had not been served; snacks had been made available, and of course drinks. In coach class passengers were served in plastic cups, in first class they were served in crystal. The first class stewardess stepped around the corner from the galley and smiled.
“Care for another drink, Monsieur McAllister?” she asked. her pretty white teeth flashing.
“No. Thanks,” McAllister said tiredly. “I think I’ll try to get some rest. How soon will we be in Paris?”
“A little more than an hour.”
McAllister glanced across the aisle at his two escorts. Langley had sent them out from Washington last week and they had waited around the embassy until he was released. Other than introducing themselves at Sheremetyevo Airport when he had been turned over to them, they’d said little or nothing to him. Now, as before, their reticence was bothersome.
Mark Carrick, seated on the aisle, glanced up from the magazine he’d been reading. “It probably would be for the best if you got some shut-eye, sir.”
McAllister looked up. The stewardess had returned to the galley. “What the hell happened back there? One minute I’m on my way to Siberia, and the next thing I know I’m handed over to you two at the airport. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Believe it, sir. You’re going home.“The other agency legman, Thomas Maas, turned away from the window and stared across at McAllister. His expression, like Lacey’s yesterday afternoon in the courtroom was unreadable. But it wasn’t friendly. “Are you feeling all right now, sir?”
“They were drugging my food. It’ll probably take a little while for the stuff to work itself out of my system.”
“They’ll take care of that in Washington,” Carrick said. “They’re all set up for you.”
“But what happened back there? Was a trade made after all?” Carrick shrugged. He was a heavyset man, with short-cropped gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a no-nonsense air about him. “I couldn’t say, sir. Our orders were to wait for your release and then get you home.”
“You knew about my trial?”
“No, sir,” Carrick said.
“Then who sent you out here? Was it Bob Highnote?”
“Why don’t you try to get some rest, Mr. McAllister,” Maas said. “There’ll be a layover in Paris, and again in New York before we can catch the D.C. shuttle. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“You’re probably right,” McAllister mumbled laying his head back and closing his eyes. He wasn’t thinking straight. Everything had happened so fast, with so much finality. After his trial he had been taken back to the Lubyanka where after dinner the clothing he had been wearing the night of his arrest had been returned to him, freshly laundered and pressed. No one came to see him, or even to remove the dishes from his meal, or the suit he’d worn to the trial, until very late.
He had felt betrayed. Lacey’s disappearance at the end of the trial had deeply shaken him, so when his guards came for him around midnight, he was convinced that this was one predicament that wouldn’t be so easy to get out of. All of his life he had relied on his own abilities; he was responsible for his own well-being and safety. Only this time he had absolutely no control over what would happen to him next.
Walking up the familiar corridors and out into the waiting van, he had gone meekly. You can’t fight the whole Russian Army, boyo. The words came to his mind in a familiar yet distant voice. Survival, that’s the name of the game. Hang on, maybe the cavalry will be coming after all. He wondered what his father would have done in the same circumstances, or how his grandfather would have reacted. They’ll break your will sooner or later, he’d been taught at the Farm. It is inevitable. Your job is to hold out for as long as you possibly can.
But they had his confession. Miroshnikov had won after all. The Soviet system had won. They had finally ground him down to nothing, so that he was even incapable of helping himself or offering anything but a token resistance. Attacking Miroshnikov had been nothing more than the pitiful last-ditch stand of a man totally overwhelmed by the odds.
He managed the slightest of smiles. But, damn, it had been worth it.
Voronin’s face swam into view, and McAllister knew that he was drifting now, half in and half out of sleep, the muted hum of the jetliner’s engines lulling him. Voronin had been the gold seam after all. The mother load, in the parlance.
Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. What did it mean? Where was the logic? Why hadn’t they asked him about Voronin? Why?
He’d been to Moscow, so now the answers were waiting for him in Washington. Did he want to pursue them? Or was it time to step down?
Someone touched his arm and he opened his eyes and looked up into the smiling face of the stewardess.
“We’re coming in for a landing, monsieur,” she said. “Please, fasten your seatbelt.”
Charles de Gaulle Airport had always resembled, to McAllister’s way of thinking, a space station of aluminum, glass, and acrylic elevators and moving walkways and brightly lit notice boards directing passengers to the various functions and shops. The airport was divided into two sections: Aerogare 1 which served mostly foreign airlines, and Aerogare 2 which was for the exclusive use of Air France.
They carried no luggage, so customs and passport control were accomplished in a few minutes. The airport was very empty at this early hour and what few French officials were on duty were sleepy and inattentive.
McAllister walked with Carrick and Maas across the terminal where they got on one of the moving sidewalks that took them up into the circular Aerogure 1, for the Pan Am flight to New York. They had a little more than an hour to wait. Most of the shops and restaurants were closed, so they went into a small stand-up cafe near the boarding gate and ordered coffee. Maas went off to make a telephone call leaving McAllister and Carrick alone for a few minutes.
The heavyset CIA legman hunched over his coffee, avoiding McAllister’s eyes. Alone now he seemed somewhat ill at ease, nervous.
McAllister studied the man’s profile for a moment or two. Something was going on. Something was definitely wrong. He had felt it at the airport in Moscow, and on the plane, but he had put his apprehensive feelings aside as simple paranoia; a mild form of drug-induced hysteria. He wasn’t so sure now.
“Excuse me a moment,” he mumbled, stepping away from the counter. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Carrick looked up startled. “I’ll go with you.” McAllister stopped and looked directly into the man’s eyes. “What the hell is going on here, Mark?”
“What do you mean?” Carrick asked. He glanced over McAllister’s shoulder into the broad concourse, evidently searching for Maas to return.
“I’m getting the impression that I’m not returning home the conquering hero. What are your orders?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. McAllister. Shit, I’m just doing my job.”
“Which is?”
“Fetch you home from Moscow.”
“And deliver me to whom?”
“We’ll be met at the airport.”
“What else?” McAllister demanded. He was beginning to feel mean. “What else were you told?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you know what I’ve gone through over the past few weeks?” A hard look came into Carrick’s eyes. He nodded, his jaw tight. “You’re in one piece.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Carrick shook his head. “Look, I don’t want to get into it with you, Mr. McAllister.”
“Go ahead, get into it.”
Still Carrick hesitated. Again he looked out into the concourse for Maas.
“If I turn around and walk out of here, are you going to stop me?”
“You’re damned right I’ll stop you. So don’t push it.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“It beats the hell out of me, McAllister. All I know is that you were with the Russians for a goddamned long time, and there are some people back home who’d like to know what you talked to them about, and why you came out in one piece, and why they decided at the last minute to release you-without a trade. They released you
