He stepped closer to the door, unconsciously bringing the butcher knife higher.
The little man had killed Larissa. The thought consumed his brain, and with it came the consuming resolve to avenge her death and so put an end to the terrible things that were happening. Cargill. Louis Dreyfus. Vance-Ehrhardt. And now him?
“I know you’re in there,” the voice called again, and Dybrovik stiffened, tightening his grip on the knife.
Of course he knows I am in here. His people watched me go out and then come back. They knew I was here, and they reported to him.
Dybrovik slipped the lock with his left hand while holding the butcher knife over his head with his right, and then stepped back.
“Come on,” he said, the words slurred.
The door opened. “That’s better,” Shalnev said, stepping across the threshold at the same moment Dybrovik brought the butcher knife down with every ounce of his strength.
The blade deflected off Shalnev’s collarbone, then buried itself deeply in the man’s neck, severing the carotid artery.
Shalnev lurched powerfully backward. Dybrovik lost his grip on the handle.
“Shalnev,” Dybrovik whispered in abject horror.
Shalnev’s eyes were rolling as he stumbled farther out into the hall, clawing at the knife jutting obscenely from his jacket collar.
A slight bubbling sound emerged from Shalnev’s mouth, and then his knees buckled. His eyes rolled up into his skull, and he fell on the floor dead, a look of surprise on his face.
It was still early, only a few minutes after ten in the evening, when Vladimer Valentin Vostrikov answered the telephone in his apartment.
“There has been an accident, Comrade Vostrikov,” a voice at the other end said.
“Who is this? What accident?”
Vostrikov’s wife and daughter looked up, concern in their eyes.
“You are needed at the ministry, comrade. It is an emergency. Please hurry.”
“Who is this calling?”
“Everyone is being telephoned, comrade. I am only following orders. It is terrible. We are all needed. Please hurry.”
“I don’t know who this is, but I certainly will report this to the authorities,” Vostrikov said with more courage than he felt. His wife had gotten up and she stood by his side, her hands to her mouth. He had not told her about what had happened with that bastard Dybrovik, but she had guessed something was wrong
“It is assassination. Director Lysenko. There can be no civil police. You must understand, I am under orders. We all are under orders. You must come at once.” The caller hung up.
“Assassination? What are you talking about? Who has been assassinated…?” Vostrikov sputtered, but then he realized he was speaking to a dead phone.
“What is it, Vladi?” his wife asked, her eyes wide.
“I don’t know. They want me at the ministry.”
“Who has been assassinated?”
“I don’t know.”
“It is trouble for us. I can feel it. I knew something would happen by the way you came home. You have drunk entirely too much tonight. You can’t go to your office this way. The others — Comrade Lysenko — will see you this way and know what you have been doing.”
“Keep your peace, woman,” Vostrikov roared. He pushed past her, went into the bedroom, and grabbed his jacket from the closet. If there was trouble at the ministry, and they wanted him — Vladimir Valentin — then he would comply. Who was he to question such a telephone call in the night?”
His wife had followed him into the bedroom, and she was wailing and screeching that their lives were ended, that he was a foolish, foolish man who had surely done something to bring shame and exile down on their heads.
He brushed her aside and without a backward glance left his apartment, hurrying downstairs and out into the mild evening.
By God, it was easy to put two and two together. Some insane person had assassinated Director Lysenko, and now they needed the staff gathered to find out who had done it, and further, to plan for Monday. After all, even without a director, the ministry would have to continue. There was so much to be done.
Thank heavens the subways were still running. Otherwise he’d have to walk, and it was more than two miles.
At the end of the block, as he started across the dark street, an automobile turned the corner a block away and headed toward him. He was halfway across the street when he decided that he could not make it ahead of the oncoming car, so he stopped to wait for it to pass.
He could not see much of the car, just the headlights bearing down on him, so he turned his eyes away from the glare.
He was still worrying about the work of the ministry when the car struck him, hurling his body upward to crash through a second-story window.
Dybrovik paused about two blocks from the bureau and lit a cigarette, turning sideways as if to block the wind. He studied the street and sidewalk behind him, but there was no one. He had not been followed. They didn’t know. Yet.
His passport and travel documents, along with a small amount of German marks and British pounds — general disbursement funds under his direct control — were back in his office. The timing would be tight, but if he could get out of the city tonight by train to Leningrad, and from there to Vyborg and into Finland, he would be free. They would not think to look for him in that direction. They’d expect him to try to hide in Moscow or foolishly attempt to get on a flight to Geneva.
He inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs, then started walking again as he exhaled through his nostrils.
But what the hell had Shalnev wanted? Somehow Shalnev must have connected him with Vostrikov’s telephone call.
Had it gotten back to the little man? Had Shalnev like a dutiful little puppy immediately reported his concerns? Had he recorded in a log somewhere that he was going to Dybrovik’s apartment? Was there a record? Or did Shalnev enjoy a certain autonomy of movement? Maybe he had merely come to pay a social visit.
The building that housed Exportkhleb was dark. Dybrovik went around the block to a side entrance, where he unlocked the door with his own key. Inside, he leaned against the door and tried to catch his breath. Shalnev’s body had been so damned heavy, and it had leaked blood all the way into his bathroom. It had taken more than an hour to clean the hallway, and then the living room, so that someone would have to come all the way into his bathroom, and then pull back the shower cunain, to find the body.
He shuddered as he went down the wide corridor and hurried up to the third floor.
At the door to his office he paused again, Shalnev’s image in his mind’s eye. Whatever the man had expected, he definitely had not expected to die this night. There had been a look not of terror or pain on his face, rather a look of complete surprise.
Inside, Dybrovik crossed the trading floor and went into his office. He flipped on the light.
“Good evening, Delos Fedor,” the little man said from his seat in the corner.
21
William Bormett left the house a few minutes before 7:00 A.M., went across to the barn for his old, battered pickup truck, and headed out to the east five thousand.
He was frightened. Catherine had seen it in his eyes. Ever since Moscow, his days had been dark and his nights ominous, but the worst part of all had been facing his wife. Every time he looked into her eyes, he had the urge to tell her what had happened, tell her what they were making him do. But he could not. Courage, he tried to tell himself over and over again, would see him through the mess. But each time he tried to tell her, his insides would quiver and his knees get weak.