No, that was not true. The Matarese had killed them. And now he would kill in return. Kill... and kill and kill.
He went into a telephone booth on the Nevesky Prospeckt and dialed the Europeiskaya Hotel. There would be no small talk; there was no time to waste on insignificant men. He had to get across Lake Vainikala, into Helsinki, reach the Corsican woman in Paris, and send the word to Scofield. He was on his way to Essen, for the secret of the Voroshins was there and animals were loose, killing to prevent that secret from being revealed. He wanted them now... so badly... these 61ite soldiers of the Matarese. They were all dead men in his hands.
"Yes, yes what is it?" were the rushed, breathless words of the traitor from Vyborg.
"Get out of there at once," commanded Taleniekov. "Drive to the Moskva Station. I'll meet you at the curb in front of the first entrance." "Now? It is barely two o?clock! You said---" "Forget what I said, do as I say. Did you make the arrangements with the Finns?" "A simple telephone call." "Did you make it?" "It can be done in a minute." "Do it. Be at the Moskva in fifteen."
The drive north was made in silence, broken only by Maletkin's intermittent whining over the events of the past twenty-four hours. He was a man dealing in things so far beyond his depth that even his treachery had a rancid, shallow quality about it.
They drove through Vyborg, past Selzneva, toward the border. Vasili recognized the snowbanked road he had walked down from the edge of the frozen lake; soon they would reach the fork in the road where he had first observed the traitor beside him. It had been dawnthen; soon it would be dawn again. And so much had happened, so much learned.
He was exhausted. He had had no sleep, and he needed it badly. He knew better than to try to function while his mind resisted thought; be would get to Helsinki and sleep for as long as his body and his faculties would permit, then make his arrangements. To Essen.
But there was a final arrangement to be made now, before he left his beloved Russia, for his Russia.
"In less than a minute we'll reach the rendezvous at the lake," Maletkin said. "You'll be met by a Finn along the path to the water's edge.
Everything's arranged. Now, comrade, I've carried out my end of the bargain, you deliver yours. Who is the other informer at Vyborg?" "You don't need his name. You just need his rank. He's the only man in your sector who can give you orders, your sole superior. First in command at Vyborg." "What? He's a tyrant, a fanatic!" "What better cover? Drop in to see himprivately.
You'll know what to say." "Yes," agreed Maletkin, his eyes on fire, slowing the car down as they approached a break in the snowbank. "Yes, I think I will know what to say.... Here's the path." "And here is your gun," said Talenickov, handing the traitor his weapon, minus its firing pin.
"Oh? Yes, thank you," replied Maletkin, not listening, his thoughts on power unimagined only seconds ago.
Vasili got out of the car. "Goodbye," he said closing the door.
As he rounded the trunk of the automobile toward the path, he heard the sound of Maletkin's window being rolled down.
"It's incredible," said the traitor, gratitude in his voice. "Thank you." "You're welcome." The window was rolled up. The roar of the engine joined the screaming whine of the tires as they spun on the snow. The car sped forward; Maletkin would waste no time getting back to Vyborg.
To his execution.
Taleniekov entered the path that would take him to
an escort, to Helsinki, to Essen. He began whistling softly; the tune was "Yankee Doodle Dandy."
The gentle-looking man in the rumpled clothes and the high-necked cotton sweater clamped a violin case between his knees and thanked the Finn Air stewardess for the container of tea. If anyone on board were inclined to guess the musician's age, he'd probably say somewhere between fifty-five and'sixty, possibly a little older. Those sitting farther away would start at sixty-plus and add that he was probably older than that.
Yet with the exception of streaks of white brushed into his hair he had used no cosmetics. Taleniekov had learned years ago that the muscles of the face and body conveyed age and infirmity far better than powders and liquid plastics.