The Matarese Circle (5 page)

Scofield lowered the binoculars and looked at Harry. “I’ll tell you what
does
make sense,” he said. “Somewhat more than those silly godamned phrases someone found on the back of a cereal box. That man down there was terrified. He hasn’t slept in days. He’s strung out to the breaking point, and I want to know why.”

“There could be a dozen reasons,” countered the younger man. “He’s old. Inexperienced. Maybe he thinks we’re on to him, that he’s about to be caught. What difference does it make?”

“A man’s life, that’s all.”

“Come on, Bray, not from
you.
He’s Soviet poison; a double-agent.”

“I want to be sure.”

“And I want to get out of here,” broke in the technician, handing Scofield a reel of tape and picking up his machine. “Tell the clown we never met.”

“Thanks, Mr. No-name. I owe you.”

The CIA man left, nodding at Bray, avoiding any contact with his associate.

“There was no one here but us chickens, Harry,” said Scofield after the door was shut. “You do understand that.”

“He’s a nasty bastard—”

“Who could tap the White House toilets, if he hasn’t already,” said Bray, tossing the reel of tape to Harry. “Get our unsolicited indictments over to the embassy. Take out the film and leave the camera here.”

Harry would not be put off; he caught the reel of tape, but made no move toward the camera. “I’m in this, too. That cipher applied to me as well as you. I want to have answers in case I’m asked questions; in case something happens between tonight and tomorrow.”

“If Washington’s right, nothing will happen. I told you. I want to be sure.”

“What more do you
need?
The target thinks he just made contact with KGB-Amsterdam! You engineered it. You proved it!”

Scofield studied his associate for a moment, then turned away and walked back to the window. “You know something, Harry? All the training you get, all the words you hear, all the experiences you go through, never take the place of the first rule.” Bray picked up the binoculars, and focused on a faraway point above the skyline. “Teach yourself to think like the enemy thinks. Not how you’d like him to think, but how he
really
thinks. It’s not easy; you can kid yourself because that
is
easy.”

Exasperated, the younger man spoke angrily. “For God’s sake, what’s that got to do with anything? We’ve got our proof!”

“Do we? As you say, our defector’s made contact with his own. He’s a pigeon who’s found his own particular route to Mother Russia. He’s safe: he’s out of the cold.”

“That’s what he thinks, yes!”

“Then why isn’t he a happy man?” asked Bray Scofield, angling the binoculars down at the canal.

The mist and the rain fulfilled Amsterdam’s promise of winter. The night sky was an impenetrable blanket, the edges mottled by the shimmering lights of the city. There were no strollers on the bridge, no boats on the canal below; pockets of fog swirled overhead—evidence that the North Sea winds traveled south unencumbered. It was three o’clock in the morning.

Scofield leaned against the iron railing at the west entrance of the ancient stone bridge. In his left hand was a
small transistorized radio—not for verbal communication, only for receiving signals. His right hand was in his raincoat pocket, his extended fingers touching the barrel of a .22 caliber automatic, not much larger than a starter’s pistol, with a report nowhere near as loud. At close range it was a very feasible weapon. It fired rapidly, with an accuracy sufficient for a distance measured in inches, and could barely be heard above the noises of the night.

Two hundred yards away, Bray’s young associate was concealed in a doorway on the Sarphatistraat. The target would pass him on the way to the bridge; there was no other route. When the old Russian did so, Harry would press a button on his transmitter: the signal. The execution was in progress; the victim was walking his last hundred yards—to the midpoint of the bridge, where his own personal hangman would greet him, insert a watertight packet in the victim’s overcoat, and carry out the appointed task.

In a day or so that packet would find its way to KGB Amsterdam. A tape would be listened to, a film observed closely. And another lesson would be taught.

And, naturally, go unheeded, as all lessons went unheeded—as they always went unheeded. Therein lay the futility, thought Scofield. The never-ending futility that numbed the senses with each repetition.

What difference does it make?
A perceptive question asked by an eager if not very perceptive young colleague.

None, Harry. None at all. Not any longer.

