The Red Syndrome (31 page)

I proceeded as if I had a coherent plan. But in fact, I didn't. I felt like a
battery-operated toy soldier; neither I nor the soldier had any control
over what was going to happen next, but we kept moving anyway. The
one thing I did know was that I had to enter Zhukov's room, preferably
when it was empty. I had no particular urge to meet his iron-fisted thugs
again. But first, I had to know which room he occupied.

I went to the basement to the maintenance manager's office. "Hi, I'm
Ivan Krugg. I work for Mr. Zhukov, your hotel guest."

He gave me a bored look. "And?" He cranked his hand in a circle as if
trying to make me speak faster. But I intentionally spoke slowly; giving
the impression of being a fast thinker is counterproductive in such situations. "Mr. Zhukov does not like the television in his room; he says it
doesn't broadcast any Russian stations." I spoke French, and thanked in my heart the French girlfriend I'd once had who insisted I speak my high
school French with her. It was rusty by now, but understandable.

He gave me an odd look, as if he couldn't believe I could be so dumb.
"Turn the knob on the set. There must be at least two stations in
Russian."

"We tried that, but it doesn't work. Mr. Zhukov is very upset," I said,
hoping he'd understand my not-so-subtle message: When Zhukov gets
upset, had things happen.

"So what do you expect me to do?" He seemed impatient and annoyed.

"Come up to the room and show me what to do. I'm afraid that if Mr.
Zhukov returns and doesn't find his favorite Russian station, he will be
angry at me." I made a sawing motion across my throat.

"And who are you?" he asked.

"His chauffer," I said.

Daccord," he relented. "Let's go." He stood and took a toolbox.
"What's his room number?"

"Sorry, I don't know. I live in a different hotel. Mr. Zhukov does not
believe he should stay at the same hotel as his staff."

"Oh, he's one of those..." He gave me the look reserved for a showing
of solidarity among members of the working class.

I nodded. "Yes, since he escaped from Russia he hates anything that
reminds him of socialism or communism. He believes in separating social
classes." I rolled my eyes to show my disdain.

The maintenance manager must have heard enough to sympathize
with me, because he muttered something I didn't fully understand, other
than the word merde repeated three times. He called reception and got
Zhukov's room number. I followed him to the service elevator and then
to the fourth floor. He knocked on door 411 and, when no response came,
opened the door with a master key. The room was in fact a three-room
suite with adjoining doors to rooms 412 and 413. There were a few open
suitcases, a few packs of American cigarettes, and two half-empty bottles
of Stolichnaya vodka. The manager went directly to the television in ¢r3,
which was being used as a master bedroom, most likely Zhukov's - I saw
his flashy tie on the night table. While he was working I quietly went to the other rooms, calculating how I might return without a personal
escort. A minute or two later I returned to the manager's side. "Look," he
said, gesturing to the TV. A Russian-language program was on.

"Thanks," I said, "I really appreciate it. Could you tune the other two
televisions in the other rooms?"

He didn't answer, but took his toolbox and moved to the next room
while I pretended to fine-tune the knobs on the TV in the bedroom. As
soon as he entered room ¢12, I opened two magazines on a coffee table and
tore out two subscription postcards. Going to the door, I opened it quietly
and inserted a postcard near the latch. I then carefully closed the door and
joined the manager in room ¢12. When he was done there, he moved to
room 411 while I returned to the middle room and repeated the process, in
case the trick I'd pulled on the bedroom door failed. When I heard the
manager close his toolbox, I quickly moved to the window and pretended
to look outside. In less than ten minutes we were out of the rooms.

"Thank you so much," I said, slipping him a fifty-euro bill.

He put it in his pocket and said, "Your boss may know how to make
money, but he can't turn a TV set knob?"

