back toward Grosvenor House. The rest of the trip was spent in reminiscence of the two Berlins, even of Hamburg. "You aren't satisfied, are you?" Tachyon said finally. "You want more from me than a superficial political analysis, surely."
"You know the answer to that."
"I have no secret documents to give you. I'm hardly inconspicuous enough to work as a spy."
"You have your powers, Tachyon-"
"And my limitations! You know what I will and will not do."
"I'm not your enemy, Tachyon! I'm the only one who even remembers your debt, and in August I'll be retired. At this point I'm just an old man trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle."
"Then tell me about your puzzle-"
"You know better than that."
"Then how can I possibly help you?" Polyakov didn't answer. "You're afraid that by even asking me a direct question, I'll learn too much. Russians!"
For a moment Polyakov wished for a wild card power that would let him read minds. Tachyon had many human characteristics, but he was Takisian ... all of Polyakov's years of training did not help him decide whether or not he was lying. Must he depend on Takisian honor?
The cab pulled up to the curb and the driver opened the door. But Tachyon didn't get out. "What's going to happen to you?"
What, indeed? Polyakov thought. "I'm going to become an honored pensioner, like Khrushchev, able to go to the front of a queue, spending my days reading and reliving my exploits over a bottle of vodka for men who will not believe them."
Tachyon hesitated. "For years I hated you ... not for exploiting my weakness, but for saving my life. I was in Hamburg because I wanted to die. But now, finally, I have something to live for... it's only been very recent. So I am grateful, you know"
Then he got out of the cab and slammed the door. "I'll see you again," he said, hoping for a denial.
"Yes," Polyakov said, "you will." The driver pulled away. In the rearview mirror Polyakov saw that the Takisian watched them drive off before going into his hotel.
No doubt he wondered where and when Polyakov would turn up again. Polyakov wondered too. He was all alone now... mocked by his colleagues, discarded by the Party, loyal to some ideal that he only barely remembered. Like poor Molniya in a way, sent out on some misguided mission and then abandoned.
The fate of a Soviet ace is to be betrayed.
He was scheduled to remain in London for several weeks yet, but if he could no longer extract useful information from a relatively cooperative source such as the Dancer, there was no point in staying. That night he packed for the return to Moscow and his retirement. After a dinner in which he was joined only by a bottle of Stolichnaya, Polyakov left the hotel and took a walk, down Sloane, past the fashionable boutiques. What did they call the young women who shopped here? Yes, Sloane Rangers. The Rangers, to judge from the stray samples still hurrying home at this hour, or from the bizarre mannequins in the windows, were thin, wraithlike creatures. Too fragile for Polyakov.
In any case, his ultimate destination ... his farewell to London and the West ... was King's Cross, where the women were more substantial.
On reaching Pont Street, however, he noticed an off-duty black cab following him. In moments he considered possible assailants, ranging from renegade American agents to Light of Allah terrorists to English hoodlums ... until he read, in the reflection from a shop window, the license number of a vehicle belonging to the Soviet Embassy. Further examination revealed that the driver was Yurchenko.
Polyakov dropped his evasions and simply met the car.
In the back was a man he didn't know. "Georgy Vladimirovich," Yurchenko shouted. "Get in!"
"There's no need to yell," Polyakov said. "You'll draw attention." Yurchenko was one of those polished young men for whom tradecraft came so easily that, unless reminded, he often neglected to use it.
As soon as Polyakov was aboard in the front seat, the car jumped into traffic. They were quite obviously going for a ride.
"We thought we were losing you," Yurchenko said pleasantly.
"What's this all about?" Polyakov said. He indicated the silent man in the backseat. "Who's your friend?"
"This is Dolgov of the GRU. He's presented me with some very disturbing news."
For the first time in years Polyakov felt real fear. Was this to be his retirement? An "accidental" death in a foreign country?