Last Call for Blackford Oakes (34 page)

“No. I know it was set up that way, but I don't want you there. I already told Jutzeler you wouldn't be there. I don't want you in the way. I'll drive myself.”

“Well, okay, so you drive yourself. Our car—your car—is one of the three official cars, so it will be sitting there, right outside the Düsseldorf gate. You will run for it after the shooting, run for it and get the hell away. I don't think there'll be motorcycle cops around on this operation. Then … then head for Andau, the Hungarian border, south. It's an hour away, the international bridge. I don't have to tell
you
what to do, when you're in Budapest, making your way out through resistance channels—”

Blackford raised his hand. “Thanks, Gus. Let's just say—whatever happens, happens. We'll leave it there. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gus said, but he ducked his head toward the menu, so that Blackford would not see the tears in his eyes.

“No, I won't have any dessert.”

Conversation trailed off. Gus didn't finish his last glass of wine.

Late the next morning, Blackford came in as scheduled to Gus's hotel room. Gus greeted him. “We have a half hour. I'll walk with you to the car. We'll have to stow your bag. Have a look at what I've got here for you. Amazing what you can come up with in the midnight hours. Takes knowing the right people.”

Blackford examined the passport. The man whose face was on the photo I.D. wore a moustache. Phony moustaches are easy to stick on the face. The likeness was passable, if the immigration people weren't especially curious. The eyes, on the fake Oakes, were usefully squinted—Blackford could squint as well as the next man. The entries in the U.S. passport looked authentic, and were entirely plausible for an American tourist day-tripping to Hungary. The canvas bag contained toilet articles, shirts and underwear, a book in German, and a bottle of vodka.

Blackford handed over the bag he had prepared for Gus to take away. “I ran through the papers in my folder in there. No problem, mostly bureaucratic stuff. I looked for the two letters from Philby. But then I remembered, I gave them to you yesterday.”

“Yes. And what I did was write out a Russian translation of them, and make copies. I had one set delivered to Kirov last night. You remember that Titov told Kirov he personally believed that Ursina had been killed? Well, now he'll
know
she was killed. And who killed her. Here are the originals back.”

Blackford did not reproach Gus. He stuck the letters into the bag Gus would be taking away. “You might find these useful, I don't know. Dr. Shumberg's colleagues might be interested.” He looked at his watch. “I've got to go.”

It was a fine sunny day, and passing by the flower vendors they could smell the Austrian spring. They reached the Fiat sedan and put the bag in the trunk.

Blackford extended his hand. Gus did not take it. Instead, he walked to the passenger door, opened it, and got in.

“I'm going with you,” he said.

Up the street, directly ahead, the doors of the two lead cars were open, the first for Jutzeler and his aides, the second for Titov and Valeria. Standing outside, Blackford opened his door, and got in.

“You shouldn't have done that.”

“We're off, Dad.”

At the airport, two Austrian officials stood at the curb in front of the Düsseldorf gate. They acknowledged Jutzeler, pointing to the lead parking space reserved for him. The Jutzeler car edged in, followed by Titov's car, and Blackford's. Titov and Valeria stayed in their car. So did Blackford and Gus. They sat. Blackford's eyes looked over at the gate through which the passengers would be passing. It had been freshly painted, but already flowers clung to the sides.

A minute before two o'clock they heard the airplane engines. Moments later, the AN-26 touched down. Jutzeler hailed Dr. Titov. Leaving Valeria in the car, Titov almost ran the thirty meters to the gate. A few paces behind him, Blackford and Gus followed. When the gangway was lowered, all eyes were on the plane as a woman's shape became visible. Blackford eased into the adjacent hangar and opened the door to the men's room. Inside were two stalls, a partition between them. He sat on one of the toilets, keeping his eyes on his watch. Eight minutes went by and someone entered the other stall. Blackford waited several minutes, then stood and affected the sounds of a man vomiting. He flushed the toilet repeatedly until the other person had left. He sat down again and trained his eyes on his watch.

