Assignment - Suicide (3 page)

Durell returned to the girl. She watched him with care,
still with the innate hostility he had felt with her opening words, but she had
pocketed the pistol. At least it was out of sight. She gestured toward his
clumsy bundle of black nylon.

“If that is your parachute, we must burn it. Also, you must
change your shoes. They are wrong. You should be wearing black boots. I have a
pair for you. And a gray fur hat. No self-respecting MVD agent would be without
a hat,
gospodin
.”

“I lost it when I jumped.”

She looked alarmed. “Then they will find it?"

“They’ll know someone landed," Durell said. “I couldn’t
hide my footprints in the dunes where I came down. They shot down the plane, as
I suppose you know. They are already alerted, Does that make our task
impossible?"

“It surely makes it more difficult. Please put on
these boots. We do not have much time,” she said again.

Not even the bulky, belted coat she wore could conceal the
slim length of her legs and the refinement of her body. She wore very
little make-up except for lipstick. He saw a stray wisp of ash-blonde hair
under her head scarf, although her long, winged brows were dark. Her cheekbones
were Slavic and prominent under delicate skin, and her mouth was a shade too
wide. Tension, or fear, had changed her blue eyes almost to black, and she bit
her lip momentarily, watching him, although Durell noted that she did not get
within reach of him when he sat down to pull off his muddy shoes.

She worked quickly, stuffing the nylon parachute into the
stove, tossing his shoes into a closet, and producing a belted black overcoat
and a gray fur hat. “Your papers now,” she said impersonally. “Hurry.”

Durell handed her the papers he had received in Washington.
She studied them with concentration, frowning. His estimate of her competence
grew stronger, and as he looked at her again he felt impressed, He smiled.

“Have you a name?” he asked.

“Valya Hvalna.”

“Is this your normal occupation, greeting foreigners?"

“In a way,” she said, not meeting his smile. “I am a guide
and interpreter for Intourist,
gospodin
.”

He said in English, “Then you speak English?"

“It would not be wise to do so," she replied in
Russian. “If you want to know more about me, I am a graduate of the University
of Moscow, with a doctorate degree in Russian literature and Western languages.
I also speak French and Spanish. Not as well as English, but good enough for my
job, This place belongs to a friend of mine. You will meet Mikhail soon.
Strictly speaking, it is not his
dacha
,
but his Uncle Sergei’s. Sergei is an important man in Leningrad, but of course
he knows nothing about Mikhail‘s activities with us. He would be shocked to
know about us here."

“How did you get mixed up in this?”

“One does What is necessary, according to one’s beliefs.
Please put on your boots. They should fit you quite well.“

He had the first boot on when he heard the distant,
spiteful crack of a rifle. The girl heard it, too. Her head came up,
nostrils dilated, her mouth White and pinched.

The sound came from a good way off, but its direction was
deceptive, heard through the walls of the
dacha
and above the muted roaring of the ceramic stove that consumed the last
evidence of Durell’s identity as an American.

“They may be shooting at shadows,” the blonde girl said. Her
voice was low. “
i
will step outside and see. Finish
dressing, please. There may be time for tea. There is bread, if you are
hungry.”

She slipped out quickly and Durell found himself alone. He
tugged on the second boot, put on the warm fur hat, and moved into the kitchen.
His face was quiet, giving nothing away; it Was the face of a gambler, a poker
player. He did not trust the girl. He trusted nobody. Back home, Deirdre
Padgett knew little or nothing of his business. He stood still, listening,
thinking of Luke Marshall. The
dacha
was silent except for the hungry lire roaring in the stove. The heat was
oppressive. There were no more rifle shots outside. Through the window,
he looked at the white stone mass of the palace nearby, a relic of Czarist days
preserved by the Soviets for the elite of their hierarchy.

Durell took two glasses and saucers, some sugar, and
returned to the stove with a kettle of boiling water. The girl had not come
back. He put two lumps of coarse sugar into his glass and poured boiling water
over his loose tea and sipped twice and then started for the door. As he put
his hand on the bronze knob, it opened and the girl tumbled inside.

Her face was pale. “They are coming this way. A motor car. I
am sure every house will be searched. They will come here, too.”

