“I have your assurance then, comrade,” said Krupkin in Russian, “and, frankly, I will hold you to it. … Of course I’m taping this conversation! Would you do otherwise? … Good! We understand each other as well as our respective responsibilities, so let me recapitulate. The man is seriously wounded, therefore the city taxi service as well as all doctors and all hospitals in the Moscow area have been alerted. The description of the stolen automobile has been circulated and any sightings of man or vehicle are to be reported only to you. The penalty for disregarding these instructions is the Lubyanka, that must be clear. … Good! We have a mutual understanding and I expect to hear from you the minute you have any information, yes? … Don’t have a cardiac arrest, comrade. I am well aware that you are my superior, but then this is a proletarian society, yes? Simply follow the advice of an extremely experienced subordinate. Have a pleasant day. … No, that is not a threat, it is merely a phrase I picked up in Paris—American origin, I believe.” Krupkin hung up the phone and sighed. “There’s something to be said for our vanished, educated aristocracy, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t say it out loud,” observed Conklin, nodding at the telephone. “I gather nothing’s coming down.”
“Nothing to act upon immediately but something rather interesting, even fascinating in a macabre sort of way.”
“By which you mean it concerns Carlos, I assume.”
“No one else.” Krupkin shook his head as Jason looked over at him from the window. “I stopped at my office to join the assault squad and on my desk were eight large manila envelopes, only one of which had been opened. The police found them in the Vavilova and, true to form, having read the contents of only one, wanted nothing to do with them.”
“What were they?” asked Alex, chuckling. “State secrets describing the entire Politburo as gay?”
“You’re probably not far off the mark,” interrupted Bourne. “That was the Jackal’s Moscow cadre in the Vavilova. He was either showing them the dirt he had on them, or giving them the dirt on others.”
“The latter in this case,” said Krupkin. “A collection of the most preposterous allegations directed at the ranking heads of our major ministries.”
“He’s got vaults of that garbage. It’s standard operating procedure for Carlos; it’s how he buys his way into circles he shouldn’t be able to penetrate.”
“Then I’m not being clear, Jason,” continued the KGB officer. “When I say preposterous, I mean exactly that—beyond belief. Lunacy.”
“He’s almost always on target. Don’t take that judgment to the bank.”
“If there were such a bank I certainly would, and I’d negotiate a sizable loan on its efficacy as collateral.. Most of the information is the stuff of the lowest-grade tabloids—nothing unusual there, of course—but along with such nonsense are outright distortions of times, places, functions and even identities. For example, the Ministry of Transport is not where a particular file says, but a block away, and a certain comrade direktor is not married to the lady named but to someone else—the woman mentioned is their daughter and is not in Moscow but rather in Cuba, where she’s been for six years. Also, the man listed as head of Radio Moscow and accused of just about everything short of having intercourse with dogs, died eleven months ago and was a known closet orthodox Catholic, who would have been far happier as a truly devout priest. … These blatant falsehoods I picked up in a matter of minutes, time being at a premium, but I’m sure there are dozens more.”
“You’re saying that a scam was pulled on Carlos?” said Conklin.
“One so garish—albeit compiled with extreme conviction—it would be laughed out of our most rigidly doctrinaire courts. Whoever fed him these melodramatic ‘exposés’ wanted built-in deniabilities.”
“Rodchenko?” asked Bourne.
“I can’t think of anyone else. Grigorie—I say ‘Grigorie’ but I never called him that to his face; it was always ‘General’—was a consummate strategist, the ultimate survivor, as well as a deeply committed Marxist. Control was his byword, his addiction, really, and if he could control the infamous Jackal for the Motherland’s interests, what a profound exhilaration for the old man. Yet the Jackal killed him with those symbolic bullets in his throat. Was it betrayal, or was it carelessness on Rodchenko’s part at having been discovered? Which? We’ll never know.” The telephone rang and Krupkin’s hand shot down, picking it up. “Da?” Shifting to Russian, Dimitri gestured for Conklin to restrap the prosthetic boot as he spoke. “Now listen to me very carefully, comrade. The police are to make no moves—above all, they are to remain out of sight. Call in one of our unmarked vehicles to replace the patrol car, am I clear? … Good. We’ll use the Moray frequency.”