It was nearing two-thirty. Putting a handkerchief to his mouth, as if gagging, he looked out from the hangar. He saw first Kirov, then Philby, stepping out from their cars, the agents alongside. They walked now toward the gate. When Philby was abreast of the hangar, Blackford stepped out, his pistol in hand.

“This is for you, Philby, from Ursina and me.”

A shot rang out hitting Blackford on the shoulder as he discharged his own shot, piercing Philby's throat. From the ground, he attempted to raise the pistol again, but this time the guard's bullet hit Blackford between the eyes.

The Soviet guard who had shot Blackford shouted to the Austrian airport police. They raised Philby from the ground, carrying him toward the gate. The second guard shoved Kirov forward, but Kirov would not move except toward his wounded fellow delegate. Looking down at Philby he said in clear tones, speaking in the language Gus understood, “
I hope he has killed you, Andrei Fyodorovich
.”

He consented only then to be led through the gate, leaving it for others to resolve whether the wounded Martins should be carried onto the plane or be taken for emergency treatment.

Gus knelt beside the body and waited, immobile, until the ambulance came, then looked on forlornly as the sheet was drawn up over Dad's face.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In 1987–88, the Soviet Union, we would learn in a very few years, was actually winding down, but there were no signs of fatigue in the implacable underworld of spies and espionage and mayhem. The story here told returns to life the experienced CIA agent Blackford Oakes, who quickly encounters a very real-life figure in the U.S.–Soviet rivalry. Other real-life figures appear in this novel, but the scenes in which they appear are imagined. This is a work of fiction, and accordingly I have taken chronological and other liberties.

In preparing this book I read widely in books and periodicals that touched on the life of one of the protagonists. I was especially interested in the biography by Rufina Philby,
The Private Life of Kim Philby;
as also
My Silent War
, by Kim Philby;
Stalin: The Court of the Red Tsar
, by Simon Sebag Montefiore;
The Cambridge Spies: The Untold Story of Maclean, Philby, and Burgess in America
, by Verne W. Newton;
Our Man in Havana
, by Graham Greene; and the indispensable
Facts on File
.

I brought with me to Switzerland, where the book was written, Jaime Sneider, a young graduate of Columbia. Jaime had done editorial intern work for
National Review
, and had gone then to California to write speeches in the campaign of William Simon Jr. for governor. Jaime is busy now preparing his own book and writing and doing research in Washington, D.C. In January/February 2004, he saved my life with his computer skills as I worked my way through these pages. He is a splendid researcher, skier, and companion, and if Blackford were to rise again, I'd think it inconceivable that he should do so save under the supervision of Jaime.

My associate Linda Bridges did intensive work on the manuscript, helping to edit it page by page and pointing out its strengths and weaknesses. I am deeply grateful to her. And, as always, I am indebted to my oldest editorial friend on earth, Samuel S. Vaughan, renowned editor, sometime president of Doubleday, editor and catalyst of the book
Buckley: The Right Word
(Random House, 1996). At first glance he was appropriately skeptical about the manuscript, so that his enthusiasm for the final draft, which incorporated his suggestions, was especially heartening. If memory serves (and if it doesn't, he will correct this), this is the 30th book of mine that he has superintended. Those he didn't are not worth reading.

Frances Bronson of
National Review
has been secretary, office manager, and animated friend and colleague, on whom I have continuingly relied. Andre Bernard, publisher of Harcourt's trade division, has provided critical enthusiasm, and I am also indebted to Harcourt's managing editor, David Hough.

I did not send the manuscript for comments to the benefactors I have relied on in the past, primarily, as I pause to think about it, because two of my liveliest and keenest friends have died in the interval since my last novel. I remember Tom Wendel and Sophie Wilkins, with everlasting affection.

W.F.B.

Stamford, Connecticut

December 1, 2004

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Interior photo used by permission of the Ethics and Public Policy Center.

Copyright © 2005 by William F. Buckley Jr.

Cover design by Barbara Brown

Cover illustration by Karl Kotas

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3802-7

This 2016 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

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