The Red Horseman (24 page)

“Balls like a bull. What’s on your mind tonight,
Shirley?”

“There’s more. A lot more. They’re counting on the
fact that no one will ask the right people the right questions.”

Yocke merely grunted.

“They’re playing for keeps, and they don’t really
care who gets hurt.”

“Shirley, I’ll never get inside that place,
even if anyone inside would talk to me, which they
won’t. Oh, I could do some follow-up on the
guys who followed orders and got
arrested-when they get out of the can-if they ever get out-b
the story has hit the wall. These things happen.”

“It’s something else.”

Silence as Yocke digested it.

When the silence had gone on too long, she said,
“Something really important . .

“I’m listening.”

“The Rizhsky subway station.”

“Gimme a fact, Shirley. One little fact
and the promise that you know more.”

“Have I fied to you?”

“Jesus! How many times have I heard that line!
Yeah, baby, I love you no shit.” Yocke
sighed audibly. “A subway station. Are the
subways still running?”

Jake Grafton’s eyes widened in
surprise. He hadn’t thought she could pull it off.

“Amazingly enough, yes. An hour from now. Come
alone. And be careful.”

“Where is that, anyway?” Yocke asked, but she
had already hung up.

Jake pulled off the headset and tossed it on the
table.

Geez, she calls on the local phone system,
which is only working because it’s the middle of the
night, and she tells him where to meet her! She
might as well have put it in the newspaper. So
it’ll be Judith Farrell, Jack Yocke and enough
KGB agents to arrest the Presidium.

“She told him he had courage,” Jake
reported to the little group. “He told her he had
balls like a bull.”

Toad Tarkington grinned broadly.

She’ll meet him on the way. Or someone will.
That’s the way she’ll work it. She just wants him out
on the street and moving in the right direction. That
means she’ll probably pick him up quick, not long
after he leaves the embassy.

“She set up a meet at the Rizhsky
subway station,” Grafton told his audience. He
rubbed his face to ease his fatigue. “As curious
as Yocke is, it’s hard to see how the sucker
lived this long. Unbelievable.”

He had three guys plus Yocke. No
radios. Clandestine surveillance in a foreign
city was Judith Farrell’s game, her
profession, how she lived-none of his people had any
training or experience, including Jake.

“Okay,” Jake said finally. “Toad, go see
how many of those rioters are still outside and
figure out how we can get out of here without getting
beaten to death. Then get back here quick. Spiro, go
get Yocke. Senior Chief, go find the marine
captain and get a couple more pistols, three
M-16’s, four of those infrared binoculars, and
some ammo. G.”

He shooed them out.

, There was no way he could trap Judith
Farrell. He was going to have to send Yocke out into the
streets and pray that Farrell found him before the
KGB did, and that the reporter could somehow convince
Farrell to play the game Jake’s way.

“Amateur night in Moscow,” he muttered
disgustedly.

The switchboard lights were blinking again. Jake
went into the office next door to find the regular
operator and ask him to return to the board.

JAKE WAS IN THE EMPTY OFFICE
NEXT TO THE SWITCH-BOARD when Toad
Tarkington returned. “Looks pretty deserted
out there, Admiral, all things considered. A few people
gawking at the bodies but that’s about it.”

con”They haven’t picked up the bodies?”

“No, sir.”

“Any Russian cops around?”

“Not a one in sight. They split early this
morning.”

“Go get a car. Open the gate and bring it into the
compound. No, get two cars. G.”

Toad went. One of his great virtues was that he
never had to be told anything twice. Nor did he
ask foolish questions or want directions clarified.
He just grabbed the ball and ran with it.

Spiro Dalworth came in leading Jack
Yocke, who looked grim.

“Go help the chief with the maps and weapons,”
Jake told the lieutenant, who closed the door
behind him.

Yocke glanced at his watch. “What’s up?”
he asked.

“Sit down.”

Yocke did so. “Dalworth said you wanted
to see me.”

Jake just nodded. Yocke was wearing jeans,
moderately dirty tennis shoes, and a
nondescript sweater. Jake dimly recalled
seeing Tarkington in that sweater a few days ago.

