Assignment - Suicide (5 page)

“Let me drive,” Durell said.

“We must wait for Mikhail.”

“Do you think he’s coming?“

“He will not betray us. He will come if he can.”

Durell knew they could not wait indefinitely. Every
moment added to the chance of their capture by the men who had tried to detain
them at the opera house. The narrow lane was dark and deserted, and only a few
lighted windows gleamed in the functional facades of the concrete apartment
houses. The wind keened in the telephone and power lines strung overhead. The
girl shivered suddenly.

“He isn’t coming,” Durell said, when several minutes went
by. “Where does Mikhail live?”

“He is one of the fortunate ones; he has an apartment in the
Winter Palace district." She drew a deep breath that plumed in the wet,
icy air when she exhaled. “Perhaps we had better see if he is there, after
all.”

They got into the Pobeda again. The girl insisted on
driving. The city had darkened considerably since their first ride along
the avenues. The
politseyskis
at the intersections had little to do. A light, freezing rain began to fall
again, stiffening the banners erected for May Day.

Mikhail’s apartment house was new, obviously set aside for
the upper-income brackets of Soviet society. It stood behind a row of saplings
that rattled barren branches in the icy wind. Valya drove by slowly and nodded to
indicate the uniformed man standing in the doorway.

“That is Josef, but we have nothing to fear from him. Let me
talk to him first.”

She parked and walked across the broad sidewalk. Durell
waited while she spoke to the old man. Apparently there was no cause for alarm.
She signaled him and they went into the steam-heated and ornate lobby and up an
elevator to the fifth floor. The building was quiet except for the
strains of a modern concerto coming from behind a closed door as they passed.
Valya had a key to the apartment. She knocked lightly, then opened the door
with her key and pulled Durell inside. The living room was furnished
comfortably, even sumptuously, softly lighted by porcelain lamps. Durell wished
he had a gun. He smelled danger around him. But it had been decided in
Washington that no weapon would be of help if his identity were ever suspected.

“Miko?" the girl called.

The dancer appeared suddenly in a doorway. “Lock the door,
Valya.“

She stared at him. “What happened to you?”

“They cut me off. I had to come here. I don’t know how much
time we have. I’m sure they will arrive soon.”

“Would they dare?” the girl asked. “You are a respected
artist, a great name in our theatre. How would they dare to interfere with you?
In any case, Uncle Sergei would see to it that you are kept safe.”

The slender man shrugged wryly. His manner toward Durell was
formal. but not completely unfriendly now. His narrow face glistened with
sweat. Durell could understand the agony of a physical coward. The man had not
taken off his velvet-collared coat or his dark fedora. Valya crossed to him and
kissed him lightly on the cheek, then looked back at Durell.

“Let’s get to Marshall,” Durell said. “Tell me where he's
hiding. Neither of you have to take me to him or risk yourselves further. I’ll
go alone."

The girl and the man exchanged a swift glance. Mikhail
seemed to be listening for something outside, then he went to the window and
looked down at the dark street for a long moment. When he turned, his face was
pale.

“You might as well know. Marshall is here. Your friend must
have come here during the performance tonight. He is in my bedroom.” He
indicated the room, then paused and swallowed. “But I think he is dead.”

Durell saw the dismay on Valya’s face as he crossed the room
with a quick stride and flung open the door into the bedroom. A dim light
shone inside against the heavy plush draperies drawn across the windows. There
was a large walnut bed against the wall and other heavy furniture of Empire
design. There was a. smell of blood and sickness in the room.

Marshall lay on his ‘back across the bed, his arms flung
wide, his eyes closed. There was a great stain of blood across his chest where
a wound had opened and soaked through crude bandages under his shirt. His face
had the mark of death upon it. His teeth glistened under gray, parted lips.

“Luke?” Durell said softly.

The girl made a small sound behind him, but he did not turn.
He was aware of deep shock at the change in Marshall. He had known Luke back in
the old OSS days, when they were both younger and more reckless. Those days
seemed a century ago, in another time and another world. Luke hail grown stout
in his late forties, although his mind was keener. He had developed a fat man‘s
optimism along with the paunch. He had a pleasant, rosy-faced wife back in
Connecticut and two sons in prep school, slated for Yale because Durell had
gone to Yale. He had visited their home many times, an ancient helter-skelter
warm and cozy place on ten rocky acres of woodland.

