The Red Eagles (12 page)

He seemed to relax. The eyes switched to neutral, gazing blankly across the water. He was thinking about something that woman with Sheslakov had said. “She will be driven, she will drive herself …” Now that did sound absurd on a day like this, in a place like this.

He told her, slowly but precisely, what he had told Yakovlev about their problem with the escape route. She didn’t interrupt, merely asked whether it was still on.

“Until we hear otherwise, and I doubt whether we will. The Party would have us cross the Pacific on a raft rather than let this chance go by.”

She was pleased, he could see that. That was something. “All I need for now,” he said, “is a good look at your German friend.”

“He’s American. He’ll be picking me up outside the Library of Congress at six on Tuesday evening and dropping me at the same place later, I don’t know how much later.” She reached into her bag, brought out the photo of him
she’d taken on their trip. “That’s him. Joe Markham is the name he’s using.”

“No trouble with him?”

“Not yet. He’s not the type to have doubts, but he’s not a fool. And he’s an excellent shot, or so he tells me.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

She got up, leaving the cigarette pack. “You can keep them,” she said.

He watched her walk away past the memorial, cursed softly under his breath in English, and then started off in the opposite direction.

Back in his hotel room, he removed the tightly folded rice paper from the cigarette package, memorized the address and telephone number it contained, and flushed the paper down the toilet at the end of the corridor.

Sheslakov watched the streets of Gothenburg roll past the open window of his limousine. The drive from Stockholm had taken most of the day, but he’d spent much of it asleep, recovering from the previous night’s flight across the Baltic. Perhaps it wasn’t really necessary for him to deal with Lorentsson personally, but he knew he couldn’t have trusted such a task with an underling.

They drove through the city center now, old buildings and young blondes, so many blondes, a nation of not-quite-Garbos. Sheslakov recalled the film he’d watched with Kuznetsky a few weeks before –
Ninotchka
– and smiled at the memory. Garbo had been so beautiful, and the bright young NKVD men watching had been too busy expressing their ideological outrage to notice. What did they expect from Hollywood –
Alexander Nevsky
?

“We’re nearly there,” the driver told him.

They had left the city behind, were close to the sea, and every now and then a gap in the trees would reveal the waters of the Kattegat bathed in the gold of the setting sun. Houses were few and far between, but they made up in size for what they lacked in numbers. It was a fitting place for a shipping magnate to make his home.

Lorentsson’s mansion was built like a castle, complete with stone walls and crenellations, perched above the rocky coast. Sheslakov was admitted by a butler and ushered into a reception room that, from the sensuous depth of its carpet to the
exquisite workmanship of its chandeliers, reeked of affluence. There was no doubting that capitalism worked for this capitalist.

There he was left to his own devices for more than half an hour – a little lesson, he told himself, that Swedes don’t like the thought of being pressured. In his younger days Sheslakov would probably have been annoyed. Now he found such stratagems amusing.

The butler returned and led him up through the house to a study that overlooked the sea. Lorentsson sat behind a polished mahogany desk, a big man with blond hair and beard, fifty-five years old, according to the NKVD file in Sheslakov’s pocket. The shipping magnate didn’t rise to greet his visitor, merely gestured him to a chair. Another little signal.

Sheslakov sat down, savored the comfort of the chair, and smiled at the Swede. “We can speak English, yes?”

Lorentsson nodded.

“It has been made clear to you that I represent the Soviet Government, and doubtless you have made certain that this is so …”

Lorentsson nodded silently again.

“Good, I will come straight to the matter. We understand that according to an agreement between the British, the Germans and your own government, four Swedish ships are permitted to travel, unmolested, between Gothenburg and transatlantic destinations. Is that correct?”

Lorentsson nodded again, looking a trifle more wary.

“And this agreement is still honoured? We understand there were some problems in January but that since then everything is fine.”

“You are well-informed …”

“There is no reason to expect problems in the months to come?”

“Not that I know of. Where is all this leading, Mr. Sheslakov?”

“I am coming to that. We understand you are the owner of two ships involved in this arrangement, and that one of them, the
Balboa
, is due to dock in Maracaibo, Venezuela, in the next few days …”

“The point?”

Sheslakov smiled. “The Soviet Government wishes to give you some business, Mr. Lorentsson. We want that ship to call at Havana, Cuba, on August 12 and collect something for us.”

“What is the cargo?”

