slung casually over their shoulders, ineffectual patrols more interested in watching the machinery than in looking for irregularities.
If they wanted to know, mused Vasili as he approached the officer at the entrance gate, he could tell them. The irregularities were in the huge containers being lifted over the hull of the ship. Men and women packed in shredded cardboard, tubes from mouths to airspaces where necessary, instructions having been given to empty bladders and bowels several hours ago; there would be no relief until well past midnight when they were at sea.
The officer at the gate was a young lieutenant, bored with his work, irritation in his face. He scowled at the slouching, bespectacled old man before him.
"What do you want? The pier is off limits unless you have a pass." He pointed to the violin case. "What's that?" "My livelihood, Lieutenant. I'm with the Sevastopol Symphony." "I wasn't aware of any concerts scheduled for the docks." "Your name, please?" said Vasili casually.
"What?" Taleniekov stood up to his full height, the slouch gradually but clearly disappearing. "I asked you your name, Lieutenant." "What for?" The officer was somewhat less hostile. Vasili removed the spectacles and looked sternly into his bewildered eyes.
"For a commendation or a reprimand." "What are you talking about? Who are you?" "KGB-Sevastopol. This is part of our waterfront inspection program." The young lieutenant was politely hesitant; he was not a fool. "I'm afraid I wasn't told, sir. I'll have to ask you for identification." "If you didn't, it would be the first reprimand," said Taleniekov, reaching into his pocket for his KGB card. "The second would come if you speak of my appearance here tonight. The name, please." The lieutenant told him, then added, "Do you people suspect trouble down here?" He studied the plastic card and returned it.
"Trouble?" Taleniekov smiled, his eyes humorous and conspiratorial. "The only trouble, Lieutenant, is that I'm being deprived of a warm dinner in the company of a lady. I think the new directors in Sevastopol feel compelled to earn their rubles. You men are doing a good job; they know that but don't care to admit it." Relieved, the young officer smiled back. "Thank you, sir. We do our best in a monotonous job." "But don't say anything about my being here, they're serious about that.
Two officers-of-the-guard were reported last week." Vasili smiled again.
"In the directors' secrecy lies their true security. Their jobs." The lieutenant grinned. "I understand. Have you a weapon in that case?" "No. Actually it's a very good violin. I wish I could play it." Both men nodded knowingly. Taleniekov continued onto the pier, into the melee of machinery, dock workers and supervisors. He was looking for a specific supervisor, a Greek from Kavalla named Zaimis. Which was to say he was looking for a man whose heritage was Greek and whose mother's name was Zaimis, but whose citizenship was American.
Karras Zaimis was a CIA agent, formerly station chief in Salonika, now field expediter of the escape route. Vasili knew the agent's face from several photographs he had removed from the KGB files. He peered through the bodies and the fog and the floodlights; he could not spot the man.
Taleniekov threaded his way past rushing fork-lifts and crews of complaining laborers toward the huge cargo warehouse. Inside the enormous enclosure, the light was dim, the wire-meshed floods too high in the ceiling to do much good. Beams of flashlights crisscrossed the containers; men were checking numbers. Vasili wondered briefly how much talent was in those boxcars. How much information was being taken out of Russia. Actually, not a great deal of either, he reminded himself. This was a minor escape route; more comfortable accommodations were provided for serious talent and significant bearers of intelligence data.
His slouch controlling his walk and his spectacles awkwardly in place, he excused himself past a Greek supervisor arguing with a Russian laborer. He wandered to- ward the rear of the warehouse, past stacks of cartons and aisles blocked with freight dollies, studying the faces of those holding flashlights. He was becoming annoyed; he did not have the time to waste. Where was Zaimis?
There had been no change of status; the freighter was the carrier, the agent still the conduit. He had read every report sent from Sevastopol; there had been no mention of the escape route whatsoever. Where was he?
Suddenly Taleniekov felt a shock of pain as the barrel of a gun was shoved viciously into his right kidney.