He stood still. “Do we have anything to fear?”

“Your credentials are very good.” Her voice was an
accusation.

He said dryly: “They should be. We used bona fide
papers taken oil your spies and agents captured in my country.”

“That is nonsense. I do not believe it. We do not spy on
anyone, it isn’t necessary, and anyway—” She paused impatiently, and fear moved
in her blue eyes. "Take off your clothes, please."

“But you just—”

“We have no time. Quickly!”

Without waiting to see if he followed her order, she
stripped off her coat and tore the scarf from around her head. She was wearing
a simple gray flannel dress belted at the waist. Her figure was
lithe and full. When she kicked off her boots, he saw that her feet, in cotton
stockings, were small and delicate. Durell did not stop for more questions. He
heard the sound of a ear approaching on the asphalt road to the
dacha
.

The girl went into the bedroom. He heard the noises she made
as she rumpled the bed, rolling on it. kicking at the heavy quilted blankets with
her long legs. Outside, the sharp command of a man giving orders rang out. He
took a long stride to the bedroom, halted, and caught his breath.

Her body was magnificent. Her hair was the color of
fresh honey, coiled in twin braids at the nape of her long neck. She was
shaking it loose, and he watched it fall in flowing, thick textures down the
satin-sleek skin of her back, all the way down to the small of her Waist.
Seeing him, she jumped up from the bed and met Durell’s frank stare.

“We are lovers,“ she said quickly, “It will embarrass them
and they will not question us too much.”

Durell still Wore his trousers. Under his appreciative gaze,
the girl’s dignity faltered, and a faint blush began at her narrow waist, just
above the swelling curve of her hips, and spread rosy-tinted up above her
proud, firm breasts to color her cheeks. Durell had never seen anything
like it. Her mouth shook. “Please do not look . . ."

“I’m sorry.”

There came a thunderous knocking at the door and a command
to open at once. The girl whispered: “Remember who you are supposed to be. You
must be angry at their intrusion—”

Durell nodded and called out: “
Shto
vul
hortitye
(What do you want)?” There came another command and he started for the door.
The girl jumped up again, rumpled his thick black hair. kissed him fleetingly
to smear lipstick on his cheek, and then darted into the bedroom before he
could unbolt the front entrance.

In the instant before he opened the door, the thought flashed
through his mind that this could be a trap. The entire plan of his entry into
the country could have been discovered and the girl might have been sent here
as a substitute for his legitimate contact as arranged back home. Durell drew a
deep breath and opened the door.

Chapter Three

A. LARGE black Zis, like an American Packard, was parked
behind the girl’s Pobeda in the driveway. Four men crowded the entrance and two
others were vanishing around either side of the house. Two of them, armed with
rifles, wore the dark blue uniforms of the MVD. The two in the doorway
wore dark belted overcoats, gray fur caps, and shining black boots. The man
nearest the door was short and fat and he looked up at Durell with surprise and
quickly hidden gratification. His voice was thin and polite.

“Your pardon, citizen, but we must investigate. There is no
need for alarm, but we believe a Western spy has been landed nearby. We must
search the
dacha
."

“Come in, then. I don’t want to catch a cold,” Durell said.

The man with the fat face nodded to the two with rifles
and they slid past Durell‘s tall figure into the house. A moment later he
heard the girl’s brief scream of fright, and then an angry stream of invective
from her as she snapped at the uniformed men for intruding. Durell smiled
apologetically at the fat leader. The other man’s eyes were pale and cold, like
a blind man’s stare that never left his partially clothed figure. He
looked at the big stove and walked toward it with a mincing gait and pulled off
his heavy gloves to warm thick, pudgy fingers in the radiant heat.

He spoke with his back to Durell. “Your papers,
citizen."

“Of course. I may be able to help. We heard shots not long
ago. I am on my vacation, you understand, but one must always be prepared in an
emergency to do one’s duty. We also heard a plane and gunfire in the sky.
Naturally, we assumed that everything was being taken care of.”

“Indeed.”

Durell handed him his papers. The MVD man flipped
through them quickly, almost casually, taking note only once to check Durell’s
features with the photo on his identity card.

