The Matarese Circle (60 page)

I’m not your enemy!

Taleniekov had shouted that unreasonable, illogical statement over the telephone in Washington. Perhaps—illogically—he was right. The Russian was no friend, but he was not
the
enemy. That enemy was the Matarese

And crazily,
so
unreasonably, through the Matarese he had found Antonia Gravet. The love.…

What had
happened?

He forced the question out of his mind. He would learn soon enough, and what he learned would no doubt bring back the relief he had felt at Harrods, diminished by too much time on his hands and too little to do. The telephone call to Roger Symonds, made precisely at 4:30, had been routine. Roger was out of the office so he had given information to the security room operator. The unexplained number that was to be relayed was six-four-three … minus twenty-two … Room 621, Connaught.

The taxi swung out of Trafalgar Square, up the Strand, past Savoy Court, toward the entrance of Waterloo Bridge. Bray leaned forward; there was no point walking any farther than he had to. He would cut through side streets down to the Thames and the Victoria Embankment.

“This’ll be fine,” he said to the driver, holding out payment, annoyed to see that his hand shook.

He went down the cobbled lane by the Savoy Hotel, and reached the bottom of the hill. Across the wide, well-lighted boulevard was the concrete walk and the high brick wall that fronted the river Thames. Moored permanently as a pub was a huge refurbished barge named
Caledonia,
closed by the 11:00 o’clock curfew imposed on all England’s drinking halls, the few lights beyond the thick windows signifying the labors of clean-up crews removing the stains and odors of the day. A quarter of a mile south on the tree-lined Embankment were the sturdy, wide-beamed, full-decked river boats that plowed the Thames most of the year round, ferrying tourists up to the Tower of London and back to Lambeth Bridge before returning to the waters of Cleopatra’s Needle.

Years ago these boats were known as Tower Central,
drops for Soviet couriers and KGB agents making contact with informers and deep-cover espionage personnel. Consular Operations had uncovered the drop; in time, the Russians knew it. Tower Central was taken out; a known drop was eliminated for some other that would take months to find.

Scofield cut through the garden paths of the park behind the Savoy; music from the ballroom floated down from above. He reached a small band amphitheater with its rows of slatted benches. A few couples were scattered around, talking quietly. Bray looked for a single man for he was within the vicinity of Tower Central. The Russian would be somewhere in the area.

He was not; Scofield walked out of the amphitheater into the widest path that led to the boulevard. He emerged on the pavement; the traffic in the street was constant, bright headlights flashing by in both directions, mottled by the winter mists that rolled off the water. It occurred to Bray that Taleniekov must have hired an automobile. He looked up and down the avenue to see if any were parked on either side; none were. Across the boulevard, in front of the Embankment wall, strollers walked casually in couples, threesomes and several larger groups; there was no man by himself. Scofield looked at his watch; it was five minutes to one. The Russian had said he might be as late as two or three o’clock in the morning. Bray swore at his impatience, at the anxiety in his chest whenever he thought about Paris. About Toni.

There was the sudden flare of a cigarette lighter, the flame steady, then extinguished, only to be relighted, a second later. Diagonally across the wide avenue, to the right of the closed, chained gates of the pier that led to the tourist boats, a white-haired man was holding the flame under a blonde woman’s cigarette; both leaned against the wall, looking at the water. Scofield studied the figure, what he could see of the face, and had to stop himself from breaking into a run. Taleniekov had arrived.

Bray turned right and walked until he was parallel with the Russian and the blonde decoy. He knew Taleniekov had seen him and wondered why the KGB man did not dismiss the woman, paying her whatever price they had agreed upon to get her out of the way. It was foolish—conceivably
dangerous—for a decoy to observe both parties at a contact point. Scofield waited at the curb, seeing now that Taleniekov’s head was fully turned, the Russian staring at him, his arm around the woman’s waist. Bray gestured first to his left, then to his right, his meaning clear. Get her out! Walk south; we’ll meet shortly.

Taleniekov did not move. What was the Soviet
doing?
It was no time for whores!

Whores? The
courier’s whore?
Oh, my
God!

