Jake thought about it. How much could he tell Yocke? “By this stage of the game the folks in Dzerzhinsky Square may have gotten an inkling or two that Ms. Ross is the source of some of their painful difficulties.”
Yocke’s face was flushed. “You’ve assumed all along that I was going to help you. I haven’t decided.”
Jake Grafton had had enough. “Don’t get pissy with me, kid. You’ve got ten seconds to decide. Yes or no.”
The pistols that the senior chief had put on the desk were 9mm automatics. Jake picked one up, popped out the magazine and reached for a box of cartridges on the desk.
“Why do you want Shirley?” Yocke asked.
Jake Grafton’s open palm descended onto the desk with a vicious smack. “In or out?” he snarled.
“Fuck! I’m in.”
“We’ll meet you here.” He stabbed his finger at the map and everyone bent over to look. “It’s that park on the south bank of the Moskva River where the statues are, about four hundred yards east of the entrance to Gorky Park.” He looked at the reporter. “You’re going to have to find it in the dark. Study this map carefully. When Shirley picks you up, you bring her here. If you’re followed there will probably be shooting. I want Shirley Ross alive and uninjured. She’s your responsibility.”
“What if she doesn’t want to meet you?”
“Make sure she does. Tell her anything you want.”
Jack Yocke looked from face to face. He swallowed once. “I don’t get paid anywhere near enough to do this shit.”
“When this is over we’ll get you a tattoo.”
Toad Tarkington slapped Yocke on the back. “Relax, Jack. Everybody has to contribute their mite. And under our enlightened system of government you only have to die once. That’s right in the Bill of Rights along with all the freedoms — freedom of religion, freedom of the press, freedom of sexual satisfaction, freedom from ex-wives, free—”
“Kiss my ass, you silly son of a bitch.”
“Do this right and I’ll kiss your ass at high noon on the front steps of the Washington Post.”
“I want a story out of this,” Yocke told Grafton.
“You know the rules,” the admiral replied mildly. “If and when I say.”
Jack Yocke bit his lip. He was going to write a story about this whether Jake Grafton liked it or not. Grafton knew damn well who Shirley Ross was — probably an American agent: he had known from the moment Yocke first mentioned her name. And Grafton didn’t even cheep. And Tarkington — always with the smart mouth and shit-eating grin because he knows something you don’t. Yocke’s slow burn began to sizzle.
Jesus, what if that story she gave him about the Soviet Square killings wasn’t true? Could it have been a setup? The possibilities swirled in Yocke’s mind as he examined the admiral through narrowed eyes. He looked at the nose a touch too big, the short salt-and-pepper hair, the cold gray eyes. Grafton could have set it up! Sure.
Say Shirley’s story was all true except for the identity of the person who made the telephone call to the KGB agents. Say the agents thought they were talking to Demodov and it wasn’t really him. What if Demodov was the fall guy? What if Demodov’s denial was true?
Was Jake Grafton capable of a stunt like that?
Like what? Faking the phone call to set up Kolokoltsev? Or killing that neo-nazi and his aides? Kolokoltsev was no great loss to anybody. In fact, his demise was one of the few bright spots in a Russia trying to come to grips with a sordid past and an uncertain future. That bigoted demagogue…was …
Staring at the admiral now, Jack Yocke felt the cool hard shape of truth as rigid as steel. Jake Grafton was capable of doing whatever he thought was right. God help the poor bastard who wandered into the way! Jake Graf—
“You want a gun?” Jake was holding out an automatic. Dalworth and the senior chief were loading M-16s.
The reporter stared at the pistol, his train of thought broken. A gun. He shook his head. “If I get caught with a gun the Post will fire me.”
Toad was incredulous. “I knew civilian jobs were hard to get, but… You’d rather be dead than unemployed?”
“If I’m unarmed they may not shoot me. Killing reporters is damn poor PR. Sooner or later they’ll get tired of feeding me and ship me home to the bony bosom of my editor.”
Jake Grafton shrugged and tossed the pistol on the table. “Your choice.”
“And I thought you’d decided to get into the game,” Toad Tarkington said.
“Been a lot of reporters buried because they knew too much,” the senior chief remarked.
Yocke flipped a hand in acknowledgment but refused to change his mind.
Jack Yocke walked out of the embassy with nothing but his passport in one pocket and a wad of rubles in another. He had studied the map for fifteen minutes and thought he knew where he was going. He had exactly six minutes to make the subway station rendezvous and there was no way. He had pointed out to Grafton that he was going to be very late, but the admiral said, “They’ll wait for you,” and made him take the time to study the map carefully.
He scurried out the main gate past the bodies lying in the street, pathetic little piles of rags with all the life smashed out. His course inadvertently took him by the body of the woman incinerated by her own Molotov cocktail. He tried not to look, looked anyway and almost vomited.
Moscow was not lit up like an American or European city. Occasional weak streetlights enlivened the gloom and gave enough light to see, but they offered little comfort.
Yocke wasn’t alone on the street. People were watching from doorways and alleys, people staying well under cover. Yet they made no move to interfere with him. There was no traffic at all.
He walked as fast as he could and had to resist the urge to break into a trot.
If his editor ever heard about this evening’s expedition he would be fired within two heartbeats for taking foolish risks. So why had he agreed to this anyway?
Grafton had laid out the route, the most direct way to the rendezvous. His course took him north on Tchaikovsky Street, through Vosstanija Square and onto Sadovaja-Kudrinskaja Street, which was really the same boulevard as Tchaikovsky Street. The names of the streets of Moscow changed at every major intersection, a European tradition designed to baffle tourists and keep taxi drivers fully employed.
He was getting into the rhythm now, his heart and lungs pumping as he swung along with a stride that ate up the distance.
Once he heard running footsteps and ducked into a doorway. The street was empty. Trying to stay calm, he stood stock-still for several seconds as his heart thudded like a trip-hammer.
Were they watching? Waiting for him?
“Someone will meet you long before you get there,” Jake Grafton had said.
Of course someone is watching.
For the first time that evening Jack Yocke felt the icy fingers of true fear. Unsure of what he should do now, he finally stepped back onto the sidewalk and resumed his journey. Where in hell was Shirley Ross?
His head was swiveling uncontrollably. When he realized that he was really seeing nothing because he was trying to see everything, he locked his head facing forward. Still his eyes swept nervously from side to side and he couldn’t resist an occasional glance behind him. But he wasn’t being followed.
They must be watching. Of course!
They. Whoever they were. Watching him hump along like a bug scurrying across a stone floor. Any second the shoe would come smashing down and—
He could smell himself. He was perspiring freely and he stank. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and rubbed his hand against his trousers, which left a wet spot.