“Two men,” Drozdov said. “White Ford van.”
“I spotted them on the M-Forty, a few miles outside London.”
“Does anyone know you were coming to see me?”
“No,” Michael lied. “I’m not here as a representative of the CIA, and I didn’t request permission from the British. It’s strictly a personal matter.”
“You’ve placed yourself in a rather difficult position, Mr. Osbourne. If you do something I don’t care for, all I need do is pick up the telephone and ring my handler at MI-Six, and you’ll be in a good deal of trouble.”
“I know. Obviously, as a professional courtesy, I ask that you not do so.”
“It must be rather important.”
“It is.”
“I suspect those men in the white van have a long-range microphone. Perhaps we should walk someplace they can’t follow.”
They turned onto a footpath bordering a field of dead winter grass. In the distance, hills rose into low cloud. A gang of sheep bleated at them along the fence line. Drozdov scratched the thick wool of their heads as they passed. The path was muddy with the night’s rain, and after a few paces Michael’s suede Italian loafers were ruined. He turned around and looked back. The van was heading back toward Moreton.
“I think we can speak now, Mr. Osbourne. Your friends seem to have given up the chase.”
For ten minutes Michael did all the talking. He ran through the list of assassinations and terrorist attacks. The Spanish minister in Madrid. The French police official in Paris. The BMW executive in Frankfurt. The PLO official in Tunis. The Israeli businessman in London. Drozdov listened intently, sometimes nodding, sometimes grunting quietly. The dogs tore across the meadow and scattered pheasant.
“And what is it you want to know exactly?” Drozdov asked, when Michael had finished.
“I want to know whether the KGB carried out those hits.”
Drozdov whistled for his dogs. “You’re to be commended, Mr. Osbourne. Oh, you’ve missed quite a few, but you’ve made an excellent start.”
“So they were KGB hits?”
“Yes, they were.”
“Were they carried out by the same man?”
“Absolutely.”
“What is his name?”
“He had no name, Mr. Osbourne. Only a code name.”
“What was his code name?”
Drozdov hesitated. He had defected, betrayed his service. But revealing code names was the intelligence equivalent of breaking the Mafia’s omertà.
Finally, he said, “October, Mr. Osbourne. His code name was October.”
The sun appeared briefly between broken clouds, warming the countryside. Michael unbuttoned his coat and lit a cigarette. Drozdov followed suit, brow furrowed as he smoked, as if searching for the best place to start the story. Michael had handled many agents. He knew when it was best to push and when it was best to sit back and just listen. He had no leverage over Drozdov; Drozdov would talk only if he wanted to talk.
“We weren’t very good at killing people, contrary to popular belief in the West,” Drozdov said finally. “Oh, inside the Soviet Union we were very efficient. But outside the Soviet bloc, in the West, we were quite awful when it came to wet affairs. One of our top assassins, Nikolai Khokhlov, had second thoughts while attempting to kill a Ukrainian resistance leader and defected. We tried to kill him and botched that job, too. For the longest time the Politburo simply gave up assassination as a tool of the trade.”
Drozdov dropped his cigarette butt in the mud and ground it out with the toe of his Wellington.
“In the late 1960s, this changed. We looked at the West and saw internal strife everywhere: the Irish, the Basques, the German Baader-Meinhof Gangs, the Palestinians. Also, we had our own business to attend to—dissidents, defectors, you understand. Assassinations, as you know, were handled by Department Five of the First Chief Directorate. Department Five wanted a highly trained assassin, permanently based in the West, who could carry out killings on short notice. That assassin was October.”
Michael said, “Who is he?”
“I came to Department Five after he was in place in the West. His file said nothing of his real identity. There were rumors, of course. That he was the illegitimate son of a very senior KGB officer: a general, perhaps the chairman himself. These are all rumors, nothing more. He was taken by the KGB at a very early age and given intensive schooling and training. In 1968, as a teenager, he was sent into the West through Czechoslovakia, posing as a refugee. He eventually moved to Paris. He posed as a homeless street urchin and was taken in by a Catholic orphanage. Over the years he established an airtight French identity. He went to French schools, had a French passport, everything. He even endured his mandatory service in the French army.”
“And then he started killing.”
“We used him primarily to promote instability in the West, to make problems for Western governments. He killed on both sides of the divide. He stirred the pot, so to speak. Blew on the flames. And he was very good at his job. He prided himself on the fact that he never botched a single assignment. He wouldn’t use any of the devices we offered to make his work easier, the cyanide-tipped bullets or the weapons that dispensed poison gas. He developed his own signature method of killing.”
“Three bullets to the face.”
“Brutal, effective, quite dramatic.”
Michael had seen his work close up; he didn’t need a description from Drozdov of the effect of the assassin’s chosen method. “Did he have a control officer?” Michael asked evenly.
“Yes, he would only work with one officer, a man named Mikhail Arbatov. I tried to replace Arbatov once, but October threatened to kill the man. Arbatov was the closest thing to family October ever had. He trusted no one except Arbatov, and he barely trusted him.”
