Duel of Assassins (6 page)

“But that is not a very accurate job description, Mr. Jones.
You told me the KGB wants me to hunt Marcus down, to ‘assassinate the
assassin.’ Is that not so?”

Jones hesitated. Ackerman spoke: “Answer him, Buck.”

“Okay, yes. Hell, I should have paraphrased, but those were
the words they chose. They’d like you to stop him—before he gets to Rybkin.
This Marcus is a killer, you said so. But if you do find him, if it’s a matter
of conscience, I’m sure you can detail some of their people to pull the
trigger.”

Arensky shook his head. “Practically speaking, Mr. Jones, I
don’t think Marcus Jolly can do this thing, nor do I think I can stop him from
doing it. The odds are against on both counts. But that is beside the point.
The point is, whatever Marcus may have done, or may have become, he was for
many years my closest friend. And I do not wish to be appointed his
executioner, no matter the cause.”

After a moment the President turned to Dr. Ledbetter. “Gene,
what was their other inducement?”

“Immediate exit visas for Taras’ sister, her husband and
children.” Ledbetter turned to Arensky. “If you agree, no matter the outcome,
they will all be heading west.”

Taras swore violently. His sister Luiza, her husband and
their two little boys had been petitioning to emigrate for years. And year
after year Taras had been filing State Department “Invitation for Relatives”
forms on their behalf. All to no avail.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe these fucking promises.”

“They’ll be put on a plane—in the custody of our embassy
people—before you take off for Moscow.”

“Bastards!” Taras pounded his fist into his open palm.
“Excuse me, Mr. President. May I stand up?”

“Christ, yes. Pace the floor, swear all you like. God knows,
I do. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.” Taras stood. Walked to the French doors.
Stared out through the colonnade at the lighted Rose Garden. The President’s
voice came from behind him.

“Taras, I understand your reluctance to accede to any kind
of blackmail from the Kremlin. So let me offer you an alternative reason.
You’re now a U.S. citizen. As your President, I’m asking you to take this
assignment. Consider it in that light, in any case.”

Taras did not react. He was seeing faces out there in the
night. Faces of people he loved. Charlotte. Marcus. But the faces that lingered
were those of Luiza, Anatoly, and their boys, Vladik and Sashka—as he’d last
seen them five years ago on a wintry Moscow morning. How much had they
suffered, especially the boys, for his sake; how much had been denied them?
Luiza had told once him on the phone how terribly they were ostracized at
school, how they had been forced to write compositions denouncing him. What
diminished prospects remained for them in young manhood as nephews of a traitor
to the Motherland?

Couldn’t he, for their sakes, compromise his self-image a
little, at least go through the motions of a morally repugnant assignment? Even
if it cost him his integrity as a man—
dammit, even if it cost him his soul
—wouldn’t
it be worth it?

As his conjurings faded, Taras found himself looking,
through the trees of the sloping south grounds and the Ellipse, at the floodlit
spire of the Washington Monument on the Mall. A shining symbol of his new
homeland, like this oval room in which he stood. He turned around.

“I accept, Mr. President.”

Ackerman offered his hand, then placed the other on
Arensky’s shoulder. “I won’t ask you which argument prevailed.”

“Thank you. When does all this start?”

It was Buck Jones who answered: “There’s an Air Force jet at
Andrews gassed up and ready to leave for Moscow as soon as we can get you on
it. Your temporary reassignment is all cleared with Langley, but, for obvious
reasons, we ask that you not tell anyone what you’re doing or where you’re
going.”

“Especially, you mean, don’t tell my fiancee?”

“I’m sorry,” the President said.

Taras shrugged. That was to be expected, considering the
nature of the assignment. But even confronting the Kremlin bosses in Moscow was
going to seem easy compared to the next part—facing Charlotte.

Taras was packing in the bedroom of the condo they shared in
Cleveland Park when he heard her enter the front door. He continued tossing
shirts, socks and underwear into the suitcase as her heels came clicking down
the hardwood hallway.

