The Matarese Circle (2 page)

The man nodded to the girl from Athens; she rushed to the door, opened it and said in Greek, “She’ll be downstairs in the room with revolving lights. She’s in a long red dress, with diamonds around her neck.”

The man nodded again and they rushed out into the corridor.

The major’s thoughts were interrupted by the unexpected sounds that seemed to come from somewhere inside the brownstone. He listened, his breath suspended.

They were shrieks of some kind … yelling … 
screams.
People were screaming!

He looked up at the house; the heavy door flew open as two figures ran outside and down the steps, a man and a
woman. Then he saw it and a massive pain shot through his stomach: the man was shoving a gun into his belt.

Oh, my God!

The major thrust his hand under the seat for his Army automatic, pulled it out, and leaped from the car. He raced up the steps and inside the hallway. Beyond, through the arch, the screams mounted; people were running, several up the staircase, others down.

He ran into the large room with the insanely revolving colored lights. On the floor he could see the figure of the slender woman with the diamonds around her neck. Her forehead was a mass of blood; she’d been shot.

OK Christ!

“
Where is he?
” he shouted.

“Upstairs!” came the scream from a girl huddled in the corner.

The major turned in panic and raced back to the ornate staircase, taking the steps three at a time, passing a telephone on a small table on the landing; its image stuck in his mind. He knew the room; it was always the same room. He turned in the narrow corridor, reached the door and lunged through it.

Oh, Jesus!
It was beyond anything in his imagination, beyond any mess he had seen before. The naked Blackburn covered with blood and painted obscenities, the dead girl slumped over him, her face on his genitals. It was a sight from hell, if hell could be so terrible.

The major would never know where he found the self-control, but find it he did. He slammed the door shut and stood in the corridor, his automatic raised. He grabbed a woman who raced by toward the staircase, and shouted.

“Do as I say, or I’ll kill you! There’s a telephone over there. Dial the number I give you! Say the words I tell you, the
exact words!
” He shoved the girl viciously toward the hallway phone.

The President of the United States walked grimly through the doorway of the Oval Office and over to his desk. Already there, and standing together, were the Secretary of State and the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

“I know the facts,” said the President harshly in his
familiar drawl, “and they turn my stomach. Now tell me what you’re doing about them?”

The Director of the CIA stepped forward. “New York Homicide is cooperating. We’re fortunate insofar as the general’s aide remained by the door and threatened to kill anyone who tried to get past him. Our people arrived, and were at the scene first. They cleaned up as best they could.”

“That’s cosmetics, godamn it,” said the President. “I suppose they’re necessary, but that’s not what I’m interested in. What are your ideas? Was it one of those weird, kinky New York murders, or was it something else?”

“In my judgment,” answered the Director, “it was something else. I said as much to Paul here last night. It was a thoroughly analyzed, pre-arranged assassination. Brilliantly executed. Even to the killing of the establishment’s owner, who was the only one who could shed any light.”

“Who’s responsible?”

“I’d say KGB. The bullets fired were from a Russian Graz-Burya automatic, a favorite weapon of theirs.”

“I
must
object, Mr. President,” said the Secretary of State. “I can’t subscribe to Jim’s conclusion; that gun may be unusual, but it
can
be purchased in Europe. I was with the Soviet Ambassador for an hour this morning. He was as shaken as we were. He not only disclaimed any
possible
Russian involvement, but correctly pointed out that General Blackburn was far more acceptable to the Soviets than any who might immediately succeed him.”

“The KGB,” interrupted the Director, “is often at odds with the Kremlin’s diplomatic corps.”

“As the Company is with ours?” asked the Secretary.

“No more than your own Consular Operations, Paul,” replied the Director.

“Godamn it,” said the President, “I don’t need that crap from you two. Give me facts. You first, Jim. Since you’re so sure of yourself, what have you come up with?”

