Nothing would be gained by antagonizing. "I am to rendezvous with him on the island of Guam. And since I am the only one he will trust, I must meet him alone. Our bargain will be this — I keep the meeting, dispose of him, and deliver the documents to you."
Kovalenko paled slightly. "And he trusts you enough to—"
"I agree!" Braun interrupted loudly as the waiter approached. He kept blathering in the overt voice of a man who'd tipped one more drink than he was accustomed to, "The Russians alone would never have been a match for Hitler's Wehrmacht!"
The waiter left the check discreetly in the middle of the table, then shuffled away. Braun pushed it toward Kovalenko.
The Russian reached for his wallet. "And I suppose you have a price in mind for your work?"
"One million U. S. dollars — half tomorrow."
The Russian laughed freely for the first time, still chuckling as he pulled cash from his wallet. "You Americans do have an excellent… how do they say it… sense of humor!"
The two engaged eyes and Kovalenko s smile evaporated. He said, "Surely you cannot be serious! My superiors—"
"Your superiors," Braun cut in, "will agree without reservation. My information can save them a thousand times as much. The fee is absolutely nonnegotiable. I have no affinity for mother Russia. Other countries would easily recognize the value of what I offer." Braun hadn't really considered it, but he suspected there was enough truth in the threat to make it stick. He dictated his final instructions.
"I will deal only with you. Meet me tomorrow, same place, same time, and bring half the fee. If I spot anyone else this time, you will never see me again. Wait ten minutes before you leave." Braun got up and walked away.
Kovalenko sat still. He watched the man he knew as Alex move smoothly to the door. A million dollars, he thought miserably. How could he put forward such an offer to headquarters? They would be livid. Kovalenko wondered how high this fiasco had already gone in the NKVD. Had the chief of the American zone seen it yet? Moscow was clearly interested in Alex's information. The cable had authorized Kovalenko to offer anything — but they could never have imagined such madness. He wished the stupid brick had never come to him. He wished he was one of the colonels breaking heads in a dark corner of Lubyanka's basement. If he wasn't careful, Kovalenko knew he could soon be on the other end of it.
And it wasn't only his superiors who worried him. He wanted nothing to do with Alex, or whatever his name really was. Kovalenko was a good judge of men. He had risen far in a cutthroat organization, and it was largely thanks to his ability to assess people. Thieves and liars, police and thinkers — Kovalenko thrived on the accuracy of his instincts. From the initial letter, he thought this contact might be a harmless college professor wanting to support the Communist cause. But at the Embarcadero, Kovalenko had quickly decided otherwise. It was the way Alex moved, the way he eyed Dmitri and Sergei.
Alex was a killer. Of this, Kovalenko was sure.
Chapter 38
"What kind of airplane is it?" Lydia asked as she and Thatcher walked across the cement parking apron.
The big silver transport ahead of them was one of dozens in a row that looked exactly the same. The only thing to distinguish this particular craft was the markings on the tail — it was the only one without the star emblem of the U. S. Army Air Force.
Thatcher said, "It's a C-47. The Americans have been building them by the thousands."
"And this ones Australian?"
"Yes."
A young man in greasy coveralls — the loadmaster, Thatcher had explained — greeted them at the back stairs."
"G'day. So youre the two that need a lift?"
"Yes," Thatcher replied. "We'll try to stay out of your way."
"Not to worry," the airman said, "make yourselves comfortable."
Thatcher climbed up first. Lydia followed, and as she did, she felt the Australian's eyes on her — ogling like the boys had in high school. She supposed that's where he'd been not long ago.
Inside there was barely room to move. Wooden crates were piled high, matching the contour of the ceiling. They were all stenciled with labels — welding torches, powdered milk, light-bulbs, and whiskey. The larger crates were tied down, secured to the floor and walls, while the smaller boxes sat wedged in gaps. Altogether, Lydia imagined it must weigh tons.
She followed Thatcher forward, having to turn sideways to squeeze through gaps in the mountain of cargo. Just behind the flight deck, a pair of webbed bench seats were situated on each side. He dropped his suitcase to the metal floor. "I should go introduce myself to the pilots."
They had tried to find a commercial flight to Guam, but there were none. The only option was military transport, and Thatcher had somehow gotten approval to drag her along. He had a way of doing that, she'd noticed, a knack for getting what he wanted. Lydia took a seat on the rickety bench. It was ridiculously uncomfortable. If father could see me now.
Thatcher came back and took a seat beside her, settling in with ease.
"You're used to this kind of thing, aren't you?"
"Well, yes. I suppose so. Have you flown before?"
"Twice. But it was a better air line than this. I didn't much like that purser."
He laughed. "I'm afraid it will take at least three of these flights to get us to Guam. Can you manage it?"
"I might come to like it, actually. So your boss, Colonel Ainsley, arranged it?"
"Reluctantly. His first inclination was to bring me back to England. But when I told him about all that's happened, Roger had no choice. He insisted I go to Guam. As far as getting the flight, we knew the Americans wouldn't help and the RAF had nothing passing through. The Aussie's were our best bet. He called in an old favor."
"A side advantage of Colonial rule?"
"Well — Australia. I think Roger liked that. It's where we've always sent our undesirables. Although with any luck we won't have to go that far. I think there's a good chance we can find a shortcut along the way."
"Did you tell the colonel I was going with you?"
"No. Did you tell your father?"
"Of course not. He thinks I'm on a flight headed back East right now."
The engines whined and spat as they spun to life.
"It's very loud," Lydia shouted, her hands over her ears.
"Wait until we take off!"
Indeed, engine noise seemed to shake the entire plane as it careened down the runway. The boxes and crates teetered precariously, straining against tie-down straps. Without them, Lydia was sure they'd have been crushed. The young loadmaster was slouched on the opposite bench, grinning, but looking very tired, his head nodding to one side.
The noise lessened once they were in the air. Thatcher unstrapped their seat belts and pulled Lydia to a window. Below, she could see Los Angeles, an impossible maze of concrete and metal. Soon, the city drifted away and there was nothing beneath but the deep blue Pacific.
"We'll be seeing a lot of that," Thatcher remarked.
"And so will Alex," Lydia found herself saying.
"Yes. He might be looking at the very same view right now."
"Do you really think he has a chance, Michael? We know where and when to look for him. The FBI are involved, aren't they?"
"According to your father, Jones has been given everything. He'll have to pursue it now. Of course, he's always seen Alex as a direct threat — you know, a saboteur. But you proved it on the train, Lydia — he's carrying information on the Manhattan Project."
Lydia felt a chill. Edward, she thought. The flight instructor, Mitchell. And the poor old Indian who'd gone to help after Alex's plane had crashed. She wondered how many others there had been. "Do you think we can stop him?"