McAllister felt as if he were in a very bad high school play parodying a Russian kangaroo court. The kids couldn’t have done a worse job than the real participants.
“May I speak?” McAllister said in very good Russian. The tribunals seemed genuinely surprised. The chief tribunal’s eyes knitted. “Only if you wish to contradict the very fine words that have already been spoken on your behalf.” He leaned forward. “Everyone in this room is on your side, young man.” McAllister glanced back at Lacey who sat without expression. “Well?” the chief tribunal demanded.
McAllister turned back. “I wish to enter a plea of guilty.”
“That has already been done,” the chief tribunal said impatiently. “Have you anything else to add?”
“Nyet,” McAllister said after a moment.
The chief tribunal continued to stare at him for several long seconds, then he leaned over and said something to the other two tribunals. He nodded and straightened up again.
“The death penalty is indicated for a crime so vast as yours,” he said, addressing his remarks to McAllister’s attorney. But even the prosecutor has had very kind words to say about you. However, it cannot be forgotten that you carried a deadly weapon-here in Moscow of all places-and that you assaulted the body of a good and just man while he was engaged in the performance of his lawful duties.”
McAllister might not have been there. His attorney was the object of the chief tribunal’s mounting wrath. Only Bill Lacey’s presence behind him buoyed his spirits.
“It is the unanimous opinion of this court that you be sentenced to life imprisonment at hard labor in the Autonomous Republic of Yakutsk. It is also the unanimous opinion of this court that your imprisonment shall commence immediately, and shall be without possibility of parole or exchange.” The chief tribunal rose up a little higher in his seat, and now he looked directly at McAllister. “Here you shall live out the rest of your days as a reminder to all foreign interventionists and adventurers that the Soviet peoples are a peace loving peoples who want nothing more than to live without interference.
Yarasenko and Miroshnikov were smiling. When McAllister turned around Lacey was gone from the courtroom.
Evening had come to Moscow, and with it the first few flakes of an approaching snowstorm whipped by a building cold wind. General Alexandr Borodin sat alone in his Lubyanka office, his ashtray filled, his mouth foul from too many cigarettes, and his uniform tunic off, his tie loose and his shirt collar open. He pressed the earphone more tightly against his left ear as he worked the tape recorder controls with his right hand.
At first he could hear the sounds of a door opening and closing, and then footsteps. He could hear the rustling of fabric as McAllister was undressed.
He had listened to all of these sounds over and over again a dozen times or more in the last two hours since the edited interrogation tapes had finally been sent up to him.
He leaned forward and closed his eyes as if by these actions he could hear better. He turned the volume up as high as it would go.
“Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two.“There it was again. No mistaking the words this time. No mistake at all. “What?” Chief Interrogator Miroshnikov had asked. A pause.
“Fuck you,” McAllister’s words again.
General Borodin reached out and savagely snapped the machine off. He was reminded of an old Russian proverb: Once a word is out of your mouth, you can’t swallow it again. Had Miroshnikov heard? Had he understood what McAllister had babbled in his delirium?
Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. Fuck your mother, but this wasn’t going to turn out so good. He reached out for the telephone on his desk, but then stayed his hand. There had to be a way out. But how? Where? To whom could he turn without starting in motion the machinery of his own destruction?
Chapter 4
It was very late at night, but they were flying west so that the dawn for them would be delayed. They were seated alone in the first-class section of Air France’s nonstop service to Paris. Behind them, in coach class, the other passengers were quiet, most of them sleeping, their seat backs reclined, their overhead lights switched off. There was nothing to be seen below, in any event. Since this was an overnight flight out of Moscow a regular meal had not been served; snacks had been made available, and of course drinks. In coach class passengers were served in plastic cups, in first class they were served in crystal. The first class stewardess stepped around the corner from the galley and smiled.
“Care for another drink, Monsieur McAllister?” she asked. her pretty white teeth flashing.
“No. Thanks,” McAllister said tiredly. “I think I’ll try to get some rest. How soon will we be in Paris?”
“A little more than an hour.”
McAllister glanced across the aisle at his two escorts. Langley had sent them out from Washington last week and they had waited around the embassy until he was released. Other than introducing themselves at Sheremetyevo Airport when he had been turned over to them, they’d said little or nothing to him. Now, as before, their reticence was bothersome.
Mark Carrick, seated on the aisle, glanced up from the magazine he’d been reading. “It probably would be for the best if you got some shut-eye, sir.”
McAllister looked up. The stewardess had returned to the galley. “What the hell happened back there? One minute I’m on my way to Siberia, and the next thing I know I’m handed over to you two at the airport. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Believe it, sir. You’re going home.“The other agency legman, Thomas Maas, turned away from the window and stared across at McAllister. His expression, like Lacey’s yesterday afternoon in the courtroom was unreadable. But it wasn’t friendly. “Are you feeling all right now, sir?”
“They were drugging my food. It’ll probably take a little while for the stuff to work itself out of my system.”
“They’ll take care of that in Washington,” Carrick said. “They’re all set up for you.”
“But what happened back there? Was a trade made after all?” Carrick shrugged. He was a heavyset man, with short-cropped gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a no-nonsense air about him. “I couldn’t say, sir. Our orders were to wait for your release and then get you home.”
“You knew about my trial?”
“No, sir,” Carrick said.
“Then who sent you out here? Was it Bob Highnote?”
“Why don’t you try to get some rest, Mr. McAllister,” Maas said. “There’ll be a layover in Paris, and again in New York before we can catch the D.C. shuttle. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“You’re probably right,” McAllister mumbled laying his head back and closing his eyes. He wasn’t thinking straight. Everything had happened so fast, with so much finality. After his trial he had been taken back to the Lubyanka where after dinner the clothing he had been wearing the night of his arrest had been returned to him, freshly laundered and pressed. No one came to see him, or even to remove the dishes from his meal, or the suit he’d worn to the trial, until very late.
He had felt betrayed. Lacey’s disappearance at the end of the trial had deeply shaken him, so when his guards came for him around midnight, he was convinced that this was one predicament that wouldn’t be so easy to get out of. All of his life he had relied on his own abilities; he was responsible for his own well-being and safety. Only this time he had absolutely no control over what would happen to him next.
Walking up the familiar corridors and out into the waiting van, he had gone meekly. You can’t fight the whole Russian Army, boyo. The words came to his mind in a familiar yet distant voice. Survival, that’s the name of the game. Hang on, maybe the cavalry will be coming after all. He wondered what his father would have done in the same circumstances, or how his grandfather would have reacted. They’ll break your will sooner or later, he’d been taught at the Farm. It is inevitable. Your job is to hold out for as long as you possibly can.