Chapter Eleven
Monday 8:05 p.m.
She checked her watch, then took a last look around the spacious room. It was time. Her bag lay on the bed, packed and waiting to be sent later. The part of her luggage that mattered was the vinyl flight bag by the door, containing the Zenith.
With a sigh she rose, threw on her light tan raincoat, and grabbed the bag. This was the part she'd been dreading, and she'd done her best to try and look inconspicuous-a dressy beige outfit and a few silver accessories. She'd also washed her hair, which always made her feel better.
The carpeted hallway was clear as she closed the door, tugged to be certain it was secure, then took a deep breath, turned, and headed toward the elevator. She hadn't been outside the room for almost twenty-four hours. This, she told herself, must be what house arrest feels like.
It was about to be over. All she had to do now was make her way through the Savoy lobby, walk diagonally across the Strand, then through another lobby, another elevator, and she'd be with Michael.
The more she allowed herself to think about the whole situation, the angrier she got, at all the bean-counters at NSA who wouldn't listen to her, at the entire American intelligence establishment. How could everybody have missed what was happening?
Maybe, she thought, the air outside would help cool her off. She definitely needed to get out of the Savoy, if only to counter the claustrophobia. Stretch your legs, sweetheart, and think.
The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The crisp, shiny, expensive fashions greeted her, the iridescence of diamonds; the night people of London were headed out for dinner and the clubs. A cross section of the jet set and the bored rich. Nobody seemed to be having fun.
She looked at them as she stepped in, wondering what they would think if they knew what was in her vinyl bag. Michael used to say the only thing people like these were interested in was impressing headwaiters. He was probably dead right.
The LOBBY light flashed above the doors, and they slid open to reveal muted wood paneling, English antiques, and sparkling mirrors. Gray-suited bellboys carrying baggage and opening elevator doors mingled with the bustling evening throng. It was a world unto itself.
Not pausing, she strode past the pink marble columns and glowing chandeliers, then headed for the glassed entrance. Outside, the traffic on the Strand, the glitter of London at night, all of it beckoned.
Being in Crete again had really made her think, about a lot of things. Mostly though, she'd thought about Michael Vance, Jr. Ex-archaeologist, ex-spook, ex- . . . God knew what. Still, she'd seen plenty worse . . . the paunchy assistant-this and vice-that, all divorced and paying alimony and whining. But in this man-short time, with hungry divorcees flocking the bars, they didn't have to bother keeping up appearances. Middle-aged decay was their inalienable right. Mike, whatever else you said about him, still looked as good as he had a decade ago. He was showing some mileage, sure, but on him it didn't look half bad. Maybe it was the tequila.
Could they start over again, that new beginning he'd hinted about? Maybe it was at least worth a try.
She moved on through the milling mob in the lobby, trying to be casual, to blend. He'd said she should get out of the Savoy as soon as possible, just send her things and move in with him. But why didn't he come over and stay with her? she'd asked. The Savoy was more romantic, more like the old days. That's when he'd abruptly switched the subject, saying they couldn't discuss it on the phone.
Probably he had something working. Well, she had a few surprises too. She'd spent the day hacking away at the protocol, and she'd learned a lot more. It was even worse than she'd imagined.
As she pushed through the revolving doors and into the driveway, the clack-clack of London taxi motors and the rush of cold air brought back all the adrenaline of that moment in Iraklion when she had first seen Alex.
She grasped the flight bag more firmly and moved on down the left-hand sidewalk, past the National Westminster Bank at the corner and toward the street. Almost there. Just across waited the Strand Palace and safety.
In her rush, she'd missed an important event. Mingled in among the lobby crowd was a couple she'd failed to notice. They'd been over on her left, by the desk. The man, in a rumpled brown jacket, was haggard, with bloodshot eyes. His beard was untrimmed, but it did disguise the bruises on his face. Unseen by Eva he'd suddenly raised his hand and pointed at her. Nor did she see the woman with him- dark coiffure, elegant makeup, Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress-though she wouldn't have recognized her in any case.
Only moments after Eva Borodin walked up the Savoy driveway, the woman was speaking into the radio she'd had in her shiny evening purse.
Monday 8:08 p.m.
