stood next to Vasili in the shadows of an archway across from the southeast entrance to the Saltykov-Shchedrin Library. The floodlights in the rear courtyard of the complex shone down in wide circles from the high walls, giving the illusion of an enormous prison compound.
But the arches that led to the street beyond were placed symmetrically every hundred feet in the wall; the prisoners could come and go at will. It was a busy evening at the library; streams of prisoners came and went.
"You say this old man is one of us?" asked Maletkin.
"Get your new enemies straight, comrade. The old fellow's KGB, the man following him--about to make contact-is one of us. We've got to reach him before h&s trapped. The scholar is one of the most effective weapons Moscow's developed for counterintelligence. His name is known to no more than five people in KGB; to be aware of him marks a person as an American informer. For God's sake, don't ever mention him." "I've never heard of him," said Maletkin. "But the Americans think he's theirs?" "Yes. He's a plant. He reports everything directly to Moscow on a private fine."
"Incredible," muttered the traitor. "An old man. Ingenious." "My former associates are not fools," said Taleniekov, checking his watch.
"Neither are your present ones. Forget you've ever heard of Comrade Mikovsky." "That's his name?" "Even I would rather not repeat it.... There he is." An old man bundled up in an overcoat and a black fur hat walked out of the entrance, his breath vaporizing in the cold air. He stood for a moment on the steps, looking around as if trying to decide which archway to take into the street. His short beard was white, what could be seen of his face was filled with wrinkles and tired, pale flesh. He started down the stairs cautiously, holding on to the railing. He reached the courtyard and walked toward the nearest arch on his right.
Taleniekov studied the stream of people that came out through the glass doors after the old curator. They seemed to be in groups of twos and threes; he looked for a single man whose eyes strayed to the courtyard below. None did and Vasili was disturbed. Had he been wrong? It did not seem likely, yet there was no single Taleniekov could pick out of the crowds whose focus was on Mikovsky, now halfway across the courtyard. When the scholar reached the street, there was no point in waiting any longer; he had been wrong. The Matarese had not found his friend.
A woman. He was not wrong. It was a woman. A lone woman broke away from the crowd and hurried down the steps, her eyes on the old man. How plausible, thought Vasili. A single woman remaining for hours alone in a library would draw far less attention than a man. Among its 61ite soldiers, the Matarese trained women.
He was not sure why it surprised him-some of the best agents in the Soviet KGB and the American Consular Operations were women, but their duties rarely included violence. That's what startled him now. The woman following old Mikovsky was trailing the curator only to find him. Violence was intrinsic to that assignment.
'That woman," he said to Maletkin. "The one in the brown overcoat and the visored cap. She's the informer. We've got to stop her from making contact." "A woman?" "She is capable of a variety of things which you are not, comrade. Come along now, we must be careful. She won't approach him right away; she'll wait for the most opportune moment and so must we. We've got to separate her, take her when she's far enough away from him so he can't identify her if there's any noise." "Noise?" echoed the perplexed Maletkin. "Why would she make any noise?" "Women are unpredictable; its common knowledge. Let's go." The next eighteen minutes were as disorganized and as painful to watch as Taleniekov had anticipated. Painful in that a concerned old man grew progressively bewildered as the moments passed, his agitation turning into panic when there was no sign of his young friend. He crossed the bitterly cold streets, his walk slow, his legs unsteady. He kept checking his watch, the light too dim for his eyes; he was jostled by pedestrians whenever he stopped. And he stopped incessantly, breath and strength diminishing. Twice he started for an omnibus shelter in the block beyond where he stood, momentarily convinced that he had made the wrong count