Assignment - Suicide Page 3

  “Yes.”

  “And where do you live in Moscow?”

  “Sverdovna Ulitza, Number Two four four. I am stationed, of course, at No. Twenty Dzherzinsky Square, MVD headquarters, under Colonel Nikolai Andrei Andreyanov. I wish I could help you tangibly, citizen. But my attention was—occupied.”

  “Ah. The lady is your wife?"

  “We plan to be married very soon.”

  “It is good to raise a family. Children today receive the utmost devotion from the state. What are you doing in this dacha?"

  “It was lent to us by a friend—Sergei’s nephew.” Durell hoped the MVD man would not ask for more details; the girl had given him none. He found some cigarettes in a box on the table and offered them around as a gesture of hospitality. It was obvious that the fat man was proceeding carefully with him, recognizing him as of equal rank, if he accepted the credentials at all. The two men with rifles came out of the bedroom and the girl followed. She had put on a dark blue flannel robe and was belting it around her waist. Her long hair was magnificent. Her face was angry.

  The first of the uniformed men said briefly, “Nyet,” and waited for orders. A sharp knock sounded at the back door and the fat man went to it and spoke to those who had walked around the house. Durell wondered with sudden panic if he had left footprints in the patches of snow beyond the dacha—a trail that might be followed back to the shore where he had landed. He wondered, too, if smoke from the burning chute had been noticed by those outside. He stood beside Valya and took her hand in a gesture of affection. She was a fine actress. Her manner struck just the right balance between embarrassment at being surprised this way and a loyal interest in the proceedings.

  “You are staying for the night?” the MVD man asked.

  “No, we have an appointment at eleven with Mikhail Novelnevsky.”

  “The ballet dancer?”

  “Is there any other?” she asked.

  “He is an artist of the first rank. I envy your friendship with him. I see nothing to interfere with your plans, citizeness. You must forgive our intrusion, but you understand how necessary it is to watch for the foreigner who landed here.”

  "You are sure a landing was made?" Durell asked.

  "Quite sure. If you are stopped on the way into Leningrad, Yell them you have been checked by Lieutenant Kronev,” the man said. He saluted Durell, smiled at Valya, ordered his men outside and saluted again as he closed the door behind him. moment later the Zis started, headlights flaring across the windows of the dacha.

  Durell exhaled softly and turned to the girl. She was sitting with her face in her hands. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Her shoulders moved. “Nothing. Please pay no attention to me.”

  He crossed to her and touched her shoulder, but she flinched and shrank away, lifting her face to stare at him. Tears streaked the smooth silk of her cheeks, but her eyes were cold, suddenly blazing with pure hatred as she looked at him.

  “What is it?” he asked again. “Can I help?”

  “It is not your fault. You are doing your duty and you are well paid for it by your masters. But I—I am a traitor to all that I love and to all who trust me. I am to be despised.”

  She stood up, careful not to brush against him as she moved by. Her long hair was thick and gleaming against the dark blue robe that she now hugged chastely around her body. Her voice was fiat as she spoke again from the bedroom doorway. “Get dressed, Gospodin Durell. We must hurry now. We can talk further on our way to the city.”

  The little Pobeda did not have too much leg room for him. They drove easily along the wet, two-lane road. Now and then Durell looked back to see if they were being followed, but he couldn‘t see anything. There was no other traffic, and after a time the road widened even further, following the high-speed railroad tracks, and more izbas appeared and then a few huge, gaunt factories on the sprawling outskirts of Leningrad itself.

  He had not been here since shortly after the war and the murderous siege by the German armies, when everything had been shot up and destroyed: power, shelter, food supplies. The two million inhabitants had clung to their positions in the rubble and fought it out through the savagely cold winter to victory. He was astonished at the amount of rehabilitation that had been accomplished—and again, by the forest of television antennae on the rooftops. Scarcely any trace remained of the devastation worked on the countryside. He expected to run into more roadblocks, but nothing happened to interrupt the trip.