He glanced at his watch, then looked out his smudgy hotel window and down at the Strand. Two more minutes and there should be a knock on the door.
Would she believe him? That he'd set up the play? Maybe he couldn't quite believe it himself, but still, they had the biggest share of poker chips now. They were about to take control of the game.
It was almost, almost time to relax.
Then he saw her, moving briskly across the Strand while furtively looking left and right. Good. After he watched her disappear into the lobby down below, he turned back from the window and walked to the bar. Time to crack open the Sauza Tres Generaciones, Tequila Anejo-Mexico's well-aged contribution to the well-being of all humankind. Hard enough to come by anywhere, it was virtually unobtainable here in London, but his search had succeeded. He lifted it out of its tan box, admiring the coal black bottle, then gave the cork a twist and sniffed the fragrance, fresh as nectar, before settling it back on the bar. Next he removed a bottle of rare Stolichnaya Starka vodka from the freezer and stationed it beside the Sauza. This, he knew, was Eva's favorite, made with water from the Niva River and flavored with pear leaves and Crimean apples as well as a touch of brandy and a dash of port.
A few moments later he heard a light knock on the door, and with a feeling of relief he stepped over.
"Michael," the voice was a muted whisper, "hurry."
He swung it inward and there she was. Without a word she moved into his arms.
"Are you okay?" He touched her face, then lifted her lips to his. They were cold, tight.
"Yes. I . . . I think so. God, what a day. I kept wanting to call you, darling."
"I was out."
"I assumed that. I can't wait to show you my translation."
"Hey, slow down." He kissed her again. "Let's have a celebration drink first. Just you and me."
"Michael, don't talk nonsense. We've got to think."
"I got a bottle of your native wine, a little Tequila Anejo for me. Never hurt the mental processes. Come on, what do you say?" He turned and headed for the bar.
She was unzipping the vinyl flight bag. "How can you . . .?" Then she caught herself and laughed. "It better be frozen, Like ice-cold syrup."
"Cold as Siberia. It should go down well with the latest news item. We've now got a deal on the table with Tokyo."
"What kind of deal?" She glanced over.
"I told them if they'll call off the gorillas, I'll see about lightening up their money problems. The Alex Novosty imbroglio."
"You're not really going to do it?"
He laughed. "What do you think?"
"Darling, whatever you're planning, it's not going to stop them."
"Why don't we wait and see?"
"I've seen enough already."
"Stay mellow." He was handing her a tall, thin glass of clear liquid, already frosting on the sides. "Make any progress on the protocol?"
"Nobody in the world is going to believe it. This is just too big. I almost wonder if a newspaper would touch it, at least until we have more than we have now." She'd set down her drink and was opening the flight bag. Out came the Zenith, and moments later a text was on the screen.
"How much farther did you get?"
"Only another page or so. This is tougher going than I t
hought. But here, look. This section picks up from where you left off. Mother Russia's practically giving away the store."
. . . 3. Within one year of the satisfaction of all formalities pursuant to the above-designated credits, the USSR will renounce sole proprietorship of the Kurile Islands and the Soviet oblast of Sakhalin. Those territories will thereafter be administered as a free-trade zone and joint protectorate of the USSR and Japan, with exclusive economic development rights extended to all designated corporations comprised in Mino Industries Group (MIG).
4. MIG is hereby granted full rights to engage in capital investment and manufacturing development in the USSR, which capital investment may comprise all or part of the financial credits specified in Item 1. MIG will be permitted to hold 51% or greater interest in all joint industrial facilities, and the operation and control of those facilities will rest solely with managers designated by MIG unless otherwise mutually agreed.
5. Within two years of the date of this agreement, the Soviet ruble will be declared a free-market currency, convertible to yen and other Western currencies at rates governed solely by the established world currency exchanges. Furthermore, from that time forward, Japanese-manufactured durables and consumer goods may be purchased directly in rubles, at prevailing rates of exchange.
6. Upon ratification of this Protocol by the Japanese Diet and the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, the Japanese Self-Defense Forces will have full access, for purposes not hostile to the sovereign security of the USSR, to all military installations on Sakhalin and the Kurile Islands including facilities now used exclusively by the Soviet Navy and Soviet Air Force. The security of the Far Eastern oblast of the USSR will henceforth be a joint obligation of the USSR and the Japanese Self-Defense Forces.
