Prisoners of Tomorrow (17 page)

McCain waited for Sargent to catch up, and they resumed walking together. “I’ll get used to it, I guess—even all these crazy Asian gambling games. Why doesn’t someone teach ’em to play decent football or something?”

“Do you mean soccer?”

“No, our kind, you know . . . NFL, super Bowl?”

“Oh,
that!”
Sargent sniffed. “I can’t imagine why you call it ‘football’ at all.”

“How come?”

“Well, for one thing it’s not a
ball,
is it? If you’re going to be logical, it ought to be foot-prolate-spheroid. And then, why ‘foot,’ when they spend most of their time running around throwing it?”

“What part of England are you from?”

“Cheltenham, over towards the west. Ever been there?”

“Not to that part. I was in England a couple of times, though. I like the cities that you can still walk around in. Too many of ours got turned into airports with streets on them.”

“You have to walk,” Sargent said. “It’s the only bloody way to move.”

Just then, they heard the sound of feet crashing in unison and growing louder, and a moment later a squad of guards led by a captain and moving at the double appeared from around the corner and passed, heading in the opposite direction. McCain turned his head and stared after them uneasily. “Something’s up somewhere,” Sargent said. Obviously he had been elsewhere and wasn’t aware of the latest developments in B Block. McCain spent a few minutes updating him, then left Sargent at the intersection and followed the corridor from Gorky Street into the Core.

He made his way past several workshops and the laundry to the OI store, where he passed his box over the issue counter along with the list he’d compiled. Two women were there also. McCain realized that they were watching him intently while he waited. After a while he turned his head and acknowledged them with a quick upturn of his mouth. “Hi.”

The taller of the two, who had black hair tied high, looked him up and down with shameless approval. Her face wasn’t bad looking, but it had a hardened edge to it. “I haven’t seen you around.”

“Do you know everybody?”

“No, but I remember faces.”

“What accent is that?” the other one asked. She was dumpy, with a rounded face, snub nose, and reddish hair. They both sounded Russian.

“American.”

“An American!” The tall one looked impressed. “That’s a rarity. We don’t see many of them. You are new here, yes?”

“Fairly.”

She pouted and stretched out a finger to toy suggestively with the top button of McCain’s shirt. “Are you making many friends—I mean
close
friends? There are ways, you know. Interested?”

“Who knows? How do I call? They haven’t installed my phone yet,” he said. The small, dumpy woman giggled.

The taller one gestured across the counter as a mountain of a woman dumped McCain’s box down on the counter. “Just leave a message with Hannah anytime. Only fifty points on the Exchange. For eighty you can have two girls and a really good time.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“What do we call you?”

“Lew. But for now, I gotta go.”

“Lew. I’ll remember. I’m Zena.”

McCain walked away carrying his box and wondering what the West imagined it could teach the Russians about the profit motive.

When he got back, it was obvious that there had been trouble. The prisoners in the mess area were standing back behind a cordon of guards with weapons at ready, and in the cleared area around the door of B-3 more guards were hauling out three of the Siberians. Luchenko was to one side of the door, gesticulating to the guard captain and Major Bachayvin, the block commandant. As McCain drew nearer, Maiskevik appeared in the billet doorway. He paused to send a strangely challenging look out across the faces of the prisoners watching from a distance, then moved over to Luchenko. Seconds later, four more guards came out, supporting the sagging form of Irzan between them. His mouth was puffed and swollen on one side, his face bruised, and there was blood on his chin and down the front of his shirt and jacket. It seemed the strike was over.

A squad of guards formed around the four Siberians. The captain rejoined them, and the group began moving toward the exit out onto Gorky Street. Major Bachayvin remained behind with two aides and the rest of the guards. “Well, what are you all staring at?” he said to the watching prisoners. “The mess area of this block is to be cleared, and movement outside restricted for the rest of today. Everyone will return to their billets immediately.” Murmuring angrily among themselves, the prisoners dispersed under the threatening muzzles of the guards’ weapons, after which the guards closed the barred gate onto Gorky Street that McCain had just returned through.

