«I have no idea… I shall miss you, Michael. You were always civilized. Difficult but civilized. Then again, you’re not a native-born American, are you? You’re really European.»
«I’m American,» said Havelock quietly. «Really.»
«You’ve done well by America, I’ll say that. If you change your mind—or it’s changed for you—get in touch with me. We can always do business.»
«It’s not likely, but thanks.»
«That’s not an outright rejection, either.»
«I’m being polite.»
«Civilized. Au revoir, Mikhail… I prefer the name you were born with.»
Havelock turned his head slowly and watched Gravet walk with studied grace down the pavement of the Pont Royal toward the entrance of the bridge. The Frenchman had accepted a blind interrogation from people he found loathsome; he must have been paid very well. But why?
The CIA was in Amsterdam and the CIA did not believe him. The KGB was in Paris and the KGB did not believe him, either. Why?
So much for Paris. How far would they go to keep him under a microscope?
The Arethusa Delphi was one of those small hotels near the Syntagma Square in Athens that never let the traveler forget he is in Greece. The rooms were white on white on shimmering white. Walls, furniture and space-dividing ornamental beads were relieved only by garish plastic-framed oil paintings depicting the antiquities: temples, agoras and oracles romanticized by postcard artists. Each room had a pair of narrow double doors that opened onto a miniature balcony—large enough for two small chairs and a Lilliputian table—on which guests could have black morning coffee. Throughout the lobby and in the elevators one never escaped the rhythmic pounding of Greek folk music, strings and cymbals at prestissimo greco.
Havelock led the olive-skinned woman out of the elevator, and as the doors closed, both stood for a moment in mock anticipation. The music was gone; they sighed in relief.
«Zorba took a break.» Michael gestured to the left toward his room.
«The rest of the world must think we are nervous wrecks,» said the woman, laughing, touching her dark hair and smoothing out the long white dress that complemented her skin and accentuated her breasts and tapered body. Her English was heavily accented, cultivated on those Mediterranean islands that are the playgrounds of the Mediterranean rich. She was a high-priced courtesan whose favors were sought after by the princes of commerce and inheritance, a good-natured whore with a decent wit and a quick laugh, a woman who knew her time of pleasure-giving was limited. «You rescued me,» she said, squeezing Havelock’s arm as they walked down the corridor.
«I kidnapped you.»
«Often interchangeable terms,» she replied, laughing again.
It had been a little of both. Michael had run across a man on the Marathonos with whom he had worked in the Thermaikos sector five years ago. A dinner party was being held that night at a café on Syntagma Square; since it was convenient, Havelock accepted the invitation. The woman was there, the escort of a considerably older, boorish businessman. The ouzo and the prestissimo greco had done its damage. Havelock and the woman had been seated next to each other; legs and hands touched, they exchanged looks: comparisons were obvious. Michael and the island courtesan had slipped away.
«I think I’m going to face an angry Athenian tomorrow,» said Havelock, opening the door of his room, leading the woman inside.
«Don’t be silly,» she protested. «He’s not a gentleman. He’s from Epidaurus; there are no gentlemen in Epidaurus. He’s an aging bull of a peasant who made money under the colonels. One of the nastier consequences of their regime.»
«When in Athens,» said Michael, going to the bureau where there was a bottle of prized Scotch and glasses, «stay away from Epidaurians.» He poured drinks.
«Have you been to Athens often?»
«A few times.»
«What did you do? What line of work?»
«I bought things. Sold things.» Havelock carried the drinks back across the room. What he saw was what he wanted to see, although he had not expected to see it so quickly. The woman had removed her thin silk cape and draped it on a chair. She then proceeded to unbutton her gown from the top, the swelling of her breasts provocative, inviting.
«You didn’t buy me,» she said, taking the drink with her free hand. «I came of my own free will. Efharistou, Michael Havelock. Do I say your name right?»
«Very nicely.»
She touched his glass with hers, the sound gentle as she stepped closer. She reached up and placed her fingers on his lips, then his cheek, and finally around the back of his neck, drawing his face to hers. They kissed, her lips parting, the soft swollen flesh and moisture of her mouth arousing him; she pressed her body against his, pulling his left hand to the breast beneath her half-open gown. She leaned back, breathing deeply.
«Where is your bathroom? I’ll get into something—less.»
«Over there.»
«Why don’t you? Get into something less, that is. We’ll meet at the bed. I’m really rather anxious. You’re very, very attractive, and I’m—very anxious.»
She picked up her cape from the chair and walked casually, sensually toward the door beyond the bed. She went inside, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes telling him things that probably were not true, but were nevertheless exciting for the night. The practiced whore, whatever her reasons were, would perform, and he wanted, needed, the release of that performance.
Michael stripped himself down to his shorts, carried his drink to the bed, and tore away the spread and the blanket. He climbed under the sheet and reached for a cigarette, turning his body away from the wall.
«Dobriy vyehchyer, priyatel.»
At the sound of the deep male voice, Havelock spun around on the bed, instinctively reaching for a weapon—a weapon that was not there. Standing in the frame of the bathroom door was a balding man whose face Michael recognized from dozens of photographs going back years. He was from Moscow, one of the most powerful men in the Soviet KGB. In his hand was a gun, a large, black Graz-Burya automatic. There was a click; the hammer snapped into firing position.
3
«You may leave now,» said the Russian to the woman concealed behind him. She slid past, glancing at Havelock, then rushed to the door and let herself out.
«You’re Rostov. Pyotr Rostov. Director of External Strategies. KGB. Moscow.»
«Your face and name are also known to me. And your dossier.»
«You went to a lot of trouble, priyatel,» said Michael, using the Russian word for friend, its meaning, however, denied by his cold delivery. He shook his head, trying to clear it of a sickening mist, the effect of the ouzo and Scotch. «You could have stopped me on the street and invited me for a drink. You wouldn’t have learned any more or any less, and very little that’s valuable. Unless this is a kazn gariah.»
«No execution, Havlíček.»
«Havelock.»
«Son of Havlíček.»
«You’d do well not to remind me.»
«The gun is in my hand, not yours.» Rostov eased the hammer of his automatic back into its recess, the weapon still leveled at Michael’s head. «But that’s in the distant past and has no connection with me. Your recent activities, however, are very much my concern. Our concern, if you will.»
«Then your moles aren’t earning their money.»
«They file reports with irritating frequency, if only to justify it. But are they accurate?»
«If they told you I was finished, they were accurate.»
«Finished? A word with such finality, yet subject to interpretation, no? Finished with what? Finished with one phase, on to another?»