He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "So it's just what we thought. A global horsetrade. Tokyo supplies Moscow with half a trillion in loans and financing over the next five years, the money they need for 'restructuring,' and the Soviets cede back the territory they took after the war, the Kurile Islands and Sakhalin, that perennial thorn in the side of the Japanese right."
"Not to mention which, Japan also gets a whole new target for all that excess capital burning a hole in its pocket. As well as first crack at Sakhalin's oil reserves. Michael, put it together and you realize Japan's about to wrap up what she's been angling for ever since the war-total economic dominance of the Far East, Russia and all."
Right, he thought, but which Russians are making this secret deal? Could it be the hardliners, who're lining up a new military alliance? Is that what the "prototype" is all about.
"By the way, did you look closely at the early part, the bit I translated?" He walked over and checked the traffic on the Strand below. "There's some kind of surprise package under the tree. I don't think it's Christmas chocolates."
"You mean the prototype? Bothers me too." She took another sip of her freezing Stoly. "What do you think it is?"
"My wild guess would be some kind of advanced weapons system. If the Soviets are planning to give back territory, they'd better be getting some goodies."
"Well, any way you look at it, this whole thing is brilliant, synergistic. Everybody comes out with something they want."
"World geopolitics is about to become a whole new ball game. But that other bit, the prototype, seems to be a really important part of it. There're specifications, a hard delivery date, the works. That's where the quid pro quo starts getting kinky."
"It does sound like some entirely new kind of weapon," she agreed.
"Who knows? Whatever it turns out to be, though, it's something they had to develop together. Which probably means high-tech. But we're going to find out, you and me." He studied the street below, where traffic was a blaze of headlights, then turned back. "Tell me again about those satellite photos you mentioned out at the palace."
"You mean the ones of Hokkaido, the Japanese island up north?"
"Right. What exactly was in them? You said it looked like a runway?"
"I said that's what I thought it was. But nobody at NSA is authorized to be interested officially in what goes on in Japan, so the oversight committee wouldn't spring for a real analysis, an infrared overlay or anything. The budget cuts, et cetera."
"Which is exactly what whoever planned this figured on, right? If you had some military surprise cooking, what better place to hide it than in the wilds of northern Japan, where nobody would bother to pay attention?"
"Well, the location couldn't be more perfect for a joint project. Hokkaido is right across the straits from Sakhalin. All nice and convenient." She stared at her vodka as the room fell silent. "Maybe if we finished the translation."
"Somehow I doubt it's going to spell out the details. The so-called prototype hasn't been described so far, at least as far as we've got. Probably a deliberate omission."
"Our problem is, without the full text nobody's going to take our word for all this." She finished off her Stoly with a gulp, then got up to pour another.
"Maybe there's a way." He caught her and pulled her into his arms. "But first things first. Why don't we forget about everything just for tonight?"
She stared at him incredulously. "Darling, get serious. Right now there are people out there wanting to make us disappear because we know too much. They've already tried. That's very real."
"Look, that's being handled. Why can't you trust me?" He hugged her again. "I think it's time we had an evening just for us. So how about a small intimate reunion tonight, right here, dinner for two? While we wait for the fish to bite."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this."
"We'll both slip into something comfortable, have the greatest meal in the world sent up, along with about a case of wine, then retire to that plush bed over there and spend the rest of the evening getting reacquainted?"
"You're serious, aren't you?" She studied his eyes. They had a lascivious twinkle.
"Of course."
She hesitated, then thought, Why not call his bluff?
"All right. If you can be insane, then I can too. But if we're going to do it, then let's go all the way. I'm sick of living off room service." She slapped down her glass. "Know what I really want? I want to go out somewhere expensive and splashy. With you. I want to do London."
"Great!" He was beaming.
Whoops. He hadn't been bluffing.
"I dare you." She rose and threw her arms around him. Suddenly it was all too wonderful to forgo. "We'll put this Zenith in the hotel safe and act like real people for an evening. Then we'll come back here and you'll get totally ravished. That's a promise, sweetheart."