McCain went into B-3 and found Smovak, Borowski, and another Asiatic Siberian, whose name was unpronounceable and whom everyone referred to as Charlie Chan, straightening out the furniture in the center section of the billet. Evidently McCain’s first cleaning day wasn’t going to bring him much of the solitude and contemplation that Koh valued so highly. He went on through to the washroom at the back and found a pool of blood on the floor, with stains on the back of the door and down one wall. Rashazzi’s mice scrabbled about in their cage indifferent to it all. He stood looking at the pattern and could almost reconstruct the events. Had the guards delayed coming into the billet until Maiskevik had finished with Irzan, or had they left the two of them alone for a few minutes after they took the other three Siberians out? McCain wondered. He was still staring at the scene when the door opened wider and Luchenko looked in and gazed around casually with no show of surprise. Then he looked at McCain curiously with his expressionless moon-face. “You’d better get busy,” he suggested.

Scanlon came back with the rest when it was time for the midday meal. With the Gorky Street gate closed, guards posted there to admit only B Block inmates, and the mess area cleared except for those eating, he didn’t have to be told what had happened. “So that’s how the system works, eh?” McCain said. “I see now where Maiskevik fits in.”

“He’s a nasty piece of work, right enough,” Scanlon agreed He looked at McCain curiously. “Do you think you can handle him?”

“Why should I think about that?”

“Because you’re going to have to, if you’re to do what you’re wanting to,” Scanlon said. McCain forced a questioning frown, but Scanlon’s insight was so close to the mark that he didn’t reply. There was nobody else nearby and Scanlon went on, “I don’t know exactly what kind of mischief it is ye’ve in mind, but there’s something. And you’re fly enough to know that there isn’t a lot that a man can do on his own. The rest o’ the fellas in here are all waiting for the right man, and the man they’ll follow will be the first who can take the Bulgarian. It might not be exactly what you’d call sensible, but it’s the way the world is, and the way that everyone kings to scoundrels has always had to deal with it—as if there was any difference.”

McCain reflected on the prospect. He was fairly sure he’d never take Maiskevik in an even fight if it came to that. . . . But on the other hand, he wasn’t from a school that had placed too much stress on fair play and giving the other guy an even break, either.

The next day, back in the machine shop, Scanlon told McCain to go to the library on the upper level in the Core later that evening, and to open an interactive file at one of the reference computer terminals under the label architecture, byzantine. Scanlon also conveyed the hardly illuminating, and highly questionable observation that “Cabbages dance in Kamchatka.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” McCain asked him.

“Just remember it.”

McCain did as instructed, and at 19:10 hours that evening was seated before one of the reference screens in the library, when without warning the text he had been reading vanished, and in its place there appeared the question,
Where do cabbages dance?

McCain entered in reply,
Kamchatka.

The screen cleared, and then presented,
Understand you are in need of certain information. Can possibly assist. Require details.

McCain composed a brief message explaining about Paula Shelmer and asking for news. The screen cleared once more, and the invisible correspondent stated a price. McCain rejected it.
Must appreciate market realities,
the screen advised, and repeated its offer. Again McCain refused. They haggled, and eventually struck a deal. McCain was told he would hear more in the next day or two, and then he was staring at his original material again, with no trace that the conversation had ever taken place.

He calculated on the basis of the going conversion rates of points into rubles and rubles into dollars that the exercise had cost him almost a quarter of a day’s worth of his Washington salary. He dreaded to think what the total might be by the time he got out if much more of this went on. If UDIA’s Accounts Section didn’t accept it as legitimate, reimbursable business expense, he reflected, he’d be in real trouble.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The road surface was loose and gravelly because of the repairs in progress, and there was a break in the line of traffic going the other way. A short distance behind, the black KGB Chevrolet had been stopped by a delivery van pulling out ahead of it. And there were no police cars around.

“Watch this,” Bernard Foleda said. He accelerated suddenly when the oncoming gap was just ahead, then braked and spun the wheel to send the car slewing round in a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn to point back the way it had come. He throttled off for a moment to regain grip, then accelerated again and slipped smoothly into the stream, heedless of the indignant toots and blares from the startled drivers behind, and sending a cheerful wave at the faces staring helplessly from the stranded Chevrolet.