  He was concerned about the girl. Valya’s attitude was clear; she regarded him as an enemy, a Westerner, and she was an unwilling ally. He knew nothing about her; he had not been briefed as to the people he had to work with. She had carried off the first test well, thinking fast, acting with speed and decision to deceive the MVD search party, and she had not cracked at all until it was finished.

  Yet he did not trust her. Enmity crackled in the air between them, silent and tight as a bowstring, evident in her cold, beautiful profile and in the way she carefully avoided any cooperation beyond what was necessary.

  He lit a cigarette. “Why are you doing this for me? If you feel you are a traitor, Valya, why should you help me?”

  “One must weigh good against evil. We are not perfect here. We strive for the future, and every now and then one of us goes astray. I am doing what I think is best."

  “How far will you go to help me?”

  "As far as needed, and no more.”

  “You speak in riddles. Either you are with me or against me."

  “Must everything be white or black?” she asked coldly. “You need not fear me. I will warn you when I have gone as far as I can go. We do not trust each other, but now we must work together, and a certain amount of reliance, one upon the other, is necessary if we are to live.” She turned the Pobeda expertly into a wider street of broad asphalt that glistened under startlingly bright lamps. More cars were in evidence on the wide avenue that arrowed between massive piles of new apartment houses. “I do not know how much time we will have to talk later," Valya said quietly. “So perhaps you had better tell me how it began for you.“

  “To check my story?” Durell asked.

  “Why not?"

  “All right. But I expect the same from you. Frankly, I did not expect to find someone like you mixed up in this. I thought it would be Luke Marshall at the dacha, not a Russian girl berating herself for playing the role of a traitor." He paused, but she said nothing. and he went on briefly to tell her about Sukinin, the Russian agent, and how Sukinin had been killed trying to reach him. “We do not believe Sukinin’s death was either accident or coincidence.”

  “No, it was not either," the girl murmured. “Sukinin was a very dear friend." She spoke without emotion. “Please continue.”

  He told her what Sukinin's statement had contained, concerning the two underground parties, and the threat from someone named Z. His voice sharpened. “Does any of this mean something to you?”

  “Oh, yes. But Marshall will tell you. It will be better if you hear it from your countryman.”

  “Well, that was about it,” Durell said. “Sukinin stressed the fact that time was essential to stop this man Z from precipitating a war. Nevertheless, my people were skeptical. We still are. Bluntly, it was decided that this might be a trap, since we've had no reports from Marshall for over a month. He was checking on the progress made over here on the intercontinental missiles, and frankly we found it difficult to believe Sukinin’s report of your underground movement. There has never been any serious hint of organized resistance to the regime, and it excited us very much. Trap or no trap, something had to be done about it.”

  Her eyes slid sidewise to consider him. “And so you came here, knowing it might be a trap? You are a brave man or foolhardy of perhaps only a greedy man. Undoubtedly you were promised a large bonus if your mission here is successful."

  Durell said wryly: “A bonus from my masters?”

  “Of course."

  “There will be
no bonus, Valya. I wish We weren’t worlds apart, so we could understand each other. You call me an enemy; you hate us and we fear you. But we will never start a war against you. Surely you know that.”

  “You have been preparing to destroy us for a long time,” she said sharply. “It is common knowledge, so please do not lie about it.“

  “That’s what you read in your newspapers,” Durell said, “The West wants peace gust as you want peace, but it must be just and honorable.”

  ‘She shook her, head impatiently. “There is no point in discussing this. You are full of lies.”

  “But can’t we reach a temporary understanding while we’re working together?” Durell suggested.

