. The man from Amsterdam stepped forward and touched number 2.

As he moved back, he glanced to his left, his eyes making
contact with Taleniekov’s. The man froze, the shock total, the recognition absolute. And in that shock, that recognition, Vasili saw another truth: the execution trap was meant for him as well. The team had a priority, and it was Beowulf Agate, but if a KGB agent known as Taleniekov appeared on the scene he was to be taken out as ruthlessly as Scofield.

The man from Amsterdam swung his hat in front of his chest, plunging his right hand into his pocket. Vasili rushed him, pinning him against the wall, his left hand gripping the wrist in the pocket, slipping down, separating hand from weapon, groping for the thumb, twisting it back until the bone cracked and the man bleated. He sank to his knees.

The girl screamed. Taleniekov spoke in a loud voice. He addressed the couple.

“You will not be harmed. I repeat, you will not be harmed if you do as I say. Make no noise, and take us to your room.”

The Hollander lurched to the right; Vasili slammed his knee into the man’s face, vicing the head against the wall. He took his gun from his pocket and held it up, pointing at the ceiling.

“I will not use this. I
will not
use this unless you disobey. You’re no part of our dispute and I don’t want you harmed. But you must do as I say.”

“
Jesus.
Jesus
Christ!
…” The young man’s lips trembled.

“Take out your key,” ordered Taleniekov almost amiably. “When the doors open walk casually in front of us to your room. You will be perfectly safe if you do as I say. If you don’t, if you cry out, or try to raise an alarm, I shall have to shoot. I won’t kill you; instead, I’ll fire into your spines. You’ll be paralyzed for life.”

“Oh,
Christ, please!
…” The young man’s trembling spread throughout his head, neck, and shoulders.

“
Please,
mister! We’ll do whatever you say!” The girl at least was lucid; she took the key from her lover’s vest.

“Get up!” said Vasili to the man from Amsterdam. He reached into the killer’s overcoat pocket and removed the Hollander’s weapon.

The elevator doors opened. The couple walked out stiffly, passing an elderly man reading a newspaper, and
turned right down the corridor. Taleniekov, his Graz-Burya concealed at his side, gripped the cloth of Amsterdam’s overcoat, propelling him forward.

“One sound, Dutchman,” he whispered, “and you’ll not make another. I’ll blow your back away; you won’t have time to scream.”

Inside the double room, Vasili shoved the Hollander into a chair, held his gun on him, and issued orders once again to the frightened couple. “Get inside that clothes closet.
Quickly!
”

Tears were streaming down the young man’s pampered face; the girl pushed him into their dark, temporary cell. Taleniekov propped a chair underneath the knob and kicked it until it was wedged firmly between the metal and the rug. He turned to the Hollander.

“You have exactly five seconds to explain how it’s to be done,” he said, raising the automatic diagonally across the executioner’s face.

“You’ll have to be clearer,” came the professional reply.

“By all means.” Vasili slammed the barrel of the Graz-Burya downward, ripping the flesh of the assassin’s face. Blood spread; the man raised his hands. Taleniekov bent over the chair and cracked both wrists in rapid succession. “Don’t touch! We’ve just begun. Drink it! Soon you’ll have no lips. Then no teeth, no chin, no cheekbones! Finally, I’ll take your eyes! Have you ever seen a man like that? The face is a terrible source of pain, puncturing the eyes unendurable.” Vasili struck again, now arcing upwards, catching the man’s nostrils in the swing.

“No.…
No!
I followed
orders!
”

“Where have I heard that before?” Taleniekov raised the weapon; again the hands were raised and again they were repulsed with blows. “What
are
those orders, Dutchman? There are three of you and the five seconds have passed! We must be serious now.” He tapped the barrel of the Graz-Burya harshly over the Hollander’s left eye, then the right. “No more time!” He pulled the weapon back, then shoved it knifelike into Amsterdam’s throat.

“
Stop!
” screamed the man, his air cut off, the word garbled. “I’ll tell you.… He betrays us, he takes money for our names. He’s sold out to our enemies!”

“No judgments. The
orders!
”

“He’s never seen me. I’m to draw him out.”

“
How?
”

“
You.
I’ve come to warn him. You’re on your way.”

“He’d reject you. Kill you! A transparent device. How did you know the room?”

“We have a photograph.”

“Of
him.
Not of me.”

“Both of you, actually. But I show him only his. The night manager identified him.”

“Who gave you this photograph?”

