“How much?”
“Fifteen hundred for the lady’s,” he said without hesitation. “Dolars. Two thousand for yours.”
It was more than half the amount of money he had taken from ighnote’s safe. “We’ll need a place to stay tonight.” The old man nodded. “No problem.” He sat forward again. “Am I going to have the BND down on my neck?”
“Not if you keep your mouth shut,” McAllister said. “Half now, alf when they’re ready.”
The old man hesitated for a moment, but then he sighed. “It’s your skin,” he said, and he held out his hand.
Chapter 31
A cruel wind blew along the frozen Istra River thirty miles outside of Moscow, whipping the snow into long plumes, whining at the edges of the steep cliffs, and moaning in the treetops of the birch forest. It was early afternoon, but already the sun had sunk low in the western horizon. Darkness came early at this time of the year.
The large, bull-necked man, bundled in a thick parka and fur-lined boots, trudged up from the river, his breath white in the subzero cold. He stopped on the rise and looked across the narrow wooded valley to his dacha, smoke swirling from the chimney.
Someone was coming. He had felt it for several days now, though he had no real idea why. Instinct, perhaps. All he had wanted was containment. Nothing more, at least until the mistakes that had been made over the past months were rectified. But each day brought another new disaster, none of which he could understand. It was as if forces beyond his control were at work. For the first time in his long, illustrious career, he felt real pangs of fear stabbing at his gut. Explanations would be demanded. But he had none to give.
He looked back the way he had come and clenched his meaty fists in their thick gloves. Lies within lies. He had lived the life for so long that during times such as these he had a hard time recalling the truth.
Everything had somehow tumbled down around him because of one man-David Stewart McAllister. Only he didn’t know why, or how. Only that it had happened, was still happening.
Turning, he worked his way down the hill, across the valley and finally up to his dacha which in the old days had belonged to a prince, one of the czar’s family at court. Those days were gone, but the new age had its comforts.
Stamping off his boots in the mud room, he hung up his parka and rubbing his hands together entered the main body of the house just as his secretary emerged from the study, an odd look on his face.
“Yes, what is it, Mikhail?”
“It is a telephone call, Comrade General,” the younger man, Mikhail Vasilevich Kiselev, said. “From the United States.”
Something clutched at General Borodin’s heart. “Impossible.”
“Nevertheless it is so,” Kiselev said respectfully. Borodin brushed past his secretary and in his small study snatched up the telephone. “Yes, who is this calling?” At first he could hear nothing on the line except for the hollow hiss of what obviously was a very long-distance connection. Who knew this number? Who could possibly know it?
“General Borodin,” a man said in English. “Listen to me.”
“Who is this?” Borodin demanded, switching to English. Kiselev stood in the doorway, his left eyebrow rising.
“Harman and Potemkin are both dead, and McAllister is on his way to Moscow. Do you understand me?”
On an open line! General Borodin could hardly believe his ears. He had to hold on to his desk for support. “Who is this? What are you talking about?”
“McAllister knows everything. He even knows your name, and he’s coming there for you. He’s coming to kill you.”
“You’re insane,” Borodin said. He’d wanted to shout, but he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
“If he’s arrested he’ll tell everything he knows. Everything will be ruined. You, me, everything, do you understand?”
“No, I don’t understand,” he said for Kiselev’s benefit. The fact of the matter was he did understand now; if not the how or the why, at least the implications. But who was this fool calling him now? “You must kill him. You are the last hope.”
“What are you talking about?”
“McAllister is coming to Moscow to kill you. There’s no one else left for me to contact. God in heaven, can’t you understand?”
General Borodin said nothing. After a few moments the connection was broken and he slowly hung up the telephone. Kiselev was closely watching him.“What is it, Comrade General?”
Borodin shook his head and looked up out of his dark thoughts.
“I don’t know, Mikhail Vasilevich. He was a crazy man shouting something about spies, of all things.”
“Spies?” the secretary asked, his eyebrow rising again. “Yes,” General Borodin said, forcing a smile. “He wanted to come to work for us. He is a cowboy, I think. Crazy.”
“Do you wish me to make a report?”
“No,” General Borodin said, dismissing the man. “I will take care of it myself in the morning.”
Robert Highnote stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of CIA Headquarters in Langley and rushed down to his office. It was Sunday noon, the building was relatively quiet.
Dropping his overnight bag on his secretary’s desk, he went inside, snatched up his telephone, and dialed a three-digit number. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, he had a nagging headache, and the wound in his back was on fire. But he could not stop. Not now. McAllister had taken the passports and money from his wall safe and somehow he and the woman had made it out of the country. Highnote had a great deal of respect for his old friend, always had. But since Moscow he hadn’t understood a thing that Mac had said or done. Something sinister had happened to him, something totally beyond understanding. Something totally insane.
“Duty desk,” the number was answered.
“This is Highnote. Anything on those two diplomatic passport numbers from Helsinki?”
“Yes, sir. We tried to reach you earlier but there was no answer at your home.”
“I’m in my office now,” Highnote said, his chest tight. “They showed up in Helsinki all right, just a few hours ago. Both numbers are definitely confirmed.”
Highnote was gripping the telephone so hard his knuckles were turning white. “Did you get names?”
“Yes, sir. Last three digits, six-five-nine, was listed as Wilson, Thomas S. The six-six-zero passport was listed to Morgan, Christine M.”
“Were you able to come up with the name of the hotel where they’re staying?”
“Not yet, sir. But Helsinki station promised they’d give us a shout as soon as they checked with the police. Shouldn’t be long now.”
“It’s early evening over there. I would have thought they’d have that information by now.”
“Sorry, sir, that’s all they came up with. Do you want us to query hem again?”
McAllister had actually made it. By now he’d probably be inside the Soviet Union. Good Lord, was it possible? “Sir?” the duty officer was asking.
“No, you don’t have to carry it any further. Thanks.”
“How do you want this logged, Mr. Highnote?”
“Keep it open for the moment, if you would. I’ll close it out myself tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” the duty officer said.
Highnote hung up. McAllister was as good as dead. The moment he set foot inside Russia they would arrest him. Short of that, if he actually reached General Borodin by another miracle, he would not survive that encounter. What Highnote knew of Borodin was that the man was incredibly tough. A fighter. Even his own people were afraid of him. No one ever got in his way and escaped unscathed. Which left Stephanie Albright, who would be toughing it out in a elsinki hotel room.