face itched, the growth of his beard so uncomfortable it had caused the beginning of a rash on his neck.
There was always shaving equipment in the bathroom; he would afford himself the luxury of a shave and change the bandages he had placed on his neck and skull fourteen hours ago. It would postpone for a bit longer his talk with the former-defected?-KGB man. Whatever it concerned, Bray wanted no part of it, yet the unexpected events and decisions of the past twentyfour hours told him he was already involved.
It was 4:37 when he unlocked the door and opened it. Taleniekov was standing in front of the fire, sipping from a cup in his hand.
"I apologize if the fire awakened you," the Russian said. "Or the sound of the front door-if you heard it." "The heater went out," said Scofield, looking down at the flarneless Franklin.
"I think the propane tank is empty." "Is that why you went outside?" "No. I went outside to relieve myself; there's no toilet here." "I forgot." "Did you hear me leave? Or returnr "Is that coffee?" "Yes," answered Taleniekov. "A bad habit I picked up from the West. Your tea has no character. The pot's on the bumer." The KGB man gestured beyond a room divider where stove, sink and refrigerator were lined up against the wall. "I'm surprised you did not smell it boiling." "I thought I did," lied Scofield, crossing to the stove and the pot. "But it was weak." "And now we've both made our childish points." "Childishly," added Bray, pouring coffee. "You keep saying you have something to tell me. Go ahead." "First, I shall ask you a question. Have you ever heard of an organization called the Matarese?" Scofield paused, remembering; he nodded. "Political killers for hire, run by a council in Corsica. It started well over a half-century ago and died out in the middle forties, after the war. What about it?" "It never died out. It went further underground-became dormant, if you like-but it returned in a far more dangerous form. It's been operating since the early fifties. It operates now. It has infiltrated the most sensitive and powerful areas of both our governments. Its objective is the control over both our countries. The Matarese was responsible for the murders of General Blackburn here and Dimitri Yurievich in my country." Bray sipped his coffee, studying the Russian's face over the rim of the cup. "How do you know that? Why do you believe it?" "An old man who saw more in his lifetime than you and I combined, made the identification. He was not wrong; he was one of the few who admitted--or will ever admit-having dealt with the Matarese." "Saw? Was? Past tenses." "He died. He called for me while he was dying; he wanted me to know. He had access to information neither you nor I would be given under any circumstances." "Who was he?" "Aleksie Krupskaya. The name is meaningless, I realize, so I'll explain." "Meaningless?" interrupted Scofield, crossing to an armchair in front of the fire, and sitting down. "Not entirely. Krupskaya, the white cat of Krivoi Rog. Istrebiteli. The last of the exterminators from Section Nine, KGB. The original Nine, of course." "You do your schoolwork well, but then, as they say, you're a Harvard man." "That kind of schoolwork can be helpful. Krupskaya was banished twenty years ago. He became a nonperson. If he were alive, I figured he was vegetating in Grasnov, not a consultant being fed information by people in the Kremlin. I don't believe your story." "Believe it now," said Taleniekov, sifting down opposite Bray. "Because it was not 'people' in the Kremlin, just one man. His son. For thirty years one of the highest-ranking survivors of the Politburo. For the past six, Premier of Soviet Russia." Scofield put his cup down on the floor and again studied the KGB man's face. It was the face of a practiced liar, a professional liar, but not a liar by nature. He was not lying now. "Krupskaya's son the Premier?
That's... a shock." "As it was to me, but not so shocking when you think about it. Guided at every turn, protected by his father's extensive collection of... shaU we say memorabilia. Hypothetically, it could have happened here. Suppose your late John Edgar Hoover had a politically ambitious son. Who could have stood in his way? Hoover's secret files would have paved any road, even the one leading to the Oval Office.