“For your information, it will be two naturalists, two
German
naturalists, and their crates of specimens. I am assured by our own shipping experts that such a diversion would not add long, either in time or distance, to the homeward journey. And you would of course be generously paid.”

The Swede’s expression had gone through surprise, amusement, and anger. “What can two German naturalists possibly be worth to the Soviet Union?” he asked.

“We will pay a million Swedish krone on delivery in Gothenburg,” Sheslakov said drily. “As far as your company – and your ship’s captain, a Mr Torstennson I believe – are concerned, this is a request from the German Government, a humanitarian request.”

Lorentsson stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sheslakov, but Sweden is a neutral country.”

Sheslakov didn’t move. “I’m aware of that. I can assure you that this transaction has nothing whatsoever to do with the current war, and cannot therefore in any way compromise your country’s neutrality.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Lorentsson said. “Who are these ‘naturalists’ really? What are their ‘specimens’?”

“I am also obliged to inform you,” Sheslakov said quietly, “that a refusal to accept this contract will be considered a most unfriendly act by the Soviet Government.”

Lorentsson stared at him, and for the first time seemed unsure of himself. “Am I being threatened?” he asked incredulously.

Sheslakov remembered Fyedorova saying that the Swedes had not known terror since the Middle Ages. “Mr. Lorentsson, I will be perfectly honest with you,” he said, looking the other man straight in the eye. “I do not know who these ‘naturalists’ are, nor the nature of their ‘specimens’. The fact that half the Politburo smokes Havana cigars may be of some relevance. I have no need to know, and neither do you. My government is willing to pay you well, very well, for collecting them. Where is the problem?”

The shipping magnate stared out of the window, seemingly engrossed in the embers of the sunset. “What if I refuse?” he asked without turning his head.

“Why even consider it?”

“I’d like to know.”

Sheslakov sighed. “You’ll be dead within a month.”

Lorentsson whirled around, seemed on the verge of an angry outburst. “For a few crates of cigars?” he half-shouted.

“I understand,” Sheslakov said matter-of-factly, “that the Swedish people take a pride in being practical, and nonideological. You had nothing to gain and much to lose from entering the war, so you stayed out. You have nothing to gain and much to lose from refusing this contract, so why not accept it? No country, no person, is free of pressures.”

Lorentsson still said nothing, but Sheslakov knew he was beaten, knew from the blinking eyes, the turned-down mouth, the slightly sagging shoulders.

“You have no choice,” he said gently, “because, like most people, you want to live.”

Sheslakov stood up, took the envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “It’s all written down. When we hear from our people in Venezuela that your cargo has arrived, you will receive half the payment.”

And your death will be ordered, Sheslakov thought as he descended the stairs. Outside, a red moon was hanging low in the eastern sky, edging the trees with blood. As they drove back toward Gothenburg he felt a profound sense of anticlimax. His part was over. All that remained was the waiting and hoping.

Kuznetsky wiped his brow for the hundredth time that day. He was used to heat, but of the dry variety. This damn humidity was something else entirely; it was like floating in a steam bath. His shirt and trousers clung, his feet squirmed inside his shoes. The end of his cigarette was sodden with sweat.

He tossed it out of the car window and sat back, watching the denizens of Washington going home for their supper. He still wasn’t accustomed to the new fashions, particularly the women’s. All these skirts tight around the hips and the broad belts with buckles. All the legs on display! He smiled as he imagined the reaction of the Party bosses back home – bunch of hypocritical prudes. It had been so different in the Revolution years; maybe this war would have the same effect. There was nothing like death for breaking down the mystique of the human body.

The atmosphere in Washington was difficult for him to judge. He’d known America was a long way from the war, but it was at war, and yes, there were some shortages, the casualty lists, the newsreels, and the radio programs full of letters from the boys at the front. But it didn’t
feel
like a nation at war. It felt more like a nation engrossed in watching a war movie. The faces walking past were free of strain, smartly dressed and made-up, unconcerned …

His fellow Americans. An alien species, yet somehow achingly familiar. It was the physical gestures, the way they moved their arms, tilted their heads – those were his gestures,
American
gestures.

He looked at his watch. A minute to go and, sure enough, there she was, walking toward the pickup point. He studied Amy’s walk, wondering if there was anything particularly Germanic in the graceful, upright stride. Everyone else, all the Americans, seemed to be slouching in comparison.

She had just reached the library steps when a black Buick drew up alongside the curb. He watched Amy feign surprise, say something with a smile, and get into the car. She was a good actress if nothing else. The driver’s face was in a shadow; as expected, he’d have to wait for their return and then follow the man home.

