The Matarese Circle (13 page)

“Taleniekov defect?” said Zaimis, holding his throat. “No way. You’re Soviet poison. A double entry, but no defector.”

“You’re right. I do not defect. And if that unthinkable option ever entered my mind, I’d contact the British, or the French before you. I said I wanted to get out of Russia, not betray it.”

“You’re lying,” said the American, his hand slipping down to the lapel of his heavy cloth jacket. “You can go anywhere you want.”

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid. There are complications.”

“What did you do, turn capitalist? Make off with a couple of pouches?”

“Come on, Zaimis. Which of us doesn’t have his small box of resources? Often legitimate; funneled monies can be delayed. Where’s yours? I doubt Athens, and Rome is too unstable. I’d guess Berlin or London. Mine’s quite ordinary: certificates of deposit, Chase Manhattan, New York City.”

The CIA man’s expression remained passive, his thumb curled beneath his jacket’s lapel. “So you got caught,” he said absently.

“We’re wasting time!” Vasili barked. “Get me to the Dardanelles. I’ll make my own way from there. If you don’t, if a telephone call is not received here in Sevastopol when expected, your operation is finished. You’ll be—”

Zaimis’ hand shot up toward his mouth; Taleniekov grabbed the agent’s fingers and twisted them violently outward. Stuck to the American’s thumb was a small tablet.

“You damn
fool!
What do you think you’re doing?!”

Zaimis winced, the pain excruciating. “I’d rather go this way than in the Lubyanka.”

“You
ass!
If anyone goes to the Lubyanka, it will be
me!
Because there are maniacs just like you sitting at their desks in Moscow. And
fools
—just like
you
—who would prefer a tablet rather than listen to the truth! You want to die, I’ll accommodate you. But first get me to the Dardanelles!”

The agent, breathing with difficulty, stared at Taleniekov. Vasili released his hand, removing the tablet from Zaimis’ thumb.

“You’re for real, aren’t you?” Zaimis said.

“I’m for real. Will you help me?”

“I haven’t got anything to lose,” said the agent. “You’ll be on our carrier.”

“Don’t forget. Word must get back here from the Dardanelles. If it doesn’t, you’re finished.”

Zaimis paused, then nodded. “Check. We trade off.”

“We trade off,” agreed Taleniekov. “Now, can you get me to a telephone?”

The cinderblock cubicle in the warehouse had two phones—installed by Russians and no doubt electronically monitored by SAVAK and CIA for intercepts, thought Vasili. They would be sterile; he could talk. The American agent picked up his when Taleniekow finished dialing. The instant the call was answered, Vasili spoke.

“Is this you, my old comrade?”

It was and it was not. It was not the station chief he had spoken with earlier; instead, it was the cryptographer Taleniekov had trained years ago in Riga and brought to Sevastopol. The man’s voice was low, anxious.

“Our mutual friend was called to the code room; it was arranged. I said I’d wait for your call. I have to see you right away. Where are you?”

Zaimis reached over, his bruised fingers gripping the mouthpiece of Vasili’s phone. Taleniekov shook his head; in spite of the fact that he trusted the cryptographer, he had no intention of answering the question.

“That’s of no consequence. Did the cable come from ‘depot’?”

“A great deal more than that, old friend.”

“But it
came?
” pressed Vasili.

“Yes. But it’s not in any cipher I’ve ever heard of. Nothing you and I ever used before. Neither during our years in Riga nor here.”

“Read it to me.”

“There’s something
else
,” insisted the code man, his tone now intense. “They’re after you
openly.
I recycled the teletype to Moscow for in-house confirmation and burnt the original. It will be back in less than two hours. I can’t
believe
it. I
won’t
believe it!”

“Calm down. What was it?”

“There’s an alert out for you from the Baltic to the Manchurian borders.”

“VKR?” asked Vasili, alarmed but controlled; he expected Group Nine to act swiftly but not quite this swiftly.

“
Not
just VKR.
KGB
—and every intelligence station we
have!
As well as all military units.
Everywhere.
This isn’t
you
they speak of; it couldn’t be. I will not believe It!”

“What do they say?”