“A very good likeness, citizen. You are from Moscow?”

“Yes.”

“And where do you live in Moscow?”

“Sverdovna Ulitza, Number Two four
four
.
I am stationed, of course, at No. Twenty Dzherzinsky Square, MVD headquarters,
under Colonel Nikolai Andrei Andreyanov. I wish I could help you tangibly,
citizen. But my attention was—occupied.”

“Ah. The lady is your wife?"

“We plan to be married very soon.”

“It is good to raise a family. Children today receive the
utmost devotion from the state. What are you doing in this
dacha
?"

“It was lent to us by a friend—Sergei’s nephew.” Durell
hoped the MVD man would not ask for more details; the girl had given him none.
He found some cigarettes in a box on the table and offered them around as a
gesture of hospitality. It was obvious that the fat man was proceeding
carefully with him, recognizing him as of equal rank, if he accepted the
credentials at all. The two men with rifles came out of the bedroom and
the girl followed. She had put on a dark blue flannel robe and was
belting it around her waist. Her long hair was magnificent. Her face was
angry.

The first of the uniformed men said briefly, “
Nyet
,” and waited
for orders. A sharp knock sounded at the back door and the fat man went to it
and spoke to those who had walked around the house. Durell wondered with sudden
panic if he had left footprints in the patches of snow beyond the
dacha
—a trail that might be followed
back to the shore where he had landed. He wondered, too, if smoke from the
burning chute had been noticed by those outside. He stood beside Valya and took
her hand in a gesture of affection. She was a fine actress. Her manner
struck just the right balance between embarrassment at being surprised this way
and a loyal interest in the proceedings.

“You are staying for the night?” the MVD man asked.

“No, we have an appointment at eleven with Mikhail
Novelnevsky.”

“The ballet dancer?”

“Is there any other?” she asked.

“He is an artist of the first rank. I envy your friendship
with him. I see nothing to interfere with your plans, citizeness. You must
forgive our intrusion, but you understand how necessary it is to watch for the
foreigner who landed here.”

"You are sure a landing was made?" Durell asked.

"Quite sure. If you are stopped on the way into
Leningrad, Yell them you have been checked by Lieutenant Kronev,” the man said.
He saluted Durell, smiled at Valya, ordered his men outside and saluted again
as he closed the door behind him.
 
moment
later the Zis started, headlights flaring across the windows of the
dacha
.

Durell exhaled softly and turned to the girl. She was
sitting with her face in her hands. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Her shoulders moved. “Nothing. Please pay no attention to
me.”

He crossed to her and touched her shoulder, but she flinched
and shrank away, lifting her face to stare at him. Tears streaked the smooth
silk of her cheeks, but her eyes were cold, suddenly blazing with pure hatred
as she looked at him.

“What is it?” he asked again. “Can I help?”

“It is not your fault. You are doing your duty and you are
well paid for it by your masters. But I—I am a traitor to all that I love and
to all who trust me. I am to be despised.”

She stood up, careful not to brush against him as she moved
by. Her long hair was thick and gleaming against the dark blue robe that she
now hugged chastely around her body. Her voice was fiat as she spoke
again from the bedroom doorway. “Get dressed,
Gospodin
Durell. We must hurry now. We can talk further on our way
to the city.”

The little Pobeda did not have too much leg room for him.
They drove easily along the wet, two-lane road. Now and then Durell looked back
to see if they were being followed, but he couldn‘t see anything. There was no
other traffic, and after a time the road widened even further, following the
high-speed railroad tracks, and more
izbas
appeared and then a few huge, gaunt factories on the
sprawling outskirts of Leningrad itself.

He had not been here since shortly after the war and the
murderous siege by the German armies, when everything had been shot up and
destroyed: power, shelter, food supplies. The two million inhabitants had clung
to their positions in the rubble and fought it out through the savagely cold
winter to victory. He was astonished at the amount of rehabilitation that had
been accomplished—and again, by the forest of television antennae on the
rooftops. Scarcely any trace remained of the devastation worked on the
countryside. He expected to run into more roadblocks, but nothing happened to
interrupt the trip.