The explosion was loud, distinct, yet muffled by the heavy cloth of her overcoat, the echo carried on the wind throughout the alley; she fell away from him, limp against the stone.

  He looked at her face; her eyes were wide and dead; she sank slowly to the pavement. She had done precisely what she had been programmed to do: she had appraised the odds-two men against herself-and fired the weapon in her pocket, blowing away her chest.

  “She’s deadl My God, she killed herselfl” screamed Maletkin. “The shot, people will have heard itl We’ve got to run! The policel” Several curious passersby stood motionless at the alley’s entrance, peering in.

  “Be quietl” commanded Taleniekov. “If anyone comes in use your KGB card.

  T”his is official business; no ones permitted here. I want thirty seconds.” Vasili pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his neck, reducing the flow of blood. He knelt over the body of the dead woman.

  With his right hand, he ripped the coat away, exposing a blouse stained everywhere with red. He tore the drenched fabric away from the skin; the hole below her left breast was massive, tissue and intestines clogging the opening. He probed the flesh around the wound; the light was too dim. He took out his cigarette lighter.

  He snapped it, stretching the bloody skin beneath the breast, holding the light inches above it; the flame danced in the wind.

  “For God’s sake, hurryl” Maletkin stood several feet away, his voice a panicked whisper. “What are you doing?” Taleniekov did not reply. Instead, he moved his fingers around the flesh, wiping away the blood to see more clearly.

  He found it. In the crease beneath the left breast, angled toward the center of the chest. A jagged circle of blue surrounded by white skin streaked with red. A blemish that was no blemish at all, but the mark of an incredible army.

  The Matarese circle.

  They walked rapidly out of the far end of the alley, melting into the crowds heading north. Maletkin was trembling, his face ashen. Vasili’s right hand gripped the traitor’s elbow, controlling the panic that might easily cause Maletkin to burst into a run, riveting attention on both of them. Taleniekov needed the man from Vyborg; a cable had to be sent that would elude KGB interception and Maletkin could send it. He realized that he had very little time to work out the cipher for Scofield. It would take old Mikovsky another ten minutes before he reached his office, but soon after that Vasili knew he should be there. A frightened old man could say the wrong things to the wrong people.

  Taleniekov held the handkerchief against the wound on his neck. The bleeding had ebbed to a trickle in the cold, it would stop sufficiently for a bandage soon; it occurred to Vasili to buy a high-necked sweater to conceal it.

  “Slow downl” he ordered, yanking Maletkin’s elbow. “Tbere’s a caf6 up ahead. We’ll go inside for a few minutes, get a drink.” “I could use one,” whispered Maletkin. “My God, she killed herself! Who was she?” “Someone who made a mistake. Don’t you make another.” The caf6 was crowded; they shared a table with two middle-aged women, who objected to the intrusion and morosely kept to themselves; it was a splendid arrango. ment.

  “Go up to the manager by the door,” said Taleniekov. “Tell him your friend had too much to drink and cut himself. Ask for a bandage and some adhesive.” Maletkin started to object; Vasili reached for his forearm.

  “Just do it. It’s nothing unusual in a place like this.” The traitor got up and made his way to the man at the door. Taleniekov refolded the handkerchief, pressing the cleaner side against the torn skin, and dug into his pocket for a pencil. He moved the coarse paper napkin in front of him and began selecting the cipher for Beowulf Agate.

  His mind closed out all noise, as he concentrated on an alphabet and a progression of numbers. Even as Maletkin returned with a cotton bandage and a small roll of tape, Vasili wrote, crossing out errors as rapidly as he made them. Their drinks arrived; the traitor had ordered three apiece. Taleniekov kept writing.

  Eight minutes later he was finished. He tore the napkin in two and copied the wording in large unn-dstakable letters. He handed it to Maletkin. “I want this cable sent to Helsinki, to the name and hotel listed on top.

  I want it routed on a white line, commercial traffic, not subject to duplicate interception.” The traitor’s eyes grew wide. “How do you expect me to do that?” “The same way you get information to our friends in Washington. You know the unmonitored schedules; we all protect ourselves from ourselves. IVs. one of our more finely honed talents.” “That’s through Stockholm. We bypass Helsinkil” Maletkin flushed; his state of agitation and the rapid infusion of alcohol had made him careless. He had not meant to reveal the Swedish connection. It wasift done, even among fellow defectors.

