The Istanbul Decision (4 page)

"Every bit of it. We think even the promotion from the Presidium was phony. He set us up to get his daughter into this country so she could kill the President. And she damn near succeeded."

"Where did this happen?"

"In New York. Outside the UN."

"You mean it was Tatiana Kobelev who tried to kill President Manning in New York? I thought it was what's-her-name, Millicent Stone, the one who died. They published her diary and everything."

Carter shook his head. "The FBI fabricated the story. They had to. Tatiana is a Russian national, don't forget. If it had gotten out who'd really pulled the trigger, it would have strained things between our countries forever. It may have even called for a military response."

"So Kobelev had it planned from the beginning. Lure you to Russia to provide legitimate entry for his daughter so she could kill the President. Amazing."

"The man is diabolical. He has to be stopped at any cost."

"Poor Nicky," she said, gently running her fingers through his hair. "You look as if you're taking all this on yourself."

"I had a chance to kill him in Moscow and I blew it. He'd contrived this fencing match between us, thinking he'd humiliate me in front of his wife and daughter. He didn't know I was an intercollegiate champion for four years in a row. I could have run him through, but I didn't. I thought I'd get another chance. But if I'd skewered him then as I should have…"

"If you'd killed him in front of his entire family you never would have gotten out of Russia alive, and our side would have lost one of the most valuable agents it has. Don't be so hard on yourself, Nick." She leaned over and kissed him. It was meant to be a reassuring peck, but her lips lingered a few extra seconds, savoring the sensation.

"Do that again and I might not be able to control myself."

She put her arms around him, her hand resting on the nape of his neck. "What do you think I've been waiting for?" she asked huskily. Gently she pulled him down with her onto the mat. He smiled and followed her without the slightest hesitation as she brought her leg up around his, and pressed against his body.

For all her strength, she was incredibly soft, and in a few moments they were both nude, and Carter was kissing her neck, and her lovely breasts, her nipples hard now as her chest rose and fell.

"Nicky… oh. God, Nicky," she moaned softly, her fingernails beginning to scratch his back.

And then he was inside her, and they moved in an easy, graceful rhythm, like two athletes or a pair of dancers, their passion mounting, but gently.

She cried out in the end, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, at the same moment Carter thrust deeply one last time.

They finished their workout around eight o'clock. Cynthia put on her robe while Carter stood staring out the large arched window at the end of the huge room.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, coming up behind him and looping her arm through his.

"I was thinking how nice it would be right now to go out and eat Chinese. I know a nice little place not far from here."

"I can't leave."

"I know, but every now and then I get a yearning to lead a normal, everyday sort of life."

She squeezed his arm, and together they stared down at the puddles glistening in the streetlight at the far end of the parking lot.

It was raining over the entire eastern seaboard from Stowe, Vermont, to Charleston, South Carolina, but out over the Atlantic the clouds dissipated, and in Paris at this particular moment, the weather was crisp and dry.

With six hours of time difference it was already two in the morning Paris time, and in spite of the fabled "nightlife Parisienne," the city's streets were practically deserted. Even the legendary Champs-Elysee's traffic was light — a taxi, a private car, and of course, every now and then, a truck.

One such truck, a squat white one, pulled out of a narrow alley onto the famous avenue. Ahead was the Arc de Triomphe and a dozen streets to the east the Palais de l'Élysée, where at this hour the president of France lay sleeping.

Two men sat in the truck: Jean, the driver, a wiry little Parisian whose looks greatly belied his august physical strength; and beside him, Guillaume, older and heavier, his sailor's watch cap pushed to the back of his head and a Gauloise eternally stuck to his lower lip.

They turned left on the Avenue General Gallieni and crossed the Seine on the Pont Alexandre III. Here the city began to change, subtly, but significantly all the same. The streets became cleaner, the shrubs better trimmed, the sidewalks in perfect repair.

