executed… without delay.” “I see,” said Taleniekov. And he did see; he expected it. It was not the VKR. It was powerful men who’d heard he had spoken a name that no one should hear. Matarese. “I’ve betrayed no one. Believe that.” “I do. I know you.” “Read me the cable from ‘depot.”’ “Very well. Have you a pencil? It makes no sense.” Vasili reached into his pocket for his pen; there was paper on the table.

  “Go ahead.” The man spoke slowly, clearly. “As follows: ‘Invitation Kasimir.

  Schrankenwarten five goals’….” The cryptographer stopped; Taleniekov could hear voices in the distance over the line. “I caift go on. People are coming,” he said.

  “I must have the rest of that cablel” “Thirty minutes. The Amar Magazin. IT be there.” The line went dead.

  Vasili slammed his fist on the table, then replaced the phone. “I must have it,” he repeated in English.

  “What’s the Amar Magazin-the Lobster Shop?” asked the CIA man.

  “A fish restaurant on Kerenski Street, about seven blocks from headquarters. No’one who knows Sevastopol goes there; the food is terrible. But it fits what he was trying to tell me.” “What’s that?” “Whenever the cryptographer wanted me to screen certain incoming material before others saw it, he would suggest we meet at the A mar.” “He didn’t just come to your office and talk?” Taleniekov glanced over at the American. “You know better than that.” The agent looked hard at Vasili. “They want you very dead, don’t they?” “It’s a gargantuan error.” “It always is,” said Zaimis, frowning. “You trust him?” “You heard him. When do you sail?” “Eleven-thirty. Two hours. Roughly the same time that confirmation’s due back from Moscow.” “I’ll be here.” “I know you will,” said the agent. “Because I’m going with you.” “You what?” “I’ve got protection out there in the city. Of course, I’ll want my gun back. And yours. We’ll see how much you want to get through the Bosporus.” “Why would you do this?” “I have an idea you may reconsider that unthinkable option of yours. I want to bring you in.” Vasili shook his head slowly. “Nothing ever changes. It will not happen.

  I can still expose you and you don’t know how. And by exposing you, I blow apart your Black Sea network. It would take years to re-establish.

  Time is always the issue, isn’t it?” “We’ll see. You want to get to the Dardanelles?” “Of course.” “Give me the gun,” said the American.

  The restaurant was filled, the waiters’ aprons as dirty as the sawdust on the floor. Taleniekov sat alone by the right rear wall, Zaimis two tables away in the company of a Greek merchant seaman in the pay of the CIA. The Greek’s fare was creased with loathing for his surroundings.

  Vasili sipped iced vodka which helped disguise the taste of the fifth-rate caviar.

  The cryptographer came through the door, spotted Taleniekov, and weaved his way awkwardly between waiters and patrons to the table. His eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses conveyed at once joy and fear and a hundred unspoken questions.

  “It’s all so incredible,” he said, sitting down. “What have they done to you?” “It’s what they’re doing to themselves,” replied Vasili. “They don’t want to listen, they don’t want to hear what has to be said, what has to be stopped. It’s all I can tell you.” “But to call for your execution. It’s inconceivablel” “Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll be back-and, as they say -rehabilitated with honors.” Taleniekov smiled and touched the man’s arm. “Never forget.

  There are good and decent men in Moscow, more committed to their country than to their own fears and ambitions. They’ll always be there, and those are the men that I will reach. They’ll welcome me and thank me for what I’ve done.

  Believe that…. Now, we’re dealing in minutes. Where is the cable?” The cryptographer opened his hand. The paper was neatly folded, creased into his palm. “I wanted to be able to throw it away, if I had to. I know the words.” He handed the cipher to Vasili.

  A dread came over Taleniekov as he read the message from Washington.

  Invitation Kasimir. Schrankenwarten five goals, Un-ter den Linden. Przseslvac zero. Prague. Repeat text. Zero. Repeat again at will. Zero.

  Beowulf Agate.

