The two men talked little during the day, the strain of proximity uncomfortable for each. Taleniekov read from the extensive bookshelves, glancing at Scofield now and then, the look in his eyes a mixture of remembered fury and curiosity.
Bray felt the glances; he refused to acknowledge them. He listened to the radio for news reports about the carnage at the hotel on Nebraska Avenue, and the death of a Russian attach6 in the adjacent building. They were played down, de-emphasized, no mention made of the dead embassy official.
The hotel killings were theorized to be foreign in origin-that much was allowed-and no doubt criminally oriented, probably related to upper-level narcotics. The suppressants had been applied; the Department of State had moved swiftly, with sure-footed censorship.
And with each progressively fading report Scofield felt progressively trapped. He was becoming intrinsic to something be wanted no part of; his new life was not around the corner any longer. He began to wonder where it was, or if it would be. He was being inexorably drawn into an enigma called the Matarese.
At four o'clock he went for a walk in the fields and along the banks of the Patuxent, As he left the cabin, he made sure the Russian saw him slip the Browning automatic into his holster. The KGB man did see; he placed his Graz-Burya on the table next to the chair.
At five o'clock, Taleniekov made ail observation. "I think we should position ourselves a good hour before the appointment." "I trust Winthrop," replied Bray.
"With good reason, I'm sure. But can you trust those he'll be contacting?" "He won't tell anyone he's meeting us. He wants to talk to you at length.
He'll have questions. Names, past positions, military ranks." "I'll try to provide answers where they are relative to the Matarese. I will not be compromised in other areas." "Bully for you." "Nevertheless, I still think----~' "We'll leave in fifteen minutes," interrupted Scofield. "rhere's a diner on the way; we'll eat separately." At 7:35, Bray drove the rented car into the south end of the parking area on the border of Rock Creek Park. He and the KGB man made four penetrations into the woods, sweeping in arcs off the paths, checking the trees and the rocks and the ravine below for signs of intruders. The night was bitterly cold; there were no strollers, no one anywhere. They met at a pre-arranged spot on the edge of the small gorge. Taleniekov spoke first.
"I saw nothing; the area is secure." Scofield looked at his watch in the darkness. "It's nearly eight-thirty.
I'll wait by the car; you stay up here at this end. I'll meet with him first and then signal you." "How? It's several hundred yardsi." "I'll strike a match." "Very appropriate." "What?" "Nothing. It's unimportant." At two minutes to nine, Winthrop's limousine came out of the Rock Creek exit, drove into the parking area, and stopped within twenty feet of the rented car. The sight of the chauffeur disturbed Bray, but only momentarily. Scofield recognized the huge man almost instantly; he had been with Robert Winthrop for more than two decades. Rumors about a checkered Marine Corps career cut short by several courts-martial followed the chauffeur, but Winthrop never discussed him other than to call him "my friend Stanley." No one ever pressed.
Bray walked out of the shadows toward the limousine.
Stanley opened the door and was on the pavement in one motion, his right hand in his pocket, in his left a flashlight. He turned it on. Scofield shut his eyes. It went off in seconds.
"Hello, Stanley?" said Bray.
"It's been a lonE time, Mr. Scofield," replied the chauffeur "Nice to see you." "Thanks. Good to see you." "The Ambassador's waiting," continued the driver, reaching down and snapping the lock release. "The door's open now." "Fine. By the way, in a couple of minutes I'm going to get out of the car and strike a match. It's the signal for a man to come and join us. He's up at the other end; he'll walk out of one of the paths." "I gotcba'. The Ambassador said there'd be two of you. Okay." "What I'm trying to say is, if you stiH smoke those thin cigars of yours, wait till I get out before you light up. I'd like a few moments alone with Mr. Winthrop." "You've got a hell of a memory," said Stanley, tapping his jacket pocket with the flashlight. "I was about to