"I sort of had it figured for the other way around."
"Oh, yeah. We'll see, and may the best ravisher win." She clicked off the computer and shoved it into the flight bag, then turned back. "How about that wonderful restaurant we went to way back when? You know. That night we both got so drunk and you almost offered to make an honest woman of me."
"An offer you saw fit to refuse in advance." He looked her over. "But I assume you mean that place up in Islington? What was it? The Wellington or something?"
"Right. It was sort of out of the way. Down a little alley." She threw her arms around him. "That night was so wonderfully romantic, like a honeymoon."
"It almost was," he smiled, remembering. "Let's call for a reservation and just go."
"Darling, are we acting insane?" She looked up, eyes uncertain. "I'm half afraid."
"Don't be." He touseled her hair before thinking. "Nobody's going to touch you, believe me. I've nailed the bastards. All of them."
Monday 11:28 p.m.
It was flawless. They dined in a Gothic, ivy-covered greenhouse in the garden of a maitre nineteenth-century inn where waiters scurried, the maitre d' hovered, and the wine steward nodded obsequiously every time he passed their table. It was even better than their first visit. After a roulade of red caviar, Eva had the ragout au gratin, Vance the boeuf a la ficelle, his favorite. For dessert they shared the house speci
alty, tulipe glacee aux fruits, after which they lingered over Stilton cheese and a World War I bottle of Lisbon port.
And they talked and laughed and talked. They both tried to focus on the good times: trips they'd taken, places they'd shared, what they'd do next-together. She even agreed to spend August helping him sail the Ulysses over to Crete, his latest plan. The gap in time began slowly to drop away. It was as though they'd been reborn; everything felt new, fresh, and full of delight. Who said you couldn't start over?
Neither wanted it to end, but finally, reluctantly, he signaled for the check. After a round of farewells from the staff, they staggered out into the brisk evening air.
"Where to now?" He was helping her into a black London taxicab, after drunkenly handing the uniformed doorman a fiver.
"God, I'm so giddy I can't think." She crashed into the seat and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Yanks?" The driver glanced back with a genuine smile. He wore a dark cap and sported a handlebar mustache of Dickensian proportions. "Been to New York myself, you know, with the missus. Two years back. Don't know how you lot can stand the bleedin' crime, though."
"Worse every year," Vance nodded.
"So, where'll it be, my lords and ladies?" He hit the ignition.
"How about heading down to the Thames, say Victoria Embankment Gardens, around in there."
"Lovely spot for a stroll. Private like, if you know what I mean." He winked, then revved the engine and started working the vehicle down the narrow street, headed toward the avenue. "Thing about the States, you'd be daft to walk in a park there after dark." He glanced back. "So how was it?"
"What?"
"The Wellington, mate. You know, I take plenty of Arabs there, bleedin' wogs, them and their fine Soho tarts."
"We made do."
"If you've got the quid, why not. That's what I always say." He smiled above his mustache. "Guess you know IRA bombed the front room about ten years back, bloody bastards. Lobbed one right through the big window."
"We were hoping they'd never hit the same place twice."
"With those bloodthirsty micks you never know, mate, you never know. Only good thing about the States, no bleedin' IRA." He made a right turn off Goswell Road onto Clerkenwell Road. Even at this late hour, the traffic was brisk, black taxis side by side.
"Michael, I love Victoria Gardens." Eva reached up and bit his ear. "Can we dance in the moonlight?"
"Why not. I think it's romantic as hell." He drew her closer. "Probably shouldn't tell you this, but back in my youth, when I was living in London one summer, I used to take a plump little Irish hotel maid down there. I confess to a series of failed assaults on her well-guarded Catholic virtue."
"Maybe this time your luck will change," she giggled. And she bit him again.
"I'll never be seventeen again, but I'm willing to give it one more try." He turned to study the traffic behind them. Had the play started already?
Yep, there it was. A dark car was following them, had pulled out right behind as they left the restaurant's side street. It was trailing discreetly, but it was in place.
Pretty much on schedule, he told himself. They must have found out by now.