“Bernard, what in God’s name are you doing?” Barbara asked in amazement from the seat next to him.

“Keeping my hand in. It’s nice to know you can still do it.” Foleda lifted a hand from the wheel to make a throwing-away gesture. “Anyhow, every once in a while I get tired of it. It can get to you—having those creeps behind you everywhere you go.”

“Do you do this kind of thing when Myra’s with you, too?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that she showed me how to do it?”

Barbara gave him a curious look. “You know, I would. Why, is it true?”

“Yes. Her brother used to do stunts for movies when she was a kid.”

“Didn’t they cover it when you took field training?”

“Oh sure, but Myra’s way is better.”

They left the road to cut across the parking lot of a shopping mall, and exited into a lane at the back. “Are we still going to make it on time?” Barbara asked, glancing at the clock in the dashboard.

“Probably sooner than we would have it we’d gone the other way, from the look of how they had that road dug up,” Foleda said. “This leads to another route to Langley. It’s worth knowing.” They were en route for the CIA’s headquarters. A man by the name of Robert Litherland had called from there to say that the CIA had picked up something that would be of interest to Foleda’s department, but didn’t elect to go into further detail. However, since Gerald Kehrn from Defense was also going to be there, Foleda guessed it had something to do with
Tereshkova.

“Anyhow,” Barbara prompted, “before this sudden urge seized you to recapture lost youth, you were saying . . .”

“Oh yes, about Lew McCain and the Air Force woman. The impression I got when Uncle Phil and I talked to Volst was that State and the Soviets are playing a cat-and-mouse game over the whole thing. It took us long enough to even come clean and admit we’re missing two people. We want communications contact, and until the Soviets give it to us, our people will only refer to the cover identities. But the Soviets are rejecting that as ludicrous. They want the real names and positions, and an admission that it was all official and we goofed.”

“But they’re not going public?”

“Not so far, anyway. That’s something they can afford to keep in reserve. Meanwhile, we don’t know what’s happening with our two people. We don’t even know for sure where they are.”

Barbara sighed and stared out at the procession of well-kept, older-style clapboard homes with screened porches, bright-painted shutters, and glimpses of lawns sheltered in privacy behind barricades of flowering shrubbery. “Lew can take care of himself, I don’t doubt,” she said distantly after a while. “I feel more for that Air Force woman, Bryce. It’s a sorry way to wind up when all she wanted was a little adventure.” Foleda grunted—either noncommittally or in sympathy; it was difficult to tell. Barbara looked across at him. “What kind of a person is she? Did you find out much when you talked to Colonel Raymond up at Hanscom?”

“Some. She’s from a family with something of a military tradition, mainly Navy. Born over in Tacoma, Washington State. Her father was an engineering officer on nuclear subs, and her mother was a Navy brat, too—raised around bases from Scotland to Japan even before she married Bryce’s father. So the mother was used to getting along without a man around. Raymond figures that was what gave Bryce her stubborn streak.”

“Stubborn, eh? That might not be too bad a thing in this situation.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Foleda said. “Raymond and I couldn’t make our minds up. Apparently she’s good as a scientist, but defensive about it to the verge of fanaticism—you know, the ethical purity of science, objectivity, honesty, that kind of stuff.”

“Uh-huh. So?”

“It makes her more than a little disdainful toward things like politics and the reasons why this kind of job needs to be done. Raymond says it can make her difficult enough to work with sometimes, even when she’s on the same side. In other words, she won’t take easily to the idea of knuckling under to people she feels inwardly are her intellectual inferiors. That sounds like good news. But if she came up against an interrogator from the same mold, and it turned into a battle of will, it could backfire. Let’s just hope it isn’t getting her a harder time than is necessary.”

The story at the CIA was that a prominent Russian scientist, director of a major research and communications establishment, wanted to defect. He had approached an American called Melvin Bowers at a scientific conference in Japan, and Bowers had initially contacted the embassy in Tokyo. Now Bowers was back in the US.