  Nor could Vasili use Stockholm. The cable would then be under American scrutiny. There was another way.

  “How often do you come down here to the Ligovski headquarters for sector conferences?” The traitor pursed his lips in embarrassment. “Not often. Perhaps three or four times during the past year.” “You’re going over there now,” said Taleniekov.

  “I’m what? You’ve lost your headl” “You’ll lose yours if you don’t. Don’t worry, Colonel. Rank still has its privileges and its effect. You are sending an urgent cable to a Vyborg man in Helsinki. White line, nonduplicated traffic. However, you must bring me a verifying copy.” “Suppose they check with Vyborg?” “Who on duty up there now would interfere with the second-in-command?” Maletkin frowned nervously. “There will be questions later.” Vasili smiled, the promise of untold riches in his voice. “Take my word for it, Colonel. When you return to Vyborg there won’t be anything you cannot have… or command.” The traitor grinned, the sweat on his chin glistening. “Where do I bring the verifying copy? Where will we meet? When?” Taleniekov held the bandage in place over the wound on his neck and unrolled a strip of tape, the end in his teeth. “Tear it,” he said to Maletkin. It was done and Vasili applied it, ripping off another strip as he spoke. “Stay the night at the Evropeiskaya Hotel on Brodsky Street. I’ll contact you there.” “They’ll demand identification.” “By all means, give it to them. A colonel of the KGB will no doubt get a better room. A better woman, too, if you go down to the lounge.” “Both cost money.” “My treat,” Taleniekov said.

  It was the dinner hour. The huge reading rooms of the SaltykovShchedrin Library with their tapestried walls and the enormously high ceilings were nowhere near as crowded as usual. A scattering of students sat at the long tables, a few groups of tourists strolled about studying the tapestries and the oil paintings, speaking in hushed whispers, awed by the grandeur that was the Shchedrin.

  As Vasili walked through the marble hallways toward the complex of offices in the west wing he remembered the months he had spent in these rooms—that roomawakening his mind to a world he had known so little about. He had not exaggerated to Lodzia; it was here, through the enlightened courage of one man, that he had learned more about the enemy than in all the training he had later received in Moscow and Novgorod.

  The SaltykovShchedrin was his finest school, the man he was about to see after so many years his most accomplished teacher. He wondered whether the school or the teacher could help him now. If the Voroshin family was bound to the new Matarese there would be no revealing information in the intelligence data banks, of that he was certain. But was it here? Somewhere in the thousands of volumes that detailed the events of the revolution, of families and vast estates banished and carved up, all documented by historians of the time because they knew the time would never be seen again, the explosive beginnings of a new world. It had happened here in Leningrad—St. Petersburg-and Prince Andrei Voroshin was a part of the cataclysm. The revolutionary archives at the SaltykovShchedrin were the most extensive in all Russia; if there was a repository for any information about the Voroshins, it would be here. But being here was one thing, finding it something else again. Would his old teacher know where to look?

  He turned left into the corridor lined with glass-paneled office doors, all dark except one at the end of the hallway. There was a dim light on inside, intermittently blocked by the silhouette of a figure passing back and forth in front of a desk lamp. It was Mikovsky’s office, the same room he had occupied for more than a quarter of a century, the slow-moving figure beyond the rippled glass unmistakably that of the scholar.

  He walked up to the door and knocked softly; the dark figure loomed almost instantly behind the glass.

  The door opened and Yanov Mikovsky stood there, his wrinkled face still flushed from the cold outside, his eyes behind the thick lenses of his spectacles wide, questioning and afraid. He gestured for Vasili to come in quickly, shutting the door the instant Taleniekov was inside.

  “Vasili Vasilovichl” The old man’s voice was part whisper, part cry. He held out his arms, embracing his younger friend. “I never thought I’d see you again.” He stepped back, his hands still on Taleniekov’s overcoat, peering up at him, his wrinkled mouth tentatively forming words that did not emerge. The events of the past half-hour were more than he could accept. Halting sounds emerged, but no meaning.

