Lodzia shook her head in exasperation. “Sometimes I think the great Taleniekov is a great fooll I can run the name through our computersl” “The minute you did, you!d be marked-for all purposes, dead. That man on the floor has accomplices everywhere.” He turned and walked back to the body, kneeling down to continue his examination of the corpse. “Besides, you’d find nothing; it’s too many years ago, too many changes of regimes and emphases. If any entry, or entries, had ever been made, I doubt they’d be there now. The irony is that if there was something in the data banks, it would probably mean the Voroshin family is no longer involved.” “Involved with what, Vasili’r’ He did not answer immediately, for he had turned the nude body over. There was a small discoloration of the skin on the lower midsection of the chest, around the area of the heart, barely visible through the matted hair. It was tiny, no more than a half-inch in diameter-the bluish-purple mark was a circle. At first glance it appeared to be a birthmark, a perfectly natural phenomenon, in no way superimposed on the flesh. But it was not natural; it was placed there by a very experienced needle. Old Krupskaya had said the words as he lay dying: a man was caught, a bluish circle on his chest, a soldier of the Matarese.

  “With this.” Taleniekov separated the black hair on the dead man’s chest so the jagged circle could be seen clearly. “Come here.” Lodzia got up, walked to the corpse, and knelt down. “What? The birthmark?” “Per nostro circolo,” he said. “It wasn’t there when our Englishman was born. It had to be earned.” “I don’t understand.” “You will. I’m going to tell you everything I know. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to, but I don’t think there’s a choice now. They might easily kill me. If they do, there’s someone you must reach, I’ll tell you how.

  Describe this mark, fourth rib, border of the cage, near the heart. It was not meant to be found.” Lodzia was silent as she looked at the bluish mark on the flesh, and finally at Taleniekov. “Who is ‘they’?” “They go by the name of the Matarese….” He told her. Everything. When he was finished, Lodzia did not speak for a long time, nor did he intrude on her thoughts. For she had heard shocking things, not the least of which was the incredible alliance between Vasili Vasilovich Taleniekov and a man known throughout the KGB world as Beowulf Agate. She walked to the window overlooking the dreary street. She spoke, her face to the glass.

  “I imagine you’ve asked this question of yourself a thousand times; I ask it again. Was it necessary to contact ScofieldT’ “Yes,” he said.

  “Moscow wouldn’t listen to you?” “Moscow ordered my execution. Washington ordered his.” “Yes, but you say that neither Moscow nor Washington knows about this Matarese. The trap set for you and Beowulf was based on keeping you aparL I can understand that.” “Official Washington and official Moscow are blind to the Matarese.

  Otherwise, someone would have stepped forward in our behalf; we would have been summoned to present what we know-what I brought Scofield. Instead, we’re branded traitors, ordered to be shot on sight, no provisions made to give us a hearing. The Matarese orchestrated it, using the clandestine apparatuses of both countries.” “Men this Matarese Is in Moscow, in Washington.” “Absolutely. In, but not of. Capable of manipulating, but unseen.” “Not unseen, Vasili,” objected Lodzia. “The men you spoke to in Moscow— “Panicked old men,” interrupted Taleniekov. “Dying war horses put out to pasture. Impotent.” “Men the man Scofield approached. The statesman, Winthrop. What of him?” “Undoubtedly dead by now.” Lodzia walked away from the window and stood in front of him. “rhen where do you go? You’re comered.” Vasili shook his head. “On the contrary, we’re making progress. The first name on the list, Scozi, was accurate. Now, we have our dead Englishman here. No papers, no proof of who he is or where he came from, but with a mark more telling than a billfold filled with false documents. He was part of their army, which means there’s another soldier here in Leningrad watching an old man who’s curator of literary archives at the Shchedrin Library. I want him almost as much as I want to reach my old friend; I want to break him, get answers. The Matarese are in Leningrad to protect the Voroshins, to conceal the truth. We’re getting closer to that truth.” “But suppose you find it. Whom can you take it to? You cannot protect yourselves because you don’t know who they are.” “We know who they are not, and that7s enough. The Premier and the President to begin with.” “You won’t get near them.” “We will if we have our proof. Beowulf was right about that; we need incontrovertible proof. Will you help us? Help me?” Lodzia Kronescha looked into his eyes, her own softening. She reached up with both her hands and cupped his face. “Vasili Vasilovich. My life had become so uncomplicated, and now you return.” “I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t approach that old man directly. I testified on his behalf at a security hearing in 1954. I’m terribly sorry, Lodzia.” “Don’t be. rve missed you. And, of course, I’ll help you. Were it not for you, I might be teaching primary grades in our Tashkent sectors.” He touched her face, returning her gesture. “That must not be the reason for your help.” “It isn’t. What you’ve told me frightens me.”

