“Amazingly enough, yes. An hour from now. Come alone. And be careful.”
“Where is that, anyway?” Yocke asked, but she had already hung up.
Jake pulled off the headset and tossed it on the table.
Geez, she calls on the local phone system, which is only working because it’s the middle of the night, and she tells him where to meet her! She might as well have put it in the newspaper. So it’ll be Judith Farrell, Jack Yocke and enough KGB agents to arrest the Presidium.
“She told him he had courage,” Jake reported to the little group. “He told her he had balls like a bull.”
Toad Tarkington grinned broadly.
She’ll meet him on the way. Or someone will. That’s the way she’ll work it. She just wants him out on the street and moving in the right direction. That means she’ll probably pick him up quick, not long after he leaves the embassy.
“She set up a meet at the Rizhsky subway station,” Grafton told his audience. He rubbed his face to ease his fatigue. “As curious as Yocke is, it’s hard to see how the sucker lived this long. Unbelievable.”
He had three guys plus Yocke. No radios. Clandestine surveillance in a foreign city was Judith Farrell’s game, her profession, how she lived — none of his people had any training or experience, including Jake.
“Okay,” Jake said finally. “Toad, go see how many of those rioters are still outside and figure out how we can get out of here without getting beaten to death. Then get back here quick. Spiro, go get Yocke. Senior Chief, go find the marine captain and get a couple more pistols, three M-16s, four of those infrared binoculars, and some ammo. Go.” He shooed them out.
There was no way he could trap Judith Farrell. He was going to have to send Yocke out into the streets and pray that Farrell found him before the KGB did, and that the reporter could somehow convince Farrell to play the game Jake’s way.
“Amateur night in Moscow,” he muttered disgustedly.
The switchboard lights were blinking again. Jake went into the office next door to find the regular operator and ask him to return to the board.
14
Jake was in the empty office next to the switchboard when Toad Tarkington returned. “Looks pretty deserted out there, Admiral, all things considered. A few people gawking at the bodies but that’s about it.”
“They haven’t picked up the bodies?”
“No, sir.”
“Any Russian cops around?”
“Not a one in sight. They split early this morning.”
“Go get a car. Open the gate and bring it into the compound. No, get two cars. Go.”
Toad went. One of his great virtues was that he never had to be told anything twice. Nor did he ask foolish questions or want directions clarified. He just grabbed the ball and ran with it.
Spiro Dalworth came in leading Jack Yocke, who looked grim.
“Go help the chief with the maps and weapons,” Jake told the lieutenant, who closed the door behind him.
Yocke glanced at his watch. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Sit down.”
Yocke did so. “Dalworth said you wanted to see me.”
Jake just nodded. Yocke was wearing jeans, moderately dirty tennis shoes, and a nondescript sweater. Jake dimly recalled seeing Tarkington in that sweater a few days ago. Yocke must have helped himself. He still looked as American as a ball park hot dog. Jake Grafton pulled out the lower drawer of the desk he was sitting behind and parked his feet on it. A muffled report of a gun penetrated into the room. Jake closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.
“Admiral,” Yocke began impatiently, “I really—”
“How long do you think you’ll last out there before the KGB picks you up?”
Jack Yocke’s face first showed surprise, then darkened into anger. “You were listening! Damned if I will—”
“Shut up!” Grafton’s voice cracked like a whip. He softened it a little and continued, “You aren’t naive enough to think it’s possible to have a private conversation on a telephone in this country, are you? They tell me that sometimes there are so many eavesdroppers on the line that there isn’t enough juice left to ring your phone.”
Yocke leaped to his feet, grabbed a bound report off the desk and hurled it against the far wall. He planted his feet in front of the desk where Jake sat and glowered down at the admiral. “I’m about fed up to here with this cra—”
“Sit down and we’ll talk this over.” Jake nodded at the chair Yocke had vacated.
When Yocke was back in his chair, Jake continued. “You’re a good reporter, Jack. Somewhere deep inside that polished chrome Post ego I think you really do give a teeny-tiny damn about the people you write about. But, honest to God, when are you going to see that you are in about ten miles over your head?”
Yocke merely stared at the admiral.
“I want you to keep your date with Shirley Ross. We’re going to help you.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. The U.S. government wants to help little ol’ me, praise the Lord! I don’t know whether to shout hosannas or just let the pee tickle down my leg.” He took a long deep breath and exhaled slowly while he examined his hands. Finally he said, “What do you think she wants to talk to me about?”
“I don’t know.”
Yocke thought that over. “Her name isn’t Shirley Ross, is it?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you level with me, Jake?”
“I am leveling with you,” Jake Grafton said, the soul of reason. “The truth is that you can’t tell the wrong people what you don’t know. I suggest you take a little comfort from that fact. There are people in Russia who could make a stone sing — they’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Boy, they’d be wasting their talents on this kid. You still haven’t even told me why you want me to go out there tonight. For some strange reason I have this sneaky suspicion it ain’t got nothing to do with writing stories for the Washington Post.”
“I want to have a private chat with Shirley Ross. You’re going to get her for me.”
Jack Yocke didn’t reply. He worried a fingernail and glanced at Jake Grafton from time to time, but he had nothing more to say.
Senior Chief Holley and Spiro Dalworth returned carrying maps and guns. Jake Grafton selected a map of the city and spread it out on the desk. Then Toad came breezing in. “Cars are ready,” he announced and glanced at Yocke, who ignored him.
“Gather around.” Jake leaned over the map. He pointed out the embassy and the Rizhsky subway station, which was a transfer point for the adjoining train station.
“The first assumption is that the KGB listened to the call. They monitor all calls to the embassy. Shirley Ross knows that. So she will have to pick Jack up before he gets to the rendezvous. Now there are two ways to figure the KGB — either they think Shirley and Jack are who they seem, two neophytes playing games, so they merely go to the subway station and wait for them to arrive, or they figure that these are two pros and the meet will occur on the way, so they try to follow Jack from the embassy. My guess is they’ll play it both ways, try to follow Jack and have people at the station, just in case.”
“Third possibility, sir,” Toad said. “Maybe they’ll think the subway station was just a blind and the meet is on for someplace else.”
“So they follow Jack,” the admiral said. He looked at the reporter. “The second assumption is that they really want Shirley. Want her alive or dead. You’re just bait.” Jake Grafton shrugged. “I may be wrong. They may try to grab you as soon as they lay eyes on you. Are you in?”
“Want her alive or dead? Why?”