Shadows of Vengeance, page 12
“I want to believe you, but I’m afraid.” Green eyes plumbed his own and there was no doubt of the fear reflected there. “If that man, Stalbo, has seen what I wrote, how can I stop being afraid?”
“Why would he see that?”
Confusion spread over her face. “Why … this Gunther, the man who convinced me to write everything down … I haven’t seen him since. When I tried to contact him at the German embassy …”
“Ernst Gunther is back in Germany. He was sent back there the day after you gave him that report. He took it directly to our embassy here. Outside of a few Americans in Moscow, no one else has ever seen it—not Stalbo, not another soul. Please believe me.” His voice was urgent. “That’s why I’m here.” He stroked her cheek gently.
Larisa’s face changed perceptibly as he spoke. For weeks the mental anguish she’d created for herself had gradually swelled out of proportion; she’d allowed her own imagination to contribute to her despair. After Ernst Gunther, the one person who understood her situation, had disappeared, there was no one she could talk to. Her daily world was an office filled with Party members and drones who magnified the drudgery. At the end of each day, she returned to an apartment consisting of a tiny bedroom and a living area that opened into a community kitchen. On those few times she made an effort to prepare food, her neighbors always seemed to have control of the facilities. Often, she would fall into bed hungry. And too often she was haunted by the vision of Victor Stalbo. Her burden was close to its limit.
But a few words had changed all of that. “No one else has ever seen it …” No one else had seen the incriminating statement she had written about Stalbo!
His fingers continued to caress her cheek. With both hands, she lifted his away and held it to her lips.
“More tears?” he asked softly.
She shook her head. “No. I just want to remember this moment. If anything should come between us again, I want something I can hold on to.” She studied his face closely before continuing softly, “I knew you once as Derek Willem, and I loved you. As long as you want, I will love you as Andrei Borodin. I can live with whatever name is needed. But I would like to know who my love really is. Gunther said you were an American, with a name I couldn’t pronounce. Morri …” She stopped in the middle and tried twice more. “It doesn’t fit well in our language. Please say it again.”
“Watch my lips.” Very slowly, he taught her how to pronounce Morrison until she was able to say it clearly, still with a heavy accent on the middle syllable. Once she seemed pleased with herself, he continued, “Now, what will you remember to call me from now on?”
“Andrei. Andrei Borodin. How did you decide on that name?”
“It was easy for me to pronounce.” He laughed. “And there was once an Andrei Borodin who looked very much like me.”
“He is dead?”
“I am the Andrei Borodin who exists now. My papers are in order. My family died in a fire two years ago, so I am alone. I work for the State Committee on Physical Culture and Sport. So, if I want, I may travel about the country seeking promising athletes. As you can see, I do not make a great deal of money, which is why I dress like this and move about without a great deal of attention. What do you think of all that?” he concluded with a smile.
She was still holding both of his hands. “I think you seem better off than most Russians already.” For the first time, there was a twinkle in her eye. “You would be a very attractive man to take home with me. But my own place is so small, and the neighbors …” Quite suddenly, it seemed to her that nothing had ever changed since the last time she saw him. She remembered she was walking out the door of his hotel room in East Berlin. As he lay naked in bed, smiling back at her from the rumpled pillow, she remembered her last words exactly. “I have found a new Larisa and I like her very much.” And she also remembered adding, “Tonight.” But that night had never come. “Where are you staying?”
“A cottage—almost a hunting cabin, I guess. I was taken there when I arrived. It’s outside the city, north, on the road to Zagorsk. I’m told it’s very safe, no one nearby to cause trouble.”
“How do you get around?”
“I have a car with government identification—I guess because I’m supposed to work for the Ministry. It’s not much of a car, but it’s official enough so I’m told I’ll be left alone. I drive it into an area near Economic Achievement Park and then use the metro from there. I’m even getting to know how to change trains without asking for help now.”
Morrison’s access to Moscow had been superbly planned and he had been trained to adapt instantly. In contrast, Larisa now saw how she’d been burrowing more deeply each day into a tunnel with no end in sight.
He was salvation.
“You know this area so well for a stranger. How do you do it?”
“I’m not a stranger—at least not to Moscow or Leningrad. But I promise I haven’t been here since I first met you.”
“Will you take me with you?” Though she wanted badly to be coy, there was still fear of the unknown in her voice.
“There’s nothing more in the world that I want to do. But we can’t afford to have anyone become suspicious of you—at your job or your apartment.”
“I can start by returning to my office now.” It was surprising to her how quickly her mind was once again functioning as it should. He was salvation! It was only then that she realized that she still held both of his hands in her own. Releasing them, she glanced at her watch. “I’m so late now, my superior will believe it when I say how sick I feel.” She knew there’d be no problem convincing anyone she wasn’t feeling right.
