Fellowship of Fear

“Spotted whom?”

Delvaux tapped his thigh. “Ah, I forgot. You wouldn’t know Victor Sholokov, a senior KGB agent… with Department V.”

From Delvaux’s tone and meaningful look, Gideon knew he should be impressed. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Delvaux spoke with mild surprise at Gideon’s ignorance. “Department V—that is their assassination and murder unit. And a very effective one.”

“Are you suggesting that this Sholokov was there to murder me?”

“Certainly. But of course Monkes didn’t know that. He thought Sholokov was your contact. And when he saw him attack John with the umbrella—”

“That was Sholokov? Was I right then? Was he Balkan?”

Delvaux smiled. “The scientist verifying his theory. Yes, he was a Rumanian. Most impressive, professor.”

“Ha!” Gideon said jubilantly. He’d collect that dinner from John yet. Then he frowned. “But wait a minute; this Department V assassinates its victims with umbrellas?”

“You’re not very far wrong, but I’ll come to that in a few moments. In any event, Monkes assumed that Sholokov had spotted him and that the umbrella attack was simply a way to warn you not to carry out the rendezvous with him. Sholokov,” he added, seeing Gideon’s confused frown. “So Monkes—”

“Wait, please. I’m starting to lose my way. Why did this Sholokov attack John? Was he trying to kill him?”

“No, no,” Delvaux said. “Don’t you remember? You and John walked directly up to him to talk to him. Isn’t that correct? It’s what John told me.”

“Yes, it’s correct, but I still don’t understand.”

“It seems quite clear to me,” Delvaux said with a touch of impatience. “Sholokov assumed that you and John had somehow found him out and were approaching him to detain or perhaps kill him. Probably he thought the Prado was full of NSD agents. And so he panicked, then ran. At least, that is what we think.”

To shake his head perplexedly was not a habitual gesture for Gideon, but he did it for the third time in an hour. The answers he was getting were as complex and paradoxical as the questions. “So I was being hunted by an assassin who thought I was hunting him, and who Monkes thought was my accomplice?”

Delvaux guffawed as if he had heard a joke. “Exactly, exactly!” He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “After the incident in the Prado, Monkes decided to remain with Sholokov rather than with you. After all, he knew where you were staying and could put his hands on you at any time. He followed him to a hotel near Alcala de Henares and monitored his telephone calls.”

Gideon didn’t bother to ask how one goes about monitoring telephone calls. He assumed there was a quick, logical, improbable answer.

“As soon as Sholokov got to his room, he called the Education Office here at the base and learned your schedule for the next day; that you were taking your class to Torralba—”

“They told him that?”

“Why not? A person calls, identifies himself as a Luxembourgian military officer who needs to speak with you —”

“But didn’t he have a Russian accent?”

“Ah, but not everyone has your facility with linguistics. And of those who do, how many know what a Luxembourgian sounds like? Eh?”

Gideon almost shook his head again. Instead he sighed. The boys had stopped playing and had gone, leaving them alone. Gideon suggested that they walk some more and headed them in the general direction of the base shopping center. He wanted people around, Americans engaged in everyday, routine activities.

“So,” said Delvaux, walking with his hands again clasped behind his back and his head thrust forward on its short neck, “Monkes drove to Torralba several hours before you were due to be there, with tape recorder and camera, in order to surprise you in flagrante delicto with Sholokov—”

“… who was actually going to Torralba for another try at killing me?”

“So we assume. What happened then is—”

“Let me guess. When Monkes got to Torralba, he found that the only place he could observe me without being seen was in the museum, so he paid the custodian to let him in and keep anyone else out. Then Sholokov also came early, and he found that the museum was the only place with any cover, and… what? I suppose they surprised one another, fought, and killed each other?” Gideon spoke matter-of-factly. The continuing talk of spies and murder had worn down the sharp edge of implausibility.

“It’s impossible to tell. Monkes’s diary does not include the encounter, of course. But we think that is what happened. And so the book is closed.”

They had reached the shopping center. Even at nine-thirty there was a cheerful, gratifying bustle. The hot-dog stand was already open, and Gideon found the aroma irresistible. He wasn’t sure if he was still hungry because of missing dinner last night or if he simply needed to bite into a chunk of down-home America. Delvaux merely shuddered when Gideon asked him if he would like a hot dog, so Gideon bought one for himself and painted it with a heavy coat of mustard. They found a nearby bench and sat down. Gideon bit in, savoring the American mustard’s clean tang.

Bright blue patches were appearing in the clouds after all, and the sounds and movement in the shopping center were wonderfully humdrum. He began to understand the virtues of military bases that looked like pieces of Oklahoma, no matter in what exotic locale they sat.

“Do you know,” said Delvaux brightly, “that smells very nice. I believe I will have one.”