  For a moment he detected a fleeting softness in the lines of her proud, bitter mouth. But it was only momentary, and she did not reply. They were nearing the central city now, an area of vast palaces and monuments, the city of Peter the Great, Lenin, and the October Revolution. Built along the banks of the icy Neva, its atmosphere reminded Durell of Rome and Paris. The girl scarcely glanced at the equestrian statue of Peter the Great, founder of the city, but Durell studied the floodlighted monument that was the work of Falconet, the French sculptor. There was a lunging strength in the horse as it surged westward with only two hoofs linking its flight through the sky to the rose granite base. The image of the czar, with his left hand uplifted to point westward, was strong and powerful. In a moment the monument was behind them, and Durell settled back thoughtfully. They were in the heart of the fortress city now, a bastion built upon wild swamp and Wasteland, founded centuries ago. The river, three times the width of the Seine, was a swollen, dark torrent carrying ice and debris toward the Gulf of Finland. Palaces built in the last two centuries bordered the rushing stream, together with quays of black and pink granite. Ahead was the floodlighted spire of the Soviet Admiralty.

  The girl swung into the tide of traffic on the Nevsky Prospekt—the Champs-Elysees of Leningrad. The massive avenue bisected the city from the Neva to the manufacturing suburbs. The broad sidewalks were crowded. It was only a few minutes after eleven in the evening. At every corner, a blue-capped politseyski directed the rush of traffic, the trolley-buses and cars, helped by red and green signal lights much like those of Manhattan. Broad yellow lines indicated crosswalks for the pedestrians.

  The girl swung off the Nevsky Prospekt into another avenue. “The ballet will soon be over and we will meet Mikhail backstage. Mikhail is to be trusted. Your friend, Marshall, was also a friend of Mikhail’s, and Mikhail will take us to him."

  “Can’t we go to Marshall direct?”

  She shook her head. “I would not know the way. We must be careful, naturally. Mikhail will help us find your associate—-and afterward, we will do as Marshall says, whatever must be done.”

  “You implied Luke was in bad shape,” Durell said. “Is he ill, or is he injured?”

  “Both. One as the result of the other. He has pneumonia as the result of a bullet wound. You must understand the danger, because they already know of us.” Durell followed her nod at the giant posters of the current leaders of the Politburo, banners that fluttered in the chill wind that swept the city from the Neva. Flags, slogans, placards and posters were being erected all over the city in preparation for the May Day festivities to take place the next week. The girl said: “If we are caught, it is prison or death. For you, a bullet in the brain. A little care is desirable, da?”

  She swung the car between two monumental palaces guarded by uniformed soldiers with rifles outside the ornate iron gates. Within two more blocks the bright facade of the main avenues yielded to a bumpy, cobblestone street of drab houses where only a few lights gleamed. She turned the Pobeda into a still narrower lane, where sagging wooden fences leaned over puddles of mud and ice. A moment later she pulled the car into a clearing fenced in by rubble, and braked to a halt.

  “We must not be late. Mikhail would worry. We will walk back to the opera house—and let me do the talking. Mikhail is sensitive. He is in love with me, which is why he is in this business with us.”

  Durell returned to the main street with her. The cutting wind made him grateful for the fur hat and boots she had given him. Yet he felt peculiarly vulnerable as they merged with the crowd on the wide avenue. The girl tucked her arm in his as they walked. The clothing of the passers-by was adequate but shabby in contrast to the magnificence of the reconstructed buildings that lined the way. Yellow and red trolley-buses clanged and swept smoothly along the vast street. There was a high percentage of military uniforms in the crowd.

  He resisted an impulse to look back to see if they were followed. The girl’s pressure on his arm hurried him along. She walked with a long, free stride that matched his own, and the wind whipped and flapped their coats as they crossed the open corners with the surge of the crowds. Valya did not possess his discipline. Every now and then she turned her head quickly, and the set of her mouth was tight and strained.

  The crowds were being disgorged from the Grand Opera House as they neared the area. Floodlights played in varicolored beams on the vast, columned face of the building. The press of people grew thicker.

  “This way," Valya murmured.

  She turned down the side of the building and edged her way against the human tide into a smaller doorway that yielded to a wide, marble hallway. A side door abruptly led them from this into an oasis of empty silence.

  Durell had the feeling he was trapped in a marble maze as they hurried along. The girl apparently knew the building intimately, but her feeling of urgency made him uneasy. They were on the third floor, having climbed a flight of circular marble stairs within earshot of noisy dressing rooms high above the stage when they heard hurried footsteps coming toward them. Durell caught the girl’s arm and pulled her into a dark side corridor. The man coming toward them was running. He slowed just before he reached the intersection and Valya saw him.