"Darling, I want to make you feel seventeen all over again." She snuggled closer. "I'm starting to feel good again. I'd almost forgot you could do that for me. Thank you."
He kissed her, then leaned forward and spoke through the partition. "See those headlights behind us?"
"I think they were waiting outside, at the restaurant. Noticed them there. Now they look to be going wherever you're going." The burly cabbie glanced into his side mirror. "Friends of yours?"
"In a manner of speaking. I think we've just revised our destination. Make it the Savoy instead. The main entrance there on the Strand."
"Whatever you say. Forget the park?"
"You've got it. And try not to lose them. Just make sure they don't know that you know. Figure it out."
"Having some sport with your friends, eh?"
"Work on it."
"Oh, Christ." Eva revolved to look. "Michael, what is it?"
"My guess is somebody found out something, and they're very upset."
She grasped his hand. "Why not try and lose them in the traffic?"
"They probably know where we're staying. What's the point?"
"I do hope you know what you're doing."
"Trust me. The Savoy's a nice friendly place for a drink. We'll ask them in, maybe drop by the American bar, there on the mezzanine."
"Why did we go out?" She threw her arms around him. "I knew it was a risk and still-"
"Relax." He kissed her. "We're just headed home after a lovely dinner. And when we get there, maybe we'll ask them in for a nightcap."
"Who do you think it is?"
"This is a friendly town. Why don't we just wait and find out?"
"Right. I'm dying to know who wants to kill us now." She turned to stare again at the headlights. "After all, it's been almost a day and a half since somebody's-"
"Hey, we've had a great evening. Nobody's going to spoil that. This will just top it off." He looked back again, then leaned forward as the driver turned onto the Strand. "Be sure and take us all the way down the driveway."
"Whatever you say." He flipped on his blinker, then checked the mirror. "Seems your friends are coming along."
"That's the idea." Vance passed him a ten-pound note as they rolled to a halt. "Nice job, by the way."
"Anything for a Yank." He checked the bill, then tipped his hat. "Many thanks, gov'nor."
"Michael." Eva froze. "I'm not getting out."
"Come on." He reached for her hand. "This is going to be the most fun we've had all night." He looked up at the gray-uniformed Savoy doorman approaching. "Trust me."
The other car, a black Mercedes, had stopped just behind them, and now its doors swung out on both sides. The first to emerge were two surly men in heavy, bulging suits; next came an expensively dressed, dark-haired woman; and the last was a bearded man who had to be helped. He seemed weak and shaky.
Vance waved to him and beckoned him forward. "Alex, what a surprise. Glad you brought your friends. I was starting to worry we might miss each other this time."
"Michael." His voice faltered as he walked past the others, limping. "We must talk. Now."
"Great idea. Let's ask everybody in for a drink."
The woman was staring, cold as ice, while the two men flanked her on either side, waiting. Vance smiled and greeted her.
"Vera, talk about luck. And I'll bet you were worried we wouldn't manage to meet up in London. Small world."
The woman was trying to ignore him as she addressed Eva. "You have in your possession classified Soviet materials."
"If I do, that's your problem." She glared back.
"No, Ms. Borodin." The woman moved forward, carrying a leather purse. "It is your problem."
"Well, now. Looks like we're all ready for a nightcap." Vance took Eva's hand, nodded at the doorman, and led her through the lobby doors. Over his shoulder he yelled back. "I honestly recommend the American bar upstairs. Terrific view."
"Michael, please wait." Novosty limped after him, through the doorway, then grasped his arm. "We need to talk first."
"About what?"
"You know very well. The money. Michael, the game is up, can't you see? I've got to return it, all of it, and face the consequences, God help me. I have no choice. They-"
"You know, Alex, that's probably a good idea. Things were getting too rough. This was a hustle you should have left to the big boys. I tried to tell you that back in Athens, the other morning. Just give it back."
"What are you saying?" He went pale.
"Just return the money. Try and make them see it was a misunderstanding. How were you supposed to know it was embezzled? You were just following orders, right? They can probably cover the whole thing over as just some kind of paperwork shuffle."
"Michael, don't play games with me." He wa
s clenching Vance's sleeve, his voice pleading.
