“We dug up the real skivvy on Levashev not long after he defected to us. Bits and pieces put together in the Analysis Branch. We doublechecked until the conclusion was inescapable. Meanwhile sources of ours behind the Curtain learned of Krylov’s assignment. We could have taken Levashev out ourselves at any time, of course, but this was made to order for our purposes. It was simply too good an opportunity to pass up. It’s worked out beautifully. Krylov, on orders of the KGB, is now officially General Levashev’s murderer. Even you, I’m sure, Mr. Brook, must see that the worldwide news story will have immense propaganda value for us.”
Brook was shaking his head. “It doesn’t look that way to me, sir. The KGB will get a lot of mileage out of Krylov’s being announced internationally as the killer of Levashev. It’ll scare hell out of every would-be defector in the Communist world. Unless you’ve left something out. What do you mean, the real skivvy on the General?”
“The General,” said the Director of FACE with a certain enjoyment, “was working with and for the Red Chinese.”
“The Red Chinese — Levashev?”
“Since way back, Mr. Brook, even when he was in the KGB. That’s what we put together after he ‘defected’ to the West. He was a hard-core Marxist — genuinely so; he even used this motivation, very cleverly, to explain to us why he turned his back on the Soviet Union. He was always saying how the big boys in the Kremlin had betrayed the Revolution. What he didn’t tell us, and what we found out, was that he had taken the logical next step: since Soviet Communism had strayed from the Marxist path, he had gone over to Chinese Communism, which sticks to it.”
It all fell into place rapidly. Brook sat on the bed shiny-eyed, drink forgotten.
“As a top man in the KGB, Levashev was in a unique position to pass its most important secrets over to Peking. A little over a year ago somebody in the Politburo became suspicious of him. Before they could arrest him he defected and got clear. His original purpose seems to have been to go to China; that’s why he holed up in Vienna so long while the messages went back and forth. The Mao people saw no profit in his hanging around in Peking; they finally convinced the old sucker that he could do more for them as their agent in the United States. So he came over to us. And here he sat, giving us leads whenever he got the chance that favored Red China as against the Soviet Union, occasionally learning or figuring out some of our plans vis-à-vis Red China and passing them on to Peking through a man we thought was a U.S. government agent.”
“Who was that?”
“The houseman we thought we put in there. Dead ringer for the CIA man we had assigned, a man of Filipino descent, whose bones are probably whitening in some arroyo in the desert. We’ve checked the dead man’s prints against the real Filipino’s on file; there’s no question about it. Somebody’s going to pay for that.”
“Some setup,” Brook muttered. “The Red Chinese with a listening post in the middle of our operations. I owe you an apology, Mr. Holloway. I thought you’d gone off your rocker.”
“Soviet agent liquidates Red Chinese agent,” the Director said with a trace of animation. He actually reached over and picked up his Scotch and took a sip. “Yes. Very nice. Helps widen the rift between them. Important overall policy for the U.S. just now. It’s their own technique, by George. About time we tried it. What’s the matter, Mr. Brook? Feeling unloved again?”
“Not again,” Brook said, “yet. I just remembered how you used me.”
“To be used, Mr. Brook, is a condition of your function,” Holloway said severely. But then he said, “Take a few days’ leave when you get back to Washington. Go to bed with a pretty girl or two. It will restore your usefulness to me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holloway,” Brook said. “Shall I lick your hand?”
The Director rose. “Sometimes I think it would be less taxing to run a corps of he-she ballet dancers than you prima donnas. See you in the morning, Mr. Brook.”
Brook was dreaming of a woman. Sometimes her face was Kimiko Ohara’s, sometimes Jasmine’s, but at last she developed a crop of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Whoever she was, she was wearing a filmy nothing that for kicks kept coming apart. The walls were covered in leopard skin. He was seated on a piano stool, naked, and she was coming across the room to him in great slow leaps.
“Turn out the light!” she was crying. “Turn out the light!”
“I like it better on,” Brook heard himself say.
“Out, out!” Megan Jones picked up a girl’s field hockey stick that turned into a giant Luger as she raised it. She pointed it at the light and said, “Bang.”
But instead of going out the light waxed in a flash.
Brook sat up in bed.
The light in the motel room was on, and Aleksei Krylov was standing at the foot of the bed pointing a pistol at him. His smile showed the gap between his teeth.
Brook made a brushing gesture. “Go away.”
“Oh, I shall,” Krylov said. “Both of us, Peter. No, you are not dreaming.”
“I wish to hell I were,” Brook said.
“No doubt.” The Russian moved a little closer, but still out of range. He was disheveled and dusty; there was a long scratch on the hand that held the gun. Where had he found a gun? “I have the feeling, Peter, that you are not a man of your word after all. You did not wait the hour we agreed on. There were roadblocks set up in every direction too quickly. And here in your desert there are not many roads. Every escape is cut off.”
“That’s your problem.” The gun was his own; Brook could only not look at the empty holster hanging on the chair beside the bed. That’s what comes of arming agents except for kills, he thought. A dumb practice.
“Our problem, Peter.” Krylov’s head jerked in the direction of the window. “You still have your rented automobile outside. That is fortunate for me. And the blanket you threw aside when I awakened you. Yes, we shall need the blanket, too.”
“What for?” Brook moved his legs slowly on the bed, as if he felt cramped.
“I shall be in the rear of the automobile under the blanket. The pistol, of course, will be pointed at the back of your head at all times. You will be stopped at the roadblocks. You will present your impressive identification and they will wave you on without searching the car. Careful!” Krylov steadied the gun as Brook swung his legs to the floor.
Brook remained in the sitting position on the bed. “Not bad, Alex, except that it won’t work.”
“For me it must. And I believe there is a good chance. I must point out, Peter, that your life depends upon it.”
“That gun isn’t loaded.”
Krylov laughed.
“Take a look.”
“No, I shall not take a look. You are lying, Peter. If the gun were not loaded you would have attacked me before this.”
“I’m telling you, Alex, I empty it at night. The cartridges are in the desk drawer there.”
“Not good enough, Peter.”
“You can’t be sure it’s loaded, and you can’t risk a shot to find out. Everybody in earshot will come running — the motel’s full.”
“You are deliberately wasting time.”
“You’ll defeat your own purpose, Alex.”
Krylov frowned. He shifted the pistol ever so little and raised it swiftly for a glance at the cylinder.
Brook dived.
It was a reasonable gamble. Krylov would instinctively expect a grapple. Brook hit him under the knees. The bullet went over his head as Krylov topped and dropped the pistol. They scrambled for it like two boys playing a game. Each man secured a grip, partly on the weapon, partly on the other’s hand. They rolled about the floor. Brook punched with his free hand. Krylov’s answering chop hit a shoulder. Brook’s knee whistled up in a try between Krylov’s legs, but the Russian locked his thighs a split second before and the knee hit muscle.