“Taras, what’s going on?” her voice called ahead. Then the
footsteps stopped. “Oh, God, please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

He turned and saw her in the door frame, square-shouldered
in her festive six-hundred-dollar dinner suit. In her eyes naked appeal mingled
with deep sadness.

“Charlie, I—“

“Please tell me you weren’t really going to sneak out of
here in the middle of the night without… without…”

“President Ackerman asked me to go somewhere, Charlie.” He
laid in a favorite cotton pullover, a birthday present from her. “Tonight.
Right away.”

“Scotty asked you?”

“Yes.”

“Since when have you two been on speaking terms?”

“Since an hour ago. Though I guess I do work for the man. I
told him no. But… he bent my arm—“

“Twisted, not bent. He’s very good at it. That’s how he got
where he is.”

“—until I said yes.”

“Obviously. Is it dangerous?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So, that’s all I get to know? Did Scotty swear you to
absolute secrecy, especially in regard to
moi?”
She came slowly forward,
dropped her purse on a side chair, took a flat-footed, cross-armed stance
regarding him. It was her “tough newswoman” pose, Taras knew, but her
vulnerability showed through in the distressed flickering of her eyes. “Were
you going to stick a note on the fridge, or was I to be left totally in the
dark?”

“I was going to write a note, Charlie. If I could tell you
more, you know I would. We’ve been all through this.”

“Yes, haven’t we?” Her voice was low-pitched, jagged with
barely controlled emotion. “I tell you everything I do, make a mockery of
journalistic ethics, and you tell me nothing. For God’s sake, do you think I’m
probing for a White House leak? I’ve got gobs of material for columns. I’m
asking as the woman you share your bed with, the woman who wants to share your
life. Please don’t shut me out, Taras. At least tell me how long you’ll be
gone.”

“I don’t really know. I swear I’ll come back as soon as…
well, as soon as I can.”

She took his wrists. “Taras, I’m sure Scotty made it all
sound earthshaking. But what about me, and what about us? How long is this
going to go on? I need a full-time man in my life. We talked this all out, you
agreed, dammit! I don’t want to turn around at a partry and find out you’ve
vanished under myster-ious circumstances—”

“I’m sorry. I tried to get back to you, but they said there
wasn’t time, that Larry Hornaday would explain where I went.”

“I don’t care what
they
said, or what Larry was
supposed to tell me.
You
didn’t say a word. I don’t like it, and I won’t
accept it. I need a man who is
there
for me, don’t you understand?”

“I know that. And I promise—”

“Oh, please don’t promise anymore.” She shook her head
hopelessly, then leaned against him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “I’m
crazy about you, Tarushka. You know I have been since I first looked into those
damn soulful eyes of yours. But I haven’t got forever. Maybe you’re just not
good for me. And maybe I have to start thinking about what’s good for
Charlotte, you know? Maybe I’ve got to start looking around for some ordinary,
domestic-type guy to replace you in my life.”

“Charlie, come on now—”

“I’m
serious
, Taras, dammit. It’ll tear me apart, but
if you walk out of here tonight without—I don’t know—without a where or what or
how long or a promise to call me, don’t bet I won’t do something. Do you
understand?”

Before he could frame some kind of response, she went
pale—and pointed at the open suitcase on the bedspread. Taras cursed his
carelessness; visible under his old belted raincoat was the chromed-steel
barrel of his Smith & Wesson .45 automatic.

“You’re taking that? You just said it wasn’t dangerous.”

“It isn’t. At least I don’t think it is. But—”

“You promised me months ago you were going to get rid of
that obscene thing.”

“I know, Charlie. And I will.”

“Oh, Jesus, don’t you know whatthis does to me? Damn you!”
Her eyes gathered fury, her fists balled at her sides. Then her face crumpled
as the tears broke. She fought them, swiping at them with her knuckles, then
took a quick, heart-wrenching step backward as he reached to comfort her.

“No, you don’t. Just because I’m crying doesn’t mean I don’t
mean what I said. I mean every damn word, Taras. I always have.”

