The Kremlin Letter (8 page)

RECOMMENDATION:
The findings of this special board have led to a unanimous decision in favor of subject. Although his basic attitudes and conflicts could interfere with his function in normal society, he has consciously or unconsciously sought out a society where they fit his role. He has the makings of an excellent intelligence officer, capable of the most difficult and trying work. His major shortcoming would be a tendency to seek out danger when it is not necessary.

Rone closed the folder, turned out the light and went to sleep.

5

Ronald V. Nephew

The doorknob turned and Rone awoke. It was still dark.

“Shag your bones, Nephew Charlie,” Ward called out, “and gather up your doodads. You'll be leaving soon.”

“What time is it?” Rone asked.

“About four. Hurry up. We'll be waiting downstairs.”

Rone entered the kitchen ten minutes later. Ward and the Highwayman stood over the breakfast table. It was stacked high with files. They were looking down at two photographs.

“I'm not sure,” the Highwayman was saying. “On second thought this other man does have two sons—perhaps we should—”

“They're too old,” Ward interrupted. “Daughters work better anyway. Let's stick with Potkin. I think that's our best shot.”

Rone glanced down at the photograph Ward was tapping with his fingers. It pictured a short, powerful man with a fat oblong face.

“Believe me,” Ward reassured him, “the butcherboy is for us.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” the Highwayman conceded indecisively. “But then again …” He looked up to Ward blankly. “If only we had more time to think this out. We—we may be overlooking something.”

“You've covered it all,” Ward said. “You've covered every detail well. You're right in choosing the fat man. We can hold the other one in reserve. We don't have that much time.”

The Highwayman plucked at his fingernails and nodded. He looked over at Rone. “Then we should send the Virgin south?” he asked, turning back to Ward.

“That's right,” Ward agreed. “We had better start with the Whore.”

“I've never really liked him.”

“He does his job,” Ward told him. Then he turned and threw his arm around Rone. “Nephew Charlie, grab up your pack. The fun and fury is just beginning.”

Ward drove the '48 Ford pickup truck slowly through the town, out beyond the cemetery, and on to a wide clay road.

“Well, Nephew,” said Ward, “I hope you ain't averse to traveling.”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Good. That's good to hear. By the by, how do you stand on Mexican feeding? Tortillas and all that kinda crap?”

“I like it.”

“You sure are easy to live with,” Ward beamed. “Nephew, if there's one thing that does my aching old heart good it's two things. First is seeing a city fella dragging his ass outa bed at four in the morning and the second is knowing he likes Mexican chop suey.”

“Then I'm going to Mexico?”

“Colotepec. Or to be more exact, a little coastal town called Tavolato halfways between Colotepec and Poggutia. You can figure out how to get there from Mexico City—if there's some flatland around rent yourself a plane.”

“Who am I after?” Rone asked.

“Lord Astor's Whore.” Ward opened the lunchpail beside him, reached inside and handed Rone a booklet. It was an English passport. A photograph of a distinguished-looking mustached man was pasted inside. Rone thumbed through it and found it complete, except that no name was printed in it.

“What's his name?” he asked Ward.

“Beats the hell outa me. By this time it could be any one of fifty. Here's a list of the last dozen he's used.” He handed Rone a small envelope. “You'll also find some photographs of him, some with the mustache taken off and some with a beard sketched on, in case he went caveman.” Ward handed Rone a small cigarette case. “You'll find a stamp—rubber letters—and some ink in here. The type face and the ink are the same the British use. When you decide on a name for him just print it in.”

“Anything else?” asked Rone.

“Nephew Charlie, we're just beginning to play grab-bag.” Ward passed him an American passport and a wallet. “Here's yours. I don't think you'll need it, but it's good to have it just in case. How do you like your new monicker?”

Rone opened the passport and saw a recent picture of himself and then his name: Ronald V. Nephew. He opened the wallet. It contained a complete set of credit cards, in Nephew's name. Plus three thousand-dollar bills, ten hundreds, assorted fifties and tens.

“Are fives out of style this year?”

