The Red Horseman jg-5 Page 13

  The suit wore a label from Woodward & Lothrop, a well-known department store in the Washington, D.C., area. Jake shopped there himself on occasion. The belt was cut from a single piece of cowhide and had a hand-tooled hunting scene on it. The buckle was a simple metal one. A Christmas or birthday present, probably. After scrutinizing every inch of it as carefully as he could with the glass, he began leafing through the contents of the prisoner’s pockets, which were contained in a cardboard box. A couple of keys, a wallet, a handful of loose ruble notes and American dollar bills, a fingernail clipper, a piece of broken shoelace, an odd white button that looked as if it was off a dress shirt, a key very similar to the one in Jake’s pocket that probably opened Herb Tenney’s room at Fort Apache — that was the crop.

  Toad watched him examine everything under the magnifying glass, then helped him spread the contents of the wallet on one end of the table. Driver’s license, credit cards, a library card, a folded Far Side cartoon torn from a newspaper, several hundred American dollars in currency, a receipt from a laundry in Virginia.

  Toad perched on the edge of the table. “Agent 007 always had a pocketful of goodies. I’m disappointed in our boy.”

  “What should be here and isn’t?”

  Toad glanced at the Russian. “What do you mean?”

  “Is there anything you would expect to find him carrying around that isn’t here?”

  Toad surveyed the little pile, then shook his head. “I can’t think of anything. Except maybe an appointment or memo book with some phone numbers. A bottle of invisible ink, a suicide pill, I don’t know.”

  “All his phone numbers are in his head.”

  Jake picked up the keys, held them where the Russian could see them, then stuck them in his pocket.

  “Let’s go do the car,” he told Blue Suit as he handed back the magnifying glass and hand tools. “We’ll keep the keys and bring them back in a few hours.”

  The man nodded and pulled the door open.

  * * *

  Back at Fort Apache one of the keys opened the door to room 402. The room number was right on the key. Jake Grafton turned on the lights. “Go find Spiro Dalworth. I want screwdrivers, pliers, a magnifying glass, a big sharp knife from the kitchen. My pocketknife is too small.”

  “Yes, sir.” Toad left.

  Jake went into the bathroom and picked up all the toilet articles. He spread them out on a table and examined each of them.

  The problem was that he didn’t know what form the binary poison would be in, if it were here at all. A liquid would be the easiest to administer but the hardest to transport. Pills or powder would be easier to carry and almost as efficient. But any water-soluble solid would do, he thought, so even an object like a button or a pencil eraser might be the object he sought.

  Now he sat looking at some tablets. A small plastic aspirin bottle with a child-proof lid contained the usual small white pills. He counted them. All of them had the word aspirin impressed into the surface. On one side. No, wait a minute. Some had the word on both sides. Huh! He separated the pills into two piles. Eight one-side-only and six both-sides, fourteen tablets total.

  He put them back into the bottle and slipped the bottle into his pocket.

  When Toad and Lieutenant Dalworth arrived, he put them to searching. “I want to see any pills or powder or liquid you can find. Anything that might form a hidden container. Look carefully.”

  Dalworth looked puzzled, but he asked no questions.

  An hour later they decided that everything had been examined by all three of them.

  “Mr. Dalworth, thank you for your help. We’ll sort of straighten everything out and lock the door when we leave. Of course, I’ll appreciate it if you would keep this little adventure to yourself.”

  Dalworth’s eyes went to Toad, then back to Jake. “I don’t suppose this would be a good place to ask questions.”

  “You’re very perceptive, Spiro,” Toad said.

  When the door closed behind him and Toad had checked to make sure that Mr. Dalworth didn’t have his ear against it, Jake removed the aspirin bottle from his pocket and spread out the tablets on the desk. “Take a look at these, Toad.”

  Tarkington used the magnifying glass. “Well, they look like aspirin, but I dunno.”

  “I have some aspirin on the bathroom sink in my room. Will you get them, please.”

  They filled a tumbler with water and dropped one of Jake’s aspirin in it. In twenty seconds the tablet had dissolved to a mound of white powder. After thirty seconds had passed they swirled it and the powder covered the bottom of the glass. After a minute it was still there.

