“I hope so,” she said, slipping the gun out of its clips and feeling its weight.
“I assume you know how it works,” he asked.
“An American’s birthright,” she replied in the same tone. “It’s heavy,” she added. The GRU training hadn’t included Colts. She looked out of the window at the flat country surrounding them. The sun behind them was still bright but its shadows were lengthening, and the fields, thick with grain, seemed to emit a golden haze.
“We’re nearly there,” Joe said.
Ahead she could see a truck stop, a large diner surrounded by parking spaces. He turned the car in, making for the far corner of the lot where a long gray sedan waited under the trees.
Kuznetsky saw the Buick turn in and followed the Pontiac past. A quarter of a mile farther and his last doubts were removed. The red car pulled onto the grass turnout, and Kuznetsky, passing at speed, watched it make a U-turn in his rearview mirror. He continued on around a bend and made one himself. Passing the truck stop again, he saw the Buick in the distance, the Pontiac sitting by the diner a hundred yards away.
He drove on, wondering what to do. They would be returning to Washington once the deal was done, and there was no point in him interfering. He drove another half mile and pulled off into a side road, reversed the car, and settled down for another wait.
There were two of them. Joe shook hands with the younger one, a slight, dark-skinned man in a smart blue suit. The older man, who wore a light gray suit that was too tight for him, seemed to be staring straight at Amy, though it was hard to be certain through his sunglasses.
“Your partner doesn’t walk?” he asked Joe.
Joe grinned at him. “She’s nervous. It’s okay.” He lifted his arm to indicate the paper bag in his hand. “Here’s the money.”
The young one took it and disappeared into the car. Joe and the older one stood there smiling at each other. “I’ll bet she has a gun, your partner,” the Italian said conversationally. “Don’t you trust us?”
“Like I said, she’s the nervous type.”
The Italian looked at Amy again. “Rather you than me,” he said to Joe. “I like low-strung women, if you know what I mean.”
“I like ones who can hit what they aim at.”
The younger one had finished counting the money. “Okay, Paolo,” he yelled through the window.
Paolo opened the sedan’s trunk and took out a long canvas bag. Joe put it on the ground beside the Buick and examined the contents — three gleaming black tommy guns. He took one out, checked the action, and peered up the muzzle. “Needs greasing,” he muttered to himself.
“Okay?” Paolo asked indifferently.
“Fine. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Are you planning a war?” the young Italian asked sarcastically.
“There’s one on already,” Joe said, throwing the bag onto the backseat. “We just collect guns, that’s all.”
Paolo shrugged, stared at Amy once more, and climbed into the sedan. His partner pulled away with a squeal of tyres.
“Mama mia,” Amy murmured.
Kuznetsky watched the black Buick sweep past and, a moment later, the red Pontiac. He pulled out of the side road and concentrated on keeping the second car in sight. As they entered the Washington suburbs he shortened the distance between them, preferring discovery to the loss of his quarry.
The Buick stopped outside the Library of Congress, let the woman out, and continued on its way. The Pontiac didn’t move. Kuznetsky cursed; whoever it was, he was following Amy, not the German agent.
She succeeded in hailing a taxi and the procession resumed, this time heading west. Presumably she was going home. Kuznetsky took a chance and let the distance between himself and the Pontiac widen as they turned up Connecticut Avenue. He was right. Arriving at Amy’s home, near the zoo, he saw the Pontiac park opposite her apartment building, its occupant get out on the sidewalk and light a cigarette. Kuznetsky stopped and watched. The man looked up, looked at his watch, and looked up again. As he did so the light went on in Amy’s apartment. The man threw the cigarette down, causing a cascade of sparks, and got back into his car.
He drove straight toward Georgetown, down Wisconsin, and stopped in front of a seedy-looking building near the Potomac. After exchanging a few words and a laugh with the building security guard, he disappeared inside. Kuznetsky watched until a light went on in a sixth-floor window.
He got out of his car, crossed the street, and slipped into an alley that ran behind the building. At the back he found the fire escape, raised out of harm’s way, but managed without much difficulty to climb a drainpipe to the first floor, then took the fire escape up. At the sixth floor he forced the sash of a window overlooking the fire exit and clambered inside. The building seemed empty; there were no sounds at all and the only visible light came out from under the door at the end of the corridor. A panel on the door announced that the office belonged to James Duncarry, Confidential Investigations.
Kuznetsky listened but could hear nothing. As far as he could tell it wasn’t locked — why should it be? Slipping the Walther from his shoulder holster, he opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, all in one fluid movement. Duncarry sat behind his desk, pen in hand, a glass of whiskey in easy reach.
“What the hell…”
“Shut up,” Kuznetsky said softly. “Let me make something crystal clear to you. If you make any unnecessary noise or movement, I will kill you. Understand?”
The man tried to look defiant but failed. He nodded.
“Couch,” Kuznetsky said, gesturing with the gun. He moved across the room to where he could see both the man’s side of the desk and the door.
“Well, Mr. Duncarry, tell me why you were following that woman all evening.”
The detective’s face visibly relaxed. “Ah shit,” he said, “is that what all this is about?”
Kuznetsky searched the desk drawers. “I’m waiting,” he said.
“I can’t give you the name of my client. It’s—”
“Would you rather give me the name of your undertaker?”
The voice was so matter-of-fact that Duncarry shivered. “This guy came in last week—”
“Name?”
“Lee. Richard Lee. He wanted me to follow this woman — his girlfriend, I guess, he didn’t tell me — while he was out of town. Find out if she was sleeping around with some other guy, I guess. That’s all.”
“And what happened tonight?”
“She met a guy all right, and they went for a drive. Met some other car at a truck stop on the Annapolis road — he was doing some sort of deal, I guess — and then they drove right back. He didn’t even take her home. That’s all.” He was regaining his confidence. “And what the fuck’s it gotta do with you? She your sister or something? Waving guns around…”
“If you have to drivel, do it quietly,” Kuznetsky said. The evening’s events might not mean anything to Duncarry, but they’d probably mean something to Lee, whoever he was. Therefore Duncarry must not pass the information on. There seemed no way around it. Why was he looking for one? “Where are your case notes?” he asked.
“They’re all on the desk.”
“No file?”
“Not for this sort of job.” The tone was contemptuous.
Kuznetsky put the detective’s notepad in his pocket, glanced quickly through the other papers. Three more sheets followed the notepad. “We’re leaving,” he said.
“What? Where to?” Duncarry asked, the tremor back in his voice.