Edge of Valor (44 page)

“Take it easy,” Kulibin said. “He tried to take her home after the movie ended, but she put him off. Later, at the stage door, he had a couple of goons try to pull her into his car. The word is that she fought them off, screaming, and then escaped when a crowd gathered. Beria was embarrassed and furious and tried to cancel subsequent showings of
Challenge of Darkness
. But it was such a great success that night that he couldn't bring it off.”

Dezhnev ran a hand over his face. Beria's image had appeared less frequently in official photos recently. Especially after word leaked that he often plied the streets of Moscow at night, driving his big armored Packard and pointing out young women he wanted his thugs to abduct. And the goons did it, bringing the
helpless women to Beria's soundproof office in Dzerzhinsky Square, where he raped them. Most of the time, the women were turned back to the goons to be released into the streets under the threat of death if anything was reported.

Dezhnev looked up. “Recriminations?”

“As far as I can tell, none. But as extra insurance I had her flown back to Sochi the next day. She is at home now with guards posted.”

Sochi was his hometown on the Black Sea. He grew up there. The Dezhnevs had many friends in Sochi. “Guards? Our people?”

“Yes. Don't worry. Nothing obvious. Beria's idiots won't get past if they try.”

“That's very kind of you.” Dezhnev meant it. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, not really. I thought you should know about this in light of what I'm about to say to you. The reason for this meeting.”

“Sir?”

“Are you sure you don't want coffee?”

“I think I will have some after all, thank you.”

Kulibin again thumped his chair down, rose, and walked to the coffee pot. “Strange that we inherited the coffee habit from the Americans. I wonder what else will change.”

Wouldn't Lavrenti Beria love to hear Comrade Kulibin say that?

Kulibin handed Dezhnev a mug, then sat and reassumed his tilted-back position. “Big changes are afoot, Dezhnev. Sometime soon, all the commissariats are going to be renamed ministries. The NKVD will become the Ministry of Internal Affairs, or MVD.”

“Amazing.”

“And they're calling the the Ministry of State Security the MGB.”

Dezhnev nodded.

“Our friend Lavrenti Beria will be in charge of both.”

“Comrade, I—”

“Don't worry, Dezhnev. I'm not interested in politics or coups or breaches of security. I've had enough of wars and fighting and killing. I just want to live a simple life. And I think I know where and how.” He looked up.

Dezhnev didn't know what to do. He couldn't help it if Kulibin had fallen for his mother. He shrugged. “That sounds fine with me.”

“Yes. I learned yesterday that I am going to be promoted to rear admiral.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“But there is an interim assignment.” Kulibin steepled his fingers.

Dezhnev waited for a moment, then asked, “What is that, sir?”

“They're giving me a cruiser—the
Admiral Volshkov
, a war prize from the Germans. Previously she was the
Würtzburg
, 5,400 tons. She just arrived, but her skipper took sick. So I'm on top of the heap now.” He laughed, then took a bottle of vodka from a drawer and poured a dollop into his coffee. He waved the bottle.

“No thank you, sir.”

“But as I say, it's only interim. When the new replacement skipper arrives I will be posted to the Black Sea Fleet.”

“I see.” Black Sea. Sochi. Anoushka. It was all falling into place for Kulibin.

“You, on the other hand, have a career to pursue.”

“I'm not so sure now.”

“You distinguished yourself with the e-boats. You are Bykovo trained. You did well on Sakhalin.”

“But San Francisco . . .”

“Idiots sent you there. Your handler, Zenit, was a dolt. All political training and no military sense at all. No, your record in San Francisco is clear. You did what you were told to do.”

That was true. But he hadn't liked betraying his friend Ingram.

“Drink your coffee.”

“Yes, sir.” Dezhnev sipped. There was a familiar zip to it.

“Yes?”

“It's very good, sir. Thank you.”

“It's American: Folgers.”

“I thought so. A company based in San Francisco.”

“I didn't know that.”

“When I was there, Folgers was all we drank. Founded in 1850, I believe.”

“Your Bykovo training shines through.” Kulibin leveled a gaze. “We need to put you on another path. One that utilizes all your skills and one you will enjoy.” He paused. “We are sending you to specialized training. Submarines.”

“Sir, as much as I'd like to do that, my foot won't support the physical requirements.”

“We're going to change that.”

“Pardon me?”

“If Sergei Zenit was a dolt, the doctors who fitted your prosthesis were worse, far worse.”

“I couldn't agree with you more.”

“We're sending you to America. Under cover, of course. We have a specialist there who can give you a prosthesis that will make your leg like new. Then you can go on to submarine school.”

“Where in America?”

“Los Angeles. Your old friend Colin Blinde will be your contact.”

“Blinde. Is he in the game for real?”

Kulibin laced his hands over his belly. “As of two months ago. He has given us enough material now that he's in too deep. And he knows it.”

“But why? An American rich kid.”

“Not so rich. His family owned copper and tungsten mines in Mongolia, of all places—in Dornogovi Province.”

Dezhnev gave Kulibin a blank look.