I smiled. As soon as he'd left me to return to his basement office I headed
back to room 413, Zhukov's bedroom. I pushed the door slightly, and it
opened. I removed the postcards I'd left in both door latches, then rifled
quickly through the four suitcases in the suite. They had a strong odor of
expensive cologne. Nothing but clothing. I searched the three rooms, but
could find nothing incriminating. Had Zhukov cleaned up his room
because he was suspicious? I was disappointed to think that maybe he had
nothing to hide. I checked the wastebasket: nothing meaningful there.
Then the night table. There was a small writing pad with the hotel's logo
on the top. What looked like a telephone number had been scribbled next
to some writing in Cyrillic. I tore off the sheet just underneath the written
note. I looked at it more closely:. The number and the handwriting were
clearly embossed there. It'd do. I carefully put it in my pocket, made sure
again that I'd removed the postcards from the latches, and left.

Back on the street, I entered a nearby store and bought a T-shirt and
jeans then returned to the dressing room, donned my new clothes, put the uniform in the shopping bag, and dumped the bag in the nearest street
Dumpster. I returned to my hotel room and used a pencil to bring out the
writing on the note I'd removed. The number was o6 1227 119o, but I
couldn't decipher the Cyrillic script next to it. I went out to the street and
called Eric. His voice mail came on. "I found something interesting
belonging to the fat thug, please follow up on that," I said. "I don't know
what your plans are but to minimize contact I'm putting a piece of paper
in an envelope, and leaving it at the reception of my hotel, addressed to
Dr. jean Pierre Arnaud."

The following morning I was regretting having asked Laura to join me in
France. Her presence was a psychological burden. I called her room again;
no response. But then while I was having a late breakfast, she suddenly
walked into my hotel's dining room, looking radiant and energetic.

I got up to greet her. "Good morning, Laura, sleep well?"

"Great," she said, "I just feel great." I wondered, We haven't seen each other
for an entire day, and that makes her happy? I'd been expecting her to be
angry at me for not being with her. As I sat down it suddenly hit me: How
did she know where I was staying? The day before, when I'd checked out
of the Promenade, I hadn't told her that I was moving to the Excelsior.

Laura must have noticed my gloomy expression. "What happened,
Dan?"

"Nothing happened," I said, "I'm just so glad to see you." I tried to
reflect the appropriate facial expression.

We had a light breakfast, and I quickly read through the International
Herald Tribune. "It's too cold to go swimming," I said. "The sun is
shining, but it says here the water's only sixty-five degrees."

"I know," she said.

"So, what's on your mind?" I asked. I looked at her, but she avoided my
eyes. There was something off about her mood, but 1 couldn't pin it down.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing. Maybe we could rent a car and drive
through Provence for a day trip. It's supposed to be pretty country ...
maybe tour a winery."

"Good idea," I said. When we finished our meal, we went to an Avis office and rented a small Peugeot 305. We drove north. The narrow roads
were rather empty. Soon the scenery changed from coastal plains to hilly
terrain and a winding road.

"Do you have a specific place you want to go?" I asked.

"No, let's go as far north as we can by midday then turn around. I'd like
to be back at the hotel tonight."

"Okay. I'll see if we can get as far north as Sisteron."

"Why Sisteron?"

"When I was eighteen, I hitchhiked through Europe with my buddy
David. When we couldn't get a ride, we traveled by train. One day we got
off the train for the night in Sisteron. In the center of town we found a
building with a sign, HOTEL DE VILLE. We went up the stairs, but the
place looked more like an office than a hotel. A cleaning lady was
sweeping the floor. In a combination of sign language and our limited
French, we understood that nobody was there and that we should return
in the morning. We found another place, and didn't realize until later
what a couple of dumb schmucks we'd been. Hotel de Ville of course
means `town hall,' not `city hotel.' I've never been back and would kind of
like to see it again."

Laura just smiled and we drove on in silence. As I drove the narrow
road I was thinking how odd the situation was. Here we were alone
together for the day. Obviously the emotional connection between us was
good. I knew what my motive was. But what was hers?

We did make it to Sisteron, ate lunch, then turned around and cruised
back. It was already dark when we returned to Marseilles. Laura asked
that I take her straight to her hotel. She didn't even suggest I go up with
her, and for that I was thankful. I was thinking of excuses I could make
if she had asked me up. My unease with her had only grown during our
mostly silent car ride, and if she were to seduce me at this point her
motives would be suspect to me at best. I went to do some gift shopping
for my children, and then drove to the Excelsior.

