An Honorable Man (11 page)

He buzzed the apartment once. He held a key but he didn't want to arrive unannounced, startling her. On the third floor he approached the farthest door and used the agreed-upon three knocks.

“I brought you coffee,” he said, when he was inside. He handed her a lidded paper container. “You alone?”

He looked around the tiny apartment. Little had changed since the time when they'd brought up the Bulgarian. There was a lace negligee draped over a chair as there had been the last time, but someone had made sure the glossy fan magazines on the coffee table fit her cover of aspiring actress making money on the side cleaning apartments—
Photoplay, Modern Screen, Movie Life.
Tolerably neat, he thought, but charmless—some man's idea of a single woman's apartment. Shades drawn. A few romance novels. Chairs you'd find in a budget hotel. Gold frame mirror picked up at a flea market. He saw nothing that stood out, or drew attention to itself, that would compromise the job.

“Who sent you?” she asked.

“I'm the handler on this.”

She was younger than Mueller had been led to expect by
Downes. Black frame glasses dominated her face, her red hair was drawn into a ponytail, and she wore blue jeans and a carnation-­white turtleneck sweater. Pretty enough.

“Is that how you'll dress?”

“I'm his maid.” Her voice had a tone of rebuke. “There are other clothes in the closet if I need them.”

“How well do you know him?”

“He doesn't suspect. I'm in his apartment Wednesday afternoons to clean. He works at home while I'm there and I hear him on the phone. He doesn't know I speak Russian. We talk sometimes. He's a big fan of Rita Hayworth. He is very proper. But he's a man. I've seen him look at me. He's got an interest.”

He followed her into the bedroom. It was small with one window looking onto the fire escape without a view of a neighboring apartment. A fan magazine on the night table was open to a double-page spread of the just released
Salome
. Rita Hayworth lay in repose, gowned in diaphanous garments with the come-hither look of a famous glamour queen. There were framed family photos on the dresser, a lucky charm bracelet, and a box of costume jewelry. He lifted one photo of a middle-aged couple with a child, and then drew it closer, studying the likeness.

“There's even a family resemblance.” He looked at her. “Your name? Your cover name?”

“Jane. Is there anything I need to know?” she asked.

“About him?”

“The job?”

Mueller wondered what she'd been told. Probably nothing.
Too many people in responsible positions who didn't know what they were doing.

“We will be behind that wall.” He pointed to a large mirror on the bedroom wall. “Next door. There will be two of us. Me. A photographer. Two other men will be outside for security, to help calm him down if there is a need for that. It's impossible to know how he'll react. You'll have to continue cleaning the embassy staff apartments for a few weeks and then you'll be taken off. Operations will give you a new assignment.”

He removed an envelope from his sports jacket that contained two marijuana cigarettes. “Offer this to him. If he tries it, so much the better. The threat of a drug arrest would seal it.”

“How far do I take it?”

He averted his eyes.
No one had told her anything
. “Clothes have to be off. He has to be compromised. We need photographs that are unambiguous. You'll have to judge when you're uncomfortable.”

She nodded.

“Gesture to the mirror when you get to that point. We'll come through the door.”

Mueller knew it would be worse than that. It always was. These situations were always chaotic, yelling, screaming, a lot of nasty things said, and they could also be dangerous. The john directed his anger at the thing nearest at hand. Not always. Some men resigned themselves. Others hit the girls.

“We will be right here,” Mueller said.

Taking down a man. The doomed animal thrashed against its binding ties when it saw the butcher's knife.

“We will be in when you give the signal.” He looked at her face and was suddenly struck. “Have you done this before?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Idiots
. “It will be okay. We will be in here as soon as you give the signal.”

A prostitute was the normal way this was done, but it was agreed that Vasilenko would see that coming. He was too smart, too clever, too wary for that type of obvious trap. Something in his world that he trusted—young and innocent. That's not how she was described to Mueller, but she fit the profile. Young and poised.