“A great deal.” The Director opened the file folder in his hand, took out a sheet of paper, and placed it in front of the President. “We went back fifteen years and put everything we learned about last night into the computers. We cross-checked the concepts of method, location, egress, timing and teamwork. We matched it all with every
known KGB assassination during the period. We’ve come up with three profiles. Three of the most elusive and successful killers in Soviet intelligence. In each case, of course, the man operates under normal covert procedures, but they’re all assassins. We’ve listed them in order of expertise.”

The President studied the three names.

The Secretary of State was agitated; he could not remain silent. “Mr. President, this kind of speculation—based at best on the widest variables—can only lead to confrontation. It’s not the time for it.”

“Now, wait a minute, Paul,” said the President. “I asked for facts, and I don’t give a damn whether the time’s right or not for a confrontation. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff has been killed. He may have been a sick son of a bitch in private life, but he was a hell of a good soldier. If it was a Soviet assassination, I want to know it.” The Chief Executive put the paper down on the desk, his eyes still on the Secretary. “Besides,” he added, “until more is known, there won’t be any confrontations. I’m certain Jim has kept this at the highest level of secrecy.”

“Of course,” said the Director of the CIA.

There was a rapid knock on the Oval Office door. The President’s senior communications aide entered without waiting for a response.

“Sir, the Premier of Soviet Russia is on the Red Telephone. We’ve confirmed the transmission.”

“Thank you,” said the President, reaching for a phone behind his chair. “Mr. Premier? This is the President.”

The Russian’s words were spoken rapidly, briskly, and at the first pause, an interpreter translated. As was customary, the Soviet interpreter stopped and another voice—that of the interpreter’s American counterpart—said simply, “Correct, Mr. President.”

The four-way conversation continued.

“Mr. President,” said the Premier, “I mourn the death—the murder—of General Anthony Blackburn. He was a fine soldier who loathed war, as you and I loathe war. He was respected here, his strength and perception of global problems a beneficial influence on our own military leaders. He will be sorely missed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Premier. We, too, mourn his death. His murder. We are at a loss to explain it.”

“That is the reason for my call, Mr. President. You must know beyond doubt that General Blackburn’s death—his murder—would never be desired by the responsible leadership of the Soviet Socialist Republics. If I may, the contemplation of it would be anathema. I trust I make myself clear, Mr. President.”

“I think so, Mr. Premier, and I thank you again. But if I may, are you alluding to the outside possibility of
irresponsible
leadership?”

“No more than those in your Senate who would bomb the Ukraine. Such idiots are dismissed, as they should be.”

“Then I’m not sure I grasp the subtlety of your phrasing, Mr. Premier.”

“I shall be clearer. Your Central Intelligence Agency has produced three names it believes may be involved with the death of General Blackburn. They are not, Mr. President. You have my solemn word. They are
responsible
men, held in absolute control by their superiors. In point of fact, one man, Zhukovski, was hospitalized a week ago. Another, Krylovich, has been stationed at the Manchurian border for the past eleven months. And the respected Taleniekov is, for all intents and purposes, retired. He is currently in Moscow.”

The President paused and stared at the Director of the CIA. “Thank you for the clarification, Mr. Premier, and for the accuracy of your information. I realize it wasn’t easy for you to make this call. Soviet intelligence is to be commended.”

“As is your own. There are fewer secrets these days; some say that is good. I weighed the values, and had to reach you. We were not involved, Mr. President.”

“I believe you. I wonder who it was.”

“I’m troubled, Mr. President. I think we should both know the answer to that.”

“Dimitri Yuri Yurievich!” roared the buxom woman good naturedly as she approached the bed, a breakfast tray in her hand. “It’s the first morning of your holiday. The snow is on the ground, the sun is melting it, and before you shake the vodka from your head, the forests will be green again!”

The man buried his face in the pillow, then rolled over and opened his eyes, blinking at the sheer whiteness of the room. Outside the large windows of the
dacha,
the branches of the trees were sagging under the weight of the snow.

Yurievich smiled at his wife, his fingers touching the hairs of his chin beard, grown more gray than brown. “I think I burned myself last night,” he said.