“Breakthrough?” asked Bourne, stepping away from the window as Dimitri slammed down the phone.
“Maximum!” replied Krupkin. “The car was spotted on the Nemchinovka road heading toward Odintsovo.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me. What’s in Odintsovol, or whatever it’s called?”
“I don’t know specifically, but I must assume he does. Remember, he knows Moscow and its environs. Odintsovo is what you might call an industrial suburb about thirty-five minutes from the city—”
“Goddamn it!” yelled Alex, struggling with the Velcro straps of his boot.
“Let me do that,” said Jason, his tone of voice brooking no objection as he knelt down and swiftly manipulated the thick strips of coarse cloth. “Why is Carlos still using the Dzerzhinsky car?” continued Bourne, addressing Krupkin. “It’s not like him to take that kind of risk.”
“It is if he has no choice. He has to know that all Moscow taxis are a silent arm of the state, and he is, after all, severely wounded and undoubtedly now without a gun or he would have used it on you. He’s in no condition to threaten a driver or steal an automobile. … Besides, he reached the Nemchinovka road quickly; that the car was even seen is pure chance. The road is not well traveled, which I assume he also knows.”
“Let’s get out of here!” cried Conklin, annoyed by both Jason’s attention and his own infirmity. He stood up, wavered, angrily rejected Krupkin’s hand, and started for the door. “We can talk in the car. We’re wasting time.”
“Moray, come in, please,” said Krupkin in Russian, sitting beside the assault squad driver in the front seat, the microphone at his lips, his hand on the frequency dial of the vehicle’s radio. “Moray, respond, if I’m reaching you.”
“What the hell’s he talking about?” asked Bourne, in the backseat with Alex.
“He’s trying to make contact with the unmarked KGB patrol following Carlos. He keeps switching from one ultrahigh frequency to another. It’s the Moray code.”
“The what?”
“It’s an eel, Jason,” replied Krupkin, glancing over the seat. “Of the Muraenidae family with pore-like gills and capable of descending to great depths. Certain species can be quite deadly.”
“Thank you, Peter Lorre,” said Bourne.
“Very good,” laughed the KGB man. “But you’ll admit it’s aptly descriptive. Very few radios can either send it or receive it.”
“When did you steal it from us?”
“Oh, not you, not you at all. From the British, truthfully. As usual, London is very quiet about these things, but they’re far ahead of you and the Japanese in certain areas. It’s that damned MI-Six. They dine in their clubs in Knightsbridge, smoke their odious pipes, play the innocents, and send us defectors trained at the Old Vic.”
“They’ve had their gaps,” said Conklin defensively.
“More so in their high-dudgeon revelations than in reality, Aleksei. You’ve been away too long. We’ve both lost more than they have in that department, but they can cope with public embarrassment—we haven’t learned that time-honored trait. We bury our ‘gaps,’ as you put it; we try too hard for that respectability which too often eludes us. Then, I suppose, we’re historically young by comparison.” Krupkin again switched back into Russian. “Moray, come in, please! I’m reaching the end of the spectrum. Where are you, Moray?”
“Stop there, comrade!” came the metallic voice over the loudspeaker. “We’re in contact. Can you hear me?”
“You sound like a castrato but I can hear you.”
“This must be Comrade Krupkin—”
“Were you expecting the pope? Who’s this?”
“Orlov.”
“Good! You know what you’re doing.”
“I hope you do, Dimitri.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your insufferable orders to do nothing, that’s why. We’re two kilometers away from the building—I drove up through the grass on a small hill—and we have the vehicle in sight. It’s parked in the lot and the suspect’s inside.”
“What building? What hill? You tell me nothing.”
“The Kubinka Armory.”
Hearing this, Conklin bolted forward in the seat. “Oh, my God!” he cried.
“What is it?” asked Bourne.
“He reached an armory.” Alex saw the frown of confusion on Jason’s face. “Over here armories are a hell of a lot more than enclosed parade grounds for legionnaires and reservists. They’re serious training quarters and warehouses for weapons.”