“They take up too much space.”

“What cover story do I use?” Twice before in ONI Rone had gone undercover, once as a doctor, once as a tree surgeon. In both cases he was trained in a new identity for almost three weeks.

“What's that you asked?”

“What cover story should I use?”

“Nephew Charlie, you're just taking a little hop down to Mexico—you ain't sneaking into Peking. Tell 'em anything you like. Tell 'em you're a wetback heading in the wrong direction, for all I care. I got a feeling you ain't gonna bump into the Gestapo down there.”

Rone felt his anger rise. Don't say anything, he told himself. Just keep your mouth shut.

Ward reached into the lunchpail again. “Now, when you find the Whore, you just tell him that the Tillinger Fund is planning a little expedition. Tell him he gets twenty-five down, a hundred on finishing and another hundred and twenty-five if he's asked in swimming. Here's his down payment.” Ward handed Rone a thick package of bills.

Rone weighed it in his hand. “Twenty-five thousand?” he asked.

“Twenty-five thousand, just like I said. And here's an extra ten you can use for trouble money. Exchange a couple of hundred in your wallet for pesos at the airport. Keep the rest outta sight. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Now if the Whore gives you any trouble—for some reason he doesn't want to come—you get him either to Oaxaca or Acapulco. This stuff should help calm him.” Rone was handed a small bottle with a clear fluid in it. “Two or three drops will freeze him for about twenty hours. An extra drop or two will maybe give you another ten hours. If you go over six drops call an undertaker. Now assuming you do have to bring him out that way, go to either one of these two addresses?” He gave Rone two cards. “This one is Acapulco and this is Oaxaca. I know Oaxaca is closer to where you'll be, but you'll get faster service in Acapulco.”

“What will they do?”

“Fly him into the States. Five thousand is the standard rate per person. They'll want to dump you around El Paso but you insist on getting up to Nogales. Then drive him up to Tucson and turn him over to this man.” He handed Rone another card with a Tucson address. “If he really gets out of hand once you're in the States, identify yourself and have him arrested for border jumping. We'll take it from there. But make sure that's a last resort.”

“What shall I identify myself as?”

“Now that is a problem,” Ward said with a scowl. He reached back into the bucket, beamed and held up two identification cases. “Take your pick.”

Rone didn't care for the joke. He chose the folder on the left. It was FBI credentials for Ronald V. Nephew complete with Rone's photograph.

“It's no counterfeit,” Ward explained, “but just don't let a Bureau boy find you with it—they're a little touchy about these things.” He looked down at the neat pile that had accumulated in Rone's Jap. “Nephew Charlie, you should have brought a shopping bag for all them goodies.”

“Is that all?”

“Just about,” Ward answered, handing Rone a final typewritten card. “Not that I mean to rush you—but be back at this address in seventy-two hours. The Puppet Maker will be expecting you.”

Rone read the card. It was an address in Minneapolis, Minnesota. “With the Whore?” he asked.

“That's right. Unless like I said before you gotta lock him up—then just come on by yourself. Well, that's it. You remember everything I told you?”

“Yes.”

“That's a mighty lucky thing, Nephew Charlie—cause I sure the hell don't.” Then for some inexplicable reason Ward began to hum “The Road to Mandalay.”

They continued down the clay road for another half mile and then turned onto a double-laned asphalt highway. It was near dawn. The truck traveled the new road for three miles before Ward pulled into an abandoned gas station. A gray '63 Buick was waiting. Its sole occupant was the driver.

“There's your ride to town—see you in three days,” Ward said, letting Rone out.

As Rone got into the car Ward threw out one final instruction. “And remember, whatever you do, try not to kill him.”

6

Lord Astor's Where

“There it is.” The pilot motioned with his head.

Rone looked out the window. He saw bleached white patches of beach stretching along the coast, steep jungle-covered cliffs rising from the glittering Pacific—but he did not see a city or even a village.

“On the ledges,” the pilot called, dipping the monoplane sharply. “Look on the mountain ledges.”