The Buick made a U-turn and headed west at the next intersection along Independence Avenue. Kuznetsky took out a cigarette, and as he did so noticed a red car, a Pontiac, draw away from the curb and into the Buick’s slipstream. It might be coincidence, it probably was, but a little alarm bell went off in his mind. It would do no harm to make sure.

“Who are these people?” Amy asked Joe as they drove the Buick deeper into the Maryland countryside.

Joe thought for a moment, an impish look on his face. “Let’s call them our Axis partners,” he answered.

So it
was
the Mafia. Faulkner had thought it would be. “What do they know?” she asked.

“Nothing. Only that we want the guns and have the money. A simple business deal.”

“What’s the connection?”

He ignored the question. “Have you ever noticed,” he said, “the similarity between the Mafia and the federal government? They both love competition so much, they spend all their time trying to kill it.”

She grinned in spite of herself. “And the connection?”

“There’s no need for you to know,” he said flatly.

“Okay. But since I’m here in this car, I’d like to know how you’re so certain we can trust them.”

He stretched his right arm in front of her and sprung open the glove compartment. A fearsome-looking Colt revolver was clipped to the inside. “You’ll stay in the car with that,” he said. “But I don’t expect any trouble. They have a code of sorts. They like doing business properly – makes them feel like upright American citizens.”

“I hope so,” she said, slipping the gun out of its clips and feeling its weight.

“I assume you know how it works,” he asked.

“An American’s birthright,” she replied in the same tone. “It’s heavy,” she added. The GRU training hadn’t included Colts. She looked out of the window at the flat country surrounding them. The sun behind them was still bright but its shadows were lengthening, and the fields, thick with grain, seemed to emit a golden haze.

“We’re nearly there,” Joe said.

Ahead she could see a truck stop, a large diner surrounded by parking spaces. He turned the car in, making for the far corner of the lot where a long gray sedan waited under the trees.

Kuznetsky saw the Buick turn in and followed the Pontiac past. A quarter of a mile farther and his last doubts were removed. The red car pulled onto the grass turnout, and Kuznetsky, passing at speed, watched it make a U-turn in his rearview mirror. He continued on around a bend and made one himself. Passing the truck stop again, he saw the Buick in the distance, the Pontiac sitting by the diner a hundred yards away.

He drove on, wondering what to do. They would be returning to Washington once the deal was done, and there was no point in him interfering. He drove another half mile and pulled off into a side road, reversed the car, and settled down for another wait.

There were two of them. Joe shook hands with the younger one, a slight, dark-skinned man in a smart blue suit. The older man, who wore a light gray suit that was too tight for him, seemed to be staring straight at Amy, though it was hard to be certain through his sunglasses.

“Your partner doesn’t walk?” he asked Joe.

Joe grinned at him. “She’s nervous. It’s okay.” He lifted his arm to indicate the paper bag in his hand. “Here’s the money.”

The young one took it and disappeared into the car. Joe and the older one stood there smiling at each other. “I’ll bet she has a gun, your partner,” the Italian said conversationally. “Don’t you trust us?”

“Like I said, she’s the nervous type.”

The Italian looked at Amy again. “Rather you than me,” he said to Joe. “I like low-strung women, if you know what I mean.”

“I like ones who can hit what they aim at.”

The younger one had finished counting the money. “Okay, Paolo,” he yelled through the window.

Paolo opened the sedan’s trunk and took out a long canvas bag. Joe put it on the ground beside the Buick and examined the contents – three gleaming black tommy guns. He took one out, checked the action, and peered up the muzzle. “Needs greasing,” he muttered to himself.

“Okay?” Paolo asked indifferently.

“Fine. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Are you planning a war?” the young Italian asked sarcastically.

“There’s one on already,” Joe said, throwing the bag onto the backseat. “We just collect guns, that’s all.”

Paolo shrugged, stared at Amy once more, and climbed into the sedan. His partner pulled away with a squeal of tyres.

“
Mama mia
,” Amy murmured.

Kuznetsky watched the black Buick sweep past and, a moment later, the red Pontiac. He pulled out of the side road and concentrated on keeping the second car in sight. As they entered the Washington suburbs he shortened the distance between them, preferring discovery to the loss of his quarry.

The Buick stopped outside the Library of Congress, let the woman out, and continued on its way. The Pontiac didn’t move. Kuznetsky cursed; whoever it was, he was following Amy, not the German agent.