“That you’ve betrayed the State. You’re to be taken,
but there’s to be no
detention,
no interrogation
at all.
You’re to be … executed … without delay.”

“I see,” said Taleniekov. And he did see; he expected it. It was not the VKR. It was powerful men who’d heard he had spoken a name that no one should hear.
Matarese.
“I’ve betrayed no one. Believe that.”

“I do. I know you.”

“Read me the cable from ‘depot.’ ”

“Very well. Have you a pencil? It makes no sense.”

Vasili reached into his pocket for his pen; there was paper on the table. “Go a head.”

The man spoke slowly, clearly. “As follows: ‘Invitation Kasimir. Schrankenwarten five goals’.…” The cryptog rapher stopped: Taleniekov could hear voices in the distance over the line. “I can’t go on. People are coming,” he said.

“I
must
have the rest of that cable!”

“Thirty minutes. The
Amar Magazin.
I’ll be there.” The line went dead.

Vasili slammed his fist on the table, then replaced the phone. “I
must have
it,” he repeated in English.

“What’s the
Amar Magazin
—the Lobster Shop?” asked the CIA man.

“A fish restaurant on Kerenski Street, about seven blocks from headquarters. No one who knows Sevastopol goes there; the food is terrible. But it fits what he was trying to tell me.”

“What’s that?”

“Whenever the cryptographer wanted me to screen certain incoming material before others saw it, he would suggest we meet at the
Amar.
”

“He didn’t just come to your office and talk?”

Taleniekov glanced over at the American. “You know better than that.”

The agent looked hard at Vasili. “They want you very dead, don’t they?”

“It’s a gargantuan error.”

“It always is,” said Zaimis, frowning. “You trust him?”

“You heard him. When do you sail?”

“Eleven-thirty. Two hours. Roughly the same time that confirmation’s due back from Moscow.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I know you will,” said the agent. “Because I’m going with you.”

“You
what?
”

“I’ve got protection out there in the city. Of course, I’ll want my gun back.
And
yours. We’ll see how much you want to get through the Bosporus.”

“Why would you do this?”

“I have an idea you may reconsider that unthinkable option of yours. I want to bring you in.”

Vasili shook his head slowly. “Nothing ever changes. It will not happen. I can still expose you and you don’t know how. And by exposing you, I blow apart your Black Sea network. It would take years to re-establish. Time is always the issue, isn’t it?”

“We’ll see. You want to get to the Dardanelles?”

“Of course.”

“Give me the gun,” said the American.

The restaurant was filled, the waiters’ aprons as dirty as the sawdust on the floor. Taleniekov sat alone by the right rear wall, Zaimis two tables away in the company of a Greek merchant seaman in the pay of the CIA. The Greek’s face was creased with loathing for his surroundings. Vasili sipped iced vodka which helped disguise the taste of the fifth-rate caviar.

The cryptographer came through the door, spotted Taleniekov, and weaved his way awkwardly between waiters and patrons to the table. His eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses conveyed at once joy and fear and a hundred unspoken questions.

“It’s all so incredible,” he said, sitting down. “What have they
done
to you?”

“It’s what they’re doing to themselves,” replied Vasili. “They don’t want to listen, they don’t want to hear what has to be said, what has to be stopped. It’s all I can tell you.”

“But to call for your
execution.
It’s inconceivable!”

“Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll be back—and, as they say—rehabilitated with honors.” Taleniekov smiled and touched the man’s arm. “Never forget. There are good and decent men in Moscow, more committed to their country than to their own fears and ambitions. They’ll always be there, and those are the men that I will reach. They’ll welcome me and thank me for what I’ve done.
Believe that.… Now, we’re dealing in minutes. Where is the cable?”

The cryptographer opened his hand. The paper was neatly folded, creased into his palm. “I wanted to be able to throw it away, if I had to. I know the words.” He handed the cipher to Vasili.

A dread came over Taleniekov as he read the message from Washington.

When he had finished reading, the former master strategist of KGB whispered, “Nothing ever changes.”

“What is it?” asked the cryptographer. “I didn’t understand it. It’s no code we’ve ever used.”