  Now Jake took one of the tablets with the double-sided label and dropped it into a fresh glass of water. It too dissolved rapidly, but without leaving the powder residue. The entire tablet went into solution.

  “Thank God for the scientific method,” Toad muttered. “When I was a kid I got a microscope one year for Christmas.”

  Jake saved six tablets from his bottle and dumped the rest down the toilet. Those six he put in Herb Tenney’s bottle. Herb’s five remaining pills went into Jake’s bottle.

  As they folded clothes and replaced them in the suitcase and dresser, Toad said, “He’s going to know someone was in here.”

  “I suspect so.”

  “Dalworth may blab.”

  “He might.”

  “You sure you got this figured out, CAG?”

  “No.”

  Toad touched Jake’s arm. “You’re betting both our lives, you know.”

  Jake just looked at him. “I’m aware of that,” he said finally. “If you have any ideas I’m always open to suggestions.”

  Toad went back to straightening the closet. After a moment he said, “I suggest we shoot friend Tenney and find a hole to stuff him and his aspirin bottle into.”

  When Jake didn’t respond, Toad added in a tight little voice, “Of course you have carefully calculated all the possible reasons why there were two less of those pills marked on both sides than there were of the other kind.” His voice was sarcastic. “No doubt you’ve weighed it, pondered on it, considered every possible aspect and come to some intricate, subtle conclusion that a mere junior officer mortal like me couldn’t possibly appreciate.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Jake replied patiently. “That Herb probably took two for a toothache? We both know he probably fed them to us. Us and half the people in this embassy.”

  “We really oughta take this guy out into the forest and make him dig his own hole. I kid you not.”

  “KGB Headquarters must have really gotten to you.”

  “Yes, sir. It sure as hell did. I admit it. I about vomited all over that fucking general’s desk.”

  “Hurry up. Let’s get this done. We have to get back for the afternoon briefing.”

  “How do you know,” Toad asked, “that those are all the binary pills Herb has access to?”

  “I don’t.”

  “He could have some in his desk in the CIA office, he could have some stashed in any hidey-hole he thought handy. He can just ask Langley for more.”

  “What a deep thinker you are! Let’s hope he doesn’t find out we took a few.”

  “What if he runs short? What if he’s embarked on a major urban renewal project?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “You and I are going to end up dead,” Toad said sourly.

  “Sooner or later,” Grafton replied. What was there to say? Herb and his colleagues must have killed General Brown so that he wouldn’t make waves. The job was only half done as long as Jake and Toad were wandering around upright.

  “The whole fucking CIA can go to fucking hell for all I care,” Tarkington said crossly. When he got no reply, he muttered something to himself that Grafton didn’t catch.

  8

  Butyrskaya Prison looked like something from a Kafka nightmare, Jack Yocke decided, and jotted the thought on a blank page of his notebook as he sat in the waitin
g room.

  The Russian interpreter sitting on the bench across from him was as nervous as a pickpocket at a policeman’s ball. He gnawed on a fingernail already into the quick, then stared at the sliver of nail still remaining. He pushed on the raw quick experimentally and grimaced. He crossed and recrossed his feet and stared morosely at the filthy paint on the wall and the dirty floor. He carefully avoided looking at any of the other people slumped on the wooden benches.

  Yocke wondered about this desire to avoid even eye contact. After sweeping each of the other eight people in the room, his gaze returned to the uncomfortable interpreter, Gregor Something, Gregor followed by five or six Slavic syllables that sounded to Yocke’s American ear like a pig grunting. Two days ago Gregor jackrabbited away from Soviet Square, yet the following morning he showed up at Yocke’s hotel as if nothing had happened.

  Still glowing with the virtuous warmth of his new-found heroism and curiously eager to make this gutless wonder squirm a little, Yocke asked, “Why did you run?”

  “My wife was ill.”

  Gregor didn’t blink or blush, didn’t look away, even when Yocke sneered.

