The Touch of Treason (33 page)

“How’re the kids?” Francine asked.

“Would you believe Harriet is six and Frieda is nearly five? Harriet’s in school, Frieda’s in kindergarten.”

“Ready for another?”

“Only by immaculate conception.”

“The other way’s more fun.”

As Tilly fluttered words, changing the subject, Francine remembered that in school it had been Tilly’s humor that had made her every girl’s best companion. Each of them had swings and spirals, preexam, premenstrual, pre-big-date, but Tilly was the constant, that rarest of all human animals, an unremittingly happy person it was a pleasure to be with.

“I know, I know,” Tilly said, under observation patting the sides of her hair. “Premature graylings before thirty are a sin against nature. A sin against my nature,” she said, and her attempt to slough it off suddenly, like a squirrel jumping from limb to limb and missing, fell precipitously to earth. “Never mind about me,” Tilly said, “where’s your car?”

Francine took Tilly’s bag. “Just out in the lot.”

They walked side by side, the hurry, by understood mutual agreement, over. “Still the red Fiat?” Tilly asked.

“Twelve thousand miles older,” Francine said.

“Sounds like me.”

On instinct, Francine said, “How’s Burt?”

“I hope dead.”

Francine put the bag down. “What’s the matter, baby?”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s go on.”

“Of course it matters. Tell me.”

“What’s to tell? The kids are with Mother. I can’t stay in Detroit. Burt’s squiring his new woman all over the places we used to go to together. He sees our friends. He sees my friends. He invites them to her apartment.”

“Oh Tilly, I never guessed.”

“
You
didn’t?
I
didn’t! I was the last goddamn woman in Detroit to know!”

“Are you separated? Officially?”

“We’re not anything. I went to talk to Jim Magruder and he said that if it came to a divorce, he’d have to be Burt’s lawyer, would you believe that?”

Francine opened the passenger side of the Fiat first so that Tilly could take her tear-stained face out of sight of passersby, then put Tilly’s bag and the armload of presents in the trunk. As Francine turned the key in the ignition, Tilly said, “Since your friend’s a hotshot lawyer, maybe he knows somebody who kills for hire and is willing to travel to Detroit.”

*

Traffic sped away from the airport, racing the descending darkness. Francine tried to concentrate on the road ahead, watching for the Whitestone Bridge sign she had once missed and vowed never to again. In college, they had all expected happiness at the end of the line, an amorphous reward for getting through the tortured years, a vent into what they used to call real life, meaning a job or marriage, a settling without a settling down. Of all the boys they had dated then, Tilly’s Burt had been the highest flyer, learning commodities trading from his father at the time that he learned to drive a car. He had scored with money made by himself while the rest of them were still on the family dole. Francine hadn’t cared for Burt’s talkathon—speak first, think second—but she had accepted him as she would have accepted anything that was good for Tilly.

“Watch out!” Tilly said.

“Watch what?”

“Didn’t you see that car?”

“What car?”

Tilly pointed right to an ancient tail-finned white Cadillac. “He nearly sideswiped us. He came that close.”

Francine pulled the Fiat ahead. When they were parallel with the Cadillac, she glanced right. There seemed to be three Hispanic-looking men jammed into the front seat, all grinning at her.

“They’re drunk,” Tilly said.

“How can you know?”

“Burt drinks now. I know what drunk looks like. Let them get ahead.”

Francine eased off on the gas pedal, checked her rearview mirror, and then clicked on her right-hand turn signal and moved over behind the offending Cadillac. Suddenly the Cadillac braked sharply, and Francine had to brake fast. She could hear the tires of the car behind her squealing, too.

“He’s playing games,” Tilly said. “He didn’t have to do that.”

Francine was glad they were now on the bridge. Carefully she pulled left one lane, then another, and then speeded up. “I’ll tell the toll booth attendant,” Francine said.

Suddenly the Cadillac was in front of them again, braking.