"Hey, we're partners, remember? I'll back you all the way." He urged Eva on past the gaggle of bellmen and into the marbled lobby. The chandeliers sparkled and the room still bustled with bejeweled evening people. "Now we're all just going to have a very civilized drink."
The possibility of that seemed to be diminishing, however. The two men, clearly KGB "chauffeurs," had now moved alongside menacingly.
"You will come with us." Vera Karanova was approaching Eva. "Both of you. A car is waiting, at the entrance on the river side."
"Down by the park?" Vance kept urging Eva across the lobby, toward the staircase leading up to the bar. "Funny thing. We were just talking about the Embankment Gardens."
Vera nodded toward the empty tearoom and the steps beyond, which led down toward the river side, then spoke quietly in Russian to the two men. They shouldered against Vance, the one on the right reaching for Eva's arm.
"Easy with the muscle, hero." He caught the man's paisley tie and yanked him around, spinning him off balance, then kneed him onto the floor.
"Michael, wait." Novosty stepped between them, then took Vance's arm and drew him farther ahead. "About the money. You've-"
"What about it?" He looked puzzled. "Just return it, like I told you."
Novosty's eyes twitched above his beard. "Michael, the entire sum was withdrawn from the Moscow Narodny Bank at eleven o'clock this morning. The whole hundred million. It's vanished."
"Sounds like a problem. Now how do you suppose a thing like that could have happened?"
"You know very well." His voice was almost a sob. "It was authorized right after the bank opened. Someone requested that the funds be converted into Eurodollar bearer bonds and open cashiers checks, all small denominations. Which were then picked up by a bonded courier service." His voice cracked again. "I don't know what to do. The bank claims they have no more responsibility."
"Legally, I guess that's right. They're probably in the clear."
"Michael, you must have arranged it. Using the account numbers and identification I gave you-"
"Prove it."
"But how? I have to return the funds, or they'll kill me. I told them only you could have done it, but they don't believe me."
"Interesting thing about bearer bonds and open cashiers checks. They're same as cash. Everybody's favorite form of hot money. Very liquid and totally untraceable. For all we know your hundred million could be in Geneva by now, taking in the view of the lake." He turned and pecked Eva on the cheek. "Ready for that nightcap?"
Novosty caught his arm and tried to pull him back. "You won't get away with this. I'm warning you. You're a dead man."
"You know, I sort of look at it the other way around. I figure whoever copped that cash this morning got a hundred-million-dollar insurance policy. Because you see, if T-Directorate wants to kiss their hundred million do svedania, the best way possible would be to keep up with the muscle here tonight. That could make it just disappear forever. There'd be a lot of explaining to do. Probably make a very negative impression on certain people back at Dzerzhinsky Square. Vera here might even have to turn in all her gold cards."
"What are you saying?" Now Comrade Karanova had moved closer. "Is it really true you have the embezzled funds?" She examined Vance with a startled look, then glanced at Novosty, as though to confirm. His eyes were defeated as he nodded.
"You should check the desk here more often." Vance pointed toward the mahogany reception. "Photocopies of the open cashiers checks were dropped off for you at nine o'clock tonight. So maybe it's time everybody talked to me." He thumbed back at her two bodyguards. "For starters how about losing those two apes. Send them down to the park for a stroll. Then maybe we can talk. Over a drink. The vanguard of the proletariat sits down with the decadent capitalists. Could be there's a deal here yet. East meets West."
"Tell me what you want," Vera Karanova said, without noticeable enthusiasm.
"For starters, how about some protection. If these incompetents of yours can manage it."
"From whom?"
"Look, there's a deal cooking, and I think there's more to it than meets the eye. I do know there's a very smart individual, on the other side of the globe, who's got some very definite plans for Eva and me. As well as for Mother Russia. I would suggest it might be in your interest to help us stop him while we still can. He's never played straight, and I don't think he's about to start now."
"I have my responsibilities too. Just return the money and we will handle the situation after that."
"The best thing you can do right now is stay out of the way. I've seen too many screw-ups out of Dzerzhinsky Square to turn this thing over to Moscow."
"Dr. Vance, you are playing a dangerous game."
"If you want to see the money again, it's the only game going. Now do we play or what?"