  “Don’t upset yourself,” said Vasili as reassuringly as he could.

  “Everything’s fine.” “But why? Why this secrecy? This running from place to place? Can it be called for? Of all men in the Soviet… you. The years you were in Riga you never came to see me, but I heard from others how respected you were, how you were in charge of so many things.” “It was better that we did not meet during those daysI told you that over the telephone.” “I never understood.” “They were merely precautions that seemed reasonable at the time.” They had been more than reasonable, thought Taleniekov. He had learned that the scholar was drinking heavily, depressed over the death of his wife.

  If the head of KGB-Riga had been seen with the old man, people might have looked for other things. And found them.

  “No matter now,” said Mikovsky. “It was a difficult period for me, as I’m sure you were told. There are times when some men should be left to themselves, even by old friends. But this is nowl What’s happened to you?” “Ifs a long story; I’ll tell you everything I can. I must, for I need your help.” Taleniekov glanced beyond the scholar; there was a kettle of water on the coils of an electric plate on the right side of the desk.

  Vasili could not be sure but he thought it was the same kettle, the same electric burner he remembered from so many years ago. “Your tea was always the best in Leningrad. Win you make some for usT’ The better part of a half-hour passed as Taleniekov spoke, the old scholar sitting in his chair, listening in silence. When Vasili first mentioned the name, Prince Andrei Voroshin, he made no comment. But he did when his student was finished.

  “The Voroshin estates were confiscated by the new revolutionary government. The family’s wealth had been vastly reduced by the Romanovs and their industrial partners. Nicholas and his brother, Michael, loathed the Voroshins, claiming they were the thieves of all northern Russia and the sea routes. And, of course, the prince was marked by the Bolsheviks for execution. His only hope was Kerenski, who was too indecisive or corrupt to cut off the illustrious families so completely. That hope vanished with the collapse of the Winter Palace.” “What happened to Voroshin?” “He was sentenced to death. I’m not positive, but I think his name was announced on the execution lists. Those who escaped were generally heard from during the succeeding years; I would have remembered had Voroshin been among them.” “Why would you? There were hundreds here in Leningrad alone. Why the Voroshins?” “rhey were not easily forgotten for many reasons. It was not often that the tzars of Russia called their own kind thieves and pirates and sought to destroy them. The Voroshin family was notorious. The prince’s father and grandfather dealt in the Chinese and African slave trades, from the Indian Ocean to the American South; they manipulated the Imperial banks, forcing merchant fleets and companies into bankruptcies, and absorbing them. It is said that when Nicholas secretly ordered Prince Andrei Voroshin from the palace court, he proclaimed: ‘Should our Russia fall prey to maniacs, it will be because of men like you. You drive them to our throats.’ That was a number of years before the revolution.” “You gay ‘secretly ordered’ him. Why secretlyT’ “It was not a time to expose dissent among the aristocrats. Their enemies would have used it to justify the cries of national crisis. The revolution was in foment decades before the event. Nicholas understood, he knew it was happening.” “Did Voroshin have sonsT’ “I don’t know, but I would presume so—one way or the other. He had many mistresses.” “What about the family itself?” “Again I have no specific knowledge, but I assume they perished. As you’re aware, the tribunals were usually lenient where women and children were concerned. Thousands were allowed to flee; only the most fanatic wanted that blood on their hands. But I don’t believe the Voroshins were allowed to. Actually, I’m quite sure of it but I don’t know specifically.” “I need specific knowledge.” “I understand that, and in my judgment you have,it. At least enough to refute any theory involving Voroshin and this incredible Matarese society.” “Why do you say thatr “Because had the prince escaped, it would not have been to his advantage to keep silent. The Whites in exile were organizing everywhere. Those with legitimate titles were welcomed with open arms and excessive remuneration by the great companies and the international banks; it was good busineSL It Was not in Voroshin’s nature to reject such largess and notoriety. No, Vasili. He was killed.” Taleniekov listened to the scholaes words, looking for an inconsistency. He got up from the chair and went to the pot of tea; he filled his cup and stared absently at the brown liquid. “Unless he was offered something of greater value to keep silent, to remain anonymous.” “This Matarese?” asked Mikovsky.

