“Amsterdam, Marseilles, Prague. Beowulf Agate was beyond salvage. We could all be killed if he lived. The cables made the usual statements: they were alerts, urging us to take precautions, but we knew what they meant. Don’t take precautions, take out the problem, eliminate Beowulf ourselves.

  None of this is new to you, Herr Scofield. You have given such orders; you know they must be carried out.” Taleniekov yanked the phone away while keeping the barrel of his weapon pressed against Amsterdam’s neck. “You heard it. The trap you set for me is being used to ambush you. By your own people.” Silence. Beowulf Agate said nothing. Vasili’s patience was running out.

  “Don’t you understand? They’ve exchanged information, it’s the only way they could have found the depot-what you call a ‘drop.’ Moscow provided it, can’t you see that? Each of us is being used as the reason to execute the other, to kill us both. My people are more direct than yours. The order for my death has been sent to every Soviet station, civilian and military. Your State Department does it somewhat differently; the analysts take no responsibility for such unconstitutional decisions. They simply send warnings to those who care little for abstractions, but deeply for their lives.” Silence. Taleniekov exploded.

  “What more do you want? Amsterdam was to draw you Gut; you would have had no choice. You would have tried to position yourself in one of two exits: the service area or the staircase. At this moment, Marseilles is by the service elevator, Prague on the staircase. The man from Prague is one you know well, Beowulf. You’ve employed his gun and his knife on many occasions. He’s waiting for you. In less than fifteen minutes, if you do not appear in either place, they will take you in your room. What more do you want?” Scofield answered at last. “I want to know why you’re telling me this.” “Reread my cipher to you! This isn’t the first time you and I have been used. An incredible thing is happening and it goes beyond you and me. A few men know about it. In Washington and Moscow. But they say nothing; no one can say anything. The admissions are catastrophic.” “What admissions?” “The hiring of assassins. On both sides. It goes back years, decades.” “How does it concern me? I don’t care about you.” “Dimitri Yurievich.” “What about him?” “They said you killed him.” “You’re lying, Taleniekov. I thought you’d be better at it. Yurievich was leaning, he was a probable. The civilian killed was my contact, under my source-control. It was a KGB operation. Better a dead physicist than a defected one. I repeat, come and get me.” “You’re wong!… Later! There’s no time to argue. You want proof? Then listen! I trust your ear is more skilled than your mind!” The Russian quickly shoved the GrazBurya into his belt and held the mouthpiece up in the air. With his left hand he gripped the throat of the man from Amsterdam, his thumb centering on the rings of trachea cartilage. He pressed; his hand was a vise, his fingers talons crushing fiber and bone as the vise closed. The Hollander twisted violently, his arms and bands thrashing, trying to break Vasili’s grip, the effort useless. His cry of pain was an unbroken scream that diminished into a wail of agony. The man from Amsterdam fell to the floor unconscious. Taleniekov spoke again into the telephone. “Is there human bait alive who would permit what I’ve just done?” “Was he given an alternative?” “You’re a fool, Scofield! Get yourself killed!” Vasili shook his head in desperation; it was a reaction to his own loss of control. “No…. No, you mustn’t. You can’t understand, and I must try to grasp that, so you must try to understand me. I loathe everything you are, everything you stand for. But right now, we can do what few others can do. Make men listen, make them speak out. If for no other reason than they fear us, fear what we know. The fear is on both sides-” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” interrupted Scofield. “You’re mounting a nice KGB strategy; they’ll probably give you a large dacha in Grasnov, but no sale. I repeat, come and get me.” “Enough!” shouted Taleniekov, looking at the clock on the desk. “You have eleven minutes! You know where your final proof is. You can find it in a service lift or on the staircase. Unless you care to learn it as you die in your room. If you create a disturbance, you’ll draw a crowd.

  That’s more to their liking, but I don’t have to tell you that; you may recognize Prague, you won’t Marseilles. You can’t call the police, or risk the chance that the management will; we both know that. Go find your proof, Scofieldl See if this enemy is lying. You’ll get as far as your first turn in the corridorl If you live-which is unlikely -I’m on the fifth floor. Room five-zero-five. I’ve done what I can!” Vasili slammed down the phone, the gesture equal parts artifice and anger. Anything to jar the American, anything to make him think.

  Taleniekov needed every second now. He bad told Beowulf Agate that he had done all he could, but it was not true. He knelt down and tore off the black overcoat from Amsterdam’s unconscious body.

  Bray replaced the phone, his mind was churning, If he’d only had sleep, or if he had not gone through the totally unexpected violence of the old woman’s attack, or if Taleniekov had not told him so much of the truth, things would be clearer. But it had all happened and, as he had done so often in the past, he had to shift into a state of blind acceptance and think in terms of immediate pur. pose.

  It was not the first time he had been the target of fao-134 THE MATARESE CIRCLE tions distinct from each other. One got used to it when dealing with opposing partisans from the same broadbased camps, although killing was rarely the objective. What was unusual was the timing, the converging of separate assaults. Yet it was so understandable, so clear.