  Under no condition was the traitor, Maletkin, to be aware of Lodzia. The Vyborg officer had remained in the automobile at the comer, but when more than an hour had passed Taleniekov could see him pacing nervously on the pavement below.

  “He’s not sure whether it’s this building or the one next door,” said Vasili, stepping back from the window. “The cellars still connect, don’t they?” “They did when I was last there.” “I’ll go down and come out on the street several doors away. I’ll meet him and tell him the man I’m with wants another half hour. That should give us enough time. Finish dressing the Englishman, will you?” Lodzia was right, nothing had changed in the old buildings. Each cellar connected with the one next door, the filthy, damp underground alleyway extending most of the block. Taleniekov emerged on the street four buildings away from Lodzia’s flat. He walked up to the unsuspecting Maletkin, startling him.

  “I thought you went in therel” said the traitor from Vyborg, nodding his head at the staircase on his left.

  “There?” “Yes, I was sure of it.” “You’re still too excited, comrade, it interferes with your observation. I don’t know anyone in that building. I came down to tell you that the man I’m meeting with needs more time. I suggest you wait in the car; it’s not only extremely cold, but you’ll draw less attention to yourself.” “You won’t be much longer, will you?” asked Maletkin anxiously.

  “Are you going somewhere? Without me?” “No, no, of course not. I have to go to the toilet.” “Discipline your bladder,” said Taleniekov, hurrying away.

  Twenty minutes later he and Lodzia had worked out the details of his contact with the curator of archives at the SaltykovShchedrin Library on the Maiorov Prospeckt. She would tell. him that a student from many years ago, a man who had risen high in government office and who had testified for the old gentleman in 1954-wanted to meet with him privately. That student, this friend, could not be seen in public; he was in trouble and needed help.

  There was to be no doubt as to the identity of that student, or of the danger in which he found himself. The old man had to be jolted, frightened, concern for a oncedear young friend forced to the surface. He had to com-municate his alarms to anyone who might be watching him. The arrangements for the meeting just complicated enough to confuse an old man’s mind. For the schoIaes confusion and fear would lead to tentative movements, bewildered starts and stops, sudden turns and abrupt reversals, decisions made and instantly rejected. Under these circumstances, whoever followed the old man would be revealed; for whatever moves the scholar made, the one following would have to make.

  Lodzia would instruct the old man to leave the enor. mous library complex by the southwest exit at ten minutes to six that evening; the streets would be dark and no snow was expected. He would be told to walk a given number of blocks one way, then another. If no contact was made, he was to return to the library, and wait; if it were at all possible, his friend from long ago could try to get there. However, there were no guarantees.

  Placed in this situation of stress, the numbers alone would serve to confuse the scholar, for Lodzia was to abruptly tdrminate the telephone call without repeating them. Vasili would take care of the rest, a traitor named Maletkin serving as an unknowing accomplice.

  “What will you do after you see the old man?” asked Lodzia.

  “That depends on what he tells me, or what I can learn from the man who follows him.” “Where will you stay? Will, I see you?” Vasili stood up. “It could be dangerous for you if I come back here.” “I’m willing to risk that.” “I’m not willing to let you. Besides, you work until morning.,, “I can go in early and get off at midnight. Things are much more relaxed than when you were last in Leningrad. We trade hours frequently, and I am completely rehabilitated.” “Someone will ask you why.” “I’ll tell him the truth. Am old friend has arrived from Moscow.” “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” “A party secretary from the Presidium with a wife and several children. He wishes to remain anonymous.” “As I said, a splendid idea.” Taleniekov smiled. “I’ll be careful and go through the cellars.” “What will you do with him?” Lodzia nodded at the dead Englishman.