There really was a strange sensation infusing her body, but it had nothing to do with illness. Only once before had she experienced it, and that was when she knew that she was going to spend the night with Derek Willem in his hotel room in East Berlin. It had been a combination of delicious anticipation, curiosity, a certain appetite for sensuous delight—and so much more she was unable to sort out in her own mind. It was a distinctly physical sensation. At that time, her sensitivity came from the realization that she desperately wanted to share his bed. Right this moment she was experiencing exactly the same sensation. The expectation was almost more than she could stand. She shivered. “It’s Thursday now. We’ll have three days in the country.”
Though her hair still hung loose and her eyes remained darkly rimmed, Larisa’s features had changed perceptibly in just those moments on the bench in Dynamo Park. Once again this strong man would protect her. He would make love to her and erase the gloom that had been her existence since the day Ernst Gunther took possession of her statement—and then vanished.
Few city dwellers in Moscow were ever fortunate enough to visit the countryside. Those who did were generally Party members or had earned special privileges over the years. Larisa had been outside before, but her excursions were generally day trips or short vacations sponsored by a workers’ organization. They were always herded like sheep—aboard buses, into hotels, into dining rooms where everyone ate the same meal, to beaches thick with humanity, into trains where they were packed like sardines on all-night rides.
The trip with Jack Morrison/Andrei Borodin was exquisite. When they boarded the metro among crowds of citizens intent on their dreary existence, staring vacantly into space, there was a delicious sense of deliverance. Larisa wanted to stand up and shout that she was escaping for a weekend with her lover and that the world was truly beautiful. Instead, she satisfied herself by gripping his hand with an intensity that surprised even her.
His little car was the most beautiful vehicle she had ever seen. Though it bore no resemblance to the great Zhigulis that carried important people, she found it exciting. And when she was settled inside, Larisa realized she was trembling like a puppy.
“Don’t turn the key yet,” she whispered, reaching over and turning his face to her own. The rays of a setting sun embroidered by early evening fair-weather clouds illuminated his profile. She gently pulled his face down and kissed him, softly at first, then with a raw intensity. His arms went about her shoulders pulling her closer, and she felt that same thrill that had come when she stepped into his room that first time in East Berlin. Their bodies seemed welded together. It was their first real kiss—they had abstained almost as if they were shy about what each other might think. “I have been dreaming about this moment for almost three years now, and there were so many times I thought it would never happen again,” she whispered, pulling back to look at him.
Her head tilted to one side as she spoke, exactly as he remembered. “Now we no longer have to live with memories.” He kissed her on the forehead, the tip of her nose, and once again on the lips, more softly than before. “If you’ll let me start the engine, we won’t have to do this sitting up in the front seat of a car an hour from now.”
She pouted seductively. “If you insist. But I intend to sit right here, as close to you as possible.” She looked up from beneath half-closed lids. “Be quick about it. After three years, I’m having difficulty waiting for the man I love.”
A near-full moon was peaking over the horizon to the east when they turned down the dirt road. The air was damp enough to form a halo, creating a half circle over the tree line. “There’s a small porch on the front of this cottage that faces east. You can watch the moon come up across the lake each night,” he said.
“I will … because it will remind me of a story my mother told me … before the Nazis destroyed Ponyri. It’s an old Russian folk tale that tells how the moon came to be.”
“Will you tell me the story?”
“It begins with a shepherd girl who lived above the Arctic Circle with her old father. She herded the reindeer for the old man, so in the winter she had to take them south to forage for food. She was all alone when a prince rode out of the sky in a sleigh drawn by his own reindeer. You see, anything could happen in an old folk tale,” she cautioned. “This prince was called the moon, but back in those days he wasn’t anything like the moon we see now—and, like you, he wanted the young girl. As a matter of fact, he was so taken with her that he intended to carry her back with him. The girl was frightened. She asked her lead reindeer to protect her, and the animal pawed a hole in the snow where she could hide. When the moon was unable to find her, he returned to the sky, but he promised to himself he would come back soon to look for her again.”
“I think you’re making this up.” He laughed. “I’m not the moon and you’re not a shepherd.”
“Now, just wait. You have to be patient when you listen to these stories. The girl knew when the moon was coming back again, and she also knew that he would search until he found her this time. So she asked her lead reindeer, who was also a magic animal, to help her. They thought of all the things that she might be changed into to hide from the moon, and finally settled on a lamp in her tent.” Larisa smiled happily up at him. “You have to realize I’m making this as short as I can, but you’ll understand why I’m telling you the story if we’re going to enjoy a beautiful moon all weekend.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the reindeer changed her into a lamp which lit the entire tent. When the moon entered the tent, he searched everywhere but couldn’t find her. When he walked outside in despair, she turned back into herself and taunted him from the entrance, so of course he ran back to search for her again. Instantly she changed back into the lamp. This little game went on until the moon was so exhausted that she stood over him in her true form and threatened to kill him for frightening her so much.