  Undersecretary of State Daniel Congdon had really done it! The seemingly bloodless deskman had found the courage of his own convictions. More specifically, he had found Taleniekov and Taleniekov’s moves toward Beowulf Agate. What better reasoning existed for breaking the rules and eliminating a terminated specialist he considered dangerous? What better motive for reaching the Soviets, who could only favor the dispatch of both men.

  So clear. So well orchestrated he or Taleniekov might have conceived of the strategy. Denials and astonishment would go hand in hand, statesmen in Washington and Moscow decrying the violence of former intelligence officers-from another era. An era when personal animosities often superseded national interests. Christ, he could hear the pronouncements, couched in sanctimonious platitudes made by men like Congdon who concealed filthy decisions under respectable titles.

  The infuriating thing was that the reality supported the platitudes, the words validated by Taleniekov’s hunt for revenge. I swore I’d kill you, Beowulf Agate, and perhaps one day I will.

  That day was today, the perhaps without meaning for the Russian. Taleniekov wanted Beowulf Agate for himself; be would brook no interference from killers recruited and programed by deskmen in Washington and Moscow. I will see you take your last breath…. Those were Taleniekov’s words six years ago; he meant them then and he meant them now.

  Certainly he would save his enemy from the guns of Marseilles and Prague.

  His enemy was worthy of a better gun, his gun. And no ploy was too unreasonable, no words too extreme, to bring his enemy into that gunsight.

  He was tired of it all, thought Scofield, taking his hand away from the phone. Tired of the tension of move and countermove. In the final analysis, who cared? Who gave a godamn for two aging specialists, dedicated to the proposition that each’s counterpart should die?

  Bray closed his eyes, pressing his lids together, aware that there was moisture in his sockets. Tears of fatigue, mind and body spent; it was no time to acknowledge exhaustion. Because he cared. If he had to die–and it was ,always an around-the-corner possibility-he was not going to be taken by guns from Marseilles, Prague or Moscow. He was better than that; he had always been better.

  According to Taleniekov he had eleven minutes; two had passed since the Russian had made the statement. The trap was his room and if the man from Prague was the one Taleniekov had described, the attack would be made ‘quickly, with a minimum of risk. Gas-filled pellets would precede any use of weapons, the fumes immobilizing anyone in the room. It was a tactic favored by the killer from Prague; he took few gambles.

  The immediate objective, therefore, was to get out of the trap. Walking in the corridor was not feasible, perhaps not even opening the door. Since it was Amsterdam’s function to draw him out, and he had not been drawn, Prague and Marseilles would close in. If there was no one in the hallway-as the absence of sound indicated-tbey had nothing to lose. Their schedule would not be postponed, but it could be accelerated.

  No one in the hallway… someone in the hallway. People milling around, excited, creating a diversion. Most of the time a crowd was to the killers’ advantage, not the target’s, especially if the target was identifiable and one or more of the killers were not. On the other band, a target who knew precisely when and where the attack was to be made, could use a crowd to cover his run from ground-zero. An escape based on confusion, and a change of appearance. The change did not have to be much, just enough to cause indecision; indiscriminate gunfire during an execution had to be avoided.

  Eight minutes. Or less. Everything was preparation. He would take his essential belongings, for when he began running, he’d have to keep running; how long and how far there was no way to tell, nor could he think about that now. He had to get out of the trap and elude four men who wanted him dead, one more dangerous than the other three for he was not sent by Washington or Moscow. He had come himself.

  Bray crossed rapidly to the dead woman on the floor, dragged her to the bathroom, rolled the corpse inside, and closed the door.

  He picked up the heavy-based lamp and smashed it down on the knob; the lock was jammed, the door could be opened only by breaking it down.

  His clothes could be left behind. There were no laundry marks or overt evidence connecting them immediately to Brandon Scofield; fingerprints would do that, but lifting and processing them would take time. He would be far away by then-if he got out of the hotel alive. His attach6 case was something else; it contained too many tools of his profession. He closed it, spun the combination lock, and threw it on the bed. He put on his jacket and went back to the telephone. He picked it up and dialed the operator.

  “This is room two-thirteen,” he said in a whisper, effortlessly made to sound weak. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I know the symptoms. I’ve had a stroke. I need help….” He let the phone crash against the table and drop to the floor.

  Taleniekov put on the black overcoat, and reached down for the gray scarf, still draped around Amsterdam’s throat. He yanked it off, wound it around his throat, and picked up the gray hat which had fallen beside the chair.

  It was too large; he creased the crown so it covered his head less awkwardly, and started for the door, passing the closet. He spoke firmly to the couple within.

  “Remain where you are and make no soundl I shall be outside in the corridor. If I hear noise, I’ll come back and you’ll be the worse for it.” In the hall, he ran toward the main elevators, and then beyond them, to the plain dark elevator at the end of the corridor. Against the wall was a tray table used by room service. He removed his GrazBurya from his belt, shoved it in his overcoat pocket, and pushed the button with his left hand. The red light went on above the door; the elevator was on the second floor. Marseilles was in position, waiting for Beowulf Agate, The light went off and seconds later the number 3 shone brightly, then number 4. Vasili turned around, his back to the sliding panel.