  “Leave him in the farthest cellar-I can find. Do you have a bottle of vodkaT’ “Are you thirsty?” “He is. One more unknown suicide in paradise. We don’t publicize them. I’ll need a razor blade.”

  Pietre Maletkin stood next to Vasili in the shadows of an archway across from the southeast entrance to the SaltykovShchedrin Library. The floodlights in the rear courtyard of the complex shone down in wide circles from the high walls, giving the illusion of an enormous prison compound.

  But the arches that led to the street beyond were placed symmetrically every hundred feet in the wall; the prisoners could come and go at will. It was a busy evening at the library; streams of prisoners came and went.

  “You say this old man is one of us?” asked Maletkin.

  “Get your new enemies straight, comrade. The old fellow’s KGB, the man following him—about to make contact-is one of us. We’ve got to reach him before h&s trapped. The scholar is one of the most effective weapons Moscow’s developed for counterintelligence. His name is known to no more than five people in KGB; to be aware of him marks a person as an American informer. For God’s sake, don’t ever mention him.” “I’ve never heard of him,” said Maletkin. “But the Americans think he’s theirs?” “Yes. He’s a plant. He reports everything directly to Moscow on a private fine.”

  “Incredible,” muttered the traitor. “An old man. Ingenious.” “My former associates are not fools,” said Taleniekov, checking his watch.

  “Neither are your present ones. Forget you’ve ever heard of Comrade Mikovsky.” “That’s his name?” “Even I would rather not repeat it…. There he is.” An old man bundled up in an overcoat and a black fur hat walked out of the entrance, his breath vaporizing in the cold air. He stood for a moment on the steps, looking around as if trying to decide which archway to take into the street. His short beard was white, what could be seen of his face was filled with wrinkles and tired, pale flesh. He started down the stairs cautiously, holding on to the railing. He reached the courtyard and walked toward the nearest arch on his right.

  Taleniekov studied the stream of people that came out through the glass doors after the old curator. They seemed to be in groups of twos and threes; he looked for a single man whose eyes strayed to the courtyard below. None did and Vasili was disturbed. Had he been wrong? It did not seem likely, yet there was no single Taleniekov could pick out of the crowds whose focus was on Mikovsky, now halfway across the courtyard. When the scholar reached the street, there was no point in waiting any longer; he had been wrong. The Matarese had not found his friend.

  A woman. He was not wrong. It was a woman. A lone woman broke away from the crowd and hurried down the steps, her eyes on the old man. How plausible, thought Vasili. A single woman remaining for hours alone in a library would draw far less attention than a man. Among its 61ite soldiers, the Matarese trained women.

  He was not sure why it surprised him-some of the best agents in the Soviet KGB and the American Consular Operations were women, but their duties rarely included violence. That’s what startled him now. The woman following old Mikovsky was trailing the curator only to find him. Violence was intrinsic to that assignment.

  ‘That woman,” he said to Maletkin. “The one in the brown overcoat and the visored cap. She’s the informer. We’ve got to stop her from making contact.” “A woman?” “She is capable of a variety of things which you are not, comrade. Come along now, we must be careful. She won’t approach him right away; she’ll wait for the most opportune moment and so must we. We’ve got to separate her, take her when she’s far enough away from him so he can’t identify her if there’s any noise.” “Noise?” echoed the perplexed Maletkin. “Why would she make any noise?” “Women are unpredictable; its common knowledge. Let’s go.” The next eighteen minutes were as disorganized and as painful to watch as Taleniekov had anticipated. Painful in that a concerned old man grew progressively bewildered as the moments passed, his agitation turning into panic when there was no sign of his young friend. He crossed the bitterly cold streets, his walk slow, his legs unsteady. He kept checking his watch, the light too dim for his eyes; he was jostled by pedestrians whenever he stopped. And he stopped incessantly, breath and strength diminishing. Twice he started for an omnibus shelter in the block beyond where he stood, momentarily convinced that he had made the wrong count of the streets; at the intersection where the Kirov Theatre stood, there were three shelters and his confusion mounted. He visited all three, more and more bewildered.

