'It documents their ordered departure from Moscow and includes speculation by the senior investigator who compiled the list that all of these men were ordered to take vacations at the same time. It was his belief that something was about to take place in Moscow, something that some high-ranking figures do not want to be stopped by anyone who might be capable of determining what was taking place."
McQuinton looked at Rostnikov and the book and moved out of the small bathroom and to the bed, where he propped up the two pillows and sat against them.
"I don't follow," said the American.
"If something does take place within that period," Rostnikov went on, facing the lounging but attentive American, "this notebook will be evidence that a conspiracy exists."
"And you want me to smuggle the notebook out of the country and turn it over to the CIA? Why?"
"You are leaving. It is possible the CIA will be able to use channels to stop the event, to expose it. If not, they can reveal that the event, which might be made to look like an individual-"
"Rostnikov," said the American. "Spit it out."
"I don't-" ' 'What's going on?'' "I think an attempt will be made to kill Mikhail Gorbachev within the next two days," said Rostnikov, looking at the notebook. "I think it will be made to look not like a coup from within but a random mad act, probably from a foreigner."
"Holy Christ," said McQuinton, sitting up. "You're not kidding."
"I am not kidding," said Rostnikov.
"Why can't you just take this book to Moscow?"
"I can," said Rostnikov. "I may or may not be believed. I may or may not be allowed to live long enough to air my suspicions. My credibility as an investigator is secure, but my relationship to the KGB, which would have jurisdiction, is weak, and I am not sure which elements of the KGB might be involved. I am being frank with you."
"I appreciate that," said McQuinton, getting off the bed and starting to pace around the room. "But, hell. I'm on vacation with a sick wife. I'm not sure I can risk getting caught with this thing."
"I appreciate your concern," said Rostnikov. "If you would rather not, I fully understand."
"Hold it. I didn't say I wouldn't. Okay." The sigh was enormous, as if the American were about to take on the responsibilities of the world. He held out his hand for the book.
"You should know that the man who wrote this notebook is dead," said Rostnikov.
"I'm in," said McQuinton, shaking his head.
"Would you like to know who killed him?" Rostnikov asked.
"Yes, it might help cover my ass."
"You killed him," said Rostnikov.
McQuinton's hand wavered inches away from the notebook that Rostnikov held out.
Several possibilities went through Lester McQuinton's mind. All were evident in a series of looks that quickly crossed his face. He considered a smile, an assertion that the idea was absurd. He considered violence, a grab for the book and an attempt to overpower and possibly kill Porfiry Petrovich. He may even have considered the possibility of simply running, for Rostnikov could certainly not follow, but where would he run, and besides…
Rostnikov had moved to the door, which he opened. Misha Ivanov was standing in the hall, his hands folded in front of him. He stepped into the room, and Rostnikov closed the door.
McQuinton shook his head and sat heavily on the bed.
"Andy really likes your wife," McQuinton said, looking up at Rostnikov. "Hell, what difference does that make, right?"
"Sarah likes your wife also," said Rostnikov. "She is not…?"
"No," said the American. "As far as she knows, we're just here on a vacation. I saved the money, and here we are."
"My English is terrible, Rostnikov," Misha Ivanov said in Russian. "Ask him."
"Are you an American?" Rostnikov asked, moving back to lean against the low wooden cabinet.
"I'm an American. I'm a cop. No lies. That's about all you get from me unless we deal," said McQuinton.
Rostnikov translated for Ivanov, who said, "Tell him we make no deals."
"Gentlemen," said McQuinton, "I'm an American tourist. I don't know what you've got or think you've got on me, but accusing an American of killing Soviet citizens isn't going to do relations between our countries very much good."
"We both heard Yuri identify you as the man who hired him and Pato to kill Georgi Vasilievich," said Rostnikov. "He and the man called Pato are quite willing to confess both to the murder itself and your responsibility."
"Come on. No motive, no evidence," said McQuinton, but he did not say it with confidence.
"Motive?" asked Rostnikov.
"Reason to want your Vasilievich killed. Did I pronounce the name right?"
"What is he saying?" asked Misha Ivanov impatiently.
"We have no motive, no evidence," Porfiry Petrovich said.
"Tell him I'll shoot him in the face if he doesn't talk," said Ivanov, opening his jacket and pulling out his gun.
Lester McQuinton looked at it but showed no sign of being frightened.
"No, I have a better idea," Misha Ivanov said brightly. "Tell him I will shoot his wife and then I will shoot him." ' 'Ivanov,*' Rostnikov said softly, looking at the KGB man, but Rostnikov could see in the man's gentle grin that he meant what he said.
"Tell him," Ivanov insisted.
"He's threatening Andy, isn't he?" McQuinton said.
"Yes," Rostnikov confirmed. "But I would not let him do that."
"You might not be able to stop him," McQuinton said with a sigh. "Good guys, and bad guys. Hell. Let's work a deal here. I tell you what I know, you let me get on the plane tonight and go home with my wife. If you think I'm holding back or lying, you arrest me, shoot my ass, or whatever you guys do."
"You would trust us?" asked Rostnikov.
Lester McQuinton ran his thick right hand through his white hair. "I got a choice?"
"Rostnikov, I grow weary," said Ivanov.
Rostnikov explained what McQuinton had said.
"Make the agreement, Porfiry Petrovich," said Misha.
"We honor it," Rostnikov said.
"And we decide if he should be arrested when he is finished," Ivanov said.
Rostnikov nodded at McQuinton.
"I want this done one way or the other before Andy and your wife get back."
"Then speak quickly," said Rostnikov.
"I go to this bar back home," said McQuinton. "Place on Fiftieth Street called On the Way Home."
"I don't…" Rostnikov began.
"Bars back home sometimes have these cute names. Idea is that you can call your wife and say you're On the Way Home."
"And that is humorous?"
"Some think so," said McQuinton. "I could use a drink now. Just a beer. Beer in your country stinks."
"I thought you wanted to get this told quickly," said Rostnikov.
And McQuinton changed modes. He spoke quickly and clearly. He was suddenly a policeman, and he gave a policeman's report.
"Guy in this bar got friendly with me, other cops," he said. "Asked questions, said he used to be a cop in Russia. Accent was right, but he didn't look like a cop, not a cop like me or you two. I thought he was full of shit, but he bought drinks. Long story short. One night I told this guy, said his name was Oleg, that Andy was sick and I was broke and getting close to retirement, that I hadn't saved anything and that the pension wouldn't cover… You know. Cop grousing."
" Yes,'' said Rostnikov. He translated the essence to Misha and nodded for McQuinton to go on.
"Oleg says, 'What if?' You know. What if someone handed me fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Tax-free. Plus a free trip to Russia. What would I do for that? I still thought he was full of shit. I said I'd kill for it. Few nights later Oleg came back with the same thing. I said I didn't find it funny anymore. He handed me a package. I figured it was a setup, Internal Affairs. I gave it back and told him to follow me into the John."