When I entered my room, I sensed something was different. The room
was made up and clean, but still I had that strange feeling that something
was amiss. I opened the wardrobe - my suit was hanging there in peace. I checked the drawers - my underwear and polo shirts had been slightly
disturbed. Hotel chambermaids never open guests' drawers, but this one
had been opened. There was nothing to incriminate me, nothing to connect me to the U.S. government or to my assignment. Or was there? The
report Eric gave me! I panicked for a moment until I remembered that
that I'd burned it in the safe apartment. My passport and my airline
tickets were deposited in the hotel's central safe, and besides, there was
nothing incriminating there, either. All my documents read Neil
McMillan.

Was my paranoia getting the better of me? Was the fact that my underwear had been moved an inch sufficient grounds for general alarm? I
went to the reception desk.

"I lost my room card key," I said. "Would you please issue me a new
one?"

The receptionist quickly prepared another key and handed it to me.
"Should I make another key for Mrs. McMillan?"

I was stunned, but only for a second. "Mrs. McMillan?"

She nodded.

"Did my wife have a key as well?" I asked.

The receptionist looked at her computer monitor. "Yes, sir, you called
last night to let us know that she was joining you and that we should give
her a key. So when she arrived we gave her a key."

"Of course, of course, I forgot all about that. So her key is still good?"

"Yes, the electronic combination hasn't changed."

I walked away and sat on a lobby chair. I had dropped Laura off at the
Promenade at 6:30 P.M. She'd gone up to her room, but I didn't get back
to the Excelsior until about 9:oo P.M. after my shopping excursion. Had
she gone to my hotel and obtained a key to my room? There was no way
she could have known I was out on the town unless someone was
watching me for her. We'd just spent the whole day together in the car,
so unless she had entered my room while I was out shopping ... She'd
also never given me a hint this morning how she knew where I was
staying, let alone suggesting she knew I was using a cover name and
what it was.

On the other hand - as lawyers like to say - I'd never asked her these
questions. The unavoidable conclusion was that, if Laura was connected
to the entry to my room, then she might have given the key she obtained
to someone else, who'd entered my room while I was traveling with her.
That would explain the aimless day trip: to keep me away, and to keep her
away from suspicion because she was with me. The receptionist had said
you called, meaning a man had called the hotel pretending to be me. I felt
betrayed and lost. If Laura was indeed the mysterious "Mrs. McMillan,"
obviously she had an agenda, and most likely an accomplice. But why was
she doing this? And for whom?

The thought of double-layer security crossed my mind. Was she a part
of a backup team, protecting me and at the same time making sure that
I didn't go astray? I remembered Eric's cautioning me not to be independent. I weighed the possibility. It would explain how she'd known
where I was staying, and under what name. But I was the one who'd asked
Laura to come over to Marseilles. If she were part of a backup team, she'd
be here under some pretext.

I composed myself, took a deep breath, and analyzed the sequence of
events. It was clear that Laura was up to something. It was conceivable,
albeit highly unlikely, that her behavior was personal, motivated by her
feelings for me and our relationship. Far more likely, her interests were
professional. But was she a friend or foe? There were too many questions.

I thought about the Moscow Rules I had learned about during my
Mossad service. During the Cold War, the Soviet Union, and Moscow in
particular, was the most dangerous place for a Western spy. Being caught
meant, with few exceptions, torture and death. CIA agents going into the
Soviet Union were given an informal guide on the "Rules of Engagement," popularly known as the Moscow Rules. There were more
than forty but I could remember only a few, all of which I should have
followed: Assume nothing, Never go against yourgut, Don't look back; Take it
for granted that you are never alone; If it feels wrong, it is wrong, abort any
action; Make the opposition think they have the upper hand, but don't harass
them; The first time is an accident, the second time is coincidence, but the third
time is a hostile action.