Jean turned in at the rue Avignon and slowed. The street was quiet, not a soul stirred. Under a line of chestnut trees Mercedes, Peugeot, Citroen, and Cadillac limousines were wedged next to the curb bumper-to-bumper. Beyond these were the house fronts, cold gray stone with thick wooden doors behind screens of wrought-iron filigree. Bronze plaques identified each: Ambassade d'Espagne, Ambassade d'Italie, Ambassade d'États-Unis. At this last building Jean cranked the wheel, and the big truck lumbered down the long driveway toward the back.

The row of refuse cans stood against the north wall surrounding the compound. Jean stopped the truck with a bounce and a hiss of air brakes, ground the shift lever into reverse, and when the rear bumper of the truck was within a few feet of the cans, stopped it again.

The two men climbed out, pulling on thickly soiled gloves, and began dumping the cans. They were halfway down the line when the sound of someone clearing his throat forced Guillaume to turn around. Standing at the edge of the truck's rear was a uniformed figure, his flat-topped hat making his head seem disproportionately large in the darkness. At his hip was a revolver.

"How you boys doin'?" the figure asked.

"Comme çi, comme ca,"
Jean said offhandedly. He picked up another can, slung it onto the back of the truck, banged it empty, and replaced it.

"Where's your partner, Estaban?"

"Sick," said Jean.
"Mal à l'estomac."
He made a face and a hand motion around his middle to indicate how poorly Estaban was feeling.

"Who's this guy, then?"

"Permettez-moi
…
mon ami, Guillaume."
Jean said.

Guillaume bowed his head uncertainly, watching Jean for his cue out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah," said the guard. "Ain't you boys workin' a bit early this mornin'?"

Jean made several gestures to indicate he'd like to explain but couldn't because of the language barrier, then finally pointed to Guillaume and said, "Moonlight."

"I see," said the guard. "He has another job during the day?"

Jean smiled expansively and nodded. Guillaume, meanwhile, had moved behind the guard, had pulled out a piece of knotted piano wire, and was winding it around his hand.

"Sa femme,"
explained Jean, making a big stomach with his hands.

"I get it," the guard said. "His wife is pregnant and he has to work two jobs. You poor son of a bitch." The guard put his hand sympathetically on Guillaume's shoulder as he turned and headed back to the house. "Well, try to keep the noise down, boys. Got people sleepin' upstairs."

Jean shot a glance at Guillaume. He shook his head.

In a few minutes they'd finished the last of the barrels, closed the truck, and were heading back up the driveway to the street. As he turned the corner and recovered the wheel, Jean slapped his companion brusquely on the shoulder. "Give it to me," he said harshly, holding out his up-turned palm.

Reluctantly Guillaume produced the piano wire he had in his pocket and gave it to Jean.

"You idiot," Jean said as he tossed it out the window.

Guillaume sighed to let Jean know he was restraining himself with only the greatest of difficulty, turned away, and spent the rest of the short trip staring sullenly out the window.

Jean turned left toward the Seine and crossed the Pont Alexandre III. Soon Paris became Paris once again. Narrow winding streets littered with bottles and scraps of paper, utility poles plastered with handbills. As they passed, the lights of the Cafe du Rive Gauche winked out. A drunken shout came to them over the engine noise, and a fight spilled out into the street. Jean steered deftly around it, then took a left into an alley and stopped at the far end of it at a green doorway lit by a single, unshaded bulb.

The two of them got out, put on their soiled gloves a second time, and began shoveling the used containers, bits of paper, and garbage from the back of the truck into three large wooden boxes that stood by the door.

As they worked, the green door opened and an angular man stepped out, as thin as one could imagine a human being to be and still stand erect. On his gaunt face was a pair of large, perfectly round eyeglasses which gave him a peculiarly bug-eyed look. A thick cigarette hung in his mouth, and a narrow column of smoke wound its way along the ridges of his face as he watched the two men work.

"Trouble?" he asked.