  When he had finished reading, the former master strategist of KGB whispered, “Nothing ever changes.” “What is it?” asked the cryptographer. “I didn’t understand it. It’s no code we’ve ever used.” “There’s no way that you could understand,” answered Vasili, anger and sadness in his voice. “It’s a combination of two codes. Ours and theirs.

  Ours from the days in East Berlin, theirs from Prague. This cable was not sent by our man from Brussels. It was sent by a killer who won’t stop killing.” It happened so fast there were only seconds to react, and the Greek seaman moved first. His weathered face had been turned toward the incoming customers. He spat out the words.

  “Watch it! The goats are filthyl” Taleniekov looked up; the cryptographer spun in his chair. Twenty feet away, in an aisle peopled by waiters, were two men who had not come in for a meal; their expressions were set, their eyes darting about the room. They were scanning the tables but not for friends.

  “Oh, my God,” whispered the cryptographer turning back to Vasili. “They found the phone and tapped it. I was afraid of that.” “Followed you, yes,” said Taleniekov, glancing over at Zaimis, who was half out of his chair, the idiot. “They know we’re friends; you’re being watched. But they didn’t find the phone. If they were certain that I was here, they’d break in with a dozen soldiers. They’re district VKR. I know them. Calmly now, take off your hat and slide out of your chair. Head toward the back hallway, to the men’s room. There’s a rear exit, remember?” “Yes, yes, I remember,” sputtered the man. He got up, his shoulders hunched, and started for the narrow corridor several tables away.

  But he was an academic, not a field man, and Vasili cursed himself for trying to instruct him. One of the two VKR men spotted him and came forward, pushing aside the waiters in the aisle.

  Then he saw Taleniekov and his hand whipped into the open space of his jacket and toward an unseen weapon. As he did so, the Greek seaman lurched up from his chair, weaving unsteadily, waving his arms like a man with too much vodka in him. He slammed against the VKR man, who tried to push him away. The Greek feigned drunken indignation and pushed back with such force that the Russian went sprawling over a table, sending dishes and food crashing to the floor.

  Vasili sprang up and raced past his old friend from Riga, pulling him toward the narrow hallway; then he saw the American. Zaimis was on his feet, his gun in his hand. Mod “Put that away!” shouted Taleniekov. “Don’t expose-” It was too late. A gunshot exploded through the sounds of chaos, escalating it instantly into pandemonium. The CIA man brought both his hands to his chest as he fell, the shirt beneath his jacket suddenly drenched with blood.

  Vasili grabbed the cryptographer by the shoulder, yanking him through the narrow archway. There was a second gunshot; the code man arched spastically, his legs together, an eruption of flesh at his throat. He had been shot through the back of the neck.

  Talenickov lunged to the floor of the hallway, stunned at what followed.

  He heard a third gunshot, a shrill scream after it, penetrating the cacophony of screams surrounding it. And then the Greek seaman crashed through the archway, an automatic in his hand.

  “Is there a way out back here?” he roared in broken English. “We have to run. The first goat got away. Others will come!” Taleniekov scrambled to his feet and gestured for the Greek to follow him. Together they raced through a door into a kitchen filled with terrified cooks and waiters, and out into an alley. They turned left and ran through a maze of dark connecting pavements between the old buildings until they reached the back streets of Sevastopol.

  They kept running for more than a mile. Vasili knew every inch of the city, but it was the Greek who kept shouting the turns they must make. As they entered a dimly lit side street, the seaman grabbed Taleniekov’s arm; the man was out of breath.

  “We can rest here for a minute,” he said, gasping. “They won’t find us.” “It’s not a place we think of first in a search,” agreed Vasili, looking at the row of neat apartment buildings.

  “‘Always Ede out in a well-kept neighborhood,” said the seaman. “The residents veer from controversy; they’d inform on you in a minute.

  Everybody knows it so they don’t look in such places.” “You say we can stay ‘for a minute,”’ said Taleniekov. “I’m not sure where we’ll go after that. I need time to think.” “You rule out the ship then?” asked the Greek. “I thought so.” “Yes. Zaimis had papers on him. Worse, he had one of my guns. The VKR will be swarming over the piers within the hour.” The Greek studied Vasili in the dim light. “So the great Taleniekov flees Russia. He can remain only as a corpse.” “Not from Russia, only from frightened men. But I do have to leave-for a while. I’ve got to figure out how.” “There is a way,” said the merchant seaman simply. “We’ll head over the northwest coast, then south into the mountains. You’ll be in Greece in three days.” “How?” “There’s a convoy of trucks that go first to Odessa….”

