The Americans had made a perceptive choice in his recruitment. Here was a man doomed to insignificance by his own insignificance, yet privy to ciphers and schedules because of accumulated rank. A second-in-command at Vyborg knew the end of a rather inglorious road had been reached.
Resentments could be played upon; promises of a richer life were powerful inducements. He could always be shot crossing the ice on a final trip to Vainikala. No one would miss him, a minor success for the Americans, a minor embarrassment to the KGB. But all that was changed now. Pictre Maletkin was about to become a very important person. He himself would know it the instant Vasili walked up to the window, for if the traitoes face was vaguely familiar to Taleniekov, the "defectoes" would be completely known to Maletkin. Every KGB station in the world was after Vasili Vasilovich Taleniekov.
Sheltered by the bank of snow, he crept back some twenty meters behind the automobile, then walked out on the road. Maletkin was either deep in thought or half asleep; he gave no indication that he saw anyone, no turn of the head, no crushing out of the cigarette. It was not until Vasili was within ten feet of the window that the traitor jerked his shoulders around, his face turned to the glass. Taleniekov angled his head away as if checking the road behind him as he walked; he did not want his face seen until the window was rolled down. He stood directly by the door, his head hidden above the roof.
He heard the cranking of the handle, felt the brief swell of heat from inside the car. As he expected, the beam of a flashlight shot out from the seat; he bent over and showed his face, the Graz-Burya shoved through the open window.
"Good morning, Comrade Maletkin. It is Maletkin, isn't it?" "My God! You!" With his left hand, Taleniekov reached in and held the flashlight, turning it slowly away, no urgency in the act. "Don't upset yourself," he said. "We have something in common now, haven't we? Why don't you give me the keys?" "What what?" Maletkin was paralyzed; he could notspeak.
"Let me have the keys, please," continued Vasili. "I'll give them back to you as soon as I'm inside. You're nervous, comrade, and nervous people do nervous things. I don't want you driving away -without me. The keys, please." The ominous barrel of the Graz-Burya was inches from Maletkin's face, his eyes shifting rapidly between the gun and Taleniekov, he fumbled for the ignition switch and removed the keys. "Here," he whispered.
"Thank you, comrade. And we are comrades, you know that, don't you? There'd be no point in either of us trying to take advantage of the other's predicament. We'd both lose." Taleniekov walked around the hood of the car, stepped through the snowbank, and climbed in the front seat beside the morose traitor.
"Come now, Colonel Maletkin-it is colonel by now, isn't 0-there's no reason for this hostility. I want to hear all the news." "I'm a temporary colonel; the rank has not been made permanent." "A shame. We never did appreciate you, did we? Well, we were certainly mistaken. Look what you've accomplished right under our noses. You must tell me how you did it. In Leningrad." "Leningrad?" "A few hour's ride from Zelenogorsk. It's not so much, and I'm sure Vyborg's second-in-command can come up with a reasonable explanation for the trip. I'll help you. I'm very good at that sort of thing." Maletkin swallowed, his eyes apprehensively on Vasili. "I am to be back in Vyborg tomorrow morning. To hold a briefing with the patrols." "Delegate it, ColoneIl Everyone loves to have responsibility delegated to them. It shows they're appreciated." "It was delegated to me," said Maletkin.
"See what I mean? By the way, where are your bank accounts? Norway? Sweden?
New York? Certainly not in Finland; that would be foolish."
"In the city of Atlanta. A bank owned by Arabs." "Good thinking." Taleniekov handed him the keys. "Shall we get started, comrade?" "This is crazy," said Maletkin. "We're dead men." "Not for a while. We have business in Leningrad."
It was noon when they drove over the Kirov Bridge, past the summer gardens wrapped in burlap, and south to the enormous boulevard that was the Nevsky Prospeckt. Taleniekov fell silent as he looked out the window at the monuments of Leningrad. The blood of millions had been sacrificed to turn the freezing mud and marshland of the Neva River