“I know that.” Arensky stood there, feeling her eloquent
misery along with his own inarticulate pain, yet unable to bridge the chasm suddenly
between them. She
would
replace him; she had that strength. The threat
about replacing him struck deep. He couldn’t quite dismiss it as being all
bluff. Having a child, he knew, had become for Charlotte the most important
thing in the world, something she would not—dare not—postpone. They had worked
out the critical tietable together: he would quit the Agency; they would
quickly marry and start a family. Only his part in that equation was obviously
replaceable. He dare not doubt her ultimate resolve to pursue her dream without
him.

She put her back against the bedroom wall, pushed a lock of
hair out of blotched eyes.

“I’m going to say it one more time, okay? Choose, Taras.
Choose between our life together and the dirty little games they want you to go
on playing. Because, my darling, if you walk out now, as you did at the party,
so help me…” Her voice faltered. “I’ll care if you come back. I’ll always care.
But I may not be waiting.”

“Charlotte, you know I love you.”

“But?”

“But...” He shook his head helplessly. Couldn’t she see his
misery, too? Then, thoughtlessly, he stole a glance at his watch.

“You bastard!” she whispered. “Am I keeping you then, with
my histrionics? Is that black car downstairs for you by any chance?”

“Yes.”

“So sorry. Well, I think I’ve said it all anyway. Excuse
me.” She whirled and, now just sobbing, walked out of the room.

Taras checked the futile impulse to go after her, finished
packing instead; latched and locked the single hard-sided suitcase, zippered
his carry-on. Dismissed the idea of picking out a paperback; he felt too much
like a zombie to read anything.

He hefted the bags down the hall. Charlotte was in the
living room, her back turned, standing in a stiff way in front of her mounted
collection of miniature Chinese theatrical masks, a Kleenex Boutique box
dangling from one hand. Then he noticed the slight movement of her elaborate
coiffure and in the Elizabethan puffed sleeves of the riotously printed silk
top. She was trembling. He set down the luggage, came up behind her.
Tentatively, as though she were breakable, he touched her.

She turned instantly into his arms, dropping the tissue box
and clutching him like a child. He held her close, muffling the convulsive
noises against his shoulder, stroking her shuddering back through the silk. The
tangle of dark curly hair was pungent against his nostrils, her fingers like
talons in his biceps, her tears wetting his collar. Then, with the urgent,
anguished cry of a small animal, she launched her face at him in a salty kiss
surprising in its ferocity, endearing in its vulnerability. Taras told himself
to treasure it, knew it might be their last—and that on pain of death he dare
not be the one to break it.

Finally she ended it, pushing him off with her palms, yet
only a little way, to forearm distance. She stared at him from wet,
mascara-bruised eyes, so close she seemed to look first into one of his pupils,
then the other, searching for some faint sign that she might have won after
all, and that he had capitulated. When she did not find it, hopelessness
claimed her again, and she turned away, trying ineffectually to staunch her
welling tears.

Arensky moved woodenly back into the hall, picked up his
bags.

“Good-bye, Charlie.”

Her tremulous voice followed him to the door. “Be careful,
Tarushka.”

Outside on the dark, deserted street the Secret Service
driver came quickly around to take his bags and stow them in the trunk of the
sedan, then opened the back door. Taras hesitated a moment before getting in,
glancing up a last time to the lighted windows of their living room. She was
not there.

*

When the President’s Chief of Staff, Buck Jones, had said an
Air Force jet would be waiting at Andrews, Arensky had visualized something on
the order of a C-5 or C-141 military transport, and a space-available jumpseat
sandwiched among pallets of tank parts. He figured he’d be offloaded at
Wiesbaden or, more conveniently, at Frankfurt Rhein-Main onto a commercial
flight to Moscow.

But a dramatically more impressive set of wings had been
arranged for him by the White House Military Office. He was taken to the 89th
Military Airlift Wing at Andrews, home of the Special Air Missions unit and the
presidential air fleet. Here he was met by Mike Usher, a freckle-faced,
linebacker-sized Secret Service agent from the Washington District, and an
amiable, cigar-smoking Air Force officer, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde “Cat”
Brunton, who was introduced as chief of security for Air Force One.

“But I don’t understand,” Arensky said.

Brunton chuckled. “You don’t have to understand. Just lie
back and enjoy it.”