“He’s crazy,” Tilly said. “I thought they’re supposed to be cracking down on DWIs?”

Behind them somebody was honking because they had slowed down in the fast lane.

Francine wondered what George would do. Would he go to the toll booth? He’d ram that damn car!

She’d moved right and right again to get away from the Cadillac till she had a clear path to the toll booths ahead. She had the quarters for the automatic toll machines, but she had to queue up for the manned booth. As she waited while car after car in front of her paid the Whitestone toll, she caught sight of the Cadillac going through the automatic collector somewhere to her right. When she reached the booth she handed her money over and told the young man, “That Cadillac that just passed through there, on the right, the driver is drunk. They’ve been driving recklessly.”

“What do you want me to do, lady?”

“Can’t you radio a police car? Something?”

“I can’t do that. Look at the lineup behind you. Did you get the license number?”

“No. It’s one of those ancient Cadillacs with tail fins. And white. There can’t be more than one of them on the road up ahead.”

“Come on, lady, move on.”

Francine tried to spot something, an ID tag on the attendant, a booth number, anything. She’d tell George, he’d know what to do. He’d say the world was falling apart. She zoomed onto the Hutchinson River Parkway.

Tilly, whose mind was probably somewhere in Detroit, said, “Look, Fran, I didn’t know what your living arrangements were. I didn’t—”

“You’re staying at my place. We’re staying at my place. He’s got a house.”

“Sure it’s okay?”

“It’s okay.”

Francine had never liked the Hutchinson River Parkway, two narrow twisting lanes in each direction, one of those roads you couldn’t wait to get off of. Suddenly, up ahead, there was something. Francine pumped her brakes, switched her brights on. In the right-hand lane, stopped, was the white Cadillac.

“I hope he’s run out of gas,” Tilly said.

“I hope his engine block cracked,” Francine said, and they both laughed, and Francine pulled the Fiat over to the left and realized they’d both been wrong. The Cadillac was starting up again, it’d just been waiting for some more sport, preferably with the two young ladies they’d already given a few scares. There was no exit on the right, the double guard rail on the left, and cars behind wanting to speed up. Well, she had the space, Francine thought, the Cadillac was just starting, and she put her foot down on the accelerator, never dreaming that the Cadillac would dare pull into the left lane ahead of her.

“Watch out!” Tilly screamed, and Francine put her full weight forward on the brakes, screeching, stopping, and suddenly whatever it was behind them slammed into them, pushing them violently into the angled side of the Cadillac in front of them with an explosion of smashed metal and glass and sudden, terrible pain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Amid the chitchat of arrival, Thomassy decided that Ludmilla Tarasova’s apartment was the kind of place he could imagine himself holing up in for weeks, eating small special meals of exotic foods, listening to music with his feet up, sampling her voluminous library. If Tarasova had been twenty years younger, he could have seen her as someone whose sharp mind and self-comfort made her a suitable companion for an arrogant bachelor like himself.

It was a good thing Ned Widmer couldn’t read his mind.
Warn your daughter, Prospero. Every bright and interesting woman interests me.

“Good to see you, George,” Widmer said.

“I assume,” Thomassy said, “your presence here is not a coincidence?”

Tarasova took charge. “Mr. Widmer and I have known each other many years. I haven’t had the need of a lawyer until now.”

Thomassy’s was an old trick.
Don’t answer the speaker. Talk to the weaker party on the other side.

“Ned old boy, it looks like you’re part of the federal witness protection program.”

Widmer said cheerfully, “This case is in state court, George.”

“Sure. And Perry and Randall are spectators. With all the international press, I’m surprised we don’t get moved from Westchester to the Hague. What the hell is going on, Ned? I don’t like mysteries I don’t create for tactical purposes.”

“No mystery. Miss Tarasova is the heir apparent now that Fuller’s dead.”

Tarasova, whose back while standing or sitting was as straight as a soldier’s, bent as she calmly poured tea. She straightened up, handed Thomassy his cup. He thought she looked like a beautiful tree overseeing the lawn of life.

