Assignment - Suicide (11 page)

An arm swung around his throat as he plunged into the open
air toward the dim shape of a small sedan parked in the road. Something pricked
through his clothes to inflict a sharp Stinging pain just under his left
shoulder blade.

“Enough,
snakomi
,” a voice said quickly. “If you would live,
friend."

Durell stood still. The knife was pointed upward at his
heart, requiring only a little pressure to slip through muscle and lung. It was
more effective than a gun. He breathed deeply, the sound of it harsh in the
chill gray air of dawn.

“Hello, Mikhail.”

“Turn around. Slowly.”

He turned around. A quick hand took the P.38 from his
pocket. He could not see where it went. The pressure of the knife in his back
was unrelenting. He was pushed through the doorway, back into the
dacha
. The black-haired woman faced him,
holding a narrow hand spread over her stomach. She wore a dark blue cloth coat
with a squirrel collar and fur-topped boots. Her face was momentarily
malevolent, a narrow face with a sharply defined widow’s peak. Her eyes
were intelligent, but there Was a bitter set to her mouth that must have been
of long standing. She looked hard, competent, beautiful and utterly ruthless.

“Very good, Mikhail. Be careful. He is dangerous.”

The burly man who had first wakened Durell pushed her
aside and said: “I have never seen anything like it. The way he woke up fighting
us. Not even during the war did I see anything like it. Another moment and he
would have escaped altogether.”

“Is Valya all right?" the woman asked.

“We would not hurt her, Elena.”

“See to that. Come in, American.“

There were two guns pointing at him now—the P.38 in the big
man’s fist and the woman’s gun which she had retrieved. Mikhail released
the pressure of the ‘knife in his back. They watched him warily, with expectant
interest, as if he were an animal they were totally unsure of. Mikhail closed
the door against the chill, foggy dawn. The dancer looked slim and dandified,
but there were sharply etched lines around his sensitive mouth; his face was
chalky white, and a faint tremor kept going and coming through his body.

“I need a drink," rumbled the burly man.

“You will not get drunk, Gregori,” snapped the woman. She
snapped a finger against her neck in the traditional Russian gesture that
meant drunkenness. “We have had enough trouble with those who get
piani
.”

“Does one teacup make an ocean? Does one drink mean I am
senseless? Let me find the vodka.” The burly man grinned at Durell with
no animosity whatever. He came up to Durell and thumped him heavily in the
chest with his knuckles. “You are very good, Americanski. Very good, indeed. I
respect and admire you. I have never seen anything like it,” he said again. He
shook his shaggy head slowly. “The way you woke up. You would have gotten clean
away from all four of us.”

Elena said, “Take care of Vassili.”

The second man was groaning on the floor where Durell
had left him. He was younger, in his twenties, and as thin and stringy as
Gregori was huge.

“I‘ll get him some vodka,” Gregori said cheerfully. He had
thick black brows and thick dark hair and a gold tooth gleamed in the left side
of his mouth. He thumped Durell chest again. “Very,
very
good,
gospodin
.
We will be friends.

Turning, Gregori hauled his younger comrade to his feet and
into the kitchen. Durell looked into the muzzle of Elena’s gun and decided not
to try anything. Gregori might be cheerful and friendly enough after the fight,
but there was cold death in the woman’s black eyes.

“Sit down, spy,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“We are Valya’s friends.”

He looked toward the bedroom door and saw Valya standing
there. She was fully clothed in the gray flannel dress she had worn
before, and he was suddenly conscious of the torn flannel robe he wore,
with his muddied trousers underneath, and the boots in which he had decided to
sleep. Valya’s pink lips trembled, parted as if she wanted to say something to
him, and then closed stubbornly under his hard glance.

“Did you call them?” he asked her.

“No, Sam.”

'“But you knew they would come. This is one of their
hide-outs. This is where you were to rendezvous with Mikhail, isn’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then everything you told me was a lie.”

“Not everything,” she whispered.

The black-haired woman looked from Durell to the girl with
sharp and cold interest. She was about thirty, slim under the
hulkiness
of her winter coat. She held her gin familiarly.
There was an air of command in the set of her shoulders and the severe, mannish
cut of her dark hair.