“A Mikhail Arbatov was murdered in Paris recently.”
“Yes, I saw that. The police said street thugs probably killed him. The newspaper accounts described him as a retired Russian diplomat living in Paris. There’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, Mr. Osbourne. You can’t trust what you read in the newspapers.”
“Who killed Arbatov?”
“October, of course.”
“Why?”
“That’s a very good question. Perhaps Arbatov knew too much about something. If October feels threatened, he kills. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Except paint. He’s rumored to be quite talented.”
“He’s gone into private practice? He’s a contract killer now?”
“Among the best in the world, very much in demand. Arbatov was his agent. They’d grown quite rich together. I hear there was a good deal of jealousy over the way Arbatov had cashed in on October’s talents. Arbatov had many enemies, many people who would wish him harm. But if you’re looking for his killer, I would start with October.”
The sun vanished once more, and the clouds thickened, black with rain. They passed a large limestone manor house surrounded by broad green lawns. Michael told him about Colin Yardley. About the videotape of the killing. About Astrid Vogel.
Drozdov shook his head slowly. “You’d think someone in Yardley’s line of work would know the pitfalls of placing a camera in a bedroom. I must say it’s the one thing about growing old I don’t mind. The eternal craving for female flesh has finally left me in peace. I have my dogs and my books and my Cotswolds countryside.”
Michael laughed quietly.
“He worked once with the Red Army Faction. He met Astrid Vogel on that assignment. She spent many years in hiding—Tripoli, Damascus, the Shouf Mountains. She paid dearly for her idealism. Something has drawn her back into the game. I suspect it’s probably money.”
“Why would October kill Colin Yardley?”
“Perhaps you should pose the question this way: What did Colin Yardley do in order for someone to take out a contract on his life with the world’s best assassin?”
Michael thought, Maybe he purchased a Stinger missile f
rom a black-market arms dealer named Farouk Khalifa and supplied it to the men who shot down Flight 002.
Gentle rain fell, and the air turned cold. The dogs scampered around Drozdov’s Wellington boots, eager for home and a spot next to a hot fire. The village of Aston Magna appeared ahead of them, a clump of cottages scattered about the intersection of two narrow roads. Drozdov said, “I’d offer to take you back to Moreton, but I don’t drive.”
“Thank you, but I’ll walk.”
“I apologize for the shoes,” he said, jabbing his walking stick at Michael’s ruined loafers. “They were a poor choice for a winter walk through the Cotswolds.”
“A small price for the help you’ve given me.”
Michael stopped walking. Drozdov continued a few feet ahead of him, then stopped and turned around. “There’s one killing you haven’t mentioned,” he said. “The murder of Sarah Randolph. I suppose it’s not related to your current case. I admire your professionalism, Mr. Osbourne.”
Michael said nothing, just waited.
“She was a committed communist, a revolutionary,” he said, opening his arms and gazing at the sky. “God save us please from the idealists. Your Sarah was a friend to the oppressed everywhere: the Irish, the Arabs, the Basque. She also willingly worked for my service. We knew your real identity. We knew you ran penetration agents against guerrilla organizations friendly to our cause. We wanted to know more about your movements, so we placed Sarah Randolph in your path.”
Michael felt his head swimming. His heart beat faster. He felt he was losing the ability to hear. Drozdov seemed to be moving away from him, a vertical line at the end of a long dark tunnel. He tried to regain control of his emotions. He feared Drozdov would see it and shut down. He wanted to hear it all. After so many years he wanted to know the truth, no matter how painful.
“Sarah Randolph made one terrible mistake,” Drozdov said. “She fell in love with her quarry. She told her handlers she wanted out. She threatened to tell you everything. She threatened to go to the police and confess. Her control officer concluded she was too unstable to continue the assignment. Moscow Center wanted her eliminated, and the job fell to me. Perhaps I should apologize to you, but you understand, it was only business, not personal.”
Michael struggled to free a cigarette from his pack and stick it in his mouth. His hands were trembling. Drozdov stepped forward and lit the cigarette with a battered silver lighter.
“I felt you deserved to know the truth, Mr. Osbourne, which is why I told you everything else. But it’s over. It’s part of the past, just like the Cold War. Go back to your wife and forget about Sarah Randolph. She wasn’t real. And whatever you do, keep your wits about you,” he added, mouth close to Michael’s ear. “If you go after October and you make a single mistake, he will kill you so quickly you’ll never know what hit you.”
Michael walked back to Moreton through driving rain. By the time he reached the village, he was soaked to the skin and numb with cold. He found the Rover in the parking lot and pretended to drop his keys trying to open the door. He got down on all fours and quickly inspected the undercarriage. Seeing nothing unusual, he climbed in and started the engine. He turned the heat on full, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against the wheel. He didn’t know whether to hate her because she lied to him or love her even more because she wanted out of it and paid with her life. Images of her flashed through his thoughts. Sarah flowing toward him, smiling, long skirt over buckskin boots. Luminous skin, gold with candlelight. Her body arched to him. Her exploded face!