“There’s no way that you could understand,” answered Vasili, anger and sadness in his voice. “It’s a combination of two codes. Ours and theirs. Ours from the days in East Berlin, theirs from Prague. This cable was not sent by our man from Brussels. It was sent by a killer who won’t stop killing.”

It happened so fast there were only seconds to react, and the Greek seaman moved first. His weathered face had been turned toward the incoming customers. He spat out the words.

“Watch it! The goats are filthy!”

Taleniekov looked up; the cryptographer spun in his chair. Twenty feet away, in an aisle peopled by waiters, were two men who had not come in for a meal; their expressions were set, their eyes darting about the room. They were scanning the tables but not for friends.

“Oh, my God,” whispered the cryptographer turning back to Vasili. “They found the phone and tapped it. I was afraid of that.”

“Followed you, yes,” said Taleniekov, glancing over at Zaimis, who was half out of his chair, the
idiot.
“They know we’re friends; you’re being watched. But they didn’t find the phone. If they were certain that I was here, they’d break in with a dozen soldiers. They’re district.
VKR. I know them. Calmly now, take off your hat and slide out of your chair. Head toward the back hallway, to the men’s room. There’s a rear exit, remember?”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” sputtered the man. He got up, his shoulders hunched, and started for the narrow corridor several tables away.

But he was an academic, not a field man, and Vasili cursed himself for trying to instruct him. One of the two VKR men spotted him and came forward, pushing aside the waiters in the aisle.

Then he saw Taleniekov and his hand whipped into the open space of his jacket and toward an unseen weapon. As he did so, the Greek seaman lurched up from his chair, weaving unsteadily, waving his arms like a man with too much vodka in him. He slammed against the VKR man, who tried to push him away. The Greek feigned drunken indignation and pushed back with such force that the Russian went sprawling over a table, sending dishes and food crashing to the floor.

Vasili sprang up and raced past his old friend from Riga, pulling him toward the narrow hallway; then he saw the American. Zaimis was on his feet, his gun in his hand.
Idiot!

“Put that
away!
” shouted Taleniekov. “Don’t expose—”

It was too late. A gunshot exploded through the sounds of chaos, escalating it instantly into pandemonium. The CIA man brought both his hands to his chest as he fell, the shirt beneath his jacket suddenly drenched with blood.

Vasili grabbed the cryptographer by the shoulder, yanking him through the narrow archway. There was a second gunshot; the code man arched spastically, his legs together, an eruption of flesh at his throat. He had been shot through the back of the neck.

Taleniekov lunged to the floor of the hallway, stunned at what followed. He heard a third gunshot, a shrill scream after it, penetrating the cacophony of screams surrounding it. And then the Greek seaman crashed through the archway, an automatic in his hand.

“Is there a way out back here?” he roared in broken English. “We have to run. The first goat got away. Others will come!”

Taleniekov scrambled to his feet and gestured for the Greek to follow him. Together they raced through a door
into a kitchen filled with terrified cooks and waiters, and out into an alley. They turned left and ran through a maze of dark connecting pavements between the old buildings until they reached the back streets of Sevastopol.

They kept running for more than a mile. Vasili knew every inch of the city, but it was the Greek who kept shouting the turns they must make. As they entered a dimly lit side street, the seaman grabbed Taleniekov’s arm; the man was out of breath.

“We can rest here for a minute,” he said, gasping. “They won’t find us.”

“It’s not a place we think of first in a search,” agreed Vasili, looking at the row of neat apartment buildings.

“Always hide out in a well-kept neighborhood,” said the seaman. “The residents veer from controversy; they’d inform on you in a minute. Everybody knows it so they don’t look in such places.”

“You say we can stay ‘for a minute,’ ” said Taleniekov. “I’m not sure where we’ll go after that. I need time to think.”

“You rule out the ship then?” asked the Greek. “I thought so.”

“Yes. Zaimis had papers on him. Worse, he had one of my guns. The VKR will be swarming over the piers within the hour.”

The Greek studied Vasili in the dim light. “So the great Taleniekov flees Russia. He can remain only as a corpse.”

“Not from Russia, only from frightened men. But I do have to leave—for a while. I’ve got to figure out how.”