“Did he reach the Embassy, Valya?” she asked.

“No, Elena.”

“So this man still has the map?”

“Yes, he has the map, Elena.”

“Good.” Elena turned to Durell, who had sat down in one of
the shabby, mouse-colored overstuffed chairs. “You will give me the map that
your comrade Marshall gave to you in Leningrad."

“You’re well informed,” Durell said.

“It is my business. Where is the map?”

“Suppose you find it,” Durell suggested.

She looked at him with annoyance. Gregori and Vassili came
back from the kitchen, each with a bottle of vodka. They were grinning.
Gregori‘s black, thick hair was streaked with gray. The younger man‘s eyes were
now clear. Elena looked at Valya. and said shortly: “Do you know where he put
the map?”

Valya did not meet Durell’s eyes. She whispered: “It is in
his boot. I saw him put it there. The left one.”

Gregori rumbled: “You were not very successful with him,
doragaya
.” His
eyes slid from Valya. to Durell, squinting. “You did not succeed in disarming
the Americanski."

“You learned the kind of man he is,” Valya said coldly.

“
Da
. Very much of
a man. In his boot, you say?"

Mikhail still spoke softly. “Allow me, Elena.”

He advanced toward Durell. There was an unnatural look in
his eyes that Durell had seen before—in the eyes of the sadistic guards at
Belsen and Buchenwald. Mikhail’s knife flickered in his hand.

“The map,
gospodin
spy.”

Valya whispered, “Please take off your boot, Sam. Please!”

He did not look at her.

Mikhail’s narrow face shone with sweat. The knife glittered
inches from Durell’s eyes. Gregori rumbled a dim protest, but the dark-haired
Elena and Vassili did not seem interested. Durell shrugged.

“I don‘t have the map.”

“It is in your boot, spy,” said Mikhail.

Durell took off his right boot. His movements seemed casual
but there was care in him as he measured his chances. “I don’t have the map
anymore,” he said. “I got rid of it last night when I was with Valya."

Mikhail took the boot carefully and felt inside. His mouth
twitched. It could have been a smile. “The other boot,
gospodin
.”

Durell took off the other boot and held it out in his left
hand, and as Mikhail reached for it, more eagerly than for the first, he
slammed it against the knife in the dancer’s hand. The blade flickered
through the air and clattered against the wall. Mikhail tried to leap backward,
alarm and chagrin on his handsome face, but he was not quick enough. From the
corner of his eye, Durell saw the gun in Elena’s hand leap up, but Valya jumped
for it, caught the other woman’s wrist, and struggled to divert the muzzle. By
then he had Mikhail’s body in a powerful grip, arm twisted up between the man’s
shoulders to immobilize him. He shoved the dancer hard toward the front door.
Mikhail whimpered in pain.

“Run!” Valya screamed. “Run!”

Whirling, Durell yanked the door open and spun Mikhail’s
body so that Mikhail protected him from any shots from the others. Gregori and
Vassili stood immobilized, frozen by surprise. A chair fell over with a crash
as Valya grappled with Elena for the gun. He saw Elena bite viciously at Valya’s
wrist, her head striking down like a snake, and Valya screamed in pain and lost
her grip.

He could have escaped then, but he hesitated for another
instant, seeing the girl in trouble. In that moment he knew she had not
betrayed him. And he could not leave her to the fury of the others if he ran
now. Elena had retrieved her gun. She snapped a sharp command to Gregori, who
grabbed Valya and flung her against the wall. Her long hair came loose
and whipped across her eyes. Elena slashed with the gun across Valya’s face,
and anger burst in Durell like an explosion at the useless cruelty. Behind him,
through the doorway, was the dawn, with mist curling over the Moscow River, and
the sound of a train chuffing into the yards behind Alexandrovskaya
Vauxzal. He did not go that way. As Valya slumped to the floor, he spun
again, thrust Mikhail headlong into the room, and jumped for Elena.

