Ultimate Issue (23 page)

“Thank you,” said Grigorovich. “I will treasure it.”

He spooned sugar into his espresso and stirred it. “How is the other matter?” he asked.

“You are up-to-date?”

GAgorovich nodded. “Your reports have been a model of clarity and conciseness, as always. No, I meant in the last few days.” He smiled apologetically. “My communications at this moment are a little convoluted.”

‘The courtmartial is set,” said Ivanov.

“Have you heard any more about it?”

“I hear things all the time.”

“And?”

“I don’t think there will be any problems.”

“Sometimes I wonder….”

“What is it?” asked Ivanov, concerned. He respected Grigorovich, and his judgment. If he was uneasy …

“Maybe you can explain. You know these people so much better than I do. You fit in. But I have been asking myself, why is it that if they are so anxious to put this man out of circulation, they don’t get rid of him? Would it not be so much simpler? You understand me?”

“Perfectly,” said Ivanov. “But you see that is the difference. It is their system. We can deal with people. We can … remove them. It’s very difficult for them.”

Grigorovich frowned. “But why? They are authority. They are government. Surely they have every power. If an individual threatens us, we eliminate him. For the good of all. They can do the same.”

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“They prefer doing it legally. Because of public opinion,” explained Ivanov. “Public opinion, or democracy as it’s known in the West” he smiled “can ask questions, demand explanations, perhaps bring down governments. It’s like a sleeping giant, quite harmless, but once aroused….”

The man from the Kirov ballet shook his head incredulously, then looked at his watch.

“Very well,” he said. “You clearly understand our friends and their reasoning. I’m delighted you’re posted here.”

He got up and Ivanov immediately stood up too.

“Thank you,” said Grigorovich. “The coffee is very good here.”

He left first.-Ivanov stayed behind and took his time paying the bill. It was several minutes before he wandered out into Monmouth Street. He strolled around the corner, onto Shaftesbury Avenue, glancing into several shop windows to see if he was being followed, and finally hailed a taxi.

Grigorovich really is a nice man, he reflected as he settled back in the cab. He wondered if it was true that he was the one who had been responsible for having a GRU man executed recently. He must have gotten on the wrong side of him, Ivanov decided. That was a mistake he would not make.

Laconburl’

Breakfast was a time when Verago liked to be alone. It wasn’t until he’d had his third cup of coffee that he felt fully equipped to face the day.

When he saw Jensen approach, carrying his tray, breakfast was already spoiled. And when the man sat down, uninvited, at his table, breakfast was ruined.

Jensen nodded to him briefly. “You heard who’s going to be prosecuting?” he asked happily.

“Surprise me,” said Verago.

“Colonel Apollo,” Jensen announced triumphantly, and shoveled a forkful of scrambled egg into his mouth.

“Never heard of him.” Verago grunted. He was fascinated by a piece of egg stuck on Jensen’s chin.

“Lieutenant Colonel Dean Apollo. Sharpest trial counsel in the command,” he said with his mouth full.

Verago drank some coffee. “You sound very happy about it, Cyrus,” he growled.

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“He’s one guy you won’t be able to push around,” Jensen remarked pointedly. “He knows the book backward.”

Verago buttered a second piece of toast. It was a sign of his aggravation. For his waistline’s sake, he limited himself to one piece at breakfast, but when he got annoyed, his good intentions slipped.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?” asked Jensen, slurping his coffee.

“Which team you’re on? You’re supposed to be helping the defence. Remember?”

Jensen nodded. The piece of egg was still stuck to his chin. Verago hoped it would dry there and stick all day.

“Trouble with you, counselor, is that you’ve got no feeling for this outfit. We’re a community here and you don’t even belong to the air force,” complained Jensen. “I hope you don’t mind my plain speaking,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“No, go ahead. Makes a nice change.”

“I think Captain Tower was crazy to ask for you. The whole thing could have been over like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It hurts, this kind of scandal, and we don’t need it. You shouldn’t be on this case because it doesn’t matter to you how many people get hurt, how much unpleasantness there is, what harm will be done or even what’s at stake.”

“What is at stake?” asked Verago quietly.

