“Not officially.”
Smitty seemed to consider the answer for a moment. “Unofficially, then, I thought you’d better know that Lashkin is being posted back to Moscow.”
“Has he left yet?” Carter snapped, coming around his desk.
“Not for a couple of days, as far as we heard. He evidently has things to clear up with the Security Council. Are you going after him?”
Once again Carter found himself in the position of having to consider lying to an old friend. He didn’t like it, but Ganin had neatly maneuvered him into the corner.
“Don’t ask.”
Smitty hesitated a moment. “Have you spoken with Hawk?”
“A few minutes ago.”
A young assistant from Armory came up and Smitty stepped aside. Carter took the small package containing two of the deadly gas bombs, and the young man left.
Smitty wanted to say something else, but he just shook his head. “Good luck, Nick.”
“Thanks,” Carter said. He brushed past his colleague and started across toward the elevators.
“Don’t go off half-cocked,” Smitty called to him.
Carter glanced over his shoulder.
“Watch your back, Nick.”
“Right,” Carter said.
Carter took a cab to his apartment in Georgetown, where he showered, changed clothes, and packed a few things in an overnight bag. Afterward he fixed himself a sandwich and a beer, and while he sat at the kitchen table he methodically cleaned and oiled Wilhelmina, cleaned and oiled his stiletto, and taped one of the gas bombs high on his inner thigh, where it nestled like a third testical.
Normally when he traveled, his weapons went into a large cassette recorder/radio. He was bringing the radio along this time as well, but he would be wearing his weapons. He was not going to get caught short in New York.
The last time he had been in his apartment, Sigourney had cooked him a wonderful meal. Afterward they had lain in each other’s arms. The memory just then was very painful for him, hardening his resolve to go after Ganin and whoever was running him.
Finished with his tasks, he called ahead to have his car pulled out of storage and readied. An hour and a half later he was heading out of Washington, D.C., on Interstate 95 toward New York City, the restored Jaguar XK-E purring smoothly, the radio playing soft music, and hard thoughts marching through his mind one after the other.
By two he had gotten around Baltimore with its heavy traffic and bad highways; by three, Trenton; and a few minutes after four, driving hard all the way, he passed under the Hudson River through the Lincoln Tunnel.
Crosstown traffic was heavy, so it was nearly five before he made it to the U.N. complex and managed to find a parking place across the street from the Secretariat Building.
Already a number of the diplomats and staff people were leaving work for the day. Carter pulled out the photographs of Lashkin and his secretary, studied them, then sat back to watch and wait.
One thought had nagged at the back of his mind on the trip from D.C. Lashkin was not a man of enough clout to run an operative such as Ganin. Which meant that either Lashkin was a red herring, or the man’s cover was even better than had been thought.
The Cuban on the beach at St. Anne’s, knowing his life was probably over, had spit out Lashkin’s name. What did it mean?
It was barely five-thirty when Carter spotted the KGB officer and his live-in secretary coming through the gate, and he sat up.
It was definitely Lashkin; there was no mistaking him even from this distance.
He and the woman were saying something to each other, and then they climbed into the waiting cab.
Carter started his car and was about to pull out when he spotted a dark gray Chevrolet turning up First Avenue from 42nd Street. It pulled in behind Lashkin’s cab, and as they passed, Carter got a good look at both men. They were husky, their features heavy. Definitely Russian. Lashkin had bodyguards.
When there was a break in traffic, Carter slammed the car in gear and hurried after Lashkin and his entourage.
They turned on 45th Street, and three blocks later headed back south on Lexington Avenue, Carter just making the light behind them. There was little doubt in his mind that Lashkin and the woman were heading to their apartment, but now it was a question of just how closely the two gorillas would stick with their charge. He decided it would give him a certain perverse pleasure to go through them, though he didn’t want to make waves this early in the game. He simply wanted to talk to Lashkin, find out what his part was in the business, and if possible, confirm that it was indeed Ganin who had struck on St. Anne’s. Afterward... Carter let the thought trail off.
At 36th Street they pulled up at the corner, Lashkin and the woman getting out of the cab, the gray Chevrolet holding back.
Carter passed them slowly, and in the next block pulled into a loading zone, jumped out of his car, and hurried back.
Lashkin and the woman had just turned the corner, and they went into a small apartment building. The gray Chevrolet came around the corner and pulled up at the curb, and one of the men got out. The car pulled away and continued down the block, while the bodyguard lit a cigarette and looked across the street. It looked as if he would be staying there for a while. Most likely the other bodyguard would park the car somewhere, then take up station at the rear of the building.
According to the computer’s data, Lashkin’s apartment was on the top floor of the four-story building, at the front. He and Lydia Borasova would be saying their tearful goodbyes now, with Lashkin scheduled to return to his wife in a couple of days. They’d probably prefer to be alone. With luck they’d remain upstairs in their apartment for the night.
Carter crossed the street, and at the corner of the next block he pulled up short as the gray Chevy pulled into a parking spot. The driver got out, locked the door, then crossed the street and went through a gate that led through a brick wall. Evidently there was a rear access to Lashkin’s building.
Carter glanced at his watch. It would be dark soon. He wouldn’t be able to do much until then, except get ready and decide what he was going to do.
One goon was in the front, one in the back. Lashkin was well covered. Carter walked back to his car, got in, and found a legal parking place on the next block. He found a quiet corner in a local bar and had a drink.
Ganin and his people had come ashore and killed Sigourney. They had had a chance to kill him as well, but they did not. A mistake, or on purpose? One of the troops got left behind. Another mistake, or part of the plan? Under questioning, the man blurted out Lashkin’s name.
How much of it was a setup? Carter wondered. And if this was some sort of an involved scheme to maneuver Carter into a vulnerable position, how much farther would it go?
Lashkin would have some of the answers. And tonight, he’d talk.
Five
Carter had dinner at a small restaurant on 38th Street, checked his car, and was back on Lashkin’s block a little past eight. He walked past the corner where Lashkin’s building was located and glanced up at the windows. Lights shone. They were presumably still up there. The one bodyguard stood out front in the shadows.
Around the corner he passed the gate, and then making sure no one was coming, he hoisted himself up over the brick wall and looked down into the courtyard.
The second bodyguard was nowhere in sight. But there were enough bushes and even a couple of trees to conceal him from Carter’s vantage point.
A cab turned the corner and came down the street as Carter pulled himself the rest of the way over the wall and dropped down into the courtyard. He crouched in the shadows for a full two minutes, every sense alert for the presence of the bodyguard, for the sound of an alarm. But there was nothing.