“Friends from Prague, operating in Washington, with ties to the Soviet. Former friends of Beowulf Agate who know what he’s done.”

Taleniekov stared at the man from Amsterdam. He was telling the truth, because the explanation was based on partial truth. Scofield would look for flaws, but would not reject Amsterdam’s words; he could not afford that luxury. He would take the Dutchman as hostage, and then position himself. Waiting, watching, unseen. Vasili pressed the barrel of the Graz-Burya into the Hollander’s right eye.

“Marseilles and Prague. Where are they? Where will they be?”

“Beside the main elevators there are only two exits from the floors. The staircase and the service lift. One will be stationed in each.”

“Which is where?”

“Prague on the staircase, Marseilles on the service lift.”

“What’s the schedule? By minutes.”

“It’s floating. I approach the door at ten past twelve.”

Taleniekov glanced at the antique clock on the hotel room desk. It was eleven minutes past twelve. “They’re in position now.”

“I don’t know. I can’t see my watch, the blood’s in my eyes.”

“What’s the termination? If you lie, I’ll know it. You’ll die in a way you’ve never dreamed of. Describe it!”

“Zero-lock is five minutes past the half hour. If Beowulf has not appeared in either location, the room is to be stormed. Frankly, I don’t trust Prague. I think he’d throw Marseilles and myself in first to take the initial fire. He’s a maniac.”

Vasili stood up. “Your judgment exceeds your talents.”

“I’ve told you everything! Don’t strike me again. For God’s sake, let me wipe my eyes. I can’t
see.
”

“Wipe them. I want you to see clearly. Get up!” The Hollander rose, his hands covering his face, brushing away the rivulets of blood, the Graz-Burya jammed into his neck.

Taleniekov stood motionless for a moment, looking at the telephone across the room. He was about to speak with an enemy he had hated for a decade, about to hear his voice.

He would try to save that enemy’s life.

Scofield spun away as the lethal blade sliced into his shirt, blunted by the steel of his gun concealed under the starched cloth only minutes ago. The old woman was insane, suicidal! He would have to kill her and he did not
want
to kill her!

The
gun.

He
said four shells had been fired, two were left.
She
knew differently!

She was coming at him again, the knife crisscrossing in slashing diagonals; anything in its path would have to be touched, scraped—under normal circumstances a meaningless scratch, but not with this blade. He aimed the gun at her head and squeezed the trigger; there was nothing but the click of the firing pin.

He lashed his right foot out catching her between her breast and her armpit, staggering her for an instant, but only an instant She was wild, clutching the knife as if it were her passport to life; if she touched him, she was free. She crouched, swinging her left arm in front of her, covering the blade that worked furiously in her right. He jumped back, looking for something,
anything
he could use to parry her lunges.

Why had she delayed before? Why had she suddenly stopped and spoken with him, telling him
things
that would make him think? Then he knew. The old hawk was not only vicious, but wise; she knew when she had to restore dissipated strength, knew she could do it only by engaging her enemy, lulling him, waiting for the unguarded instant … one
touch
of the coated blade.

She lunged again, the knife arcing up from the floor toward his legs. He kicked; she whipped the blade back, then slashed laterally, missing the kneecap by centimeters. As her arm swung left with the slash, he caught her shoulder with his right foot and hammered her backwards.

She fell; he grabbed the nearest upright object—a floor lamp with a heavy brass base—hurling it down at her as he kicked again at the hand that held the stiletto.

Her wrist was bent; the point of the blade pierced the fabric of her maid’s uniform, entering the flesh above her left breast.

What followed was a sight he did not care to remember. The old woman’s eyes grew wide and thyroid, her lips stretched into a macabre, horrible grin that was no smile. She began to writhe on the floor, her body convulsed and trembling. She rolled into a fetal position, pulling her thin legs into her stomach, the agony complete. Prolonged, muffled screams came from her throat as she rolled again, clawing the rug; mucus disgorged from her convoluted mouth, a swollen tongue blocking passage.

Suddenly there was a horrible gasp and a final expulsion of breath. Her body jerked off the floor spastically; it became rigid. Her eyes were open wide, staring at nothing, her lips parted in death. The process had taken less than sixty seconds.

Bray leaned over and lifted the hand, separating the bony fingers. He removed the knife, stood up, and walked to the bureau where there was a book of matches. He struck one and held it under the blade. There was an eruption of flame spitting so high that it singed his hair, the heat so intense it burned his face. He dropped the stiletto, stamping the fire out under his foot.