But Luke was not fat and jovial now. The flesh had wasted
from his bones, and his face was sunken and gray. You’re a long way from home,
Durell thought.

He felt Marshall’s pulse. For a moment he sensed no flicker
of life under his fingertips. Then a dim beat like the flutter of a
bird’s wing made itself felt. He saw the blue of cyanosis around Marshall’s
mouth and then heard the faintest of sighs as the dying man drew a thin breath.

Durell pushed back Marshall’s wispy hair with gentle fingers,
but his voice was sharp as he swung to Mikhail. “Get some brandy. We‘ve got to
revive him. Hurry, man!”

Mikhail did not move. His teeth chartered faintly.

“The blood they will know—I am ruined—”

Durell saw the bright glaze of hysteria in the man's eyes
and the spasmodic jerk to the left corner of his handsome mouth. Durell slapped
him, the sound of his palm against cheek like a pistol report. Mikhail
staggered against the wall. Durell slapped him again, harder. It had no effect.
Valya ran from the room.

A trail of spattered blood led from the bed to a door

across the bedroom. Durell followed it down a short corridor
to another heavy door at the rear. It was bolted. When he opened it, he saw a
concrete stairwell going down. Standing there, he thought he heard the scrape
and slide of a shoe against cement, far down in the dim shaft. The blood led
down the steps, but he didn’t follow it further. He cursed the luck that had
thrown him into the hands of these amateurs, and listened for more sounds; he
thought he heard the ghostly whisper of a voice in the gloom below, but he saw
nothing. It could have been the
 
He went
back to the bedroom, bolting the door behind him.

Valya stood there with a bottle of Caucasian brandy. Mikhail
had slipped to a sitting position on the floor, eyes staring, teeth still
chattering. Valya’s lips were white.

“Your friend must be trade to talk,” she said tightly.

“Otherwise we all are lost.”

“I think our other friends have already arrived,” Durell
said.

“They will not dare to come in at once,” Valya’s voice was
steady. “Mikhail is too important to trifle with. The MVD, of course, is
another matter.
 
They will discover
Marshall‘s identity, and yours, and we will he finished.

“Give me the brandy."

Gently, Durell forced the liquor between the wounded man’s
teeth. It spilled and dribbled from slack blue lips. With his fingers he
massaged Marshall’s throat and forced a few more drops into his mouth, working
the neck muscles until a reflex swallowing was made. Marshall coughed
feebly. His eyes popped open, sightless, and closed and he coughed again and a
bright stain of fresh blood spread swiftly through the bandages on his chest.

“Luke,” Durell said softly. “It‘s me, Sam Durell. I’m here.
Can you understand me?”

The lips moved and a low muttering came from Marshall.
Durell eased more brandy between his lips. Desperation gripped him. The girl
stood in the bedroom doorway, detached from what was between him and the dying
man. She watched, and she had a cool grip on herself. Her poise evoked Durell’s
admiration, even though he suspected it was basically a Slavic fatalism.

“Sam?”

His sigh was a whisper of cool wind drifting between brittle
twigs. Luke Marshall’s eyes opened Wide, looking up at him, seeing him. His mouth
twitched. It might have been a smile. “Hello, you—Cajun.”

“Can you hear me, Luke?”

“Got a-—Cajun accent. More brandy?"

Durell raised the man’s head with a touch as gentle as a
mother’s hand. Marshall drank greedily.

Durell moved the wasted body to a more comfortable position
and sat on the edge of the bed; Marshall’s hand fumbled out and caught his in a
grip of surprising strength. He spoke in English.

“Going to check out. Sam, so don’t kid me. Don’t stop my

talking. Been saving it for you. Sukinin reached you, eh?

I've been here six months—like six years. I’m homesick,
Cajun. Like to see Lucy. My stone fences in Connecticut—hear the peepers this
spring. You go see her and listen to ‘em for me, huh?”

“I’ll do that.”

“But first you‘ve got a lot to do."

Valya came to the bedside and her eyes regarded Marshall
with objective interest. “lie must not talk like this. It will kill him, Do not
press him to talk, Durell, if you love him.”

Durell looked into Marshall’s eyes. “Luke has to talk. I
love him like a brother, but if he doesn’t talk, we’re all dead.”