“I don’t doubt you’re a good lawyer, but I tell you you’re wasting your time,” Jensen went on, ignoring Verago’s question. “Our client is guilty as charged, and you should leave it to the air force to let us look after our own.”

‘What, counselor,” said Verago, pushing back his chair and standing up, “is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“Captain Verago!”

It was a command, peremptory, angry, sharp. It said stop, stay where you are, not another step.

Verago had just been about to enter the PX when he heard it. He turned and saw General Croxford.

The general was sitting in a gleaming red open-topped sports car, a spotless MG.

“Over here, Captain,” ordered Croxford.

The general was wearing civilian clothes, a tweed jacket, an open-necked shirt. Attached to the breast

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pocket of the check shirt was a bleeper. Wherever he went, he was never out of touch. Propped up on the seat beside him was a bag of golf clubs.

“Shift those,” commanded Croxford when Verago came over. “And get in.”

Verago moved the bulky bag and squeezed into the seat beside the general. He was uncomfortable, sharing the tight space with the golf clubs.

Croxford accelerated, and the MG shot across the base. At the main gate, he slowed down, and the APs snapped to attention like an imperial guard. Croxford acknowledged their salute and then turned onto the highway.

He drove the car at high speed, ignoring Verago. Apart from the bleeper, a two-way radio was fitted to the MG’s dashboard. A lone red light indicated it was switched on, and from a loudspeaker near the steering wheel came the crackling of atmospherics.

“How are you getting on, Captain?” the general asked suddenly.

“Sir?”

“Are you getting a lot of flak thrown at you?”

You should know, thought Verago. You’ve been throwing some of it. Aloud he said, “Nothing I can’t cope with sir.”

Croxford grunted. He kept his gaze on the road in front of him. “I guess you think we’re a pretty hostile bunch We must seem a little inhospitable at times.”

“At times, yes, sir.”

The general nodded. “I don’t like this whole business. I don’t mind telling you I’d be very happy to see the back of you, your client, and the whole shebang.”

“I’m sure of that.”

“Let me tell you something, Captain, just between us. Don’t make snap judgments. There’s more than one side to any story. Sometimes the good guys wear black hats too.”

The car was going faster, and the wind beat against Verago’s face.

“General,” said Verago, “I’m simply over here to do a job. But if you think there’s something I should know …”

Croxford turned his head and glared at him. Then he stepped on the accelerator once more and the car speeded up. They had left the perimeter of the base well behind now, and Verago wondered just how fast the general

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would go. Speed limits didn’t seem to concern him. And there wasn’t another car in sight.

“Don’t make out you’re a dumb son of a bitch, because you’re not,” said Croxford. “You ever considered that sometimes things have to be done for the good of everybody? Things nobody likes doing?”

“Such as?” Verago looked grim.

The car swerved. Croxford glanced at him and swore, “Jesus Christ, Captain, don’t play the innocent with me. You are a member of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, an army officer, on active service, and we are at war.”

“Sir?”

“In war you have to sacrifice people for the general good. It’s not a cold war, Verago, that’s newspaper talk. It’s hot. Men are getting killed, killed in action. On missions from this base. My men.”

“I know, sir,” said Verago quietly. “But what’s that got to do with adultery?”

“I’m not talking about ” began Croxford. and then stopped. “My mistake. I thought you got the point.”

They swung violently round a corner, the tires screaming.

“General, you haven’t answered my question,” pressed Verago.

“You’re getting mighty close to insubordination, Captain.”

“I thought this was between us,” replied Verago.

“The trouble with you, Verago, is that you’re really not a military man at all. You’re a civilian in uniform. You’ll never understand what sometimes has to be done in the line of duty. I’m sorry for you.”

Verago flushed. He started to say something but, without warning, the general stopped the car. He braked so sharply Verago was nearly thrown against the windshield.

Croxford didn’t apologise.

“You said you didut play golf, as I remember,” he remarked instead. “Pity, I’m just going to play a couple of rounds. I’d have enjoyed testing your handicap, but there’s no point, is there? You might as well bail out here.”

“General,” Verago protested quite mildly, “I haven’t got transporation.”