“You would have!” laughed the woman. “Fortunately, my peasant instincts were inherited by our son. He sees fire and doesn’t waste time analyzing the components, but puts it out!”

“I remember him leaping at me.”

“He certainly did.” Yurievich’s wife put the tray on the bed, pushing her husband’s legs away to make room for herself. She sat down and reached for his forehead. “You’re warm, but you’ll survive, my cossack.”

“Give me a cigarette.”

“Not before fruit juice. You’re a very important man; the cupboards are filled with cans of fruit juice. Our lieutenant says they’re probably there to put out the cigarettes that burn your beard.”

“The mentality of soldiers will never improve. We scientists understand that. The cans of juice are there to be mixed with vodka.” Dimitri Yurievich smiled again, not a little forlornly. “A cigarette, my love? I’ll even let you light it.”

“You’re impossible!” She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table, shook one out and put it between her husband’s lips. “Be careful not to breathe when I
strike the match. We’d both explode, and I’ll be buried in dishonor as the killer of the Soviet’s most prominent nuclear physicist.”

“My work lives after me; let me be interred with smoke.” Yurievich inhaled as his wife held the match. “How’s our son this morning?”

“He’s fine. He was up early oiling the rifles. His guests will be here in an hour or so. The hunt begins around noon.”

“Oh Lord, I forgot about that,” said Yurievich, pushing himself up on the pillow into a sitting position. “Do I really have to go?”

“You and he are teamed together. Don’t you remember telling everyone at dinner that father and son would bring home the prize game?”

Dimitri winced. “It was my conscience speaking. All those years in the laboratories while he grew up somehow behind my back.”

His wife smiled. “It will be good for you to get out in the air. Now finish your cigarette, eat your breakfast, and get dressed.”

“You know something?” said Yurievich, taking his wife’s hand. “I’m just beginning to grasp it. This
is
a holiday. I can’t remember our last one.”

“I’m not sure there ever was one. You work harder than any man I’ve ever known.”

Yurievich shrugged. “It was good of the army to grant our son leave.”

“He requested it. He wanted to be with you.”

“That was good of him, too. I love him, but I hardly know him.”

“He’s a fine officer, everyone says. You can be proud.”

“Oh I am, indeed. It’s just that I don’t know what to say to him. We have so little in common. The vodka made things easier last night.”

“You haven’t seen each other in nearly two years.”

“I’ve had my work, everyone knows that.”

“You’re a scientist.” His wife squeezed Dimitri’s hand. “But not today. Not for the next three weeks! No laboratories, no blackboards, no all-night sessions with eager young professors and students who want to tell everybody they’ve worked with the great Yurievich.” She took the cigarette from between his lips and crushed it out. “Now,
eat your breakfast and get dressed. A winter hunt will do you a world of good.”

“My dear woman,” protested Dimitri, laughing, “it will probably be the death of me. I haven’t fired a rifle in over twenty years!”

Lieutenant Nikolai Yurievich trudged through the deep snow toward the old building that was once the
dacha
’s stables. He turned and looked back at the huge three-story main house. It glistened in the morning sunlight, a small alabaster palace set in an alabaster glen carved out of snow-laden forest.

Moscow thought a great deal of his father. Everyone wanted to know about the great Yurievich, this brilliant, irascible man whose mere name frightened the leaders of the Western world. It was said that Dimitri Yuri Yurievich carried the formulae for a dozen nuclear tactical weapons in his head; that left alone in a munitions depot with an adjacent laboratory he could fashion a bomb that could destroy greater London, all of Washington, and most of Peking.

That was the great Yurievich, a man immune to criticism or discipline, in spite of words and actions which were at times intemperate. Not in terms of his devotion to the state; that was never in question. Dimitri Yurievich was the fifth child of impoverished peasants from Kourov. Without the state he would be behind a mule on some aristocrat’s land. No, he was a Communist to his boots, but like all brilliant men he had no patience with bureaucracies. He had been outspoken about interference and he had never been taken to task for it.