  To be able to lie outrageously and shamelessly was an asset, Jack Yocke told himself, one that would of course stand Gregor in good stead here in this workers’ paradise of poverty and desperation, but it would also be a cheerful bullet for his résumé even in brighter climes, such as the U.S. of A. Across the pond in the land of the free and home of the brave he could lie like a dog to clients and customers, cheat on his spouse, steal from his employer, write creative fiction for the IRS, and in the unlikely event he ever got caught he could fool the lie detector and skip away with a happy smile. This multilingual grunter would fit right in, as red, white and blue as a telephone solicitor hyping penny stocks to shut-in geriatrics. Once he got his fastball high and tight he could even become a politician.

  This morning in the waiting room of Butyrskaya Yocke asked Gregor, “Have you ever thought of emigrating to America?”

  “My wife’s cousin lives in Brooklyn.”

  Yocke stared.

  “Brooklyn, New York.”

  “I’m trying to recall if I ever heard of Brooklyn. It’s out west, isn’t it? With cowboys and Indians and tumbleweeds?”

  “Perhaps,” Gregor said softly. “I don’t know. My wife’s cousin drives a taxi and earns many dollars. He likes America.” He shrugged.

  “America is a great country.”

  “He drives a Chevrolet. Only five years old.” He glanced at the other people in the room to see who was listening. One or two had glanced up at the sound of a foreign language, but now all but one had retreated into their self-imposed isolation.

  “Umm,” said Jack Yocke, looking hard at the young man who was looking at them. He had longish hair and an air of quiet desperation. His gaze wavered, then fell away.

  “Petrol is cheap there, my wife’s cousin says. Every day he drives many many miles. All the streets are paved.”

  A door opened and a man passed through the waiting room. Jack Yocke caught a whiff of the prison smell. He had smelled it before in the jails of Washington, a devil’s brew of urine, body odor and fear. Yocke delicately inhaled a thimbleful as Gregor regaled his listener with the adventures of his wife’s cousin in his Chevy on the paved boulevards of Brooklyn.

  Two minutes after Yocke reached saturation, a man came through one of the doorways and spoke to Gregor, then led the way along endless dingy corridors. The warden’s corner office was big and had a carpet. A dial phone straight out of the 1930s sat on the wooden desk.

  The warden came around the desk to shake hands, then trotted back around the desk and arranged himself in his chair. He was a sloppy fat man with a heavy five-o’clock shadow that made his skin look dingy gray.

  Gregor and the warden nattered a while in Russian, then Gregor turned to Yocke. “He welcomes the correspondent for the American newspaper Post to Butyrskaya.”

  “Thank him for taking the time to see me.” Of course Yocke had an appointment, arranged by an official with the Yeltsin government, but he was willing to pretend this was a social call.

  More Russian.

  “Ask your questions.”

  “I am here today at the request of the editor of my newspaper, the most influential newspaper in the United States. Everyone in Washington reads my newspaper every day, from Hillary Clinton right on down. Everyone, including all the people in the Senate and House of Representatives. Tell him that.”

  After an Uzi-burst of Russian, Yocke continued. “I am here to interview Yakov Dynkin, a Jew who was convicted of arranging the sale of a private automobile for profit. I understand he was sentenced to five years in the gulag at hard labor.”

  The warden’s face lost its friendliness as Gregor translated. Yocke didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone. The interpreter said, “Yakov Dynkin is not here. No Jews are here.”

  “Has he been shipped to the gulag?”

  “No,” was the answer that came back. Just no.

  Yocke thought about it. Dynkin wasn’t here and he hadn’t been shipped to the gulag. “Have they turned him loose with a pardon or probation?”

  The warden merely frowned.

  Yocke extracted a press clipping from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Gregor and pointed at the appropriate paragraph. “Two weeks ago Tass said Dynkin was here. There it is in black and white.” Gregor stared at the clipping. “Go on! Show him that and tell him I wish to see Dynkin and write about what wonderful treatment he is receiving here at Butyrskaya even though he was convicted of violating a law that was repealed a week before he was arrested.”

