“No.”
“Are you aware that Ivan Zvezdni, one of your subordinates, was arrested by men from the public prosecutor’s office just about an hour ago?”
“No. How do you know all this?”
“Do you wish to make any other comment about this story?”
“I know nothing about it. What more can I say?” And the connection broke.
Yocke replaced the phone on the hook and turned to Gregor.
“We got it. He denies everything.”
12
Admiral Grafton, this is Jack Yocke. I’ve got a little problem and need your help.”
“What kind of problem?” The tone of the admiral’s voice on the telephone made it clear that he didn’t have time for a social call.
“It’s a long story, sir, and I’d like to tell it to you in person.”
“I’m really swamped right now. Where are you?”
“Down here in the little reception office in front of the embassy compound.”
Grafton sighed. “Okay. I’ll send Toad down.”
“Thanks.”
Yocke hung up the telephone and went back outside. Gregor was sitting in the car, double-parked in the street. The reporter bent down so he could talk through the passenger window. “I’ll need the computer out of the trunk.”
Gregor killed the engine and climbed out. He opened the trunk without a word and let Yocke reach in and get the computer case. “So it’s good-bye then.”
“You’re still on the payroll, Gregor. And I will talk to the editor about that raise.”
Gregor closed the trunk, locked it, then got back into the car. Yocke pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off five twenties. He stood by the driver’s door. “Here. This is for you.”
Gregor stared up at him. He tried to smile but it didn’t come out that way. “No.”
“This isn’t charity, Gregor. You’ve earned it. Feed your family.”
The Russian started the car and put it in gear. Yocke tossed the bills in his lap as the car got under way. “I’ll call you,” he shouted.
He adjusted the strap of the computer bag and watched the Lada go down the street trailing a thin blue cloud of exhaust fumes. After it disappeared from sight he turned toward the embassy gate. Toad Tarkington was standing there watching him.
“What have you been into this time?”
Yocke glanced at the gate guard, a Moscow policeman wearing the usual gray uniform. He went past him into the reception office and turned to face Tarkington.
“The KGB was waiting for me at my hotel.”
Toad snorted. “You sure?”
“We drove by. There were a dozen police cars out front, a dozen or so guys in dark suits around the entrance. Three or four at every other door. It looked like Al Capone’s garden party. I tripped over a hornet’s nest.”
Toad snorted. “Kicked it over, you mean. Then you come charging over to the Hotel Grafton with your hair on fire and a rat in your mouth.”
“Dammit, Toad, I’ve got to write this story and file it.”
“Story on what?”
“The Soviet Square killings.”
Toad pursed his lips as he examined Yocke’s face. “Better come up and tell it to the admiral,” he said, and made a hi sign to the receptionist behind the safety glass. After she pushed her button Toad opened the door for the reporter.
Jake Grafton was surrounded by computer printouts and maps. He was curt. “Let’s hear it.”
So Toad told it. Quickly and concisely. When he had completed his recitation the admiral glanced at Tarkington, who was leaning back against the wall with his eyebrows up as far as they would go.
“So the KGB set up their stooge, Kolts-something,” the admiral said. “Why?”
“Well, there are several possible reasons why they might have done it, like—”
“You’re going to write this story without knowing why they did it?”
“Yep.” Yocke glanced at his watch. “It’ll run on tomorrow’s front page.” Seeing the look on Grafton’s face, the reporter went on: “Gimme a break, Admiral. If we had waited to get Lee Harvey Oswald’s reasons before we reported Kennedy’s assassination, we’d still be waiting.”
“That’s a real argument stopper, but it’s hardly germane to this case.”
“Facts are facts.”
“If you’ve got any.”
Jack Yocke’s face flushed. “Jesus! You’re worse than my editor.”
“I’m just pointing out the obvious. If I were a reporter I’d want it in spades before I accused someone of murder. But you’re the guy they pay the big bucks.” Grafton cleared his throat while Jack Yocke figured out how to handle his face.
When the reporter spoke his voice was carefully under control. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’ve got a story about how the police were pulled out of that square and in my professional opinion, it’s solid. I—” He stopped speaking because Jake Grafton had waved his hand, cutting him off.
The admiral toyed with a pen, clicking the point in and out a few times. “Yeltsin is going to be one happy man when he hears about this,” he said finally.
“I suppose.”
Toad cleared his throat. “How about describing this woman you met in the bar.”
“Now wait a minute. It doesn’t really matter who she is. She merely gave me a tip and I verified it by an independent investigation.”
Yocke hadn’t given the woman’s motives a thought and Toad’s question irritated him. In America people routinely sought out reporters to put them onto a story. Reporters knew these people were driven by a variety of motives, including revenge. Yet if the story checked out as true and newsworthy, the tipster’s motives didn’t really matter. And Jack Yocke knew damn well he had latched onto a big, true story. A huge story. The dimensions of it slightly awed him. And it was solid. There was no way in hell those people today were acting, feeding him a line. After questioning a few thousand people, he knew the truth when he heard it. If he heard it. And by God, today he had heard it.
The problem was Tarkington. He was a good man, but at times he was tough to swallow. Jack Yocke took a deep breath and added, “The public prosecutor has the three KGB agents who went to the police station locked up right now. They want to jug me.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know all that. You’ve scooped everybody and you’re gonna be famous. Now tell me what this broad looked like.”
“Well, she was about five eight or so, dark brown shoulder-length hair, dark brown — almost black — eyes set wide apart, a classic bone structure.”
“Good figure?”
“Well, I suppose so.”
“You queer or what?” Tarkington asked sharply.
“She was wearing modest clothes, a good wool suit. Underneath it all she was probably built like a brick shithouse. Is that what you want to hear, sailor boy?”
Toad met Jake Grafton’s gaze. His eyebrows went up and down once in reply to Grafton’s silent question.
“You know her?” Yocke asked Toad.
“Just curious, Jack. What I’m trying to figure out is why you.”
“Because she knew I was a reporter.”
“This town is full of reporters. Why you?”
“You two sailors are a real pair. I thought you’d let me hole up here.” His voice rose: “But no, Jack, you might write something that embarrasses the good ol’ U.S. of A. and we probably can’t handle—”
“That’s enough,” Jake said disgustedly. “You can sleep on the couch. Right now you go into Toad’s room”—he nodded toward the bedroom door—“and write your story. When you’re ready to send it in let me know. In the meantime don’t pick up the phone even if it rings.”
Jack Yocke stood and hoisted the computer. He had half a mind to tell these two clowns where to go and what to do to themselves when they got there, but… He mumbled his thanks, then his eye fell on the maps and computer printouts. “Say, what is all this paper?”