  Taleniekov sat on the hard bench in the back of the truck, the light of dawn seeping through the billowing canvas flaps that covered the sides. In a while, he and the others would have to crawl beneath the floor boards, remaining motionless and silent on a concealed ]edge between the axles, while they passed through the next check.

  point. But for an hour or so they could stretch and breathe air that did not reek of oil and grease.

  He reached into his pocket and took out the cipher from Washington, the cable that had already cost three lives.

  Invitation Kasimir. Schrankenwarten five goals. Un-ter den Linden. Przseslvac zero. Prague. Repeat text. Zero. Repeat again at will. Zero.

  Beowulf Agate.

  Two codes. One meaning.

  With his pen, Vasili wrote out that meaning beneath the cipher.

  Come and take me, as you took someone else across a checkpoint at five o’clock on the Unter den Linden. I’ve broken and killed your courier, as another courier was killed in Prague. Repeat: Come to me. I’ll kill you.

  Scofield

  Beyond the American killer’s brutal decision, the most electrifying aspect of Scofield’s cable was the fact that he was no longer in the service of his country. He had been separated from the intelligence community. And considering what he had done and the pathological forces that drove him to do it, the separation was undoubtedly savage. For no government professional would murder a courier under the circumstances of this extraordinary Soviet contact. And if Scofield was nothing else, he was a professional..

  The storm clouds over Washington had been catastrophic for Beowulf Agate.

  They had destroyed him.

  As the storm over Moscow had destroyed a master strategist named Taleniekov.

  It was strange, bordering on the macabre. Two enemies who loathed each other had been chosen by the Matarese as the first of its lethal decoys-ploys and diversions as old Krupskaya had called them. Yet only one of those enen-des knew it; the other did not. He was concerned solely with ripping scars open, letting the blood between them flow again.

  Vasili put the paper back into his pocket, and breathed deeply. The coming days would be filled with move and countermove, two experts stalking each other until the inevitable confrontation.

  My name is Taleniekov. We will kill each other or we will talk.

  Undersecretary of State Daniel Congdon shot up from the chair, the telephone in his hand. Since his early days at NSA he had learned that one way of controffing an outburst was to physically move during a moment of crisis. And control was the key to everything in his profession; at least, the appearance of it. He listened as this particular crisis was defined by an angry Secretary of State.

  Godamn it, he was controlled.

  “I’ve just met privately with the Soviet Ambassador and we both agree the incident must not be made public. The important thing now is to bring Scofield in.” “Are you certain it was Scofield, sir? I can’t believe itl” “Let’s say that until he denies it with irrefutable proof that he was a thousand miles away during the past fortyeight hours we must assume it had to be Scofield. No one else in clandestine operations would have committed such an act. It’s unthinkable.” Unthinkable? Incredible. The body of a dead Russian delivered through the gates of the Soviet Embassy in the back seat of a Yellow Cab at 8:30 in the morning at the height of Washington’s rush-hour traffic. And a driver who knew absolutely nothing except that he had picked up two drunks, not one although one was in worse shape than the other. What the hell had happened to the other guy? The one who sounded like a Ruskie and wore a hat and dark glasses and said the sunlight was too bright after a whole night of Wodka.

  Where was he? And was the fellow in the back seat all right? He looked like a mess.

  “Who was the man, Mr. Secretary?” “He was a Soviet intelligence officer stationed in Brussels. The Ambassador was frank; the KGB had no knowledge he was in Washington.” “A possible defection?” “There’s no evidence whatsoever to support that.” “Then what ties him to Scofield? Beyond the method of dispatch and delivery.” The Secretary of State paused, then replied carefully. “You must understand, Mr. Congdon, the Ambassador and I have a unique relationship that goes back several decades. We are often more candid with each other than diplomatic. Always with the understanding that neither speaks for the record.” “I understand, sir,” said Congdon, realizing that the answer about to be given could never be referred to officially.

