“Oh, Christ,” Kingman said. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
Chapter 15
Live a hundred years, learn a hundred years, still you die a fool. Better to turn back than lose your way. A bad compromise is better than a good battle. The proverbs were a Russian litany; the response, survival. The man in the charcoal-gray overcoat and dove-gray fedora crushed out his cigarette in the Mercedes’s ashtray and attempted to settle back in his seat and relax. But he was tense. So much had gone wrong that it was becoming increasingly difficult to see how the situation could possibly turn out for the best.
He looked up as a car came around the corner and slowly passed him, his heart quickening until he realized it was not for him.
So much history here, he thought, far and near. Since coming to Washington he had steeped himself in the city’s heritage. So goes Washington, so goes the nation. The irony of meeting in the parking ramp of the Watergate Hotel was not lost on him. A president had been toppled by events that had happened here. An entire government had very nearly fallen. Was it possible again? He shuddered to think of it.
McAllister was still alive, and now he had help. They had learned nothing from Sikorski, and what’s more his carefully nurtured contacts among the underworld in New Jersey were threatening to pull out unless their fee was substantially increased.
“We’re talking about my country here,” the heavily accented Italian voice had screamed at him over the telephone. “It’s gonna cost you, and cost you plenty.”
Coming up with the extra money, though not impossible would be difficult. “I have accountability too,” he’d said.
“Breaks of the game. But the price of poker has just gone up, gumba. Twenty-four hours.”
McAllister was the key. He had been released from the Lubyanka
by whom? Someone had to have signed the release order. Someonehigh up within the Komitet. But who? And why? It simply made no sense from where he sat.
The door at the far side of the ramp opened and the Russian turned his head in time to see his American counterpart emerge from the stairwell. He watched how the man walked, holding himself close as if he were in pain, as well indeed he might be considering the circumstances. Stem the tide. They had to not only stop McAllister, but they had to learn who was directing him and why.
The American reached the Mercedes and got in on the passenger side. He was visibly distressed, his complexion pale, his hand shaking as he lit a cigarette. “It’s time we thought about pulling out, unless you can tell me what the hell is going on here,” the nature of his words stronger than the tone of his voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“McAllister is getting help.”
“Yes, this woman.
“No, I’m talking about outside help. Somebody is feeding him information. They must be, he can’t be that good.”
The Russian studied the American for a long moment or two. How much did he know that he wasn’t telling? How many secrets had they kept from each other over the years? There was so much at stake here. They could not pull out, of course. Besides, there was nowhere on this earth for them to run and be safe. Nowhere. “Then it is up to us to stop him before he goes too far.” The American shook his head. “You don’t understand, Gennadi, how far he has taken it already.”
“Then you will tell me, and together we will see what must be done.” The Russian forced a calmness into his voice that he did not feel. He had worked with this one for enough years to understand that when he was upset it was for good cause.
“Someone must be feeding him information.”
“From where?”
“Moscow.”
“How? Where is his pipeline? Who does he see? Where do they meet?” With care, he thought.
“You’re in a better position to find that out than I.”
“There has been nothing, trust me when I tell you this,” the Russian said. “I have made… inquiries. If McAllister is getting information it is coming from somewhere here in Washington, or very nearby. And by the way, that was an inspired guess on your part that he would actually break into CIA headquarters.”
“He was after the O’Haire files.”
“Did he get them?”
“I don’t know. But we’re going to have to assume that he did. And you know what that could mean.”
“They’ve received their instructions. I think we can assume that they are safely out of harm’s way for the moment.”
“He broke into headquarters, for God’s sake, Gennadi,” the American shouted. “Do you think Marion is going to be any more difficult for him?” The Russian shook his head. “I asked you once if McAllister was a god, and you told me he was not. He was just an ordinary man with extraordinary abilities. What has changed your mind?”
“We’ve failed four times to stop him.”
“Yes,” the Russian said turning away. “Either he is very good and very lucky, or he is getting help.”
“Then you agree with me,” the American said excitedly. “Only insofar as it may… and I stress the word may… be coming from someone local. The wire and satellite links have contained nothing. I guarantee it.”
“Any ideas?”
“One name comes to mind,” the Russian said. “Who?”
“Someone you don’t know about.”
“What sort of a game are you playing at now?” the American said, raising his voice again.
“It won’t do you any good to shout. Life goes on, as it must. We have nurtured this one for a good number of years, even before my time. He was just beginning to produce when this came up, and for the past couple of weeks it is my understanding that he has been silent. If you knew who he was you would understand just how strange his silence is just now.”
“You’re talking in circles, Gennadi. Who is this man?”
“Nicholas Albright,” the Russian said, watching the American’s face very closely.
“My God!”
“It was thought that his daughter’s entry into the Agency would provide us with an ongoing source of information about new Agency recruits.”
“Is she working with you as well?”
“No, of course not. But from what I understand she is very close to her father. She tells him things.”
“Then he knows where McAllister is hiding?”
“I don’t know.”
The American’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying to me?”
“Albright is not my project, never has been. But if there is some maniac in Moscow who is trying to stop us, Albright could very well be his contact here. Now it seems more than logical. But I can’t directly make an approach for fear of tipping my hand. You can see the delicacy?”
“What can I do?” the American asked.
“For the moment, nothing other than what you have already been doing. I’ll attend to Albright personally.”
“That would be very dangerous..
“I don’t mean myself physically, I meant I’ll have Albright taken care of. That section of Baltimore is very dangerous. Breakins are not unheard of. If we can get the information from him, we will at least know who our enemies are.”
“McAllister.”
“He’s only the tool, my friend. We must learn the identity of the craftsmen now.”
The American looked away. “Do they realize what is at risk?” The Russian did not answer. Fear, as a
