Connor could still see the cynical expression on the Chief’s face as he extracted the photographs from an inside pocket and passed them over to him. ‘Two fine women,’ Bolchenkov had said. ‘You must be proud of them. It would be a tragedy to have to shorten their lives for something they know nothing about.’
Fifteen minutes later the cell door swung open again, and Bolchenkov returned, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. This time he didn’t sit down. Connor continued to look up at the ceiling as if he wasn’t there.
‘I see that our little proposal is still presenting you with a dilemma,’ said the Chief, lighting the cigarette. ‘Even after our brief acquaintance, that does not surprise me. But perhaps when you hear my latest piece of news, you will change your mind.’
Connor went on gazing at the ceiling.
‘It appears that your former secretary, Joan Bennett, has met with an unfortunate car accident. She was on her way from Langley to visit your wife.’
Connor swung his legs off the bed, sat up and stared at Bolchenkov.
‘If Joan is dead, how could you possibly know she was on her way to see my wife?’
‘The CIA aren’t the only people who are tapping your wife’s telephone,’ replied the Chief. He took a last drag from his cigarette, allowed the stub to fall from his mouth and ground it out on the floor.
‘We suspect that your secretary had somehow discovered who it was that we arrested in Freedom Square. And without putting too fine a point on it, if your wife is as proud and headstrong as her profile suggests, I think we can assume that it won’t be long before she reaches the same conclusion. If that is the case, I fear Mrs Fitzgerald is destined to suffer the same fate as your late secretary.’
‘If I agree to Romanov’s terms,’ Connor said, ‘I wish to insert a clause of my own into the contract.’
Bolchenkov listened with interest.
‘Mr Gutenburg?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Maggie Fitzgerald. I’m the wife of Connor Fitzgerald, who I believe is currently abroad on an assignment for you.’
‘I don’t recall the name,’ said Gutenburg.
‘You attended his farewell party at our home in Georgetown only a couple of weeks ago.’
‘I think you must have mistaken me for someone else,’ replied Gutenburg calmly.
‘I have not mistaken you for anyone else, Mr Gutenburg. In fact, at eight twenty-seven on the second of November, you made a phone call from my home to your office.’
‘I made no such call, Mrs Fitzgerald, and I can assure you that your husband has never worked for me.’
‘Then tell me, Mr Gutenburg, did Joan Bennett ever work for the Agency? Or has she also been conveniently erased from your memory?’
‘What are you suggesting, Mrs Fitzgerald?’
‘Ah, I’ve caught your attention at last. Allow me to repair your temporary loss of memory. Joan Bennett was my husband’s secretary for nearly twenty years, and I have a feeling you would find it hard to deny that you knew she was on her way from Langley to see me when she met her death.’
‘I was sorry to read of Miss Bennett’s tragic accident, but I’m at a loss to understand what it has to do with me.’
‘The press are apparently mystified about what actually took place on the George Washington Parkway yesterday morning, but they might be a step nearer to the solution if they were told that Joan Bennett used to work for a man who has disappeared from the face of the earth while carrying out a special assignment for you. I’ve always found in the past that journalists consider a story involving a Medal of Honor winner to be of interest to their readers.’
‘Mrs Fitzgerald, I can’t be expected to remember every one of the seventeen thousand people the CIA employs, and I certainly don’t recall ever meeting Miss Bennett, let alone your husband.’
‘I see I’ll have to jog that failing memory of yours a little further, Mr Gutenburg. As it happens, the party you didn’t attend and didn’t telephone from was, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, videotaped by my daughter. She’d hoped to surprise her father by giving him the tape for Christmas. I’ve just had another look at it, Mr Gutenburg, and although you play only a minor role, I can assure you that your tete-a-tete with Joan Bennett is there for all to see. This conversation is also being recorded, and I have a feeling that the networks will consider your contribution worth airing on the early evening news.’
This time Gutenburg didn’t reply for some time. ‘Perhaps it might be a good idea for us to meet, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said eventually.
‘I can see no purpose in that, Mr Gutenburg. I already know exactly what I require from you.’
‘And what is that, Mrs Fitzgerald?’
‘I want to know where my husband is at this moment, and when I can expect to see him again. In return for those two simple pieces of information, I will hand over the tape.’
‘I’ll need a little time...’
‘Of course you will,’ said Maggie. ‘Shall we say forty-eight hours? And Mr Gutenburg, don’t waste your time tearing my home apart searching for the tape, because you won’t find it. It’s been hidden somewhere that even a mind as devious as yours wouldn’t think of.’
‘But...’ began Gutenburg.
‘I should also add that if you decide to dispose of me in the same way you did Joan Bennett, I’ve instructed my lawyers that if I die in suspicious circumstances, they are to immediately release copies of the tape to all three major networks, Fox and CNN. If, on the other hand, I simply disappear, the tape will be released seven days later. Goodbye, Mr Gutenburg.’
Maggie put the phone down and collapsed onto the bed, bathed in sweat.
Gutenburg shot through the connecting door between his office and the Director’s.
Helen Dexter glanced up from her desk, unable to hide her surprise that her Deputy had entered the room without bothering to knock.
‘We have a problem,’ was all he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The condemned man ate no breakfast.
The kitchen staff always made an effort to remove the lice from the bread for a prisoner’s last meal, but this time they had failed. He took one look at the offering and put the tin plate under his bunk.
A few minutes later, a Russian Orthodox priest entered the cell. He explained that although he was not of the same denomination as the prisoner, he would be happy to perform the last rites.
The holy sacrament was the only food he would eat that day. After the priest had performed the little ceremony, they knelt together on the cold stone floor. At the end of a short prayer the priest blessed him and left him to his solitude.
He lay on his bunk staring up at the ceiling, not for one moment regretting his decision. Once he had explained his reasons, Bolchenkov had accepted them without comment, even nodding curtly as he left the cell. It was the nearest the Chief would ever get to admitting that he admired a man’s moral courage.
The prisoner had faced the prospect of death once before. It didn’t hold the same horror for him a second time. On that occasion he had thought about his wife, and the child he would never see. But now he could only think of his parents, who had died within a few days of each other. He was glad that neither of them had gone to their graves with this as their final memory of him.
For them, his return from Vietnam had been a triumph, and they were delighted when he had told them that he intended to go on serving his country. He might even have become Director if a President in trouble hadn’t decided to appoint a woman, in the hope that it would help his flagging campaign. It hadn’t.