“I offer an alternative, Mironov. We give you a job to do, you do it. Then—we’ll see. How does that sound?”
“I have my own work. I didn’t come here on any sight-seeing tour. But I guess if that’s whit you want, that’s what I do.”
“Good. Sleep here, tonight if you like. Tumanov has his quarters downstairs, and I’m sure he’ll have a bed for you. Tomorrow, precisely at noon, an M.V.D. courier will cross Lunatcharsky Square, on his way to Lubianka Street. He will carry a briefcase, Mironov. You will bring me that briefcase.”
Skinner nodded grimly, reached for his cartridge belts.
“Wait,” Sonya told him. “Forget about those. Leave your gun behind as well. If they catch you, those things won’t make you look much like Nikolay Mironov of Tula, will they? Tumanov will give you a knife. Tumanov loves his knives, and he has a wonderful collection. Good night.”
After the girl left through an inner door, Turnanov set a samovar to boil on the stove. “Smile, my friend,” he said. “For a moment I thought she would have you killed.”
Skinner frowned. “How did she know about the courier?”
“A remarkable woman, Sonya. Sometimes she lets the men of Lubianka Street make love to her, and you’d be amazed how they talk. Ahh, the tea is boiling!”
NOON. Lunatcharsky Square with its crowds of people. A crisp, chill autumn day which both remembered summer and foretold winter.
At eleven-fifty-nine, Skinner had arisen from his bench, crossing the Square to where Lubianka Street enters it, waiting there with Tumanov’s knife taped under his shirt against his chest. Noon….
The courier strode briskly through the Square, looking neither to right or left, but straight ahead, his uniform neat, the brass buttons polished, the holster hanging freely at his side. In his left hand he carried a bulging brown briefcase, swinging it carelessly with the motions of his stride. He brushed past Skinner close enough to reach out and touch him. But Skinner did the reaching out.
He grabbed the courier’s shoulder, spun him around, pulled the knife free of its tape at the same time, hiding it in the crook of his arm from anyone who might pass. “Smile,” he said. “Smile or I’ll slit your throat.”
The courier smiled.
“Now, keep smiling.” A man and a woman walked by, wheeling a baby carriage. “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Josef?” Skinner asked the courier, pricking the man’s chest just above his heart, with the knife.
“Q-quite beautiful. Comrade.”
“I see you’re on time, Josef. Thank you. Now, please give me the briefcase and your holster.”
“Yes, Comrade,” said the courier, unfastening the holster and giving it to Skinner.
“Now, the briefcase…”
The man started to comply, but suddenly he swung the briefcase around from his left side. It gathered momentum, struck Skinner’s face squarely, staggering him. He heard the knife clatter to the sidewalk, juggled the holster for a moment trying to remove the pistol.
Something pile-drived against his stomach, forcing all the air from his lungs. He doubled over, half-aware of a curious crowd gathering. Then he fell.
He still clutched the holster, tore the gun from it now, rolled over. A booted foot stamped down, the heel crushing his wrist against the sidewalk, pinning it there helplessly and throwing the pistol from his fingers.
He scrambled away on his hands and knees, tried to rise, but a wave of nausea rolled up from his stomach, bringing a reeling, spinning sensation to his head. The courier kicked out with his foot again, and Skinner tried to ward off the blow. Partially, his forearm deflected it, but the square toe of the boot crashed against his jaw, its force hardly diminished. He flipped halfway over, then fell on his face.
Something pounded against his head—hard blows which pushed his bloody face down on the sidewalk. The noise of the crowd found a hole and buried itself, and all Skinner heard, until he heard nothing, was the ringing in his ears….
“GOOD AFTERNOON, Colonel Rashevsky.”
“My Commissar looks cheerful.”
“Indeed I am, Boris. Indeed I am.” Laurenti Beria lit a cigarette, twisting his lips to let the smoke out through a corner, of his mouth. “Vishinsky informs me that the foreign office nears completion of its work with Project X.”
“Satisfactory completion, my Commissar?”
“Yes. It believes everything Vishinsky and his crew have told it. How can it doubt, not having any other criteria on which to base its judgment?”
“Is it ready to cooperate?”
“I would say so. I very definitely would say so. It is developing a fast hatred for the Western world.”
Rashevsky licked his thick lips. “Then what remains?”
“Nothing much. We must next convince it to use its tremendous scientific powers against the West, to rid the world of evil and make us ready for a new era. That will be comparatively simple, now that the first task nears its successful end. Rashevsky, you will find some vodka in the top drawer of my desk. I think this calls, for a celebration. Careful, careful, you’ll upset the flowers. Yes, in that drawer…”
Rashevsky opened the drawer, removed the half-full bottle and two glasses. At that moment, a phone rang. Beria crossed to the desk, picked up the receiver. “Yes? Oh.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s for you, Boris.”
“For me? Hello. Yes, this is Colonel Rashevsky. What? Is that so? Is that so? Of course. Naturally. I’ll be right down.”
“Well?” Beria demanded.
“Urgent,” Rashevsky said, opening the door, “An as yet unidentified man attempted to waylay our courier as he crossed the Square. You know, Commissar, the courier who was bringing the written transcript of your talk with the Foreign Office?”
“Did they kill the man?”
“No,” Rashevsky growled, rubbing his hands together, “Better yet. They’ve captured him. He’s in the detention room right now.”
“Fine. Fine! Be gentle, Boris, but be persuasive. If you have any trouble, feel free to call on me. Perhaps you can forget all about Sonya Dolohov. Perhaps we begin to crack the Underground right now.”
Rashevsky grunted thank you under his breath. He’d make up for his feelings of guilt with this Underground agent who waited in the detention room. Sometimes, Boris, he thought, you talk too much. If you hadn’t told Sonya how swiftly the M.V.D. can work, if you hadn’t demonstrated with the courier who would cross Lunatcharsky Square, this would not have happened. He smiled, remembering the glorious evening, remembering Sonya’s lovely white skin, her languid smile, her kisses. Well, as it turned out, no harm had been done, and it was worth it….
“YOU, GET up!”
A soldier prodded Skinner to his feet, gave him a glass of water which he drank gratefully,
A huge, heavy-set man with a bull neck and sensuous face entered the room, his uniform thoroughly be-medaled. Said the soldier: “This is Colonel Rashevsky. You will answer his questions, Comrade.”
Rashevsky! Skinner almost choked on his water. These Russians believed in going whole-hog at the drop of a hat. In the Pentagon, Rashevsky was known as the number two man of the M.V.D., right behind Laurenti Beria himself.
“Gently,” Colonel Rashevsky, chided in his booming voice. “Gently. Would you like to leave Lubianka Street alive, Comrade?”
“I don’t blame you. I—bah!” Abruptly, Rashevsky knocked the glass of water from Skinner’s hand, grabbed the American’s shirt up high near his throat and tugged. “I like this way better, much better. You’ll talk—or—”