Allworth turned. “Yes”
“Porter, monsieur” Allworth opened the door. An older man in a crisp white jacket smiled up at him. “May I turn down your bed for you, monsieur”
“Not just yet” Allworth said. He pulled out a two-hundred-franc bill.
“Can I get a bottle of cognac and a glass”
“Naturellement, monsieur” The porter smiled, accepting the money. “It will be just a few minutes”
“No rush” Allworth said. Technically he was still on leave. He meant to enjoy his last day before he had to get back to work. Loosening his tie he took off his jacket, slipped off his shoes, and opened the bi-fold door to his tiny bathroom with its pull-down sink. He splashed some cool water on his face, and drying off he smiled at himself in the mirror.
SAC Headquarters at Omaha had been a career necessity. It’s what brought him a step closer to the bird, and as a direct result got him his new job as missile control officer, even if he hadn’t liked SAC. He was making progress, and that’s all that counted. He switched off the light in the bathroom, opened the outer window shade, and sat down on the couch. Lighting a cigarette he looked down at the rapidly clearing platform. The train would be pulling out momentarily, and for just a brief instant he felt a twinge of uncertainty. “Comes with the territory” his father the general had told him once. “You can’t move every few years without feeling dislocated. Make the service your home, then find a good woman and keep her. You’ll do just fine” Someone knocked at his door. “Porter” Allworth opened the door and took the cognac and glass from the man, received his change, and handed him back two ten-franc coins.
“Merci”
“I don’t think you’ll need to turn down my bed tonight”
“No”
“No” Allworth said with a grin.
“If you need anything else, just ring, monsieur. I will be happy to serve you”
“VAAT time will we get into Kaiserslautern”
“At seven, monsieur”
“Good, thanks”
“Oui., I Allworth opened the bottle and poured himself a stiff measure’ then sat down again by the window as the train lurched and pulled out of the station, slowly at first, but gathering speed as they came up into the city. He laid his head back and sighed deeply, the cognac spreading its warmth throughout his body, filling him with a sense of well-being.
It had been a long haul, he thought. This was the last step before the big move. The Pentagon, Washington, a city both he and Joanne loved. Not that they were people filled with pretensions, but they did enjoy the social whirl, being close to power. It was heady stuff for both of them.
Someone knocked at his door again, and Allworth assumed it was the porter. He went to the door. For a brief instant he simply could not believe what he was seeing. A tall man stood in the corridor facing him, a leather bag over his shoulder. He was handsome in a rugged, athletic way. In fact Allworth thought he was looking at his own double, or a man near enough to his own twin to be startling. “What Allworth started to say when the man raised silenced pistol and shot him in the middle of the forehead, huge thunderclap exploding in his head.
Inside the tiny first-class compartment Arkady Aleksandrovich Kurshin locked the door and closed the outer window shade. Working quickly, he opened his shoulder bag and withdrew a large, thin plastic sheet and spread it out on the floor. Careful to get no blood on himself or the carpeted floor e rolled Colonel Allworth’s body onto the sheet. Actually the wound had bled very little, nor had the low-grain, soft nosed bullet exited the back of the American’s head. But it had killed him instantly.
Kurshin was methodical. But then he was a professional and it was to be expected. It would be several hours before they neared the German border; nevertheless he did not waste any time. There was much to be done before he could rest. First, he stripped Allworth’s body of everything including the man’s underwear, his watch, his dog tags, and his gold wedding band, carefully inspecting each item in minute detail so that not only could he make sure nothing had been stained by blood or any other body fluids released at Allworth’s death, but to familiarize dead man’s possessions, which for the coming forty-eight hours would be his. Next, he removed all of his clothing, including a very expensive diamond-studded gold Rolex watch, a heavy gold neck chain, and a diamond pinky ring. He had just a moment of revulsion as he pulled on Allworth’s underwear, but he ignored his single, oddly out of place, sign of squeamishness and finished dressing in the dead man’s clothing, including his watch, dog tags, and wedding ring. He put all of his clothing on Allworth’s body. “Another, greedier, man might think to keep some of the considerable money, or perhaps some of the jewelry you will be carrying, Arkady” Baranov had told him. “After all, what use can a dead man have with such things? Besides, the first man to find his body might very well himself be a thief” Kurshin had sat with Baranov in a cafe on East Berlin’s Unter den Linden. He looked across his drink at the general. A rare, difficult man, he’d thought. But brilliant, and totally without conscience. “It is part of his identification” Kurshin said. “Exactly. We do understand each other” Kurshin smiled. “When I steal from you, Comrade General, it will be much more than a few thousand francs and a pretty watch”
“Oh, dear” Baranov had laughed, throwing his head back. “That is rich, that is rich indeed” Everything fit perfectly except for the shoes. His were too small for Allworth’s feet. Kurshin was vexed for just a moment, but then he shrugged it aside. Allworth’s shoes would be too big for him, but that didn’t matter. Had it been the other way around, it would have made things difficult. So far it was the only thing they hadn’t counted on. Kurshin set the shoes aside, on the plastic sheet, and from his leather shoulder bag removed a pair of latex surgical gloves, a very sharp switchblade knife, and a small pair of pruning shears which he laid beside Allworth’s body. Kneeling next to the body, he pulled the edge of the plastic sheet up over his legs and began his work. Kurshin had boarded the train on a French passport under the name of Edmon Railliarde, an import/export broker from Marseille. In actuality, Railliarde was a member of the French Mafia. He’d been snatched two days ago from his magnificent villa outside of Marseille and his body by now had been ground to small pieces and distributed to the fishes at sea.
Railliarde had many enemies. Using the handles of the shears Kurshin spent fifteen minutes knocking out Allworth’s teeth, destroying every bit of dental evidence that might prove he was not the French criminal, Railliarde. Next, he clipped off the tips of Allworth’s fingers, each one separating from the bloodless stump with a sickening snap. These he put in a small vial of acid he’d carried with him. This he would toss before they crossed the border. Finally, using the razorsharp switchblade, Kurshin removed Allworth’s face, just as an animal might be skinned. This tissue, which rolled into a surprisingly small ball, went into another small container of acid to be disposed of with the dead man’s fingertips. When he was done he sat back, his stomach rumbling a little. It had been nearly twelve hours since he’d eaten last. Though there was no blood, it had been gruesome work. But necessary. Very necessary if his fiction was to hold up for any length of time. At the window Kurshin opened the shade and looked out at the passing countryside. There wasn’t much to be seen. A few lights off in the distance. They were passing through the farm country east of Paris, not too far from Chfilons-surmaine. Perfect, he thought. He lowered the window, the noise and rushing air filling the cabin. Tossing his shoulder bag on Allworth’s chest, he wrapped the body in the plastic sheet, manhandled it up to the window, and levered it through the opening. It was gone in a sharp fluttering of plastic, and Kurshin closed and locked the window and closed the shade. For the next twenty minutes he inspected every square inch of the cabin, the floors, the walls, and even the ceiling for any trace that a murder and mutilation had occurred here. Satisfied at length that the room was clean, he sat down on the couch, poured a stiff measure of cognac, lit a cigarette, and started going through Allworth’s suitcase, item by item, mentally cataloguing every single thing so that he would know it as well as his own possessions.