“I’m a cabdriver.”
Rostovitch half rose out of his chair and shot out words like bullets. “You are a spy!” Then, deliberately, he relaxed and let contempt come into his voice. “And a nigger to boot.”
“Don’t call me a nigger,” Frank said.
Rostovitch, with the calculated insult, had found the first soft spot. “I say you’re a nigger!” he hurled at the man before him.
To the colonel’s real surprise Frank kept his composure. “And I say that you’re a goddamned jerk.”
Rostovitch jumped to his feet. The man standing behind the prisoner raised his weapon to strike, but Rostovitch waved him down; he was not ready to have this man killed — not just yet. First, the information.
“And,” Frank added, “you’re a frigging coward to boot.”
Rostovitch walked slowly around to the front of the desk and then leaned on it with his hands behind him. He waited a moment, then spoke with deceptive calmness. “You do not know who I am.” “You’re Zalinsky,” Frank said.
Rostovitch was amused. “Zalinsky a coward, maybe yes; he is very good at making ladies’ sweaters.” Then he hardened abruptly. “But I am not Zalinsky.”
“You’re still yellow,” Frank taunted him. “When you talk to an unarmed man sitting in a chair, you still gotta have another guy backing you up with a gun. That’s because you took one good look at me and got scared that maybe I could beat the shit out of you.” Barlov interrupted at that point. In a completely factual voice he said. “Shall I have this prisoner taken outside and shot?”
Rostovitch’s eyes narrowed, then he shook his head as he studied the man before him. A sudden new idea was shaping itself within his mind: it was born of colossal pride and the accumulated frustrations that he had had to accept ever since the blind, stupid fools in San Francisco had let the submarine get away. Here before him was a momentary way to redeem all that, and to mend the partially shattered fragments of his fearsome reputation.
At that precise moment, as though he had been reading his thoughts, Major Barlov ventured to ask another question. “Excuse me,” he said in the language he knew that Frank could not understand, “how many of my men do you require for your personal safety?”
Rostovitch glanced at him. “Explain,” he said.
Barlov remained calm. “I am about to dispatch some more men to deal with the disturbance outside. But I cannot leave you alone with this prisoner; you must be protected at all costs.”
Although it seemed obviously unintentional, that was another insult, another prod at the colonel’s wounded pride. “Major,” he said, “more than fifty men have tried, from time to time, to lay their hands on me. Are you aware of the outcome?”
“I should not care to try it,” Barlov replied.
That was better.
The colonel held out his hands to be inspected. They were like the ends of twin battering rams, scarred, disfigured, and lethal. “I require no protection,” he said. He did not add that he carried weapons concealed on his person, a habit he had not broken for years.
“Very well,” Barlov replied, “I will send my men to take care of the incident outside, they are needed there. But I cannot leave you alone with this man; I will remain myself.”
The colonel could not protest because Barlov was obviously doing his duty, but he was further annoyed. He looked at the prisoner and made a point for Bariev’s benefit. “If I chose to kill you with my bare hands, you might last as long as thirty seconds,” he said. “But I have no time to amuse myself in this way. You work for the agent Hewlitt!”
Frank said nothing.
Rostovitch waited just long enough to determine that no answer was coming, then he came suddenly forward and started a powerful, openhanded smash against the side of Frank’s face. As he whipped his arm down, Frank without warning kicked him violently in the shin. The impact almost knocked Rostovitch off his feet and caused his own blow to miss. Barlov leaped forward, but the colonel waved him away.
One more time Rostovitch tried to thrust down the boiling acid of frustration and recover his composure. He forced his voice into something approaching normal speech. “Why do you challenge me?” he asked.
“Because you called me a nigger, you horse’s ass, and because you ain’t nearly as good as you think you are.”
Rostovitch’s rage descended to an icy calm; he realized that he had nearly been goaded into forgetting himself, and his whole lower leg burned with pain. He was used to pain, but it had not lost its power to annoy him. Barlov remained silent and motionless, ready to do whatever he was directed. Rostovitch knew that he could have the man before him dead in another fifteen seconds, but that would not reveal any information. Worse, Barlov would not forget what he had seen and heard. “This man has been searched?” he asked, attempting to make it sound casual.
Barlov was stung. “Thoroughly. He would not have been permitted in your presence otherwise.”
There was another hidden barb in that, although the answer had been completely respectful. Rostovitch let his fingertips feel the contour of the knife that was concealed against his leg. “Leave us,” he said to Barlov in English. “Attend to your men. You will return when I call you.”
Barlov looked at him and knew that he meant exactly what he said. He allowed the slightest suspicion of a satisfied smile to touch the corners of his mouth. Rostovitch noted it and approved; it was a testimonial which told him that his image was intact.
When they were alone Rostovitch looked at Frank for several seconds. “I give you one last chance to save your life,” he lied. “If you tell me enough, fast enough, I may relent. I am not Zalinsky, he is in the hospital. I am Rostovitch!”
“Now ain’t that a great big surprise,” Frank said, and calmly stood up.
The colonel began slowly to walk around him, measuring him with his eyes. When he had finished, the slight exercise had eased the biting pain in his leg and put his mind back into proper focus once more. “You have perhaps heard of me,” he said with deceptive mildness.
Frank looked at the skull-like face and casually surveyed the total picture that the formidable colonel made. “You ain’t much,” he said.
Rostovitch struck like lightning; his left arm shot out aimed directly, with two fingers extended, at Frank’s eyes. Instinctively Frank drew back, then Rostovitch’s hammerlike right fist slammed into his unprotected abdomen.
Frank’s body knifed over from the blow, for a moment he was bent half double. With his hand held edgewise and open, Rostovitch swung down with concentrated force toward the back of
Frank’s neck. The blow landed, but on the top of the skull and well before it had gained its maximum power; despite the sudden shock of pain and loss of wind, Frank was already jerking himself upright, his right arm bent with his hand almost resting on the top of his own shoulder. Using the power of his torso and his leg muscles for a maximum effort, he smashed the top of his elbow against the underside of Rostovitch’s jaw. He felt a renewed stab of pain as the blow hit; he saw Rostovitch’s head snap back, but the jawbone had not broken. Any ordinary man would have been knocked senseless with a shot like that.
The colonel fell back one step, shook himself, and smiled with the fixed expression of a carved mask. Then he kicked.
He did not telegraph it, but he was too far back for any other attack and Frank had anticipated him. He spun sideways, letting the kick hit the side of his hip and deflect; then with his own left foot he kicked, with limited power but great speed, against the back of Rostovitch’s left knee, unlocking the joint.
Rostovitch fell, but when Frank lunged after him he rolled backwards in a complete circle, his head sidewise against his shoulder, and came back up onto his feet again. Frank was still down; Rostovitch aimed a cool and driving kick against his left shoulder and sank it fully home.