But on this particular night, the needles of doubt kept pricking Bray’s conscience. Not his morality; long ago morality had been replaced by the practical. If it worked, it was moral, if it did not, it wasn’t practical, and
thus
was immoral. What bothered him tonight had its basis in that utilitarian philosophy. Was the execution practical? Was the lesson about to be taught the best lesson, the most feasible option? Was it worth the risks and the fallout that came with the death of an old man who’d spent his adult life in space engineering?

On the surface the answer would appear to be yes. Six years ago the Soviet engineer had defected in Paris during international space exposition. He had sought and been granted asylum; he had been welcomed by the space fraternity in Houston, given a job, a house, and protection.
However, he was not considered an outstanding prize. The Russians had actually joked about his ideological deviation, implying that his talents might be more appreciated by the less-demanding capitalistic laboratories than by theirs. He rapidly became a forgotten man.

Until eight months ago when it was discovered that Soviet tracking stations were gridding into American satellites with alarming frequency, reducing the value of photographic checks through sophisticated ground camouflage. It was as if the Russians knew in advance the great majority of orbital trajectories.

They did. And a trace was made; it led to the forgotten man in Houston. What followed was relatively simple: A technical conference that dealt exclusively with one forgotten man’s small area of expertise was called in Amsterdam; he was flown over on a government aircraft and the rest was up to a specialist in these matters. Brandon Scofield, attaché-at-large, Consular Operations.

Scofield had long since broken KGB-Amsterdam’s codes and methods of contact. He put them in motion and was mildly surprised at the target’s reaction; it was the basis of his profound concern now. The old man showed no relief at the summons. After six years of a balancing act, the target had every right to expect termination with honors, the gratitude of his government, and the last years of his life spent in comfort. Expect, hell. Bray had indicated as much in their ciphered conversations.

But the old Russian was not a happy man. And there were no overriding personal relationships evident in Houston. Scofield had requested the Four-Zero dossier on the target, a file so complete it detailed the projected hours of bowel movements. There was nothing in Houston; the man was a mole—apparently, in both senses of the word. And that, too, bothered Bray. A mole in espionage did not assume the characteristics of the social equivalent.

Something was wrong. Yet the evidence was there, the proof of duplicity confirmed. The lesson had to be taught.

A short, sharp whine came from the transmitter in his hand. It was repeated three seconds later; Scofield acknowledged receipt with the press of a button. He put the radio in his pocket and waited.

Less than a minute passed; he saw the figure of the old man coming through the blanket of fog and rain, a street-light
beyond creating an eerie silhouette. The target’s gait was hesitant but somehow painfully determined, as if he were about to keep a rendezvous both desired and loathed. It did
not
make sense.

Bray glanced to his right. As he expected, there was no one in the street, no one anywhere to be seen in this deserted section of the city at this hour. He turned to his left and started up the ramp toward the midpoint of the bridge, the old Russian on the opposite side. He kept in the shadows; it was easy to do as the first three lights above the left railing had been shorted out.

Rain pounded the ancient cobblestones. Across the bridge proper, the old man stood facing the water below, his hands on the railing. Scofield stepped off the walkway and approached from behind, the sound of the downpour obscuring his footsteps. In his left raincoat pocket, his hand now gripped a round, flatcase two inches in diameter and less than an inch thick. It was coated in waterproof plastic, the sides possessing a chemical that when immersed in liquid for thirty seconds became an instant adhesive; under such conditions it would remain where it was placed until cut free. In the case was the evidence: a reel of film and a reel of magnetic tape. Both could be studied by KGB-Amsterdam.

“
Plakhaya noch, story priyatyel
,” said Bray to the Russian’s back, while taking the automatic from his pocket.

The old man turned, startled. “Why did you contact me?” he asked in Russian. “Has anything happened?…” He saw the gun and stopped. Then he went on, an odd calm in his voice suddenly replacing the fear. “I see it has, and I’m no longer of value. Go ahead, comrade. You’ll do me an enormous favor.”

Scofield stared at the old man; at the penetrating eyes that were no longer frightened. He had seen that look before. Bray answered in English.