Arensky turned to Usher, who nodded and launched into
further explanations. Arensky tried to pay close attention, but found himself
distracted by the splendid blue, silver and white fuselage shining under the
perimeter lights outside the window.

The suspicion of unreality engendered by the midnight Oval
Office chat, then temporarily purged by the painful scene with Charlotte, came
back stronger than ever. Surely this was part of some elaborate joke, and Usher
and Brunton and others were all having their little laugh at his expense. But
the big Secret Service man was continuing in his pragmatic monotone, and on a
topic that suddenly got Arensky’s full attention—his sister Luiza and her
family were apparently now boarding a flight scheduled to leave another
airport—Sheremetyevo, five-thousand miles to the east.

“But until we’re damn sure,” Usher said, “we wait.”

About an hour later, around four a.m., Usher got final CIA
confirmation that the family had indeed left Moscow—on a KLM flight to
Amsterdam—and Arensky felt his heart lift as well. How long and vainly he had
labored to bring this to pass, and now, unlooked for, it had all happened in
the past bizarre few hours. He couldn’t be there to greet them, of course, but
that could wait. They were all, thank God, free! In a euphoric daze, Arensky
was escorted past two ramrod-straight Air Force guards and across the tarmac
toward the big gleaming Boeing 707 with the windswept wings and the American
flag on its tail.

Arensky found his heart stirred, oddly more than in the
White House, as he approached this sleek symbol of his adopted homeland.

“This is an incredible thing,” he told Brunton beside him.
“I can’t believe it—Air Force One.”

“Gorgeous bird, isn’t she?” Brunton agreed as they ascended
the boarding stairs to the forward door. “She’s only a backup now that we’ve
finally got our first presidential 747. But, what the hell, she’s seen it all.
Right now, she’s just SAM 28000, like it says on her tail. A Boeing VC-137C.
She’s Air Force One only when the Boss is aboard.”

On the threshold, as he passed the presidential seal on the
open door, Taras had an instant of
déjá-vu
.
He had been on this plane
before—at a Spetsnaz training camp in Mukachevo in the Carpathian Military
District!
As a young special forces lieutenant he’d been given a
walk-through of an amazingly detailed mock-up of a Boeing 707 hidden away under
forest cover. His guide, a grizzled
Spetsnaz
captain, had boasted that
the interior duplicated exactly the presidential configuration used by
then-U.S. President Jimmy Carter. When Taras had, with appropriate mock
naivete, inquired what the model was used for, the captain had chuckled: “Why,
for brigade tea parties, of course!”

Taras had forgotten the incident until this moment; and
somehow it had never surfaced in any of his CIA debriefings. He decided he’d
better remedy that little oversight; the Secret Service man, Usher, would
certainly be interested.

Inside, except for a minimum six-man flight crew and his two
chaperones—Brunton and Usher—Arensky was surprised to find he basically had the
luxurious jet to himself. The Air Force officer gave him a once-over
tour—ironically similar to the
Spetsnaz
captain’s, Arensky
thought—starting down a narrow aisle on the port side of the plane past a
paneled compartment with the presidential seal on the door.

“First Family’s Quarters—President’s office, First Lady’s
sitting room, family lounge or conference room. Go ahead, look inside, if you
want.”

Next, just aft of the wings, was a staff compartment the
width of the fuselage, then an eight-seat suite for guest VIPs. Farther aft,
behind a bulkhead, was a considerably more plebian five-across press area, rear
galley and lavatories. The overall color scheme made Arensky think of the
American Civil War—blues and grays, muted blue-plaid upholstery, gray overhead
luggage bins and leather inlays, blue-gray carpeting throughout.

“For now, we’ll stay up front,” Brunton said. “Later on, if
you get tired, you can come on back to one of the lounges and stretch out.”

The 707’s four Pratt & Whitney turbo fans were in
full-throated chorus as they rejoined Usher, buckled up in the forward crew
section and reading
Sports Illustrated
. “This is where Secret Service
usually hangs out,” Brunton said, “and since I gather we’re all more or less in
that line of work, it seemed to make sense. Besides, we’re closer to the chow
here.”