just left. Confirmation that Hilliard didn't need.
Metcalfe was now standing just outside the electrical closet. He saw; he understood what had happened.
"No more," Hilliard said. "The circuits are dirty."
"So much for the vaunted security of the black channel."
"The security of the black channel was designed to protect against the outside. The Soviets. Not against those within."
"Who was it?"
"A junior Foreign Service officer. Not important in and of himself, within the embassy hierarchy "
"On whose instructions?"
"I don't know. And I doubt I'll be able to find out anytime soon. All I know is this, Metcalfe: There are a lot of players involved here. And when there are a lot of players, somebody's getting played. Next time you try to use the black channel, you may as well be broadcasting on Radio Moscow. Do yourself and me a favor. Leave by the service entrance, at the back. And no more, Metcalfe. Please. No more."
The violinist sat on a park bench facing the American embassy. The main theme to Schubert's quartet Der Tod und das Madchen was running pleasantly through his head. He loved the way the angry, turbulent triplets of the opening gave way to the soothing, black-velvet D-minor cadences, the way the piece modulated from major to minor, the ominousness of the sweet melody. As he watched people entering and departing the main entrance, he attempted, unsuccessfully of course, to ignore the stomach-turning odors of Moscow. He had already learned them the rancid stench of male sweat, astringent with vodka, the unclean females, the onion-foul breath, the cheap tobacco, the omnipresent fug of boiled cabbage. He had not thought anything could be more repellent than the French, but he was wrong; the Russians were even worse. These smells had by now become background against which he would instantly recognize any foreigner, whether he be American or British. Muller, his control in the Sicherheitsdienst, had strong reason to suspect that Daniel Eigen, a member of the clandestine espionage ring operating out of Paris, had gone to Moscow. And Reinhard Heydrich himself suspected that this Eigen might be involved in a high-level scheme, which had to be investigated. Anyone could eliminate Eigen, but very few SD agents had the skill to both investigate and, when necessary, kill at a moment's notice.
The French borders, even under German control, were porous. People could, and did, escape by any number of means. There were many English and British citizens living in Paris, many of them undocumented, unregistered, and deducing which ones might have gone missing in the last few days was simply impossible. Moscow, however, was much easier. True, a foreigner could enter here using a false passport, as was possible anywhere in the world, but it was much more difficult in Russia, where the scrutiny was greater. And the number of foreigners entering Russia was minuscule. When he got the list later on today, he was sure it would not be a long one. Which was good; that meant the list of suspects was short and thus easier to investigate.
He had placed a fellow SD agent outside the British embassy as well. Between the two of them, it was not unlikely that they would spot their target. There was, after all, an excellent chance that he would visit his country's embassy; they all did.
A man in a tan overcoat strode out of the building. Could this be him?
Kleist stood up, crossed the avenue, and soon caught up with the man. "Pardon me," he said with a friendly look on his face. "We know each other, yes?"
But even before the man opened his mouth, the violinist knew he was not the target. Kleist could smell the particular array of animal fats that clung to the man's garb, the pork and goose, and then the overlay of paprika. He was a Hungarian, and his accent confirmed it.
"No, I don't think so," the man said. "Sorry."
"My apologies," the violinist said. "I thought you were someone else."
Chapter Twenty
At first, Metcalfe did not recognize the plump, dowdy woman with the babushka pulled tight over her head who was sitting on a bench in the gardens of Sverdlov Place. That was how well she had disguised herself. Obviously she had borrowed the costume from the Bolshoi, the padding strategically placed at various places around her body transforming her slender figure into a typically overweight Russian peasant woman of middle age.
Only once he had determined, at a safe distance, that it was indeed Lana did he stride past her bench. She did