Yocke must have helped himself. He still looked as
American as a ball park hot dog. Jake
Grafton pulled out the lower drawer of the
desk he was sitting behind and parked his feet on it.
A muffled report of a gun penetrated into the
room. Jake closed his eyes and massaged his
forehead.

“Admiral,” Yocke began impatiently,
“I really-was

“How long do you think you’ll last out there before the
KGB picks you up?”

Jack Yocke’s face first showed surprise,
then darkened into anger. “You were listening! Damned if
I will-was

“Shut up!” Grafton’s voice cracked like a
whip. He softened it a little and continued, “You aren’t
naive enough to think it’s possible to have a private
conversation on a telephone in this country, are you?
They tell me that sometimes there are so many
eavesdroppers on the line that there isn’t enough juice
left to ring your phone.”

Yocke leaped to his feet, grabbed a bound
report off the desk and hurled it against the far
wall. He planted his feet in front of the desk
where Jake sat and glowered down at the admiral.
“I’m about fed up to here with this cra-was

“Sit down and we’ll talk this over.” Jake
nodded at the chair Yocke had vacated.

When Yocke was back in his chair, Jake
continued.

“You’re a good reporter, Jack. Somewhere deep
inside that polished chrome Post ego I think you
really do give a teeny-tiny damn about the people you
write about. But, honest to God, when are you going
to see that you are in about ten miles over your head?”

Yocke merely stared at the admiral.

“I want you to keep your date with Shirley
Ross. We’re going to help you.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. The U.s.
government wants to help little ol” me, praise the
Lord! I don’t know whether to shout hosannas or just
let the pee trickle down my leg. was He took
a long deep breath and exhaled slowly while he
examined his hands. Finally he said, “What do you think
she wants to talk to me about?”

“.1 don’t know.”

Yocke thought that over. “Her name isn’t
Shirley Ross, is it?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you level with me, Jake?”

“I am leveling with you,” Jake Grafton said,
the soul of reason. “The truth is that you can’t tell
the wrong people what you don’t know. I suggest
you take a little comfort from that fact. There are people in
Russia who could make a stone sing-they’ve had a
lot of practice.”

“Boy, they’d be wasting their talents on this kid.
You still haven’t even told me why you want me to go
out there tonight. For some strange reason I have this sneaky
suspicion it ain’t got nothing to do with writing
stories for the Washington Post.”

“I want to have a private chat with Shirley
Ross. You’re going to get her for me.”

Jack Yocke didn’t reply. He worried
a fingernail and glanced at Jake Grafton from time
to time, but he had nothing more to say.

Senior Chief Holley and Spiro Dalworth
returned carrying maps and guns.

Jake Grafton selected a map of the city and
spread it out on the desk.

Then Toad came breezing in. “Cars are
ready,” he announced and glanced at Yocke, who
ignored him.

“Gather around.” Jake leaned over the map. He
pointed out the embassy and the Rizhsky subway
station, which was a transfer point for the adjoining train
station.

“The first assumption is that the KGB
listened to the call. They monitor all calls to the
embassy. Shirley Ross knows that. So she will have
to pick Jack up before he gets to the rendezvous.
Now there are two ways to figure the KGB’-EITHER
they think Shirley and Jack are who they seem,
two neophytes playing games, so they merely go
to the subway station and wait for them to arrive, or they
figure that these are two pros and the meet will occur
on the way, so they try to follow Jack from the
embassy. My guess is they’ll play it both
ways, try to follow Jack and have people at the station, just
in case.”

“Third possibility, sir,” Toad said.
“Maybe they’ll think the subway station was just a blind
and the meet is on for someplace else.”

“So they follow Jack,” the admiral said. He
looked at the reporter.

“The second assumption is that they really want
Shirley. Want her alive or dead. You’re just
bait.”

Jake Grafton shrugged. “I may be wrong.
They may try to grab you as soon as they lay eyes
on you. Are you in?”

“Want her alive or dead? Why?”

Jake thought about it. How much could he
tell Yocke?

“By this stage of the game the folks in Dzerzhinsky
Square may have gotten an inkling or two that
His. Ross is the source of some of their painful
difficulties.”

Yocke’s face was flushed. “You’ve assumed
all along that I was going to help you. I haven’t
decided.”