“Right. Dornogovi Province abuts the Chinese border in the south. Communist forces under Mao Tse-tung took some of the land in a border skirmish back in the 1930s; they scooped up the Blinde mines along with a number of other American- and British-owned mining operations. The Blindes' income was cut off. Colin's father is basically penniless. He inherited a fortune from
his
father and did nothing except take profits, build a house on Long Island in a rich place called the Hamptons, and get fat. But the mines are gone, the Hamptons house is gone, and the Blindes live in New York City off a small estate inherited by Colin's mother. It took everything they had to send young Colin to Yale. But he graduated a fiery thinker, and we found him before the OSS did. So far, he has been doing a pretty good job.”

“Okay, so I'll be working with Colin Blinde.”

“Yes, and we have another task for him as well.”

“Yes?”

“Kill Todd Ingram.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

17 September 1945

Union Station, Los Angeles, California

R
oiling clouds hung low over Union Station. The thermometer had hit 101 in the early afternoon, and although it had dropped to 97 by 4:55 p.m., the temperature seemed no cooler to Colin Blinde. An oppressive humidity strangled the mission-style building, and an eerie electricity in the air was unsettling to Blinde as he awaited his contact.
This must be what they call earthquake weather
.

Completed in 1939, Union Station was one of the most modern on the nationwide passenger rail system. Outside were courtyards with lush tropical plants and trees. Broad green lawns surrounded tiled fountains accented by flowerbeds. The grand waiting room inside had Spanish tile floors and a beamed ceiling that invited the senses of old California and mission life. Plush back-to-back seats and benches were comfortably arranged throughout.

Blinde scanned left and right, but his man was nowhere in sight.
The damned fool is ten minutes late
.

Blinde had begun to rise when a voice jabbed at him from the bench directly behind. “No need to get up, Comrade. I'm here.”

“Wha-what?” Blinde stammered, “How the hell—”

“It's my trade. I've been watching you for ten minutes. You are as you should be: alone. Nobody watching. Now, please sit.”

Blinde resumed his seat, his back once again inches from that of the man behind him.

“Where are we, Mr. Blinde?”

Blinde shot back, “Union Station, Los Angeles, California.”

“Very funny. Where is the doctor, and what are the arrangements?”

“You are booked into the Los Angeles Orthopedic Hospital under the name Brent Wilson. Your doctor is Walter Sorella, an orthopedic surgeon who is highly acclaimed by the AMA.”

“AMA?”

“American Medical Association. Among other things, they validate doctors, clinics, hospitals, and medical procedures.” Blinde couldn't resist a dig. “Didn't they tell you about the AMA at Bykovo?”

There was a long silence. “From popcorn to apple pie, I learned a lot at Bykovo. But then we had this little skirmish with the Germans that had to be settled first. So they cut my studies short, leaving out tidbits about the AMA. What else?”

“Your preparation is scheduled to begin tomorrow. Fittings begin day after tomorrow, Wednesday.”

“Very good. And my clothes?”

“In the suitcase next to you.”

The locks snapped open and Dezhnev rummaged through the suitcase. “All right. That should do. But where is the money?”

“Sewn into the liner in the top.”

“Very good. Now, about this Doctor . . . Doctor . . .”

“Sorella. He helps us from time to time. He examined your x-rays and tells us he can fix things with a new prosthetic that will give you almost normal mobility. You'll be able to walk at a very fast pace, even run, after you strengthen your leg muscles.”

Dezhnev exhaled. “Yes, I do believe there is some atrophy there. I expect he can recommend a regimen.”

“He will, if you cooperate.”

“Yes. I . . . I need this badly.”

“Don't worry. Dr. Sorella is one of the best in the nation. He'll have you walking like an Olympian. In ten days you'll be on your way back to Vancouver and Mother Russia.”

“The Rodina.”

“Whatever.”

“Don't trifle with me, Mr. Blinde.”

“Sorry. Look . . . there's an envelope in the suitcase with directions to Los Angeles Orthopedic Hospital and some expense money. You can best reach the hospital by walking out that entrance and hailing a cab.”

“How far is it?”

“About five miles directly south. You can't miss it, just east of Figueroa Street on Flower.”

“Pardon?”

“Just tell the cab driver. He'll understand.”

“All right. A thorough job. Thank you. Tell me. Todd Ingram lives around here, doesn't he?”

“Well, in San Pedro actually. In Los Angeles Harbor, about thirty miles south of here.”

“I see.”

Five soldiers walked by singing, duffels slung over their shoulders. One sounded drunk.

Blinde said, “You're not thinking of going down there?”

Dezhnev cracked his knuckles. “I would love to see him again.”

“Because if you do and get caught, it would look bad for us all, especially for me and my department. Besides that . . .”

“Yes?”

“I have orders to kill him.”

“You do?” Dezhnev was surprised. He hadn't passed on Kulibin's order. And now, someone had gone around him. “How did—?”

“They came to me separately. They're afraid Boring talked to him, which he did.”

“But you have the pictures and the diaries?”

Blinde sighed. “Yes. It's not that. If someone intractable like Ingram lets on about the decision to hide the discovery, it would be a great embarrassment to the United States and the Soviet Union if it gets out that you are trying to steal it or may already have it.”