  “It’s Mikhail," she burst out, and pulled away from Durell.

  “Mikhail, what is it?”

  The dancer paused and stared as they emerged from the darkened corridor. He looked back over his shoulder, shook his head, and swallowed. He made Durell think of a dark and slender steel blade. His pin-stripe gray suit was far better than the average Durell had seen on the streets. He carried a fedora and a Chesterfield coat. His face was thin, his nose narrow and hawklike, his black eyes immediately resentful of Durell and then tender as he looked at the girl.

  “Valya, they were waiting for me in my dressing room,” he said. He was perspiring heavily. “Not the MVD—but men from Z. Darling, something has gone very wrong. We must get out of here."

  “Did they see you?" the girl asked.

  “No, no. But I had to send someone for my clothes in my dressing room.” He looked bleakly at Durell. “You are the man Marshall asked for?”

  Durell nodded. “Let‘s go see him.”

  Mikhail wiped his narrow face with a silk handkerchief. His hands were delicate and graceful. His dark eyes swung from Valya back to Durell, suspiciously. “Did you have any difficulty?”

  “The plane was shot doom and the pilot was killed. Just a little difficulty." Durell felt angry for no reason he could define. “The area is alerted. That’s a little trouble, too. As if they were expecting me.”

  Mikhail nodded. “That explains why they were waiting for me, too. Sooner or later I will have to answer their questions. But I'll think of something. After all, they are not really like the police."

  They are worse," Valya said. "He would like to be a new vozhd, a new dictator."

  The dancer's eyes flickered a warning to the girl. "We will stop him. Come along."

  They stepped into the lighted corridor again. A man stood in bulky silhouette at the far end from where they had come. Another suddenly materialized at the opposite end of the empty, columned hallway. Their mission was plain. Durell was effectively cut off from escape in either direction.

  Chapter Four

  A SHOUTED COMM
AND echoed in garbled syllables down the marble hall, distorted by the high-covered ceilings and the silent sculpture in the wall niches. Durell grabbed the girl's hand and yanked her back into the dark cross-corridor. Mikhail jumped gracefully after them, alarm in the dancer’s narrow face. He jerked his head and they ran into the deeper shadows behind the enormous stage.

  Footsteps hammered after them. The girl slipped and dragged at Durell’s hand. He pulled at her savagely and they tumbled down a. short flight of steps. Mikhail was well in the lead. He did not help the girl and his manner of flight reflected total fear. Durell cursed their bad luck. He was dependent on these people to bring him to Luke Marshall; he could not desert them. But he felt hampered by them, knowing the mistakes of an amateur at this dangerous game. His questions had to be postponed. There was nothing to think of now but their immediate safety. He did not even know who was after them, or why they were running.

  Mikhail knew his way through the dark maze. Once he outstripped them and Durell dragged the girl to a halt, to listen and orient himself. Echoing voices sounded dimly behind them, then faded. The girl drew in a great, shuddering breath of air. She leaned heavily on Durell, her hand at her throat.

  “Which way did Mikhail go?” he whispered.

  “He knows where I park my car. We can meet him there.”

  “He runs fast,” Durell said dryly.

  “Mikhail does this only for me. it is not to his taste."

  “Is he a coward?"

  “Some men are brave in other things besides physical danger,” she said angrily. She straightened in the marble gloom. “Come along."

  They went at an easier pace after that, and suddenly Valya opened a door and they found themselves on the street behind the opera house. It was deserted, lighted at each corner. Durell looked each way, then took the girl’s hand and ran across the open space to a narrower street that in turn became a muddy lane. The wind was cold, blowing hard from over the river. His sense of direction led him correctly. In a matter of a few minutes they approached the girl’s Pobeda, hidden among the workers’ tenements a safe distance from the Nevsky Prospekt. Mikhail was not there.