Jake Grafton had had enough. “Don’t get
pissy with me, kid. You’ve got ten seconds
to decide. Yes or no.”

The pistols that the senior chief had put on the
desk were 9nun automatics. Jake picked one
up, popped out the magazine and reached for a box of
cartridges on the desk.

“Why do you want Shirley?” Yocke asked.

Jake Grafton’s open palm descended onto
the desk with a vicious smack.

“In or out?” he snarled.

“Fuck! I’m in.”

“We’ll meet you here.” He stabbed his finger at
the map and everyone bent over to look. “It’s that park
on the south bank of the Moskva River where the
statues are, about four hundred yards east of the
entrance to Gorky Park.” He looked at
the reporter. “You’re going to have to find it in the dark.
Study this map carefully. When Shirley picks you
up, you bring her here. If you’re followed there will
probably be shooting. I want Shirley Ross
alive and uninjured. She’s your
responsibility.”

“What if she doesn’t want to meet you?”

“Make sure she does. Tell her anything you
want.”

Jack Yocke looked from face to face. He
swallowed once. “I don’t get paid anywhere near
enough to do this shit.”

“When this is over we’ll get you a tattoo.”

Toad Tarkington slapped Yocke on the
back. “Relax, Jack. Everybody has
to contribute their mite. And under our enlightened
system of government you only have to die once. That’s
right in the Bill of Rights along with all the
freedoms–freedom of religion, freedom of the
press, freedom of sexual satisfaction,
freedom from ex-wives, it-ee-was

“Kiss my ass, you silly son of a bitch.”

“Do this right and I’ll kiss your ass at high
noon on the front steps of the Washington Post.”

“I want a story out of this,” Yocke
told Grafton.

“You know the rules,” the admiral replied
mildly. “if and when I say.”

Jack Yocke bit his lip. He was going
to write a story about this whether Jake Grafton
liked it or not. Grafton knew damn well who
Shirley Ross was-probably an American
agent: he had known from the moment Yocke first mentioned
her name. And Grafton didn’t even cheep.

And Tarkington-always with the smart mouth and shit-eating
grin because he knows something you don’t. Yocke’s slow
burn began to sizzle.

Jesus, what if that story she gave him about the
Soviet Square killings wasn’t true? Could it
have been a setup?

The possibilities swirled in Yocke’s mind
as he examined the admiral through narrowed eyes. He
looked at the nose a touch too big, the short
salt-and-pepper hair, the cold gray eyes.
Grafton could have set it up!

Sure.

Say Shirley’s story was all true except
for the idertity of the person who made the telephone
call to the KGB agents. Say the agents thought they
were talking to Demodov and it wasn’t really
him. What if Demodov was the fall guy? What
if Demodov’s denial was true?

Was Jake Grafton capable of a stunt like that?

Like what? Faking the phone call to set up
Kolokoltsev?

Or killing that neo-nazi and his aides?
Kolokoltsev was no great loss to anybody. In
fact, his demise was one of the few bright spots in a
Russia trying to come to grips with a sordid past and
an uncertain future. That bigoted demagogue
… was …

Staring at the admiral now, Jack Yocke
felt the cool hard shape of truth as rigid as
steel. Jake Grafton was capable of doing whatever
he thought was right. God help the poor bastard who
wandered into the way!

Jake Graf

“You want a gun?” Jake was holding out an
automatic.

Dalworth and the senior chief were loading
M-16’s.

The reporter stared at the pistol, his train of
thought broken. A gun.

He shook his head. “If I get caught with a
gun the Post will fire me.”

Toad was incredulous. “I knew civilian
jobs were hard to get, but …

You’d rather be dead than unemployed?”

“If I’m unarmed they may not shoot me.
Killing reporters is damn poor PR.
Sooner or later they’ll get tired of feeding me
and ship me home to the bony bosom of my editor.”

Jake Grafton shrugged and tossed the pistol
on the table.

“Your choice.”

“And I thought you’d decided to get into the game,”
Toad Tarkington said.

“Been a lot of reporters buried because they
knew too much,” the senior chief remarked.

Yocke flipped a hand in acknowledgment but
refused to change his mind.

Jack Yocke walked out of the embassy with nothing
but his passport in one pocket and a wad of rubles in
another.