He had spent three hours sitting stark naked in an isolation cell before they returned his clothes. Throughout the entire experience no one had asked him a single question. Not when they picked him up, during the ride to the prison, nor while they were holding him.
After he was dressed, a man in a blue suit led him through the corridors to an office. Sitting behind the desk pawing through the stuff that had been in his pockets was General Shmarov.
“Find anything interesting?”
Shmarov held up the white button that came off yesterday’s shirt and looked from it to the CIA officer. “Maybe the cleverest transmitter I have yet seen, Tenney.”
Then he grinned and tossed the button on top of the currency and passport lying there. “Sorry for the inconvenience today.”
“Was this supposed to be funny? Should I laugh now?”
Shmarov shrugged. “You know how these things are. I was asked to do a favor by a very high officer in the Defense Ministry. He wanted your passport checked. How could I refuse? He had been asked to do this by an American naval officer.”
“Rear Admiral Grafton? He was here?”
“Yes. Grafton. With an aide. Did he leave any of your seams intact?”
Tenney found a chair and dropped into it. “I think I caught a cold in your dungeon. I never realized how drafty these damned places are.”
“They searched your car and took the keys that were in your pocket. They brought them back a few minutes ago.” General Shmarov displayed the keys and placed them beside the button on top of the rubles and dollars. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and filled the room with smoke. Then he said, “Want to tell me what this is about?”
“I’m as mystified as you are, General,” Herb Tenney told him.
Shmarov displayed his gold teeth in a grin and puffed some more on his cigarette.
“Who rubbed out Kolokoltsev?”
The golden grin disappeared. Shmarov stubbed out the cigarette and stared through the dissipating smoke at his visitor. “Someone who wanted to make a lot of trouble. They succeeded.”
“Hard to believe that something like that could happen here in Moscow, almost under your nose. Soviet Square is what, a half mile from here? A kilometer?”
“What do you know about it, Tenney?”
Herb Tenney got up and approached the desk. He picked up his things and placed them in his pockets. Then he put his knuckles on the desk and stared into Shmarov’s face. “I think it looks as if you people killed your own guys so you could set up Yeltsin. They’ll think that over at the Kremlin. They’ll think it in Washington too. Whoever pulled the cops out of that square really screwed the pooch.”
“We are not that stupid.”
“I’ll tell them that at Langley. But if I were you I’d find someone to hang it on, and damn quick.”
The ringing phone woke Jake Grafton. He had thrown himself on the bed and just dozed off.
“Grafton.”
“Admiral, this is Jack Yocke.”
“Hey.”
“I was wondering if you could come over for a drink.”
“Well, I don’t think—”
“See you within an hour, Admiral, in my room.” And Yocke hung up.
Jake cradled the receiver and swung his feet over onto the floor. He looked at his watch. Eleven at night. He was still fighting the jet lag and hangover and he felt lethargic, unable to concentrate. He put on his shoes and splashed some cold water from the sink onto his face.
Yocke’s room was on the fourth floor of the hotel. He opened the door at Toad’s knock. “Come in.”
When he had the door closed Yocke said, “General Land called a little while ago. You’re to wait here with me.”
“For what? Another phone call?”
Yocke shrugged. “I just take messages and deliver them.”
Jake sank into the one stuffed chair.
“How’s the foreign correspondent these days?” Toad asked Yocke as he dropped onto the bed.
“He’s right in the middle of the biggest story in Russia and he can’t make heads or tails of it,” Yocke replied, staring at Jake Grafton. “Can’t print it either.”
“I guess assassins can be tough to interview if you can’t find them.”
“That isn’t the story I meant. Anyway, my editor took me off that and gave it to the senior man. I’m doing political stuff. Y’know, ‘Today the Russian Ministry of Economics announced a new stabilization policy for the ruble.’ Drivel like that.” He sighed. “Other than that, the food here is barely edible and grotesquely expensive, the vodka tastes like rubbing alcohol, my bed is lumpy, the pillow’s too big, and I had a devil of a time yesterday getting a roll of toilet paper from the maid. Had to give her a U.S. dollar for it. I’ve got to find an apartment by next week and get out of this hotel or the bean counters at the Post are going to get testy. What’s new with you?”
Tarkington just made a noise and stretched out on the bed. In a moment he said, “This pillow is too big.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“I don’t think the bed’s lumpy though.”
Before Yocke could think of a reply, Jake Grafton asked, “How would you like to tag along with me and Toad for a while?”
The question startled Yocke. Toad opened his eyes, sat up and stared wide-eyed at Jake for a few seconds, then flopped back on the bed and groaned.
“Sort of like Washington a couple of years ago, eh?” Yocke said with a grin. “Same rules?”
“Well, not exactly.” Jake frowned. “I guess I don’t know precisely what the rules should be. So I’d want some sort of promise that you won’t print anything on any subject without my okay.”
“I assume that you’re working with the Russians. Do they know I’ll be there? A reporter?”
“I’ve talked to General Yakolev about it. I told him I could trust you.”
Toad groaned again. “Spreading it a little thick, aren’t you, sir? I’d trust Jack the Hack with parking meter money, but…”
“Yakolev? Isn’t he the chief of staff for the new Commonwealth Army?”
“That’s the guy. Nicolai Yakolev.”
“Soaks up vodka like a sponge,” Toad tossed in.
“I agree.” Yocke grinned broadly and offered Jake his hand. After the admiral shook it, he grabbed a steno pad and a pencil and plopped onto the edge of the bed, forcing Tarkington to scoot over. He flipped the pad open to a fresh page and said, “Shoot.”
“No notes. None.”
“I have to take notes. I got a good memory but it ain’t Memorex. Only way to ensure accuracy later on when I write the story.”
Grafton appeared unmoved, so Yocke steamed on. “We’re talking the Washington Post here, not the Alfalfa County Clarion.” Yocke added confidentially, “I’ll use my own private shorthand. No one can read it but me. Honest.”
“Not even if you write in Swahili.”
Tarkington chortled.
Yocke tossed the steno pad on top of the dresser. “No notes.”
“The other part of it is that the CIA may try to kill you.”
Yocke’s mouth fell open. He glanced at Toad, then back at Jake. “The CIA? Our guys? You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“I can’t write a story if I’m dead.”
“That thought may occur to them too.”
“Them? The whole CIA or a couple of bad apples or who?”
“I dunno.”
Yocke lost his temper. “Jesus Christ, Admiral! You don’t give a guy much. What say we do this the conventional, tried-and-true traditional way? You tell me whatever you want to tell me and I’ll write and publish it, just like a real working reporter. You’ll be an anonymous, reliable source, an unnamed high government official. I won’t reveal your name to another living soul, even if they throw me in jail. I’ll stay alive and out of your hair. Anytime you want to talk, just give a shout.”