The Tristan Betrayal - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,108

are you saying it's not a true partnership? It's a handshake, nothing more, to keep the enemy at bay?"

Litvikov shrugged. "I am a member of the Politburo, but that does not mean that I am privy to the decision making at the highest levels."

"You don't know."

"The questions you ask are not the questions one would expect from a playboy businessman."

"It's in my interest as a businessman to be very informed about politics. These days particularly."

"Let me tell you something, and I will let you draw your own conclusions. Last month, the Nazis quietly took pieces of Romania and made them part of Hungary. We learned about this only after it happened."

"A rift between Hitler and Stalin?" Metcalfe probed.

"There's no rift," the Russian said hastily. "We are whistling in the dark, Mr. Metcalfe. Who knows what this means? I only know that Stalin expects this agreement with Hitler to last a long time."

"Expects ... or hopes?"

Litvikov smiled for the first time. His smile was the canny grin of a cynic who has seen it all. "My English is sometimes not precise enough. Perhaps hopes is the word I meant to say."

"I appreciate your candor. You can count on my discretion." By speaking openly, even mildly critically, of the Kremlin, Litvi-kov was imperiling himself.

Litvikov's grin faded. "In that case, let me add to what I have already told you. You may take this as a friendly warning."

"Emphasis on 'friendly' or on 'warning'?"

"I'll let you make that determination. Some of my colleagues have long harbored suspicions about Metcalfe Industries. There are those that suspect that it is not merely a capitalist combine, which is reason enough for wariness on our part, but something more. A front for foreign interests." His gaze was penetrating.

"I assume you know better," Metcalfe said, returning the gaze with equal intensity.

"I know that you and your family are very well connected in Washington and in leading capitalist circles. Beyond that, I know very little. You should know that I have already alerted your older brother that if repatriation of your properties is necessary, it will be done."

"Repatriation?" Metcalfe knew what he meant but wanted the threat to be explicit, thus addressable.

"Seizure of all Metcalfe facilities, as you well know."

Metcalfe blinked but did not react.

"This may not be of consequence to you, but I assure you, your brother did not take the prospect well when I spoke with him a few hours ago. Do you know the name James Mellors?"

"No. Should I?"

"What about Harold Delaware? Or Milton Eisenberg?"

"Sorry."

"I'm sorry, too, Mr. Metcalfe. All of them were American citizens. And all of them were executed by Soviet authorities on espionage charges. They were not released or returned to their native country. And do you think your government raised a fuss? It did not. Larger concerns held sway. Broader matters of international relations. The United States government knew that these men were guilty. They knew that we were in a position to prove it, with written confessions. Nobody in your State Department wanted these confessions to see the light of day, so nothing was said. Comrade Stalin has learned from this. There is no longer any extra territoriality Comrade Stalin has learned that to extend a hand of help to the United States only attracts the jaws of rabid dogs. So there is no longer an outstretched hand. That hand is now a fist." Litvikov clenched a right hand into a tight fist. "Five fingers are collectivized into one fist. Lenin taught that the collective means the disappearance of the individual."

"Yes," Metcalfe said, trying to control his pounding heart. "And it's Stalin who's been overseeing the disappearance of a great many individuals."

Litvikov rose, trembling with anger. "If I were you," he said, "I'd watch that I didn't become one of them."

Sitting in a small park across the street from the Metropole, the violinist watched the hotel entrance using a pair of lightweight folding Zeiss 8 X 60 binoculars. He knew from his brief, unsatisfying interrogation of the front-desk clerks what the times of the shift changes were. He had been able to confirm that the set of clerks he had spoken with had left, replaced by others who did not recognize his face.

He folded the binoculars and put them away, then crossed the street and entered the hotel. He did not stop at the desk but immediately headed for the carpeted main staircase, his destination clear: he was just another foreigner going to the restaurant. No one stopped him, neither at the