“Well” Croxford smiled “it’s only five or six miles

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back to the base.” He sniffed the July air. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy a little exercise. It’s good for the soul.”

Slowly Verago climbed out of the MG.

“Have a pleasant walk, Captain,” said Croxford, and with a rich roar of its engine the superpowered MG raced off.

But the expression on the general’s face stayed with Verago a long time. And he was to remember it when he knew much more.

Riga

The man with the shaved head had not touched his breakfast. It stood on the tray, next to his bed: a plate of congealing semolina; coffee, actually a substitute made from acorns; three lumps of sugar; fifteen grams of butter; and two thick slices of black bread.

Daylight penetrated into the small, cell-like room, but he could not see out, for the window had been painted over in white.

The man lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and there was a stubble on his chin. That, the shaved skull, and the shapeless green pajamas he wore gave him an emaciated, haggard look.

A key turned in the lock of the door, and a woman in a white coat entered, followed by a tall man in Soviet uniform. He stood aside as the woman approached the bed, smiling.

“And how do we feel today?” she asked cheerfully, in English.

The man with the shaved head did not even blink. His eyes continued to gaze into nothingness.

Dr. Helena Narkowska, of the Serbsky Central Scientific Research Institute of Psychiatry, was not disconcerted. In her duties as a specialist for the KGB, she frequently had uncooperative patients.

“You are very naughty,” she chided the man on the bed, nodding at the uneaten breakfast. “You need nourishment. Don’t you like it?” A thought struck her. “Maybe you would prefer some American cereals?”

The man said nothing.

The officer drew her to one side. “Is he shamming?” he asked in a low voice.

“I don’t believe so.”

“But you’re not sure?”

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“Major, all I can tell you is that physically he has fully recovered. Naturally the mental consequences of such an experience…. Who knows?”

Major Alexis Fokin frowned. The detailed interrogation of this prisoner was long overdue. The High Command had a lot of questions for him.

“Let me try,” he said.

Pokin drew up a chair next to the bed and sat down.

“Listen to me, my friend,” he began, also in English. “You are now perfectly fit, and it’s time we had a little talk.”

The man continued to stare at the ceiling.

“You’re just being obstructive,” Fokin went on. “You understand perfectly well what I’m saying to you.”

Dr. Narkowska touched his arm. “If it is amnesia

…”

“It’s an act,” Robin cut her short. “He wants to play dumb.”

He took a cardboard-tubed cigarette from a packet, lit it, and sat thoughtfully smoking for a moment.

The doctor watched him nervously. Fokin had a formidable reputation for breaking people.

But when the major spoke, his tone was gentle. “You have been well treated, haven’t you?”

The man lay motionless.

“You’ve been given the best of medical care. When we picked you up, I wouldn’t have given you five kopecs for your chances, and look at you now, strong, healthy. But it can only go so far,” continued Fokin. “Now it’s your turn to do something for us. We want a lot of answers from you. Technical answers.”

Dr. Narkowska looked away.

“Damn it,” cried Fokin, reaching forward and grabbing a pair of dogtags hanging from a chain around the man’s neck. “You know who you are and where you are.” He jangled the doglegs in front of the man’s face. “You are Captain Matt Kingston, electronics specialist, based at Laconbury in England, and your RB-47H was shot down by us on a spy mission over the Baltic. There were six of you. We gave back a couple of the dead ones, but we picked you up half frozen and we have looked after you well. There is nothing wrong with you. Stop play acting.”

‘Please, Major,” intervened Dr. Narkowska. “Don’t pressure him too much. It could “

Fokin turned on her. “Until now he’s been your patient, Doctor. Now ~ have taken over. Understand?”

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There was no reaction from the man on the bed,

Fokin stood up. “All right, Captain, have it your way. But I warn you that things will get more uncomfortable. Perhaps you need a stricter regime to make you talk. And remember, you are officially dead, so nobody cares a damn what happens to you. Don’t think General Croxford is going to come to your rescue.”

He peered at the man, wondering if casually slipping in his commander’s name would have any effect. But Kingston continued to stare blankly into space.