a checkpoint at five o'clock on the Unter den Linden. I've broken and killed your courier, as another courier was killed in Prague. Repeat: Come to me. I'll kill you.
Scofield
Beyond the American killer's brutal decision, the most electrifying aspect of Scofield's cable was the fact that he was no longer in the service of his country. He had been separated from the intelligence community. And considering what he had done and the pathological forces that drove him to do it, the separation was undoubtedly savage. For no government professional would murder a courier under the circumstances of this extraordinary Soviet contact. And if Scofield was nothing else, he was a professional..
The storm clouds over Washington had been catastrophic for Beowulf Agate.
They had destroyed him.
As the storm over Moscow had destroyed a master strategist named Taleniekov.
It was strange, bordering on the macabre. Two enemies who loathed each other had been chosen by the Matarese as the first of its lethal decoys-ploys and diversions as old Krupskaya had called them. Yet only one of those enen-des knew it; the other did not. He was concerned solely with ripping scars open, letting the blood between them flow again.
Vasili put the paper back into his pocket, and breathed deeply. The coming days would be filled with move and countermove, two experts stalking each other until the inevitable confrontation.
My name is Taleniekov. We will kill each other or we will talk.
Undersecretary of State Daniel Congdon shot up from the chair, the telephone in his hand. Since his early days at NSA he had learned that one way of controffing an outburst was to physically move during a moment of crisis. And control was the key to everything in his profession; at least, the appearance of it. He listened as this particular crisis was defined by an angry Secretary of State.
Godamn it, he was controlled.
"I've just met privately with the Soviet Ambassador and we both agree the incident must not be made public. The important thing now is to bring Scofield in." "Are you certain it was Scofield, sir? I can't believe itl" "Let's say that until he denies it with irrefutable proof that he was a thousand miles away during the past fortyeight hours we must assume it had to be Scofield. No one else in clandestine operations would have committed such an act. It's unthinkable." Unthinkable? Incredible. The body of a dead Russian delivered through the gates of the Soviet Embassy in the back seat of a Yellow Cab at 8:30 in the morning at the height of Washington's rush-hour traffic. And a driver who knew absolutely nothing except that he had picked up two drunks, not one although one was in worse shape than the other. What the hell had happened to the other guy? The one who sounded like a Ruskie and wore a hat and dark glasses and said the sunlight was too bright after a whole night of Wodka.
Where was he? And was the fellow in the back seat all right? He looked like a mess.
"Who was the man, Mr. Secretary?" "He was a Soviet intelligence officer stationed in Brussels. The Ambassador was frank; the KGB had no knowledge he was in Washington." "A possible defection?" "There's no evidence whatsoever to support that." "Then what ties him to Scofield? Beyond the method of dispatch and delivery." The Secretary of State paused, then replied carefully. "You must understand, Mr. Congdon, the Ambassador and I have a unique relationship that goes back several decades. We are often more candid with each other than diplomatic. Always with the understanding that neither speaks for the record." "I understand, sir," said Congdon, realizing that the answer about to be given could never be referred to officially.
"The intelligence officer in question was a member of a KGB unit in East Berlin roughly ten years ago. I assume in light of your recent decisions that you're familiar with Scofield's file." "His wife?" Congdon sat down. "The man was one of those who killed Scofield's wife?" "The Ambassador made no reference to Scofield's wife; he merely mentioned the fact that the dead man had been part of a relatively autonomous section of the KGB in East Berlin ten years ago." "That section was controlled by a strategist named Taleniekov. He gave the orders." "Yes," said the Secretary of State. "We discussed Mr. Taleniekov and the subsequent incident several years later in Prague at some length. We looked for the connection you've just considered. It may exist." "How is