“Now, listen close,” Larisa added, slipping her arm through his. “This is where you learn why we love folk tales. This moon was freezing to death in the snow, and he pleaded with the girl to let him warm up in the tent. Once inside, and knowing he would survive, the moon thanked her for her kindness when she could have left him in the snow to die. If she would let him return home, he promised to reward her by giving her and her people night-as-bright-as-day so that they would not have to hide from anyone. So the girl gave the moon his freedom and he drove his sleigh back up into the sky. And as a token of his gratitude, he shines down on us with his brilliant light.”
Morrison glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “That’s a story your mother told you?”
“It came down through the centuries, and I’m sure it has been changed a great deal. But the basic story of why the moon shines down on us probably hasn’t changed.” Her fingers dug into his arm. “I think that story came to me because the moon is so bright tonight … and you’ve come back to me a second time. But I don’t want to send you away. I don’t want to have to wait for a third time.”
The only light as they pulled up beside the building belonged to the moon. The cottage was tiny, but it was snug inside. There were oil lamps and a gas refrigerator well-stocked with food. They stood on the porch with their arms around each other for a moment and watched the moon’s reflection ripple on the water.
Then Larisa reached up and held his face in both hands. “There’s nothing else I want to do more now than make love to you.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Everything else can wait.” Then she led him to the tiny bedroom in the back of the cottage.
MOSCOW
STALBO’S STORY
Victor Stalbo was an ambitious man who had always enjoyed his responsibilities thoroughly. It mattered little to him what his organization was called as long as it served the purposes for which it was designed. Whether it was the NKVD, the MVD, or the KGB, they were all simply acronyms for the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He had risen steadily through a series of increasingly responsible positions because he was willing to undertake both the mundane and the unpleasant. His goal was to get as close to the top as his abilities and the uncertainties of politics would allow.
It was difficult to determine Stalbo’s age for he was one of those men who defied the years. Since the end of the war, there had been little of his blond hair to turn gray. Nor had he appeared to put on weight. He had always been stocky and his neck was almost non-existent. The plain, formless brown uniforms that he favored concealed middle age softening about the midsection. His face was undistinguished. Thin lips seemed always to form a partial sneer, even when he was pleased. But there was one feature that stood out from all the others. His eyes were blue and there was a cast to one that made it impossible to know exactly when he was looking at you. Victor Stalbo took great advantage of what others might have considered a failing.
This was causing no little concern for the official who sat in Stalbo’s office now. Alexei Fortin was a representative of Marshal Biryuzov, head of the Strategic Rocket Forces, and he was there because General Stalbo was intimately involved with Secretary Brezhnev on the installation of missiles around the distant city of Hanoi.
“Marshal Biryuzov is concerned … about the Chinese,” Fortin continued hesitantly. “Certainly, there is no way we can depend on the North Vietnamese. They are scarcely removed from the Dark Ages.”
Stalbo stared back coldly. His eyes were fixed directly on Fortin’s and he was experiencing a distinct pleasure in knowing that the other man was uncertain of that and increasingly nervous. “Perhaps your copy of the Secretary’s orders was inadvertently misplaced. As I remember, he explained exactly what he intended be done, and even emphasized the last possible date for each evolution. …” His voice drifted off sarcastically.
“I can assure you we are aware of every word of those orders. We question only the timing.”
One of Stalbo’s favorite means of intimidation was to rise from his chair and walk away from his desk, keeping his eyes on his guest at all times. If his stare was wearing them down, this ploy certainly hastened their departure. “Do you realize the amount of planning that went into this operation? The coordination with other departments? I can’t emphasize enough that your Marshal Biryuzov should understand the purpose behind all of this.”
“But he does, General, he does. It is myself who wonders whether this can really be done properly within the time frame.” Fortin was sweating now. The office was stuffy, another of Stalbo’s efforts to make visitors uncomfortable since he personally was little affected by climate. “We are not personally convinced that we should be undertaking this after the threats the American President has been making—” He was cut off before he could come to the point.
“Could I have made the Secretary’s orders clearer?” Stalbo inquired in a monotone. He was finished with the man and his question also served as a dismissal. Fortin left hurriedly with a look on his face that indicated he would not return soon.
Stalbo was much more concerned with a new and troubling occurrence. Some situations were acceptable in this business. It was a fact of life in the intelligence community that certain individuals would sell information, that some embassy employees were placed within a country purely to spy, and that occasional covert types could insinuate themselves into the community quite successfully. However, those who sold information sooner or later gave themselves away, and those on embassy staffs were summarily sent home every so often. But the covert types … he had received information that an American agent had not only been successfully inserted into the Moscow area, but had disappeared instantly!
General Stalbo, an expert at intelligence-gathering, was also adept at locating and breaking the best. Each was a challenge. However, there had been only a single reference to the one who had just arrived in Moscow and that bothered him. The Americans were good, he admitted, but not great—not as good as he was. Yet the fact that one of them had arrived and immediately disappeared was disturbing. Not even the source of this information was available. It was supposedly a rumor.