He almost made it. He almost got the gun from her. But the
woman was elusive and wiry. She tried to whip him with the gun, too, and missed;
but in dodging, Durell fell into Gregori’s grip. This time the man was not
taken by surprise. His powerful arms clamped around Durell’s chest and
squeezed. His grip was strong as steel. A wide grin spread across the Russian’s
broad face as it turned red with his effort. Durell’s strength was equal to
Gregori’s, and he was trained in wrestling and judo. But Gregori had the prior
grip. Durell heaved and strained and lifted the huge man off his feet and swung
him around hard. They crashed against the wall. Valya screamed. Her face was
bleeding where Elena had struck her. Vassili circled them warily, arms also
spread wide for a wrestler’s grip, looking for an entry into the battle. Valya
started for the front door, divining Durell’s purpose. But Elena struck at her
with the gun again, her thin face vicious, her neck muscles corded with fury.
Valya moaned and slumped to the floor. Lights flickered before Durell‘s eyes as
Gregori increased the pressure on his chest. The man’s breath stank of vodka
and onions.

“Stand away, Vassilivitch,“ the man grunted to his young
companion. “I can-handle him now."

Durell saw that Valya was unable to escape. He tried once
more to break loose and felt his lungs gasp and strain for air, felt his ribs
bend and almost crack under the terrible bear’s hug of his opponent. He could
not break free. And then something struck the back of his head and he heard
Mikhail’s soft sound of satisfaction and his legs buckled under him.

He would have fallen if not for Gregori’s hug.

“Enough, Gregori,” Vassili said.

“We should kill him!” Mikhail insisted.

Elena said, “We need him. Enough!"

There was a ringing in Durell’s ears as he was released. He
sank into a chair and leaned slowly forward, dragging air into his bruised
chest.

“You could have escaped,
doragoy
. Why were you such a
fool?"

Elena said waspishly, “He wanted to take Valya with him. If
he makes another move, I shall kill her.”

“There will be no killing here!" Gregori rumbled.

“Then what shall we do with them?"

“We Will talk reason to the American.”

Durell drew another tortured breath. The ringing faded from
his ears. He looked with shock and pity at Valya. There was a long cruel gash
across the left side of her face where Elena had pistol-whipped her. it bled
heavily and her dress was stained scarlet, but she did not seem to be aware of
it. Her eyes looked at him like the eyes of a numbed and injured pet.

“Why didn’t you escape?" Valya whispered.

He shook his head, not sure of the answer now.

Gregori laughed. “Come, what we all need is another drink.
We can be friends. For myself, l have no hard feelings.”

“You are a fool," Elena spat. “They are both
dangerous.”

“I agree,” Mikhail whispered. “We should kill them both.”

Gregori said amiably, “We do not as yet have the map.
Remember?”

Vassili went into the kitchen and returned with vodka and a
long—necked bottle of Caucasian wine. Gregori drained his glass as if it were
water. Durell sat quietly, letting his strength flow back. Nobody did
anything about Valya‘s face.

“We will have breakfast and then we will talk business,”
Gregori said. “Gospodin Durell will give us the map. He will be
reasonable."

“And if I don’t?”

“Surely you know how serious we are in this matter?”

“I’m serious, too,” Durell said. “If you want to stop Z, the
way to do it is with publicity, not assassination.”

“This is an internal affair. It is our problem, and we will
solve it as we choose. We Russians can take care of ourselves. You have seen
changes in this country. But what you have seen externally is nothing to what
has happened to the minds and hearts of the people.”

“What do you know of freedom?” Durell said. “You’ve never
enjoyed it.”

“Freedom never dies in a man. It is an instinct. It is the
saving force that ultimately overthrows all dictators. The heart yearns for freedom,
whatever oppression there may be.”

“You are a philosopher,” Durell said.

“Nothing so grand." Gregori smiled. “I am a simple
assassin.”

Chapter Ten

IT was an hour later. The sun was bright outside, the mist
burned off the river. They had eaten a breakfast of ham and eggs, with coffee
strongly flavored with chicory, reminding Durell of the faraway bayous of
the Cajun country and the roadside diners on the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

He kept his eyes on Valya, but he read nothing in her face.
She had taken care of the deep cut inflicted by Elena’s gun, but her cheek was
swollen now, and ail he could see in her eyes Was the dullness of pain and
despair. Mikhail had gone out and had not returned. Vassili kept looking out
through the back windows at the river bank. Elena was tense and nervous. Only
Gregori was in good humor.