He slammed his fist against the dash and drove off, tires slipping over wet pavement. The white Ford minivan followed him and remained there until Michael returned the Rover at Heathrow Airport.
Michael took the rental car bus to Terminal Four and hurried inside. The check-in line at the TransAtlantic Airlines ticket counter was unbearable, so he found a telephone kiosk and called Elizabeth at the office. Max Lewis, her secretary, answered and asked Michael to hold while he pulled Elizabeth out of a meeting. Michael wondered what to say to her. He decided to tell her nothing for now. It was too complicated, too emotional, to discuss by phone.
She came on the line. Michael said, “I’m at the airport. I’m getting on the plane soon, and I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
“Everything all right, Michael? You sound upset about something.”
“Just a long morning. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home tonight. How are you doing? Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“As ready as I’m ever going to be. I’m just trying not to think about it too much right now. I have a ton of work to get done today, so that helps.”
Michael turned around to see if the check-in line had grown any shorter. A hundred people stood in line like refugees at a processing center, baggage at their feet, exasperation on their faces. Three young men entered the terminal. Each wore a baseball cap; each carried an identical black leather grip bag. They were dressed casually in jeans and athletic shoes, dark hair beneath the caps, olive complexions.
Michael watched them. He lost track of what Elizabeth was saying. The three men stopped walking and set down their bags. They squatted next to the bags and unzipped the compartments.
“Hold on, Elizabeth,” Michael said.
“Michael, what’s wrong?”
Michael made no response, just watched.
“Michael, answer me, goddammit! What’s wrong?”
Simultaneously the men reached beneath the brims of their caps, and their faces vanished behind veils of black silk.
Michael yelled, “Get down! Get down!”
He dropped the receiver.
The men stood up, automatic weapons and grenades in hand.
Michael shouted, “Gun! Gun! Get down!”
The attackers tossed grenades into the crowd and started firing.
Michael ran toward them, shouting wildly.
In downtown Washington, Elizabeth was screaming into the telephone. She heard Michael shouting, then gunfire, then explosions. Then the line went dead. “Oh, God, Michael! Michael!”
She fumbled for the remote, turned on the television in her office, and switched to CNN. They were in the middle of some silly report about the health benefits of avocados.
She paced wildly. She chewed her nails. Max sat with her and waited, holding her hand. After ten minutes she sent him away and did something she hadn’t done in twenty years.
She closed her eyes, folded her hands, and prayed.
22
LONDON
The Director telephoned Mitchell Elliott on a secure line from the upstairs study of his home in St. John’s Wood.
“I believe Mr. Osbourne may present us with a bit of a problem, Mr. Elliott. He had an interesting conversation with a man from the Intelligence Service last night, which we monitored with a directional microphone from the street. This morning he met with one Ivan Drozdov, a KGB defector who once supervised the activities of our assassin.”
Elliott sighed heavily on the other end of the line.
The Director said, “Suffice it to say he knows a good deal, and he probably suspects a good deal more. He is a very worthy opponent, our Mr. Osbourne. In my opinion, to take him lightly would be a serious miscalculation.”
“I don’t take him lightly, Director. You can be certain of that.”
“What’s happening at your end?”
“Osbourne and his wife discovered a computer disk containing Susanna Dayton’s notes and a copy of her story. They apparently were able to unlock her encryption code. They’ve given all the material to the editors at the Washington Post.”
“An unfortunate development,” the Director said, coughing gently. “It would seem to me that Mrs. Osbourne is also in a position to do serious damage.”
“I’ve placed her under watch.”
“I hope your men conduct themselves in a more professional manner this time. The last thing we need at this stage of the game is for Susanna Dayton’
s best friend to end up dead also. Her husband is another story. He’s made his share of enemies during his career. It might be fortuitous if one of those enemies would surface and exact his revenge.”
“I’m certain that could be arranged.”
“You have the Society’s blessing, Mr. Elliott.”
“Thank you, Director.”
“As long as this remains an issue of campaign finance, I suspect you’ll weather the storm. Oh, it will be embarrassing and messy. There might be a heavy fine, some uncomfortable media speculation, but your project will survive. If, however, Mr. Osbourne uncovers something approaching the truth. . . . Well, I suppose I needn’t explain the consequences to you.”
“Of course not, Director. What about the defector, Ivan Drozdov? Does he present us with a problem?”
“I’m not certain, but I’m not willing to take that chance. Mr. Drozdov is being dealt with at this moment.”
“A wise move.”
“I thought so. Good afternoon, Mr. Elliott.”
In Aston Magna, Ivan Drozdov was sitting next to the fire, reading by the weak light from the French doors, when he heard the knocking. The corgis bounced out of their basket and bounded to the front door of the cottage, barking wildly. Drozdov followed after them slowly, legs stiff from sitting. He opened the door to find a young man in a blue coverall, face like an altar boy.
“What can I do for you?” Drozdov asked.
The boy pulled out a silenced gun. “Say your prayers.”