  “The intelligence officer in question was a member of a KGB unit in East Berlin roughly ten years ago. I assume in light of your recent decisions that you’re familiar with Scofield’s file.” “His wife?” Congdon sat down. “The man was one of those who killed Scofield’s wife?” “The Ambassador made no reference to Scofield’s wife; he merely mentioned the fact that the dead man had been part of a relatively autonomous section of the KGB in East Berlin ten years ago.” “That section was controlled by a strategist named Taleniekov. He gave the orders.” “Yes,” said the Secretary of State. “We discussed Mr. Taleniekov and the subsequent incident several years later in Prague at some length. We looked for the connection you’ve just considered. It may exist.” “How is that, sir?” “Vasili Taleniekov disappeared two days ago.” “Disappeared?” “Yes, Mr. Congdon. Think about it. Taleniekov learned that he was to be officially retired, mounted a simple but effective cover, and disappeared.” “Scofield’s been terminated….” Congdon spoke softly, as much to himself as into the telephone.

  “Exactly,” agreed the Secretary of State. “The parallel is our immediate concern. Two retired specialists now bent on doing what they could not do-or pursue-of- ficially. Kill each other. They have contacts everywhere, men who are loyal to them for any number of reasons. Their personal vendetta could create untold problems for both governments during these precious months of conciliation. This cannot happen.

  The director of Cons Op frowned; there was something wrong in the secretary’s conclusions. “I spoke with Scofield myself three nights ago. He didn’t appear consumed with anger or revenge or anything like that. He was a tired field agent who’d lived… abnormally… for a long time. For years. He told me he just wanted to fade away, and I believed him. I discussed Scofield with Robert Winthrop, by the way, and he felt the same way about him. He said-” “Winthrop knows nothing,” interrupted the Secretary of State with unexpected harshness. “Robert Winthrop is a brilliant man, but he’s never understood the meaning of confrontation except in its most rarefied forms.

  Bear in mind, Mr. Congdon, Scofield killed that intelligence officer from Brussels.” “Perhaps there were circumstances we’re not aware of.” “Really?” Again the Secretary of State paused, and when he spoke, the meaning behind his words was unmistakable. “If there are such circumstances, I submit we have a far more potentially dangerous situation than any personal feud might engender. Scofield and Taleniekov know more about the field operations of both intelligence services than any two men alive. They must not be permitted to make contact. Either as enemies intent on killing one another, or for those circumstances we know nothing about.

  Do I make myself clear, Mr. Congdon? As director of Consular Operations, it is your responsibility. How you execute that responsibility is no concern of mine. You may have a man beyond salvage. That’s for you to decide.” Daniel Congdon remained motionless as he heard the click on the other end of the line. In all his years of service he had never received such an ill-disguised if oblique order. The language could be debated, not the command. He replaced the phone in its cradle and reached for another on the left side of his desk. He pressed a button and dialed three digits.

  “Internal Security,” said a male voice.

  “This is Undersecretary Congdon. Pick up Brandon Scofield. You have the information. Bring him in at once.” “One minute, sir,” replied the man politely. “I think a level-two surveillance entry on Scofield came in a couple of days ago. Let me’check the computer. All the data’s there.” “A couple of days ago?” “Yes, sir. It’s on the screen now. Scofield checked out of his hotel at approximately eleven P.m. on the sixteenth.” “The sixteenth? Today’s the nineteenth.” “Yes, sir. There was no time lapse as far as the entry was concerned. The management informed us within the hour.” “Where is he?” “He left two forwarding addresses, but no dates. A sister’s residence in Minneapolis and a hotel in Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands.” “Have they been verified?” “As to accuracy, yes sir. A sister does live in Minneapolis and the hotel in St. Thomas is holding a prepaid reservation for Scofield effective the seventeenth. The money was wired from Washington.” “Then he’s there.” “Not as of noon today, sir. A routine call was made; he hasn’t arrived.” “What about the sister?” interrupted Congdon.