But they had his confession. Miroshnikov had won after all. The Soviet system had won. They had finally ground him down to nothing, so that he was even incapable of helping himself or offering anything but a token resistance. Attacking Miroshnikov had been nothing more than the pitiful last-ditch stand of a man totally overwhelmed by the odds.
He managed the slightest of smiles. But, damn, it had been worth it.
Voronin’s face swam into view, and McAllister knew that he was drifting now, half in and half out of sleep, the muted hum of the jetliner’s engines lulling him. Voronin had been the gold seam after all. The mother load, in the parlance.
Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. What did it mean? Where was the logic? Why hadn’t they asked him about Voronin? Why?
He’d been to Moscow, so now the answers were waiting for him in Washington. Did he want to pursue them? Or was it time to step down?
Someone touched his arm and he opened his eyes and looked up into the smiling face of the stewardess.
“We’re coming in for a landing, monsieur,” she said. “Please, fasten your seatbelt.”
Charles de Gaulle Airport had always resembled, to McAllister’s way of thinking, a space station of aluminum, glass, and acrylic elevators and moving walkways and brightly lit notice boards directing passengers to the various functions and shops. The airport was divided into two sections: Aerogare 1 which served mostly foreign airlines, and Aerogare 2 which was for the exclusive use of Air France.
They carried no luggage, so customs and passport control were accomplished in a few minutes. The airport was very empty at this early hour and what few French officials were on duty were sleepy and inattentive.
McAllister walked with Carrick and Maas across the terminal where they got on one of the moving sidewalks that took them up into the circular Aerogure 1, for the Pan Am flight to New York. They had a little more than an hour to wait. Most of the shops and restaurants were closed, so they went into a small stand-up cafe near the boarding gate and ordered coffee. Maas went off to make a telephone call leaving McAllister and Carrick alone for a few minutes.
The heavyset CIA legman hunched over his coffee, avoiding McAllister’s eyes. Alone now he seemed somewhat ill at ease, nervous.
McAllister studied the man’s profile for a moment or two. Something was going on. Something was definitely wrong. He had felt it at the airport in Moscow, and on the plane, but he had put his apprehensive feelings aside as simple paranoia; a mild form of drug-induced hysteria. He wasn’t so sure now.
“Excuse me a moment,” he mumbled, stepping away from the counter. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Carrick looked up startled. “I’ll go with you.” McAllister stopped and looked directly into the man’s eyes. “What the hell is going on here, Mark?”
“What do you mean?” Carrick asked. He glanced over McAllister’s shoulder into the broad concourse, evidently searching for Maas to return.
“I’m getting the impression that I’m not returning home the conquering hero. What are your orders?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. McAllister. Shit, I’m just doing my job.”
“Which is?”
“Fetch you home from Moscow.”
“And deliver me to whom?”
“We’ll be met at the airport.”
“What else?” McAllister demanded. He was beginning to feel mean. “What else were you told?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you know what I’ve gone through over the past few weeks?” A hard look came into Carrick’s eyes. He nodded, his jaw tight. “You’re in one piece.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Carrick shook his head. “Look, I don’t want to get into it with you, Mr. McAllister.”
“Go ahead, get into it.”
Still Carrick hesitated. Again he looked out into the concourse for Maas.
“If I turn around and walk out of here, are you going to stop me?”
“You’re damned right I’ll stop you. So don’t push it.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“It beats the hell out of me, McAllister. All I know is that you were with the Russians for a goddamned long time, and there are some people back home who’d like to know what you talked to them about, and why you came out in one piece, and why they decided at the last minute to release you-without a trade. They released you straight up.”
“So you think I’m a traitor?”
Carrick’s lip curled into a sneer. “Just don’t try to walk away from me. I’ve got my job to do, that’s all.”
McAllister actually got a couple of hours’ sleep on the transatlantic flight, though it wasn’t restful. After his talk with Carrick in the cafe, his two escorts had become almost surly, dropping any pretense of friendship or respect. He was a traitor returning home under arrest. As on the Air France flight out of Moscow they had first class to themselves, and McAllister sat by himself, confused and angry.
He had given everything to the Agency over the past fourteen years.
A legion of cities and faces and dark alleys and letter drops and onetime codes, and nights waiting at some border crossing for one of his madmen to show up, passed through his mind. He could picture each place and each incident in perfect clarity.
At first it had been exciting. Only later had he begun to wear down, tiring at last of the lies big and little, of the betrayals and of the fact that it had been simply impossible for him and Gloria to have real friends. They’d been able only to maintain sham relationships that if he could be honest with himself and even that had began to come apart at the seams) had began to erode the fabric of his marriage as well as his own mental well being.
Perhaps he had been ripe for an arrest. His tradecraft had been slipping.
He opened his eyes, his heart pounding, a slight sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He was returning home to what? To questions for which he had no answers. For accusations to which he had no defenses. He had been in the hands of the KGB for more than a month (God, could it have been that long?) and he had resisted to the best of his ability. But it hadn’t been enough. Not enough.
What are you doing to yourself?
He had to do something, move, anything. Unbuckling his seatbelt he got up and before Carrick or Maas could come after him he went forward to where the two stewardesses were seated across from the galley. They looked up.
“Can’t sleep,” McAllister said.
“May I get you something, sir?” one of the girls asked, concerned. “Maybe a drink. Brandy?”
“Sure,” the stew said. She got up and stepped into the narrow galley where she opened a cabinet and took out a couple of small bottles of brandy, and from another cabinet a glass.
“No ice,” McAllister said, taking the drinks from her. “May I take them up to the lounge?”
The girl looked over his shoulder. Carrick stood right behind him. “Sure,” she said.
“Thanks,” McAllister mumbled, and he turned, brushed past Carrick and went back to the circular stairs that led to the 747’s upper level.
The lounge was deserted and dimly lit at this hour. During the daytime and early evening transatlantic flights it would have been filled with first-class passengers drinking and talking. McAllister slumped down at one of the tables as Carrick appeared at the head of the stairs. Opening one of the small bottles, he poured it into the crystal glass, then sat back.
“What are you doing up here?” Carrick asked. McAllister raised his glass. “Care for a drink?”