Scofield stepped off the curb, an automobile horn bellowed, as a car swerved toward the center of the boulevard to avoid hitting him. Bray barely heard the sound, was barely aware of the sight; he could only stare at the woman beside Taleniekov.

The arm around the waist was no gesture of feigned affection, the Russian was holding her up. Taleniekov spoke in the woman’s ear; she tried to spin around; her head fell back on her neck, her mouth open, a scream or a plea about to emerge, but nothing was heard.

The strained face was the face of his love. Under the blonde wig, it was
Toni
. All control left him; he raced across the wide avenue, speeding cars braking, spinning wheels, blowing horns. His thoughts converged like staccato shots of gunfire, one thought, one observation, more painful than all others.

Antonia looked more dead than alive.

“She’s been
drugged
,” said Taleniekov.

“Why the hell did you bring her
here?
” asked Bray. “There are hundreds of places in France, dozens in Paris, where she’d be safe! Where she’d be cared for! You know them as well as
I
do!”

“If I could have been certain, I would have left her,” replied Vasili, his voice calm. “Don’t probe. I considered other alternatives.”

Bray understood, his brief silence an expression of gratitude.
Taleniekov could easily have killed Toni, probably would have killed her had it not been for East Berlin. “A doctor?”

“Helpful in terms of time, but not essentially necessary.”

“What was the chemical?”

“Scopolamine.”

“When?”

“Early yesterday morning. Over eighteen hours.”

“
Eighteen?
…” It was no time for explanations. “Do you have a car?”

“I couldn’t take the chance. A lone man with a woman who could not stand up under her own power; the trail would have been obvious. The pilot drove us up from Ashford.”

“Can you trust him?”

“No, but he stopped for petrol ten minutes outside of London and went inside to relieve himself. I added a quart of oil to his fuel tank; it should be taking effect on the road back to Ashford.”

“Find a taxi.” Scofield’s look conveyed the compliment he would not say.

“We have much to discuss,” added Taleniekov, moving away from the wall.

“Then hurry,” said Bray.

Antonia’s breathing was steady, the muscles of her face relaxed in sleep. When she awoke she would be nauseated, but it would pass with the day. Scofield pulled the covers over her shoulders, leaned down and kissed her on her pale white lips, and got up from the bed.

He walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Should Toni stir he wanted to hear her; hysterics were a byproduct of scopolamine. They had to be controlled; it was why Taleniekov could not risk leaving her alone, even for the few minutes it would have taken to lease a car.

“What happened?” he asked the Russian, who sat in a chair, a glass of whisky in his hand.

“This morning—yesterday morning,” said Taleniekov, correcting himself, his white-haired head angled back against the rim of the chair, his eyes closed; the man was clearly exhausted. “They say you’re dead, did you know that?”

“Yes. What’s that got to do with it?”

“It’s how I got her back.” The Russian opened his eyes and looked at Bray. “There’s very little about Beowulf Agate I don’t know.”

“And?”

“I said I was you. There were several basic questions to answer; they were not difficult. I offered myself in exchange for her. They agreed.”

“Start from the beginning.”

“I wish I could, I wish I knew what it was. The Matarese, or someone within the Matarese, wants you alive. It’s why certain people were told that you are not. They don’t look for the American, only the Russian. I wish I understood.” Taleniekov drank.

“What
happened?
”

“They found her. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know. Perhaps Helsinki, perhaps you were picked up out of Rome, perhaps anything or anyone, I don’t know.”

“But they found her,” said Scofield, sitting down. “Then what?”

“Early yesterday morning, four or five hours before you called, she went down to a bakery; it was only a few doors away. An hour later she had not returned. I knew then I had two choices. I could go out after her—but where to start, where to look? Or I could wait for someone to come to the flat. You see,
they
had no choice, I knew that. The telephone rang a number of times but I did not answer, knowing that each time I didn’t, it brought someone closer.”

“You answered my call,” interrupted Bray.

“That was later. By then we were negotiating.”

“Then?”