Jean stopped shoveling. "He is the trouble," he said with a nod toward Guillaume.

Guillaume shrugged, and the thin man smiled wanly.

When they had finished filling the first of the boxes, they carried it inside and placed it on the floor next to a white screen roughly six feet square that had been laid out in the center of the room. Guillaume, who had been to this place many times but had never before been allowed to come inside, took the opportunity to look around.

The walls of the room were painted stark white with a black, acidproof countertop running around its perimeter. On the counter were various modules of electronic equipment, some with screens, some with only buttons and dials. Stacked on the floor below these were boxes, presumably with more electronic equipment. In one corner stood an enlarger for making photographic prints.

"Seen enough?" the thin man asked pointedly, coming up behind him.

Guillaume swept his eyes over the smaller man's emaciated frame. It wouldn't take much to crush him like a piece of scrap paper.

"Your job is to bring in the garbage. You're a garbage collector. Don't forget it."

Guillaume grunted and left. When he and Jean returned with the next box, the thin man had overturned the first load onto the white screen and was picking through it on his hands and knees.

After they'd gone, the thin man walked to the phone and dialed. As it was ringing, he snuffed his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Hello?" said a voice.

"Charles."

"Hello, Charles. Find something?"

"Yes. Tell the man I think I may have found what he's looking for."

"Excellent, Charles. And the men driving the truck?"

"Jean and Guillaume."

"They will be taken care of."

Charles hung up the phone and scrutinized the image on the screen of the projection microscope again. He smiled.

The telephone sounded far away and indistinct, as though someone had stuffed it with cotton. Carter rolled over and picked up the receiver from the nightstand.

"Code ten," said Hawk's voice.

Carter came immediately awake. "Yes, sir," he said. He pressed the hold button and went to the closet where he began working the combination to the safe.

From the safe he pulled out what looked to be an ordinary leather briefcase and carried it back to the bed. Along the way he picked up one of his shoes from underneath the valet.

He laid the briefcase on the bed, then taking the shoe in hand, twisted the heel. It separated neatly into halves, the bottom one having embedded in it a thin plastic circuit card. He slipped out the card and inserted it into a slot in the briefcase. Its locks snapped open.

Inside the lid was a small library of cassette tapes. Carter selected the one labeled «10» and fitted it into the console that made up the lower half of the case. This consisted of a smooth deck of burnished aluminum broken only by a power switch, condenser microphone, volume control, and the usual buttons found on any cassette tape recorder — these, and one other item slightly more unusual. At the top of the set was an indented cradle such as those found on a telecopier, with two back rubber suction cups marked RECEIVER.

Carter untangled the tiny microcircuit headphones, plugged them in, put the phone receiver into the cradle, hit the play button, and took the phone off hold. Hawk said, "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Kobelev has lost his
dacha
outside of Moscow."

"Lost it, sir?"

"Had it confiscated."

"Has he been arrested?"

"Negative."

"What's the analysis?"

"Apparently, the Presidium is taking a conservative turn. The failure to kill President Manning and the risk of all-out war must have sobered them."

"Any possibility of help from that quarter?"

"I doubt it. Kobelev may not command the clout he once did, but he's still at large and extremely dangerous. That may be why the Presidium stopped short of cutting him down completely. Perhaps they're afraid of him."

"What's all this mean to us?"

"It means if Kobelev wants his daughter, he'll have to come for her himself. He doesn't have the resources any longer to delegate that kind of responsibility. Which works in our favor and which brings me to the second development."

"Which is?"

"He wants to talk."

"A defection, sir?"

"Strange you should ask. That's one of the possibilities I've been considering."

"It might also be a trap."

"That's the other possibility, especially since he asked for you, specifically. But the official message says he wants to work out a trade for Tatiana. Remember Nikolai Sachs?"

"The scientist?"

"One of the leaders of the principal dissident movement among the Moscow elite. Mikhail Zoshchenko?"