  The door opened, but there were no words of recognition, no surprise expressed at the sight of the black overcoat or the gray hat. Taleniekov spun around, his finger on the trigger of his gun.

  There was no one inside the elevator. He stepped in and pressed the button for the second floor.

  “Sir? Sir? My God, it’s the crazy one in two-thirteenl” The excited voice of the operator floated up piercingly from the telephone on the rug. “Send up a couple of boysl See what they can dol I’ll call an ambulance. He’s had an attack or something….” The words were cut off; the chaos had begun.

  Scofield stood by the door, unlatched it and waited. No more than forty seconds passed by when he heard racing footsteps and shouts in the corridor. The door burst open; the bell captain ran in, followed by a younger, larger mana bellboy.

  “Thank Christ it wasn’t lockedl Where?…” Bray kicked the door shut, revealing himself to the two men. In his hand was his automatic. “No one’s going to get hurt,” he said calmly. “Just do exactly as I tell you. You,” Bray ordered the younger man. “Take off your jacket and your cap. And you,” he continued, speaking to the bell captain, “get on the phone and tell the operator to send up the manager. You’re scared; you don’t want to touch anything, there may have been trouble up here. You think I’m dead.” The older man stuttered, his eyes riveted on the gun, then ran to the phone. The performance was convincing, he was frightened out of his wits.

  Bray took the maroon and gold-striped jacket held out for him by the large subordinate. He removed his coat and put it on, bunching his own under his arm. “The cap,” demanded Scofield. It was given.

  The bell captain finished, his eyes staring wildly at Bray, his last plea screamedl “For Christ’s sake, hurry! Get someone up herel” Scofield gestured with his weapon. “Stand by the door next to me,” he said to the frantic man, then addressed the younger. “T’here’s a closet over there beyond the bed. Get inside. Now!” The large, dense bellboy hesitated, looked at Bray’s fac4 and retreated quickly into the closet. Scofield, his weapoil pointed at the bell captain, took the necessary steps toward the closet and kicked the door shut. He picked up the lamp by its stem. “Get over to your rightl Do you understand?

  Answer mel” “Yeah,” came the muffled reply from inside.

  “Knock on the doorl” The tap came from the extreme left, the young man’s right. Bray crashed the base of the lamp down on the knob; it broke off. Then he raised his gun, its silencer attached, and fired one shot into the right side of the door.

  “That was a bullet!” he said. “No matter what you hear, keep your mouth shut or there’ll be another. I’m right outside this doorl” “Oh, my God.

  The man would stay silent through an earthquake. Scofield went back to the bell captain, picking up his attach6 case on the way. “Where’s the staircase?” “Down the hall to the elevators, turn right. It’s at the end of the corridor.” “The service elevator?” “Same thing, the other way, the other end. Turn left at—’ “Listen to me,” interrupted Bray, “and remember what I tell you. In a few seconds we’ll hear the manager and probably others coming down the hall.

  When I open the door, you step outside and shout-and I mean scream your fucking head off-then start running down the corridor with me.” “Christ! What am I supposed to say?” “That you want to get out of here,” answered Bray. “Say it anyway you like.

  I don’t think it’ll be difficult for you.” “Where are we going? I got a wife and four kids I” “That’s nice. Why don’t you go home?” “What?” “What’s the quickest way to the lobby?” “Christ, I don’t knowl” “Elevators can take a long time.” “The staircase? The staircase!” The panicked bell captain found triumph in his deduction.

  “Use the staircase,” said Scofield, his ear at the door.

  The voices were muffled, but intense. He could hear the words police and ambulance, and then emergency. There were three or four people.

  Bray yanked the door back and pushed the bell captain out into the corridor. “Now,” be said.

  Taleniekov turned away as the service elevator opened on the second floor.

  Again the black overcoat and the distinctive gray hat evoked no sounds of recognition, and again he spun, his hand gripping the GrazBurya in his pocket. There were tray tables of half-eaten food and the odor of coffee-remnants of late breakfasts piling up outside the elevator door-but no Marseilles.

  A pair of hinged metal doors opened into the secondfloor corridor, round windows in the center of each panel. Vasili approached and peered through the right circle.

  There he was. The figure in the heavy tweed suit war. edging his way along the wall toward the comer of the intersecting hallway that led to room 13.

  Taleniekov looked at his watch; it was 1:31. Four minutes until the attack; a lifetime if Scofield kept his head about him. A diversion was needed; fire was the surest. A telephone call, a flaming pillow case stuffed with cloth and paper thrown into the hallway. He wondered if Beowulf Agate had thought of it.

  Scofield had thought of something. Down the ball the light above one of the two main elevators went on; the door opened, and three men rushed out talking frantically. One was the manager, now close to panic; another carried a black bag: a doctor. The third, was burly, his face set, the hair close-cropped… the hotel’s private police officer.

  They raced past the startled Marseilles-who turned abruptly away-and proceeded down the long corridor that led to Scofield’s room. The Frenchman took out a gun.