to him and his messenger; instructions could be sent quietly to Bern, the suite of rooms leased by cable. It would take weeks before the information was filtered back to Moscow -one drop among thousands around the world.
If so-and it was perhaps the only explanation-Taleniekov was not merely acting alone, he was acting in conflict with KGB interests. His vendetta superseded his allegiance to his government, if the term had meaning any longer; it had little for Scofield. It was the only explanation. Other- wise the suite of rooms across the hall would be swarming with Soviets.
They might wait twenty-four or thirty-six hours to check out FBI observation, but no more than that; there were too many ways to elude the bureau's surveillance.
Bray had the gut instinct that he was right, an instinct developed over the years to the point where he trusted it implicitly. Now he had to put himself into Taleniekov's place, think as Vasili Taleniekov would think.
It was his protection against a knife in the side or a bullet from a high-powered rifle. It was the way to bring it all to an end, and not have to go through each day wondering what the shadows held. Or the crowds.
The KGB man had no choice: it was his move and it had to be in Washington. One started with the physical connection and it was the dormant drop across the hall. In a matter of days-perhaps hours now-Taleniekov would fly into Dulles Airport and the hunt would begin.
But the Russian was no idiot; he would not walk into a trap. Instead, another would come, someone who knew nothing, who had been paid to be an unknowing decoy. An unsuspecting passenger whose friendship was carefully cultivated on a transatlantic flight; or one of dozens of blind contacts Taleniekov had used in Washington. Men and women who had no idea that the European they did well-paid favors for was a strategist for KGB. Among them would be the decoy, or decoys, and the birds. Decoys knew nothing; they were bait. Birds watched, sending out alarms when the bait was being taken. Birds and decoys; they would be Teleniekov's weapons.
Someone would come to the hotel on Nebraska Avenue. Whoever it was would have no instructions beyond getting into those rooms; no telephone number, no name that meant anything. And nearby, the birds would be waiting for the quarry to go after the bait.
When the quarry was spotted the birds would reach the hunter. Which meant that the hunter was also nearby.
This would be Taleniekov's strategy, for no other was available; it was also the strategy that Scofield would use. Three or four-five at the outside-persons readily available for such employment. Simply mounted: phone calls placed at the airport, a meeting at a downtown restaurant. An inexpensive exercise considering the personal value of the quarry.
Sounds came from beyond the door. Voices. Bray got out of the chair and walked quickly to the tiny glass circle in the panel.
Across the hall a well-dressed woman was talking with the bell captain who carried her overnight bag. Not a suitcase, not luggage from a transatlantic Right, but a small overnight case. The decoy had arrived, the birds not far away. Taleniekov had landed; it had started.
The woman and the bell captain disappeared into the suite of rooms.
Scofield walked to the telephone. It was the moment to begin the counterexercise. He needed time; two or three days were not out of the question.
He called the deep-sea fisherman on the Maryland shore, making sure to dial direct. He capped the mouthpiece with his right hand, filtering his voice through his barely separated fingers. The greeting was swift, the caller in a hurry. "I'm in the Keys and can't reach that damned hotel in Charlotte Amalie. Call it for me, will you? Tell them I'm on a charter out of Tavernier and will be there in a couple of days." "Sure, Bray. On a real vacation, aren1 you?" "More than you know. And thanks." The next call needed no such artifice. It was to a French. woman he had lived with briefly in Paris several years ago. She had been one of the most effective undercover personnel at Interpol until her cover was blown; she worked now for a CIA proprietary based in Washington. There was no sexual attraction between them any longer but they were friends. She asked no questions.
He gave her the name of the hotel on Nebraska Avenue. "Call in fifteen minutes and ring