  Slowly, as if this were costing him a major portion of his pension, Gregor passed the piece of paper across the desk. The warden refused to touch it, so it came to rest in the empty spot on the desk in front of him. He bent over and looked at the English words without showing the slightest glimmer of comprehension.

  After a few seconds the warden picked up the offending paper and handed it back to Yocke, who accepted it. Another spray of words.

  “He says you are wrong. Dynkin is not here. No Jews are here.”

  “Where are they?”

  “He doesn’t know. Is there anything else he can help you with?”

  “Couldn’t he consult his records or something and tell me if Dynkin has ever been here? Or when he left. Or where he is.”

  Gregor considered.

  “These people do have records, I assume, something scribbled somewhere to tell them who is rotting in what hole…”

  Gregor spoke to Yocke as if he were a small boy incapable of understanding the obvious. “He is not here.”

  “Who are you working for? Him or me? Ask him the question.”

  “But he has told you the answer. What more could he possibly say? The warden is a powerful senior official. If he says the man is not here, then he is not. That is all there is to that.”

  Jack Yocke smiled at the warden. He then turned the grin on Gregor. “This fat geek is lying through his teeth. These greasy Commie bastards railroaded Dynkin for making an honest ruble just because he’s a Jew. They’ve got him locked up somewhere in the large intestines of this shit factory. This pompous son of a bitch knows the whole prosecution was a farce to fuck Jews and embarrass Yeltsin and his people, make them look like lying hypocrites when they go begging in America and Europe for foreign aid. Dynkin sold a car for a profit and these old Commies are grinding him into hamburger.”

  Gregor’s face was frozen, immobile. Even his eyes were blank.

  “Ask him if it’s true that about a hundred and twenty thousand people are still imprisoned in labor camps for doing business that is legal in Russia today. Ask him.”

  Gregor put his tongue in motion. After a few syllables from the warden, the translator told Yocke, “He doesn’t know.”

  “Ask him how Russia can establish a free-market economy if it keeps all these people in prison for earning a profit.”
/>   Gregor looked at his shoes.

  “Ask him!”

  The translator’s head moved from side to side, about a millimeter.

  Yocke flashed another broad grin at the warden. “Come on, Gregor. There’s a story here. These Commies ain’t got religion. They’re still the same filthy, diseased assholes they always were. They screwed Dynkin to get at Yeltsin. You can see that, can’t you? They can’t get away with it if we tell it to the world.”

  Gregor’s face looked as bad as Lenin’s, who had been dead for over sixty years.

  “Don’t chicken out on me again,” Yocke pleaded. “Think up something that will open up this pig’s…”

  But Gregor was leaving. He stood and nodded obsequiously to the warden while he jabbered away like a parrot with a hard on. The warden expended the effort to get to his feet. He tugged his jacket down over his gut and adjusted his tie. He grinned at Yocke and thrust out his hand.

  At a loss for what to do next, Yocke closed his mouth, gave the warden’s soft hand a token pump, then followed the retreating Gregor.

  Going down the corridor Yocke demanded, “What did you tell that fat screw?”

  “Screw? What is a screw?”

  “A prison guard. A power pervert.”

  Gregor gave Yocke a look that was about an equal mixture of contempt and amazement and kept walking.

  Outside in the street, Gregor exploded. “You can’t talk to a powerful person like you did in there. This is Butyrskaya! Are you insane? Do you know nothing?” He sprayed saliva.

  “My newspaper sent me to get a story,” Yocke snarled. “That asshole was lying! He didn’t even look at the records. What a crock! You people have held your nose so long that you can’t smell shit when you’re in it up to your ears. You’ve been fucked by these people for seventy-five years because you bent over and grabbed your ankles and held the position. You gutless wonders will—”

  Gregor spit at Yocke’s feet. “You are a little boy throwing pebbles at a great bear. The chain holding the bear is very rusty, very weak. If you arouse him you will end up in his belly and no one at your rich newspaper in Washington USA will ever know what became of you.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that. You will be gone. You and your dirty words and stupid questions and your notebook where you write your words making fun of us. Gone forever, Mister Jack Yocke. Think about that if you have any brains to think with.”