By the following morning Rand had an enlargement of the microdot along with a visitor from the security division of Intelligence. His name was Michael Gentres and he was a calm man who moved very slowly.
“You’re Rand, I suppose. Here’s the print you wanted.”
Rand glanced at the enlarged pages of typewritten Russian text. “What is it, Major?”
“Part of Kolia Komarov’s novel in progress. He saw it this morning and confirmed its authenticity,” Gentres replied.
“I see.”
“Is there more where this came from?”
“Apparently.” Rand shrugged.
“What’s the price?”
“I don’t really know,” Rand admitted. “My contact is willing to deliver the rest, but only to Komarov personally.”
“That might be difficult to arrange. He’s staying at a safe house and we want it to remain that way.”
“Could I see him?”
“I suppose so. You have a double-X security clearance.”
Gentres drove Rand to a little house near the edge of the city, taking care to see they weren’t followed. It was a quiet street of elderly retired people, in an older section of Geneva, and there was little to distinguish Komarov’s house from others on the street.
The man who answered the door was obviously armed and probably in the pay of British Intelligence, which had taken a special, if clandestine, interest in the Russian author’s safety. Gentres spoke a brief quotation from Keats — obviously the day’s password — and they were shown into a sparsely furnished parlor.
The woman appeared first, and Rand recognized her from newspaper pictures as Mrs. Komarov. She was both younger and prettier than the news photos had shown, with straw-colored hair and tanned skin that might have come from a youth spent in the wheatfields’ of central Russia. “Her name is Sasha,” Gentres said. “But she speaks no English. Her husband speaks a little.”
She sat down quietly with hands folded and after a moment Kolia Komarov himself strode into the room. Immediately Rand sensed a charging of the atmosphere. The Russian author was tall and bushy-bearded, with deep brown eyes that flashed at the person to whom he was speaking. His English was remarkably good, though his vocabulary seemed limited.
“You are Rand?” he asked, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”
Rand showed him the microdot blowup. “You saw this earlier today?”
“Yes. It is my manuscript.”
“It is possible we can recover all of it. And your notes too. They’ve been smuggled out of Russia on microdots by a man named Taz.”
He’d spoken too fast for Komarov to absorb it all, and he went back over it slowly. Finally the Russian glanced at his wife and said a few questioning words in his native tongue. When she shook her head he replied, “We know of no Taz.”
“He was a cipher expert in Moscow. He’s retired now.”
“Ah. We do not know him. Why should he do this?”
“I don’t exactly know,” Rand admitted. “But he wants to see you to deliver the rest. I could arrange it for this afternoon.”
The brown eyes flashed. “He wants me to return?”
“No, he wouldn’t have brought the manuscripts if he wanted you to go back.”
Komarov nodded. “Bring him. Then I can work.”
Rand glanced at Gentres for confirmation. “Oh, very well,” the Major said.
“Fine. I’ll try to set it up for later today.”
Taz was seated on the bench by the water, as he had been the day before. He watched Rand’s approach with an interested eye, keeping one hand always on the attaché case by his side.
“I am glad you could come,” he said, smiling broadly.
Rand sat down beside him. “I saw our man this morning. He’s most anxious to obtain the rest of the documents.”
Taz continued to smile. “I thought he would be.”
“Tell me one thing first. What’s in this for you?”
Taz shrugged. “I have always admired his writings. It is with such men as Komarov that the future of Russia lies — not with the bureaucrats in their Kremlin offices. Now that I am retired I owe my allegiance to Russia, not to the Party.”
Rand nodded. “I think you’ve made a wise choice. I’ll take you to see Kolia Komarov.”
“How soon?”
“Later this afternoon if you’d like. After dark might be best, when there are fewer people to see you. His location is a secret, but your people may already have it under observation.”
“I wouldn’t want them to observe my arrival,” Taz admitted.
“I thought not.” Rand mused for a moment. “I could have my car pick you up at the park across from my hotel.”
“That would be fine.”
“Shall we say five thirty? It’ll be dark by then.”
“Good.”
Rand got to his feet. “The park across from the Hotel de Ville, then. I’ll be in the car, with a driver and perhaps another man.” He was thinking that Gentres might insist on joining them, and he could offer no objection to that.
“Until then,” Taz said, and they shook hands.
Heading back to his hotel, Rand hoped this wouldn’t be a night like one other he’d spent in Switzerland years earlier. That time, on a mission to Berne involving the Chinese embassy, Rand had been double-crossed by his own people. The memory of it still rankled. If he couldn’t trust his own people, whom could he trust?
Taz?
“Comrade Taz!”
Colonel Tunic greeted him with a smile, throwing open his arms. “How did your meeting go?”
“Very well,” Taz acknowledged. “Rand is picking me up across from his hotel at five thirty.”
“To see Kolia Komarov?”
“Yes.”
Colonel Tunic gripped him by both shoulders. “Excellent! Excellent! I knew you would not fail us. Do you hear that, Stepan?”
Vronsky came in from the other room. Their suite in Geneva’s other leading hotel was hardly austere enough to inspire confidence in the workers back home, Taz decided, but then the workers would never know about it.
“Good news,” Vronsky agreed. “Do you have the znachki?”
“Right here,” Taz said, opening the attaché case.
Vronsky took the folder and opened it, revealing the assorted lapel pins. “Now here is what you will do. Deliver this to Kolia Komarov at the safe house where he’s staying. Spend a few minutes with him, and then leave at once. You understand?”
Taz was just beginning to. “You said back home there was more to it.”
“And there is. But you don’t want them to discover the microdots are faked, do you? At least, not while you’re in the room.”
Taz suddenly felt very tired. “The microdots are not faked. I examined several of them myself this morning with a magnifying glass.”
“Why would you do that?” Colonel Tunic asked. “Did you doubt our word?”
“With cause, it seems. You told me it was to be a hoax.”
“And so it will. Please do not spoil our careful planning, Comrade Taz.”
Taz sat down then, in one of the ornate golden-armed chairs. “I remember a story,” he said slowly. “It happened a decade ago in a Middle Eastern country. One of our code clerks at the embassy there was ordered to commit an act of political assassination. The KGB supplied him with an electrically operated pistol and poisoned bullets. The fact that he was in cryptography meant nothing to those higher up. He was simply one more tool to be used and discarded. As you must remember, the assassination was successful.”
“We remember,” Colonel Tunic said dryly.
“And Kolia Komarov?”
A shrug. “Deliver the znachki, Comrade.”
“Is this all I am good for after a lifetime of service?”
Vronsky still held the leather-covered folder in his hands. He reached under the protective plastic covering and made a slight adjustment to one of the metal pins. Then he closed the cover and handed the folder back to Taz. “Now then, no more foolish talk. Deliver it, and then leave the house at once.”