“You are well-informed…”
“There is no reason to expect problems in the months to come?”
“Not that I know of. Where is all this leading, Mr. Sheslakov?”
“I am coming to that. We understand you are the owner of two ships involved in this arrangement, and that one of them, the Balboa, is due to dock in Maracaibo, Venezuela, in the next few days…”
“The point?”
Sheslakov smiled. “The Soviet Government wishes to give you some business, Mr. Lorentsson. We want that ship to call at Havana, Cuba, on August 12 and collect something for us.”
“What is the cargo?”
“For your information, it will be two naturalists, two German naturalists, and their crates of specimens. I am assured by our own shipping experts that such a diversion would not add long, either in time or distance, to the homeward journey. And you would of course be generously paid.”
The Swede’s expression had gone through surprise, amusement, and anger. “What can two German naturalists possibly be worth to the Soviet Union?” he asked.
“We will pay a million Swedish krone on delivery in Gothenburg,” Sheslakov said drily. “As far as your company — and your ship’s captain, a Mr Torstennson I believe — are concerned, this is a request from the German Government, a humanitarian request.”
Lorentsson stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sheslakov, but Sweden is a neutral country.”
Sheslakov didn’t move. “I’m aware of that. I can assure you that this transaction has nothing whatsoever to do with the current war, and cannot therefore in any way compromise your country’s neutrality.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Lorentsson said. “Who are these ‘naturalists’ really? What are their ‘specimens’?”
“I am also obliged to inform you,” Sheslakov said quietly, “that a refusal to accept this contract will be considered a most unfriendly act by the Soviet Government.”
Lorentsson stared at him, and for the first time seemed unsure of himself. “Am I being threatened?” he asked incredulously.
Sheslakov remembered Fyedorova saying that the Swedes had not known terror since the Middle Ages. “Mr. Lorentsson, I will be perfectly honest with you,” he said, looking the other man straight in the eye. “I do not know who these ‘naturalists’ are, nor the nature of their ‘specimens’. The fact that half the Politburo smokes Havana cigars may be of some relevance. I have no need to know, and neither do you. My government is willing to pay you well, very well, for collecting them. Where is the problem?”
The shipping magnate stared out of the window, seemingly engrossed in the embers of the sunset. “What if I refuse?” he asked without turning his head.
“Why even consider it?”
“I’d like to know.”
Sheslakov sighed. “You’ll be dead within a month.”
Lorentsson whirled around, seemed on the verge of an angry outburst. “For a few crates of cigars?” he half-shouted.
“I understand,” Sheslakov said matter-of-factly, “that the Swedish people take a pride in being practical, and nonideological. You had nothing to gain and much to lose from entering the war, so you stayed out. You have nothing to gain and much to lose from refusing this contract, so why not accept it? No country, no person, is free of pressures.”
Lorentsson still said nothing, but Sheslakov knew he was beaten, knew from the blinking eyes, the turned-down mouth, the slightly sagging shoulders.
“You have no choice,” he said gently, “because, like most people, you want to live.”
Sheslakov stood up, took the envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “It’s all written down. When we hear from our people in Venezuela that your cargo has arrived, you will receive half the payment.”
And your death will be ordered, Sheslakov thought as he descended the stairs. Outside, a red moon was hanging low in the eastern sky, edging the trees with blood. As they drove back toward Gothenburg he felt a profound sense of anticlimax. His part was over. All that remained was the waiting and hoping.
Kuznetsky wiped his brow for the hundredth time that day. He was used to heat, but of the dry variety. This damn humidity was something else entirely; it was like floating in a steam bath. His shirt and trousers clung, his feet squirmed inside his shoes. The end of his cigarette was sodden with sweat.
He tossed it out of the car window and sat back, watching the denizens of Washington going home for their supper. He still wasn’t accustomed to the new fashions, particularly the women’s. All these skirts tight around the hips and the broad belts with buckles. All the legs on display! He smiled as he imagined the reaction of the Party bosses back home — bunch of hypocritical prudes. It had been so different in the Revolution years; maybe this war would have the same effect. There was nothing like death for breaking down the mystique of the human body.
The atmosphere in Washington was difficult for him to judge. He’d known America was a long way from the war, but it was at war, and yes, there were some shortages, the casualty lists, the newsreels, and the radio programs full of letters from the boys at the front. But it didn’t feel like a nation at war. It felt more like a nation engrossed in watching a war movie. The faces walking past were free of strain, smartly dressed and made-up, unconcerned…
His fellow Americans. An alien species, yet somehow achingly familiar. It was the physical gestures, the way they moved their arms, tilted their heads — those were his gestures, American gestures.
He looked at his watch. A minute to go and, sure enough, there she was, walking toward the pickup point. He studied Amy’s walk, wondering if there was anything particularly Germanic in the graceful, upright stride. Everyone else, all the Americans, seemed to be slouching in comparison.
She had just reached the library steps when a black Buick drew up alongside the curb. He watched Amy feign surprise, say something with a smile, and get into the car. She was a good actress if nothing else. The driver’s face was in a shadow; as expected, he’d have to wait for their return and then follow the man home.
The Buick made a U-turn and headed west at the next intersection along Independence Avenue. Kuznetsky took out a cigarette, and as he did so noticed a red car, a Pontiac, draw away from the curb and into the Buick’s slipstream. It might be coincidence, it probably was, but a little alarm bell went off in his mind. It would do no harm to make sure.
“Who are these people?” Amy asked Joe as they drove the Buick deeper into the Maryland countryside.
Joe thought for a moment, an impish look on his face. “Let’s call them our Axis partners,” he answered.
So it was the Mafia. Faulkner had thought it would be. “What do they know?” she asked.
“Nothing. Only that we want the guns and have the money. A simple business deal.”
“What’s the connection?”
He ignored the question. “Have you ever noticed,” he said, “the similarity between the Mafia and the federal government? They both love competition so much, they spend all their time trying to kill it.”
She grinned in spite of herself. “And the connection?”
“There’s no need for you to know,” he said flatly.
“Okay. But since I’m here in this car, I’d like to know how you’re so certain we can trust them.”
He stretched his right arm in front of her and sprung open the glove compartment. A fearsome-looking Colt revolver was clipped to the inside. “You’ll stay in the car with that,” he said. “But I don’t expect any trouble. They have a code of sorts. They like doing business properly — makes them feel like upright American citizens.”