Marshall closed his eyes. Durell felt his pulse. He felt
nothing. Then he saw Luke’s chest heave with a long. Painful breath. The heart
beat stronger again as the brandy took hold. Marshall looked at him.

“Have we got much time, Sam?”

“No."

“Did they follow me here?”

“I think so."

“Sorry. Mikhail and Valya—okay. They‘ll help. Good people,
want the right thing. Risk their lives for it. Underground fighters. Not
for us, though. For themselves. For Soviet. There's a difference, understand?”

“Go on." Durell said, and his voice was calm and
waiting, a mask for the pity that tore at him because of Marshall’s ebbing
life. He was doing what he had to do, and he couldn’t change anything. “What
have you left unfinished Luke?

‘What were you looking for?"

“The missile—five-thousand-mile range. They beat us to
it."

“Will they use it?"

Marshall nodded. “Yes.”

Durell gave him more brandy. The room felt suddenly cold, as
if a presence had silently entered and stood waiting in a corner, radiating the
cold from its non-being as it watched Marshall. The dying man’s whisper fought
against it.

“Sam, things have changed here a. hit. Don‘t count on it too
much but you know how they've desanctified Stalin, coining out with the truth
against him . . . trying collective leadership in the Politburo . . .”

“Yes.”

“Could mean peace for a time . . . can’t tell. But it's a
chance. if it continues. But man in charge of missile project . . . wants to be
a new
vozhd
,
new Stalin . . . dictator. Might make it if he can start war.”

“Who is he?”

“Nobody knows. In charge of missile project, not a major
member of Politburo. They call him Z. Wants to begin with a surprise attack.
Valya, Mikhail . . . part of group fighting it underground. They don’t
know-—plan to assassinate Z when he goes to missile base a. few days from now.
I’ve been trying to get our Moscow Embassy—”

“To make the plan public and scotch it that way?” Durell
asked.

“Right. I figured if our people knew and had proof—Z
wouldn’t dare move. They‘d finish him right here. But Mikhail and
Valya—they wouldn‘t let me get to our people. Figure it’s their own problem—and
don’t trust us, either. It’s up to you, Sam. Get to Holbrook, at the Embassy.
Don’t let either side stop you. Don’t get mixed up in the assassination plot,
whatever you do. None of our business, hear?”

Durell looked at Mikhail and the girl. Valya understood what
was being said, but her cool beautiful face told him nothing at all.

Marshall whispered painfully: “Go to Moscow, Sam. Take
Valya. Change identity. They’re on to Valya and Mikhail. But don’t let her stop
you from reaching our Embassy. It’s our best bet.”

“All right," Durell said. “They won’t stop me.”

“And take Valya to her people, too. Owe it to her—for their help.
Go to No. Forty-two Kamenevsky Ulitza. Men there waiting for me . . . I'm
supposed to take them to missile base.”

“Doesn’t Valya’s crowd know where the base is?”

“No. But I found it.” Marshall grinned grotesquely. “Got a
map . . . my pocket . . . use it for bargaining . . .”

Durell felt in Marshall’s clothing. A folded piece of paper
had been glued together at the edges by the bleeding of Marshall’s wound. He
did not attempt to open it.

“Who shot you, Luke?”

Marshall shook his head, closed his eyes. “Don't know—came
out of the dark. Got pneumonia, like a damned fool . . ."

“All right, don’t talk any more, Luke. Let me recap, and
just check me if I'm wrong. The Soviets have an ICBM ready to go. Most of the
Politburo consider it a defensive weapon, as we do. But the man in charge of
the
 
program has political ambitions and
a private army of sorts. He wants to emulate Uncle Joe. And there’s an
underground movement to stop him. All they know about him is that he’s called
Z. They want to assassinate him. But the missile base is securely hidden and
they don’t know where it is. Z is there now, presumably—"

Marshall shook his head.

“He isn’t?” Durell asked. “Then he’ll be there in a few
days, when the missile is fired that starts the war. After that it will
be too late and Z hopes to use the war to get in the saddle over here. Right?”

Marshall nodded, tried to speak, and closed his eyes. Durell
put down the brandy bottle. He had been holding it so tightly his fist
ached. He looked at Valya and Mikhail. The ballet dancer was on his feet again,
staring at Marshall with hypnotized eyes. The girl watched Durell with calm
animosity.