her overcoat, the echo carried on the wind throughout the alley; she fell away from him, limp against the stone.
He looked at her face; her eyes were wide and dead; she sank slowly to the pavement. She had done precisely what she had been programmed to do: she had appraised the odds-two men against herself-and fired the weapon in her pocket, blowing away her chest.
"She's deadl My God, she killed herselfl" screamed Maletkin. "The shot, people will have heard itl We've got to run! The policel" Several curious passersby stood motionless at the alley's entrance, peering in.
"Be quietl" commanded Taleniekov. "If anyone comes in use your KGB card.
T"his is official business; no ones permitted here. I want thirty seconds." Vasili pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his neck, reducing the flow of blood. He knelt over the body of the dead woman.
With his right hand, he ripped the coat away, exposing a blouse stained everywhere with red. He tore the drenched fabric away from the skin; the hole below her left breast was massive, tissue and intestines clogging the opening. He probed the flesh around the wound; the light was too dim. He took out his cigarette lighter.
He snapped it, stretching the bloody skin beneath the breast, holding the light inches above it; the flame danced in the wind.
"For God's sake, hurryl" Maletkin stood several feet away, his voice a panicked whisper. "What are you doing?" Taleniekov did not reply. Instead, he moved his fingers around the flesh, wiping away the blood to see more clearly.
He found it. In the crease beneath the left breast, angled toward the center of the chest. A jagged circle of blue surrounded by white skin streaked with red. A blemish that was no blemish at all, but the mark of an incredible army.
They walked rapidly out of the far end of the alley, melting into the crowds heading north. Maletkin was trembling, his face ashen. Vasili's right hand gripped the traitor's elbow, controlling the panic that might easily cause Maletkin to burst into a run, riveting attention on both of them. Taleniekov needed the man from Vyborg; a cable had to be sent that would elude KGB interception and Maletkin could send it. He realized that he had very little time to work out the cipher for Scofield. It would take old Mikovsky another ten minutes before he reached his office, but soon after that Vasili knew he should be there. A frightened old man could say the wrong things to the wrong people.
Chapter Twenty
Taleniekov held the handkerchief against the wound on his neck. The bleeding had ebbed to a trickle in the cold, it would stop sufficiently for a bandage soon; it occurred to Vasili to buy a high-necked sweater to conceal it.
"Slow downl" he ordered, yanking Maletkin's elbow. "Tbere's a caf6 up ahead. We'll go inside for a few minutes, get a drink." "I could use one," whispered Maletkin. "My God, she killed herself! Who was she?" "Someone who made a mistake. Don't you make another." The caf6 was crowded; they shared a table with two middle-aged women, who objected to the intrusion and morosely kept to themselves; it was a splendid arrango. ment.
"Go up to the manager by the door," said Taleniekov. "Tell him your friend had too much to drink and cut himself. Ask for a bandage and some adhesive." Maletkin started to object; Vasili reached for his forearm.
"Just do it. It's nothing unusual in a place like this." The traitor got up and made his way to the man at the door. Taleniekov refolded the handkerchief, pressing the cleaner side against the torn skin, and dug into his pocket for a pencil. He moved the coarse paper napkin in front of him and began selecting the cipher for Beowulf Agate.
His mind closed out all noise, as he concentrated on an alphabet and a progression of numbers. Even as Maletkin returned with a cotton bandage and a small roll of tape, Vasili wrote, crossing out errors as rapidly as he made them. Their drinks arrived; the traitor had ordered three apiece. Taleniekov kept writing.
Eight minutes later he was finished. He tore the napkin in two and copied the wording in large unn-dstakable letters. He handed it to Maletkin. "I want this cable sent to Helsinki, to the name and hotel listed on top.
I want it routed on a white line, commercial traffic, not subject to duplicate interception." The traitor's eyes grew wide. "How do you expect