The Tristan Betrayal - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,100

not seem to recognize him, did not even look at him.

There was a good possibility, he realized, that he was being observed; although he saw no signs of a tail anywhere, he had to assume that the blond NKVD agent with the pale gray eyes was concealed somewhere nearby, watching. Perhaps his every move was not being watched, but for all intents and purposes he would have to presume it was.

At their meeting at the stable he had given her detailed instructions setting up their rendezvous. Whenever they met from now on, he told her, they would have to employ the techniques of tradecraft he had used the Russian term po vsem pravilam iskusstva, which literally meant "the rules of art."

She had responded with both fear and relief. The furtiveness terrified her, but she was grateful for MetcalfeV thoroughness as well, for it would protect her and her father. And yet when Metcalfe explained the methods they would have to use, something had occurred to her, and she said, "How do you know so much about these things, Stephen? How do you know about these these pravily iskusstva? I thought you were a business man but what kind of businessman knows how to act like a spy?"

He shrugged and replied, with a casualness that he hoped she found convincing, "I watch a lot of Hollywood movies, dusya; you know that."

Now, after he'd gone several hundred feet past her bench, he slowed his pace somewhat, as if uncertain of where he was going. At that point, he was overtaken by Lana, who was transformed not only in appearance but even in gait: she walked quickly but with a slight limp, as if afflicted with a touch of gout or perhaps some hip ailment.

As she squeezed past him on the narrow lane, she spoke quietly and rapidly: "Vasiliyevsky Alley is just off Pushkin Street." Then she moved ahead. He looked round the park uncertainly, seeming to orient himself, and then resumed walking, staying a hundred feet or so behind her at a fairly constant pace. He marveled at how different she looked, how she had mastered the walk of the impatient old lady. Leaving the park, she plunged into traffic, crossing Pushkin Street with an old woman's irritable fearlessness.

By going through this procedure they were, in the language of Corky and his trainers, "dry-cleaning" themselves, making sure that neither one of them had "grown a tail," or been followed. He watched her turn into the tiny Vasiliyevsky Alley; then he followed her there. She approached the wooden door of what appeared to be an apartment building, a row of doorbells on the left, next to each button a handwritten name set in a small brass frame. The building looked old and decrepit; inside, there was no lobby, just a stair landing. The building smelled of spoiled meat and makhorka tobacco. He followed her up two flights of creaky steps, covered in threadbare carpet, to an apartment door.

He entered a dark, close, and musty flat and closed the door behind himself. Immediately she threw her arms around him. Her padded shape felt strange and unfamiliar to his hands, but her face was as ravishingly beautiful as ever, her mouth warm and inviting, instantly arousing him.

She broke the embrace, pulled away. "We should be safe here, my darling."

"Who lives here?"

"A dancer. I should say, a former dancer. She rejected the advances of the rehearsal coach, and now she works as a cleaner at TASS, where her mother also works. Masha's fortunate to have a job at all."

"She and her mother are both at work?"

Lana nodded. "I told her I had ... met someone. She knows I'd do the same for her, if she needed a private place, a "

"A love nest, I think it's called."

"Yes, Stiva," she teased. "You would know what it's called."

He smiled uncomfortably. "Have you ever come here with von Schussler?"

"Oh, no, of course not! He would never come to such a place! He takes me to his apartment in Moscow, and only there."

"He has another place?"

"In the country he has a grand house that the Russians seized from some rich merchant. The Germans are being treated very well these days. Stalin must be very concerned that Hitler see how serious he is about good relations."

"Have you ever been there? To von Schiissler's country house, I mean?"

"Stiva, I've told you already he means nothing to me! I despise him!"

"This is not about jealousy, Lana. I need to know where you two