Snow Wolf (55 page)

He started the motorbike again and drove
toward the noise. He had gone only another fifty meters when he cut out onto a
broader road.

He saw the single headlight flashing
through the trees off to the right, coming toward him, and his heart almost
stopped.

He pulled back in off the road and cocked
the Kalashnikov slung around his neck.

The BMW roared past and he saw the man
and woman. He shifted into gear and drove after them.

He was twenty meters behind the BMW when
the woman looked back. Lukin saw her face in the beam from his headlight, her
mouth open in a terrible look of fear and surprise.

And then she was turning, thumping the
man's shoulder and screaming to warn him.

The man glanced around briefly, his face
masked by his helmet and goggles.

The BMW suddenly picked up speed, racing
dangerously fast over the forest path.

Lukin found it almost impossible to keep
control of the motorbike, his feet skimming over the ground for balance. If he
could only aim the Kalashnikov at the rear tire he stood a chance of slowing
them, but it was impossible with one hand and he could barely manage to keep up
speed as it was.

The man and woman were racing ahead of
him now.

As the BMW rounded a corner in the
forest, suddenly Lukin saw a bank of headlights, army trucks and jeeps
straddling the road a hundred meters ahead, as another roadblock obstructed the
way.

The BMW slowed and swung a hard right to
avoid it, roaring up a bank leading into trees, Lukin realized that Stanski was
trying to cut around the patrol.

The BMW shot up the bank and Lukin went
after it.

He had gone hardly a couple of meters up
when the machine wobbled beneath him, snaked violently, and he came off and
landed hard.

He saw the BMW put on a burst of power
and growl up the rise, but just before it reached the top it suddenly seemed to
stall, bucking like a horse unwilling to jump the final fence.

The woman was thrown off, hit the earth
hard, and rolled back down.

Lukin stumbled to his feet and raced
toward her.

Up on the top of the rise he saw the
driver fighting hard to control the machine, until it nosed down and the tires
gripped and then it was safely at the top. Lukin saw the driver look back down
in horror as the woman's body rolled to a halt at the bottom of the bank.

There was a moment of indecision, then a
scream of despair. "Anna ... !"

Lukin gripped the Kalashnikov and fired
wildly, the volley showering the woods with splinters, but the man turned and
sped away into darkness.

Soldiers from the trucks ran forward,
firing into the woods and climbing the rise after the BMW.

Lukin tossed away the Kalashnikov and
lunged at the woman, just as she was trying to put something into her mouth,
and as he landed on her hard she cried out in pain. He shoved his fingers into
her throat.

February 27th-March 2nd 1953

Paris.

It was just before ten that same evening
when the sleek black Citron pulled up on the boulevard Montmartre and Heiuile
bel climbed out.

It was pouring rain, and as the chauffeur
handed him an umbrella Lebel said, "You can go, Charles. Pick me up from
Maxim's at midnight."

"Very good, sir."

Lebel stood watching as the Citroin
disappeared into the sheeting rain before he crossed the boulevard and turned
down a narrow street and came to a littered alleyway. A cat scurried past him
out of the shadows, and when Lebel reached the end of the filthy lane he came
to a blue-painted door on the right.

A flood lit sign above it said "Club
Malakoff. Members only."

Lebel knocked on the door. A grille
opened and a man's unshaven face appeared.

"Oui?"

"M. Clichy. I'm expected."

There was a rattle of bolts and the man
opened the door and peered out into the rain-soaked alleyway before admitting
his visitor.

Lebel went down a winding metal staircase
to a picked, smoky room, the tables occupied by tough-looking working men
drinking glasses of beer and cheap wine. An elderly man wearing an apron and
polishing glasses behind a zinc bar smiled when he saw Lebel, then came over
and said, "This way, monsieur, follow me."

Lebel followed him through some curtains behind
the bar up a narrow flight of stairs to a door at the end of a shabby hall way.

The old man knocked and a voice said,
"Come in if you're good-looking."

"It's Claude. Your visitor has
arrived," the man said, and opened the door.

Lebel stepped into a tiny smoky room with
a single lightbulb dangling low in the center, the rest or the room in shadows,
an ancient scratched mirror covering one wall. A man in his middle thirties sat
at a table in the center of the room, a bottle of pastis and two glasses in
front of him. He was small, wiry, and had a hunched back. His two front teeth
were missing, and the shabby black suit he wore was flecked with cigarette ash.

As he lit a Gauloise he winked to the
barman. "Leave us, Claude.

When the door closed the man at the table
gestured to a chair in front. "Henri, my old flower, always good to see
you."

Lebel sat opposite and removed a pair of
exquisite hide gloves. "Unfortunately, Bastien, I wish I could say the
same."

"As always, the diplomat. Take a
seat. Drink?"

"You know I only drink champagne.
Anything less upsets my stomach."

Bastien gunned. "Tough. All I've got
is cheap pastis. Not even the Chairman of the Party can afford the finer things
in life, Henri."

"Then I'll decline.

Bastien shrugged and poured a drink for
himself. He looked over at Lebel, who wore an expensive suit and silk tie with
diamond pin, the collar of his beautifully tailored camel-haired overcoat
trimmed with sable.

Bastien smiled, his missing incisors
leaving a black gaping hole in his mouth. "You're looking well as usual,
Henri. Business good?"

"I presume you didn't ask me here to
discuss such a repulsive subject as my money-making? So perhaps you'd get to
the point. What is it this time? Another contribution to the Party?"

Pierre Bastien stood up. Lebel always
considered that the man wouldn't have looked out of place swinging in the bell
tower of N6tre-Dame. Unkind, perhaps, but the man before him was a particularly
nasty piece of work behind the simulated bonhomie.

"Actually, just a friendly talk,
Lebel, and there's no need to get snotty, comrade."