“I was asked to consult with Miss Tarasova more than a dozen years ago,” Widmer said.

“On some pretext,” Thomassy offered.

“Of course it was a pretext,” Tarasova said. “In a society that allows you one phone call when you are arrested, I had to be given someone trustworthy to call, yes?”

“George,” Widmer said, “you don’t doubt that I’m worthy of trust?”

Thomassy sipped at the strong tea.

“I know how you feel, George,” Widmer went on. “Nobody likes surprises. The fact is that I share your annoyance about the government’s intrusiveness. In normal times. Most people—” He looked at Thomassy as if to be certain that Thomassy did not exclude himself. “—are not aware that we are at war.”

Francine,
Thomassy thought,
help me.

“I don’t mean the obvious fronts,” Widmer continued, “Afghanistan, Poland, Cambodia, Nicaragua, all that. I mean the positioning. Photographic satellites, laser-armed satellites, silent submarines. People
notice
wars like they notice stock market crashes, too late. Some of us get involved at earlier stages because of coincidences. I met Perry at Yale. Miss Tarasova was born in the Soviet Union. We were introduced because this country needs her and she might one day need me. As now.” Widmer leaned forward. “George, you’ve always sneered at lawyerlings who play by the rule and lose. We both should be grateful that we have some people in Washington who are not unlike you in a different arena. They are determined that the best way to win is to avoid the uncontrollable. The naive think counter-intelligence involves the keeping of secrets. Only in part, George. The clever part is letting the other side know the strength of some of our hands. The naive also think that intelligence consists of ingathering the other fellow’s secrets. The real function of intelligence is using experience to evaluate what we know. Martin Fuller learned his trade the hard way. Miss Tarasova had the advantage of cultural as well as geographic osmosis. She may catch up very fast if you don’t blow everything by putting her on the witness stand.”

In his head Thomassy opened a door to admit a Ned Widmer he had not previously known.

“George,” Widmer said, “the Soviets are chess players. We play checkers. Tarasova is one of our very few chess players. If you’re calling her to the stand to acknowledge that twenty years ago she had a long-lasting affair with Martin Fuller, I don’t see how that contributes to your case.”

Widmer waited for a response. Instead Thomassy turned to Tarasova.

“It was my thought,” Thomassy said, “that the jury should be aware of the many people other than my client who might have had a good motive to remove Professor Fuller from the scene.”

Tarasova’s face flushed. “Surely, Mr. Thomassy, you don’t think—”

“I do think, Miss Tarasova, before I make my moves. No, I’m not suggesting you were in any way responsible for Professor Fuller’s death. I’m sure you have an excellent, objectively verifiable alibi, witnesses you were with, et cetera.”

“Of course.”

“What I want from you is a roll call of all the political assassinations on behalf of the Soviet Union you know about from, say, 1931 through today.”

Tarasova leaned forward. “Do you know who Trotsky was?”

He hated to say
vaguely.
“What’s the relevance?”

“He was killed by a student he trusted.”

“Where?”

“In Mexico. Coyoacan.”

Tm talking about right here in the United States,” Thomassy said, anxious to get back to familiar turf. “Can you provide me with the précis of the assassination attempts here?”

Widmer interrupted, “That would be hearsay.”

“I’m sure the judge would permit it as expert testimony since, I gather, Miss Tarasova includes KGB foreign operations in her lectures to students and, in fact, has an extensive section on that subject in her next-to-last book.”

“Congratulations on your homework, George.”

“Congratulate Francine when you see her next. The UN library’s been very helpful.”

“In other words, you’re preparing to drag every red herring you can across the screen, as it were.”

Thomassy clasped his hands together and pointed his two forefingers at Widmer. “Ned, I was hired through you to win this case. Why are you interfering? I’m beginning to find this whole thing ugly.”

“You’ve dealt with the unpalatable before, surely.”