Rone now saw that the cliff was stepped with protruding shelves that had been cleared of jungle. Small primitive huts were clustered on each of the ledges. A network of vine-covered paths wove down the face of the rock connecting one shelf with another. At the base of the cliff was a wide beach and a small cove.

The plane climbed over the top of the cliff and landed in a clearing about half a mile from the village. Within the hour Rone and the pilot had made their way down the narrow paths to the cantina beside the cove. The pilot acted as interpreter. On Rone's instruction he handed the proprietor a photograph of Lord Astor's Whore.

“Si, Si,”
the proprietor said immediately. Then he spat in disgust and began a long diatribe during which he kept pointing at Rone.

“He wants to know,” the pilot said, “if you are his long-expected brother. It seems that Señor Janis—that is what he calls the doctor—doesn't pay his bills.”

The explanation was interrupted by another explosion of vehemence from the proprietor, who had placed a thick stack of bills on the counter.

“Señor Janis arrived here two years ago by ship,” the pilot continued. “Or possibly he was thrown off the ship. Anyway, it sailed the next morning without him. He has been charging ever since and has never paid one peso. He keeps saying he is expecting his brother, who will pay the bills. Many men have come to see him—but none have been his brother, none have paid the bills.”

“Ask him what men have come to see him,” Rone instructed the pilot.

After another exchange of Spanish during which the proprietor grew even more agitated the pilot turned back to Rone. “He remembers at least four. None spoke English. One may have spoken French. He says Señor Janis is a pig.”

“Ask him if the men came together or at different times.”

After another discussion the pilot answered Rone. “They came at different times. The last was about two months ago. He says Señor Janis is the greatest pig that ever lived.”

“Did Janis ever leave here with any of the men?”

The pilot and the proprietor exchanged sharp words. “He does not feel like talking about pigs,” the pilot informed Rone.

“How much is his bill?” Rone asked.

“Sixteen thousand pesos,” said the proprietor, suddenly discovering English. “He owes sixteen thousand pesos, but I will settle for ten thousand, or even better I will take five hundred in gringo—I mean American dollars.”

Rone counted out a thousand dollars and laid them in a neat pile on the counter. He then placed one hand on them and leaned over toward the proprietor. “Did he ever leave with any of the men?”

“No, no, Señor. He has never left since the day the Ship sailed without him.”

“Who were the men who came to see him?”

“One was French, one may have been German, the other two were foreign—not English or United States, but I swear I do not know what.”

“What has Señor Janis done with his time? How does he spend his days?”

“How does anyone here spend his days? They drink soup and have women. These people are Indian. I am not; I come from north of Mexico City itself. But these people are Indian. They make soup from cactus roots and drink it. That is why they cannot work. That is why they cannot pay bills. They just drink the soup—it makes them numb.”

“Peyote? Cacao?”

“Not in this area. But it is the same kind of thing. They just drink it and have the women. They are shameless. They are all pigs.” He continued to eye the money nervously.

“And Señor Janis—is he a pig too?” Rone stared coldly at the weakening man.

The proprietor hesitated, then broke into a wide grin. “Everyone is a pig—but Señor Janis, ah, he is a magnificent pig.”

Rone picked up the stack of bills and handed half of it to the sweating proprietor. “I am his brother. He will be leaving here with me. When he leaves you will get the rest of your money.”

The proprietor stuffed the bills into his shirt.

“Where can I find him?” Rone demanded.

“Up there on the third ledge—at the house of the bitches.”

The pilot waited at the cantina while Rone climbed the path toward the third ledge. As he approached he heard the voices of arguing women. The tension grew. Screams and hisses erupted. He reached the ledge in time to see a large bronze-faced Indian woman rush from the hut and throw herself on two smaller girls sitting near a caldron. The three rolled in the dust kicking, scratching and screaming. Within minutes two other Indian girls joined the melee. The caldron was overturned, a thin reed chair was smashed, dresses were ripped, eyes were gouged, hair was pulled, faces were hit, naked butts were kicked, and one magnificently exposed tanned breast was bitten.