  The strategy had the expected effect on the woman following Mikovsky. She interpreted the old man’s actions as those of a subject aware that he might be under surveillance, a subject unschooled in methods of evasion but also old and frightened and capable of creating an uncontrollable situation. So the woman in the brown overcoat and visored cap kept her distance, staying in shadows, going from darkened storefront to dimly lit alleyways, propelled into agitation herself by the unpredictabflity of her subject.

  The old scholar started on his return pattern to the library. Vasili and Maletkin watched from a vantage point seventy-five meters away. Taleniekov studied the route directly across the wide avenue; there were two alleyways, both of which would be used by the woman as Mikovsky passed her on the way back.

  “Come along,” ordered Vasili, grabbing Maletkin’s arm, pushing him forward. “We’ll get behind him in the crowd on the other side.

  She’ll turn away as he goes by, and when he passes that second alleyway, she’ll use it.” “Why are you so sure?” “Because she used it before; ifs the natural thing to do. I’d use it. We will use it now.” “How?” “I’ll tell you when we’re in position.” ne moment was drawing near and Taleniekov could feel the drumlike beat in his chest. He had orchestrated the events of the past sixteen minutes, the next few would determine whether the orchestration had merit. He knew two indisputable facts: one, the woman would recognize him instantly; she would have been provided with photographs and a detailed physical description.

  Two, should the violence go against her, she would take her own life as quickly and as efficiently as the Englishman had done in Lodzia’s flat.

  Timing and shock were the only tools at his immediate disposal. He would provide the first, the traitor from Vyborg the second.

  They crossed the square with a group of pedestrians and walked into the crowds in front of the Kirov Theatre. Vasili glanced over his shoulder and saw Mikovsky weave his way awkwardly through the line forming for tickets, breathing with difficulty.

  “Listen to me and do exactly as I say,” said Taleniekov, holding Maletkin’s arm. “Repeat the words I say to you….” They entered the flow of pedestrians walking up the pavement, remaining behind a quartet of soldiers, their bulky overcoats serving as a wall Vasili could see beyond at will. The scholar up ahead approached the first alleyway; the woman briefly disappeared into it, then reemerged as he passed.

  Moments now. Only moments.

  The second alleyway. Mikovsky was in front of it, the woman within.

  ‘Wowl” Vasili ordered, rushing with Maletkin toward the entrance.

  He heard the words MaIetkin shouted so they would be unmistakable above the noise of the streets.

  “Comrade, wait. Stopl Circolol Nostro circolol” Silence. The shock was almost total.

  “Who are you?” The question was asked in a cold, tense voice.

  “Stop everythingl I have news from the shepherdl” “What?” The shock was now complete.

  Taleniekov spun around the corner of the alley, rushing toward the woman, his hands two springs uncoiling as he lunged. He grabbed her arms, his fingers sliding instantly down to her wrists, immobilizing her hands, one of which was in her overcoat pocket, gripped around a gun. She recoiled, spinning to her left, her weight dead, pulling him forward, then sprang to her right, her left foot lashing up into him, close to her body like an enraged cat’s claw repelling another animal.

  He countered, attacking directly, lifting her off her feet, crashing her writhing body into the alleyway wall, pummeling her with his shoulder, crushing her into the brick.

  It happened so fast he was only vaguely aware of what she was doing until he felt her teeth sinking into the flesh of his neck. She had thrust her face into his-a move so unexpected he could only twist away in pain. Her mouth was wide, her red lips parted grotesquely. The bite was vicious, her jaws two clamps vicing into the side of his neck. He could feel blood drenching his collar; she would not let gol The pain was excruciating; the harder he battered her into the wall, the deeper her teeth went into his flesh. He could not stand it. He released her arms, his hands clawing at her face, pulling her from him.