Mueller walked to the living room and made a final inspection. All Vasilenko needed was one false note to sense a trap and he'd be gone. The job compromised. Mueller's eyes swept the titles of the paperback books, the dates on the fan magazines, the ashtrays, looking for cigarette butts that would not be hers. He opened the refrigerator. A bag of sprouting potatoes. Save or toss? “Do you eat out a lot?”

“Yes.”

He closed the door. He looked at her. “Where are you from?”

She looked confused.

“Where are you from?” he demanded.

“Me or her?”

“Her . . . Where are you from?”

“Maryland.”

“How old?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Ambition?”

“Acting. Saving money to go to New York.”

“Gilda?”

“Rita Hayworth.”

“Orson Welles?”

“Second husband.”

He studied her composed face. “You'll do fine.”

10

TRAPPED

T
HE CALL
came after midnight. He'd gone to bed after a long dinner with Altman at the F Street Club and he'd felt good staying away from the booze. Drinking alone hadn't stopped Altman, who had two vodka tonics and then wine with dinner. Mueller found himself restless to be sober in the company of a man boisterous with too much alcohol. Old acquaintances, once close friends. He could complete the stories that Altman felt a need to tell at great length.

Mueller sat bolt upright when his bedside phone rang. He reached for his glasses without which, by some vagary of concomitant senses, he couldn't answer the telephone properly.

“Hello,” he said. Half asleep.

“They left the bar in a taxi.”

Bar? He was on his feet, bare soles on the cold floor, and he
pressed his fingers to his forehead to concentrate.
Think
. His body was alert like a prey animal. He looked at his wrist watch.

“Where are they coming from?”

“Georgetown.”

He had twenty minutes, tops. “FBI?”

“No. She brought him out the back to the alley. They're clean.”

Mueller had the taxi drop him two blocks away on a side street, a precaution, and he hurried along the sidewalk, staying away from the streetlights. His breath plumed in the night air. He'd left quickly, and he regretted leaving home without his gloves. He wondered what else he'd forgotten. He went down the mental list of things that could go wrong. This had been his life for too long. The cold reminded him of mist on the Danube. That one night of fog. Weeks of waiting, long periods of drudgery punctuated by a harrowing moment of acute tension. It was all about the plan, the actions they had rehearsed, which if followed, kept the mistakes of poor judgment in the moment to a minimum. Trust the plan.

The photographer was already in place when Mueller quietly let himself into the neighboring apartment. He'd seen two Agency officers in place in the hallway. There was no need to give them any sensible cover, so the plan risked a neighbor calling the police on two loitering strangers, but it was a tolerable risk at that hour of night in a quiet apartment building. It was either that, or have no security to manage a bad outcome.

Mueller draped his coat over a chair and peered through the two-way mirror into the empty bedroom. The narrow twin bed was made. A negligee hung from the open closet door. Family
photographs were arranged on the dresser. Drapes drawn. Light entered the darkened room through the open door that led to the living area, lit up, bright, and he could see the legs of a tall man stretched onto a coffee table.

“How long have they been inside?” Mueller asked, whispering.

“Fifteen minutes.”

There were two 16mm film cameras. One ready. One backup. No light stands.

Vasilenko would be wary. He would have his eyes open, ears alert, even as passion planted its talons. Prey animals knew to move cautiously near the bait—drawn by hunger but looking for the trap. He and Vasilenko were alike, Mueller thought. Drawn to risk, tired of the young man's game but good at it.

The bedroom looked bare, Mueller thought. Too bare. Not lived in. Where was the accumulation of useless stuff that came with ordinary living? Twice Mueller's eyes passed over the bedside table before he spotted a man's ring. He leaned forward, nose almost at the dark glass. It was heavy, gold with a crest, like a college fraternity ring.

“Shit,” he said. Someone had used the place and not swept it properly.

The couple rose from the living room sofa and Mueller saw them pause, drinks in hand, taking a moment to talk about something. Familiar, but negotiating the situation and the temptation that brought them together.

