“We’ll make do,” Zachry said.
“What about tonight?” Kitzmiller asked. “You said there are already reporters here looking for me?”
“Yes, and I’d just as soon they didn’t bother you with a whole lot of questions just now.”
“I detest hotels,” Kitzmiller reminded them.
“You can spend the night at my place,” Corey said. “Besides the bedroom, I’ve got a sofa that can be slept on.”
“I do not sleep on sofas,” Kitzmiller said.
“So you can have the bed.”
“I suppose that will have to do.”
“Fine,” said Zachry. “Tomorrow afternoon we’ll rendezvous at Corey’s apartment at one o’clock and head for Biotron. In the meantime, I’ll make sure they’re set up to handle us there.”
“What about you?” Corey asked Dena.
“No sweat. I’m beginning to feel at home at the Beddie-Bye Motel.” She snapped a salute in the direction of Lou Zachry. “See you at thirteen hundred hours, captain.”
Chapter 24
Viktor Raslov saw that Kuryakin was missing at the same moment that he was handed the telephone by Neal Henderson, the young assistant to the manager of San Francisco Airport.
Accident? A wrong turn? Or — O hated word — defection?
Raslov could not very well change his mind now about talking to the embassy, since he had made such a point of it with this nervous young man. However, he did not want to call attention to Kuryakin’s absence before it was absolutely necessary. Such things could be quite embarrassing. The head of a delegation was responsible for the safety, not to mention the loyalty, of its members.
He signaled the KGB men with his eyes, and one of them slipped out of the office to scan the terminal. While Henderson stood by perspiring lightly, Raslov punched out the number of the Soviet consulate. He identified himself and after some delay was put through to the chief consul.
“Yes, yes, Raslov, what is it?” The chief consul was senior to Raslov in the party and had no need to be polite.
“There seems to be some delay here in our flight,” he said in Russian. “Nothing serious, but I thought you should be informed.”
“If it is nothing serious, why did you call me? You must have heard about the trouble we are having down here with some right-wing protest group that is blaming us for these so-called brain eaters. The police seem in no hurry to disperse them.”
“No, I had not heard,” Raslov said.
“Everything here is confusion,” the chief consul said. “There is nothing I can do for you.”
“I understand,” Raslov said. “Please do not concern yourself.”
He hung up the telephone and said to young Henderson, “The consul says if the delay of our flight is prolonged, he will expect a full report from your superior.”
“I’m sure it won’t be long,” said Henderson. “Would you care to wait in the VIP lounge?”
“VIP?”
“It’s for … dignitaries and important travelers.”
“We will wait out there,” Raslov said, pointing back toward the terminal. “Where the people wait.”
“Yes, of course, whatever …” Henderson finished the sentence lamely as he saw he no longer had the Russian’s attention.
The KGB man came back into the office and gave a small shake of his head. Raslov swore under his breath and started out, the two KGB men flanking him.
“We’ll page you,” Neal Henderson said to their departing backs, “as soon as there is any word.”
“You did not see Kuryakin?” Raslov said to the KGB man who had left the office.
“No, sir.”
“Did you look in the lavatories?”
“No.”
“Well, do so.” To the other he said, “Search the other terminals. If you see Kuryakin, detain him. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
Raslov’s eyes met those of the KGB man. They did not like to be given orders by anybody except one of their own. Not even a party official. Raslov resolved to be more diplomatic. It was never a good idea to get on the wrong side of the KGB.
Anton Kuryakin did his best to blend in with the other people milling around San Francisco Airport. It was not so difficult in the international terminal where he had slipped away from Viktor Raslov and the thick-necked men from the KGB. There the babble of foreign tongues was louder than the English, and the people were dressed in all manner of costumes. Indeed, Kuryakin, in his dark conservative suit and his bland peasant face, looked more American than the Latins and Asians who made up the bulk of the crowd.
Once he moved on through the other terminals, he began to feel more conspicuous. It was the first time he had been alone among Americans. He felt sure his foreignness would call attention to him, but no one seemed to be looking.
How colorfully they dressed in this country, he thought. And with so little formality. There were more women wearing pants than dresses. None of the men wore a hat. Kuryakin was glad he had left his own packed away. He saw also that there were very few neckties in evidence. Kuryakin considered removing his but reasoned that his suit and starched white shirt would be even more conspicuous without a necktie than they already were. Furthermore, he would feel decidedly undressed without it. He left it on.
The airport held a bewildering array of shops and services that seemed to Kuryakin to have nothing to do with air travel. It was in stark contrast to Moscow, where an airport looked like an airport and not a department store. Given the choice, Kuryakin would have taken the Russian way.
Here there were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, a barbershop, a beauty parlor, a medical clinic, a flower store, and stands selling sourdough bread. All manner of attractions to make a man forget what his business was. Kuryakin resisted the temptation to inspect the variety of goods available to anyone who had the price. He reminded himself that he had a mission, and he knew they would be looking for him soon — Raslov and the other two. Probably, also, the American authorities. He had no time to waste.
There were decisions to be made. Which airline should he take? He passed up the one called American as seeming disloyal to his own country. The same went for Pan American. Continental suggested that it might somehow deposit him in Europe, and Trans-World was a longer jump than he wanted to make. How much simpler it was in Russia, where the joke was that when you wanted to fly, you either went Aeroflot or grew wings.
Finally, after studying a map board showing their routes, he settled on United. He got into a line at the counter, glancing around to be sure no one was yet coming for him. With the general excitement over the brain-eater business, no one was paying any attention to him. He relaxed and moved slowly with the queue. Standing in line was one thing he understood.
After ten minutes he reached the counter, where a harried black man explained that the line was for people who had already purchased their tickets and wished to check their luggage. Kuryakin sighed and moved out of line. Such frustrations were not uncommon in Moscow either.
By careful observation he found the correct line where people were buying tickets and took his place behind a Latin-looking woman with a very noisy baby. That line moved more slowly than the other, and tempers were fraying on all sides by the time Kuryakin again reached the counter.
“I wish a ticket to Milwaukee,” he pronounced carefully when it was his turn at the counter. He understood English quite well, but speaking the language made him uncomfortable. So much of it seemed to be pushed through the nose.
“Everything is full,” the clerk told him. “The best I can do is put you on standby on flight eight-fifty-nine for Chicago.”