“You’ve spent an active six years. Unfortunately, you haven’t done us any favors at all. You weren’t as grateful as we thought you might be.”

The Russian nodded. “American,” he said, “I wondered. A hastily called conference in Amsterdam over problems as easily analyzed in Houston. My being allowed out of the country, albeit covertly, and guarded—that protection something less than complete once here. But you had all
the codes, you said all the right words. And your Russian is flawless,
priyatyel.
”

“That’s my job. What was yours?”

“You know the answer. It’s why you’re here—”

“I want to know why.”

The old man smiled grimly. “Oh, no. You’ll get nothing but what you’ve learned. You see, I meant what I said. You’ll do me a favor. You’re my
listok.
”

“Solution to what?”

“Sorry.”

Bray raised the automatic; its small barrel glistened in the rain. The Russian looked at it and breathed deeply. The fear returned to his eyes, but he did not waver or say a word. Suddenly, deliberately, Scofield thrust the gun up beneath the old man’s left eye, steel and flesh making contact. The Russian trembled but remained silent.

Bray felt sick.

What difference does it make?

None, Harry. Not at all. Not any longer.

A lesson had to be taught
.…

Scofield lowered the gun. “Get out of here,” he said.

“What?…”

“You heard me. Get out of here. The KGB operates out of the diamond exchange on the Tolstraat. Its cover is a firm of Hasidim,
Diamant Bruusteen.
Beat it.”

“I don’t understand,” said the Russian, his voice barely audible. “Is this another trick?”

“
Godamn it!
” yelled Bray, now trembling. “Get out of here!”

Momentarily, the old man staggered, then grabbed the railing to steady himself. He backed away awkwardly, then started running through the rain.

“
Scofield!
” The shout came from Harry. He was at the west entrance of the bridge, directly in the path of the Russian. “Scofield, for God’s
sake!
”

“Let him go!” screamed Bray.

He was either too late or his words were lost in the pounding rain; he did not know which. He heard three muted, sharp reports and watched in disgust as the old man held his head and fell against the railing.

Harry was a professional. He supported the body, fired a last shot into the neck, and with an upward motion, edged the corpse over the railing into the canal below.

What difference does it make?

None at all. Not any longer.

Scofield turned away and walked toward the east side of the bridge. He put the automatic in his pocket; it seemed heavy.

He could hear racing footsteps drawing nearer through the rain. He was terribly tired and did not want to hear them. Any more than he wanted to hear Harry’s abrasive voice.

“Bray, what the hell
happened
back there? He nearly got away!”

“But he didn’t,” said Scofield, walking faster. “You made sure of that.”

“You’re damn right I did! For Christ’s sake, what’s
wrong
with you?” The younger man was on Bray’s left; his eyes dropped to Scofield’s hand. He could see the edge of the watertight case. “
Jesus!
You never planted it!”

“What?” Then Bray realized what Harry was talking about. He raised his head, looked at the small round receptacle, then threw it past the younger man over the railing.

“What are you
doing?
”

“Go to hell,” said Scofield quietly.

Harry stopped, Bray did not. In seconds, Harry caught up and grabbed the edge of Scofield’s raincoat. “Christ Almighty! You
let
him get away!”

“Take your hands off me.”

“
No,
damn it! You can’t—”

It was as far as Harry got. Bray shot his right hand up, his fingers clasping the younger man’s exposed thumb, and yanked it counterclockwise.

Harry screamed; his thumb was broken.

“Go to hell,” repeated Scofield. He continued walking off the bridge.

The safe-house was near the Rosengracht, the meeting to take place on the second floor. The sitting room was warmed by a fire, which also served to destroy any notes that might be taken. A State Department official had flown in from Washington; he wanted to question Scofield at the scene, as it were, in the event there were circumstances that only the scene could provide. It was important to understand what had happened, especially with someone
like Brandon Scofield. He was the best there was, the coldest they had; he was an extraordinary asset to the American intelligence community, a veteran of twenty-two years of the most complicated “negotiations” one could imagine. He had to be handled with care … at the source. Not ordered back on the strength of a departmental complaint filed by a subordinate. He was a specialist, and something had happened.