  “Yes. Money had been made available. In Rome and in Genoa. It was their initial funding.” “But it was earmarked for just that, wasn’t itr Mikovsky leaned forward.

  “From what you’ve told me, it was to be used for the hiring of assassins, spreading the gospel of vengeance according to this Guillaume de Matarese, is that not so?” “Ibat’s what the old woman implied,” agreed Taleniekov.

  “Then it was not to be spent recouping individual fortunes or financing new ones. You see, that’s what I can’t accept where Voroshin is concerned. If he had escaped he would not have turned his back on the opportunities offered him. Not to join an organization bent on political vengeance; he was far too pragmatic a man.” Vasili had started back to his chair; he stopped and turned, the cup suspended, motionless in his hand. “What did you just say?” “That Voroshin was too pragmatic to reject—’ “No,” interrupted Taleniekov. “Before that. The money was not to be used recouping fortunes or?…” “Financing new ones. You see, Vasili, large sums of capital were made available to the exiles.” Taleniekov held up his hand. “‘Financing new ones,’” he repeated. “There are many ways to spread a gospel. Beggars and lunatics do it in the streets, priests from pulpits, politicians from rostrums. But how can you spread a gospel that cannot stand scrutiny? How do you pay for it?” Vasili put the cup down on the small table next to his chair. “You do both anonymously, using the complicated methods and procedures of an existing structure. One in which whole areas operate as separate entities, distinct from one another yet held together by a common identity. Where enormous sums of capital are transferred daily.” Taleniekov walked back to the desk and leaned over, his hands on the edge. “You make the necessary pur. chase! You buy the seat of decisionl The structure is yours for the usingl” “If I follow you,” the scholar said, “the money left by Matarese was to be divided, and used to buy participation in giant, established enterprises.” “Exactly. I’m looking in the wrong place-sorry, the right place, but the wrong country. Voroshin did escape. He got out of Russia probably a long time before he had to because the Romanovs crippled him, stripped him, watched his every financial move. He was hamstrung here… and later the sort of investments Guillaume de Matarese envisioned were prohibited in the Soviet. Don’t you see, he had no reason to stay in Russia. His decision was made long before the revolution; it’s why you never heard of him in exile. He became someone else.” “You’re wrong, Vasili. His name was among those sentenced to death. I remember seeing it myself.” “But you’re not sure you saw it later, in the announcements of those actually executed.” “There were so many.of “That’s my point.” “There were his communications with the Kerenski pro. visional government, they’re a matter of record.” “Easily dispatched and recorded.” Taleniekov pushed himself away from the desk, his every instinct telling him he was near the truth. “What better way for a man like Voroshin to lose his identity but in the chaos of a revolution? The mobs out of control; the discipline did not come for weeks, and it was a miracle it came then. Absolute chaos. How easily it could be done.” “You’re oversimplifying,” said Mikovsky. “Although there was a period of rampage, teams of observers traveled throughout the cities and countryside writing down everything they saw and heard. Not only facts but impressions, opinions, interpretations of what they witnessed. The academicians insisted upon it, for it was a moment in history that would never be repeated and they wanted no instant lost, none unaccounted for. Everything was written down, no matter how harsh the observation. That was a form of discipline, Vasili.” Taleniekov nodded. “Why do you think rm here?” The old man sat forward. “fhe archives of the revolutionTO “I must see them.” “An easy request to make but most difficult to grant. The authority must come from Moscow.” “How is it relayed?” “Through the Ministry of Cultural Affairs. A man is sent over from the Leningrad office with the key to the rooms below. There is no key here.” Vasili’s eyes strayed to the mounds of papers on Mikovsky’s desk. “Is that man an archivist? A scholar such as yourself?” “No. He is merely a man with a key.” “How often are the authorizations grantedT’ liMovsky frowned. “Not very frequently. Perhaps twice a month.” “When was the last time?” “About three weeks ago. An historian from the Zhdanov doing research.” “Where did he do his reading?”