"I'm not your comrade."

"Fighting the Germans together for
two years counts to nothing, I take it?"

"Let's get the facts right as to who
did the fighting. YOU like to tell people the Gestapo knocked out your teeth
and injured your back when we both know it was really your former wife who did
it. She pushed you down a flight of stairs as repayment for leaving her and
your children alone to face the Gestapo who raided your home. Naughty, Bastien,
especially since some of us had to endure real hardship and torture, while you
sneaked from one safe house to another and never fired a shot at the Germans
until the Allies had safely secured Paris.

Still, it got you the Croix de Guerre
from De Gaulle. An(] you really ought to get something done about those missing
teeth of yours. For too long you've been wearing that gap in your mouth like a
badge of honor."

A look of contempt twisted Bastien's
face. "Don't belittle me, Lebel. I did as much as any man. Besides, it was
important I wasn't captured, for the sake of the Party, to continue the
struggle after the war."

"Indeed. And remember this is the
same scum who contributed so generously to your cause. Get to the point. I've a
dinner appointment at Maxim's."

"No doubt with some tarry
model?" Bastien said with a sneer.

Lebel sighed. "Envy will get you
nowhere. Existing in the hell of a concentration camp with death hanging over
me taught me two things. One, you can rely only on yourself, and two, enjoy
life when you can. I do both every day and my private life is none of your
concern. So, what do you want to talk about?"

Bastien grinned maliciously. "A
sensitive matter. That's why I asked you here in person. You took the usual
precautions?"

"Naturally. From the look on your
face I can only conclude you have some unpleasant news to impart?"

Bastien finished his drink and slapped
his glass on the table.

"A man named Jake Massey. Do you
know him?"

Lebel looked up a little unsteadily,
thrown by the question, and tried hard not to sho@% his alarm.

"What's this got to do with?"

"I asked a simple question. Do you
know him?"

Lebel sighed and idly glanced at his
watch so as not to betray his unease. "Look, Bastien, can we get to the
point."

"That is the point. Do you know this
Massey?"

"The name sounds familiar. He was an
American OSS officer working with the resistance during the war. Why?"

"Have you seen him recently?"

Lebel saw that Bastien had a slight grin
on his face, which was always dangerous. He decided to tell the truth.

"Actually, yes. He was in Paris
recently and called at my suite to say hello. But what's this got to do with?
Are you checking up on my social calendar, Bastien?"

"So, just a friendly visit, was it,
Henri?"

"Of course. Look, what's the point
of all this? I told you, I've got an appointment. I "What did Massey want
to see you about?"

"Nothing in particular. I told you,
he called to say hello and talk about old times. I asked him to join me for
dinner, but he said he had another engagement."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Now, Bastien, unless
there's anything else As Lebel went to rise, Bastien's hand fell on his
shoulder. "Sit down. I'm not finished yet. Some important people have been
asking questions about you."

"Who?"

"None of your business. But because
we're old resistance comrades I asked you here to pass on a warning. The last
thing I'd like to see happen is for you to get hurt. Then where would we be?
Your contributions to us are quite generous, Henri."

Lebel shrugged. "I do what I can.
But hurt how, by whom?

What kind of warning?"

"To be careful about the people you
meet. And you can cut out the shit. You contribute because you have to. Because
it ensures Moscow looks favorably on you and your business."

"You haven't answered my questions.
How might I be hurt?

And by whom? For what reason?"

"It's best not to ask. But do
yourself a favor. Next time Massey contacts you, tell me. He was OSS. Now he's
CIA. Your private life may be no concern of mine but it is to Moscow. You get
mixed up with someone like that, people may get the wrong impression."

Lebel pretended alarm. "Massey CIA?
I had no idea.. "Well you do now. OK?"

Lebel nodded. "If you say so.
"I do." Lebel said, "Is that it?"

Bastien nodded. "That's it. Just
remember what I said." As Lebel stood, Bastien grinned slyly and said,
"By the way, there's someone I'd like you to meet," He turned toward
the mirror. "You can come in now, Colonel."

A door opened somewhere in the shadows
and a man appeared. He was big and brutish, his face a mass of pockmarks and
scars, and part of his left ear was missing. Bastien said, "Colonel
Romulka, KGB Moscow, meet Henri Lebel. Colonel Romulka here tells me you were
due to travel to Moscow in two days' time. He wants to rearrange your travel
plans and get you there a little earlier." Lebel said palely, "What's
going on here?"

Romulka snapped his fingers and two men
appeared from behind the door. They grabbed Lebel and rolled up one of his
sleeves and Romulka came forward and jabbed a hypodermic in his arm.

Washington, D.C. February 27th, 8:30 P.M.
Rain streaked against the Oval Office French windows and a flash of lightning
lit up the black evening sky beyond the Washington Memorial, Eisenhower sighed
as he sat down heavily at his desk and looked at the three other men in the
room.

"Let me get this straight. You're
telling me now it's impossible to stop this thing?"

Allen Dulles, the head of the CIA, sat
near the President, Karl Branigan and Jake Massey in front of the walnut desk.

There were dark shadows under the
President's eyes, the famous grin nowhere to be seen. The weather outside
seemed to match his black mood.

Branigan sat forward in his chair.
"I'm afraid it looks bad, Mr. President. As Massey explained, the only way
we could get word to Stanski in Moscow was through Lebel. But now Lebel has
vanished," Eisenhower said bleakly, "Tell me what happened."

"As you know, sir, Lebel was due to
fly to Moscow in two days' time. We had our Paris desk try to contact him but
Lebel couldn't be found. His chauffeur claims he was to pick him up from
Maxim's club at midnight, Paris time, where Lebel had a business appointment.
Our men were waiting for him at the club but Lebel never turned up. But
something else did."