There was a faint
whrrr
of film traveling through the camera when the couple entered the bedroom, but Mueller knew it couldn't be heard through the glass. She turned the overhead
light on, but Vasilenko turned it off. She glanced sideways at the mirror, but stopped herself.

Mueller saw her face, worried in the moment, having been told to leave the light on, looking for an instruction.
Improvise
, Mueller whispered to himself.

Vasilenko placed his drink on the night table and he spotted the ring. He turned on the bedside lamp to get a better look, studied it for a moment. He said something. She said something. Their lips moved, but the sound was lost. She shook her head, laughed, and then removed her sweater over her head in a single motion. He put the ring back where he had found it.

She got out of her skirt without removing her heels, and then sat on the edge of the bed and undid one ankle strap and then the other. It was all performance, Mueller thought. A dance for an audience of one.

Vasilenko removed his shoes, shirt, and trousers and stood by the bed in white cotton underwear and black socks, pale, fleshy, a big man who had thickened at the waist. Mueller had a flicker of sympathy for this man whose life was about to crash and burn. He was a decent sort. Probably a good husband, a caring father. What was his mistake that set him apart from any other man? Boredom? Loneliness? The attraction of young flesh? Mueller didn't let himself give in to pity. He knew the Russian would easily, vigorously, do the same to him if the circumstance required it. They were in the business of deceit, high-stakes lies. Vasilenko had been quick to reject a trophy shotgun and some helpful cash, but they'd found his weakness.

The couple sat on the edge of the narrow bed in their under
wear, sharing the silly intimate nonsense that the presumption of privacy permitted. He was vulnerable, she was coy, and Mueller saw the steel jaws of the trap ready to snap. Vasilenko took the marijuana cigarette she handed him, and he inhaled with a first-timer's awkward hesitation, then coughed. She glanced at the mirror.

Don't look!
“Shit,” Mueller muttered.

She reached behind her back and undid her bra. Small breasts. How much more did he need to seal the case?

Mueller watched her draw her fingers across Vasilenko's tufted chest hair, the romantic girl exploring her new friend with patient touch.

“You're getting that?” Mueller asked.

“Yes,” the cameraman said.

“We need to see the whole room.”

“How long do we go on?”

“How long has it been?”

“A couple of minutes. Maybe more.”

“A little more. Is the exposure good?”

“High-speed film. It will be fine. The faces are exposed. He turned on the night lamp. You'll have what you need.”

“What other jobs do you do?” Mueller asked.

“For you?”

“Anyone.”

“Weddings mostly.”

Mueller wanted to laugh, and he looked at the cameraman to confirm that he wasn't joking. Mueller turned back to the view of the bedroom. She had gone onto her back, naked, and Vasilenko
was moving his hulking figure over her. He was putting kisses on her lips that she was returning. Sad, Mueller thought. He tried not to think about the man's son. It was hard to take someone down. He'd done it before. It didn't get easier. The naked man and woman were wrapped in each other's arms.

“We've got him.” Mueller turned to the cameraman before he left the room. “Keep filming. If he gets violent I need that too.”

Mueller assembled the two agents in the hallway, lined up behind him, coordinating with eye contact and a nod. Hand gestures. He slipped a key in the door lock, turned slowly to confirm they had access. On hearing the click of the bolt he raised a signaling finger.

Three men burst through the apartment door. They arrived in the bedroom to find Vasilenko standing bedside naked, his face a mix of surprise, embarrassment, and the deep flush of anger. The two men stared at each other.

Mueller motioned for the girl to leave the room. She had wrapped herself in the sheet and slipped out quickly, wordlessly.

“Get dressed,” Mueller instructed Vasilenko. “This doesn't have to be difficult. I think you know what we want.” He nodded at the mirror. “There's a record of this. No one will see it, or even know this happened, unless we don't get the right type of cooperation.”

Vasilenko glared. He shook his head, disparaged himself, his mistake, his stupidity. He spat the word
“Govno!”