“Finally two men came. It was one of the more testing moments of my life not to kill them both, especially one. He had that small, ugly little mark on his chest. When I ripped his clothes off and saw it, I nearly went mad.”

“Why?”

“They killed in Leningrad. In Essen. Later you’ll understand. It’s part of what we must discuss.”

“Go on.” Scofield poured himself a drink.

“I’ll tell it briefly, fill in the spaces yourself; you’ve been there. I kept the soldier and his hired gun bound and unconscious for over an hour. The phone rang and this time I answered, using the most pronounced American accent
I could manage. You’d have thought the sky over Paris had fallen, so hysterical was the caller. ‘An imposter in London!’ he squeaked. Something about ‘a gross error having been made by the embassy, the information they received completely erroneous.’ ”

“I think you skipped something,” interrupted Bray again. “I assume that was when you said you were me.”

“Let’s say I answered in the affirmative when the hysterical question was posed. It was a temptation I could not resist, since I had heard less than forty-eight hours previously that you had been killed.” The Russian paused, then added, “Two weeks ago in Washington.”

Scofield walked back to the chair, frowning. “But the man on the phone knew I was alive, just as those here in London knew I was alive. So you were right. Only certain people inside the Matarese were told I was dead.”

“Does that tell you something?”

“The same thing it tells you. They make distinctions.”

“Exactly. When either of us ever wanted a subordinate to do nothing, we told him the problem was solved. For such people you’re no longer alive, no longer hunted.”

“But why? I
am
hunted. They trapped me.”

“One question with two answers, I think,” said the Russian. “As any diverse organization, the Matarese is imperfect Among its ranks are the undisciplined, the violence-prone, men who kill for the score alone or because of fanatic beliefs. These were the people who were told you were dead. If they did not hunt you, they would not kill you.”

“That’s your first answer; what’s the second? Why does someone want to keep me alive?”

“To make you a
consigliere
of the Matarese.”

“What?”

“Think about it. Consider what you’d bring to such an organization.”

Bray stared at the KGB man. “No more than you would.”

“Oh, much more. There are no great shocks to come out of Moscow, I accept that. But there are astonishing revelations to be found in Washington. You could provide them; you’d be an enormous asset. The sanctimonious are always far more vulnerable.”

“I accept that.”

“Before Odile Verachten was killed, she made an offer to me. It was not an offer she was entitled to make; they don’t want the Russian. They want you. If they can’t have you, they’ll kill you, but someone’s giving you the option.”

It would be far better for all concerned if we sat down and thrashed out the differences between us. You may discover they’re not so great after all
. Words from a faceless messenger.

“Let’s get back to Paris,” said Bray. “How did you get her?”

“It wasn’t so difficult. The man on the phone was too anxious; he saw a generalship in his future, or his own execution. I discussed what might happen to the soldier with the ugly little mark on his chest; the fact that I knew about it was nearly enough in itself. I set up a series of moves, offering the soldier and Beowulf Agate for the girl. Beowulf was tired of running and was perfectly willing to listen to whatever anyone had to say. He—I—knew I was cornered, but professionalism demanded that he—you—extract certain guarantees. The girl had to go free. Were my reactions consistent with your well-known obstinacy?”

“Very plausible,” replied Scofield. “Let’s see if I can fill in a few spaces. You answered the questions: What was my mother’s middle name? or When did my father change jobs?”

“Nothing so ordinary,” broke in the Russian. “Who was your fourth kill. Where?’ ”

“Lisbon,” said Bray quietly. “An American beyond salvage. Yes, you’d know that.… Then your moves were made by a sequence of telephone calls to the flat—my call from London was the intrusion—and with each call you gave new instructions, any deviation and the exchange was canceled. The exchange ground itself was in traffic, preferably one-way traffic, with one vehicle, one man and Antonia. Everything to take place within a time span of sixty to a hundred seconds.”

The Russian nodded. “Noon on the Champs Elysées, south of the Arch. Vehicle and girl taken, man and soldier bound at the elbows, thrown out at the intersection of the Place de la Concorde, and a swift, if roundabout, drive out of Paris.”