Part 5 (1/2)
”A drink?”
”No thanks.”
”Excellent. A man who controls his appet.i.tes. I like that.”
”Is this about the old guy? Look, it wasn't my fault he croaked.”
”No, no. An accident. A terrible accident. He was in ill health. Moscow understands.”
Lenny waited. What was was the story? the story?
”Here. I have something for you. It's time, I think, for you to take a more active role in the processes of enforcing Party discipline here in Barcelona. This is why I asked you to come by.”
He handed over a card.
Lenny realized it was an ID naming him a captain in the SIM-making him, in other words, an official secret policeman and giving him all the rights and responsibilities thereof, which included the right to make spot arrests and searches, to confiscate property and vehicles in the service of the state, to command units of the Asaltos, or a.s.sault police, to extract immediate cooperation, not to say obedience, from all civil authority.
”There's much work ahead,” Glasanov went on. ”There are traitors everywhere, do you understand? Even in Moscow in the heart of government, among the oldest and most trusted of the revolutionary fighters. Every day, they confess their crimes in the dock, or flee.”
”So I hear,” said Lenny Mink.
”The late Comrade Tchiterine,” said Glasanov, ”for example, was under the control of a famous revolutionary fighter named Levitsky, who was the worst. Tchiterine, a man named Lemontov who has disappeared, and this Levitsky, they formed a terrorism center, working at espionage to betray us. Levitsky was second only to Trotsky. Did Tchiterine, by chance, mention Levitsky?”
”He didn't mention anybody. He just died.”
”Umm. I had thought they might have been in contact. They seem to have been in some sort of plot together.”
Lenny grunted, thinking What plot, you f.u.c.k? What plot, you f.u.c.k?
”First Lemontov disappears-that should have been the tipoff. At least we were fast enough to nab Tchiterine.”
”What about this guy Levitsky?”
”Ah. A wily old fox. They call him the Devil Himself, for certain colorful exploits. He's gone. He disappeared from Moscow even as the security people were coming to arrest him.”
Lenny nodded. The old f.u.c.ker was out! The old f.u.c.ker was out!
”I tell you this to encourage your vigilance. We are preparing to move against our enemies here. The days of cafe sitting will soon be coming to an end.”
”You can count on me,” said Lenny.
”Of course. You are an extraordinarily valuable man.”
Glasanov handed him a piece of paper. On it was written a name.
”An oppositionist. He leads the propaganda battle against us in his newspaper. His organization is powerful, and he is one of its leaders.”
It was just like at Midnight Rose's. The word came, and you took somebody for a ride.
”You want him killed.”
”Ah-”
”Believe me, he's gone.”
”There will be others. Some to be arrested and interrogated, some to be liquidated. You must cut off the head of a beast before you dispose of its body. A period of great struggle is coming, and I am personally charged with commanding our forces.”
But Lenny wasn't really listening, nor was he thinking about the man he would pop that night.
He was thinking of what old Tchiterine had told him.
He'll check in on his boychik check in on his boychik.
Lenny smirked in triumph. He knew what none of them knew. He was ahead of this smart Russian, he was ahead of everybody in the world. He knew where this Levitsky, this teuful teuful, would head. The Devil Himself, eh?
Well, the old guy was coming straight to Barcelona, to check up on his boychik. And he'd lead Lenny to him. He'd lead him to the gelt gelt.
”Comrade,” said Glasanov. ”To the future.” He handed him a small gla.s.s of vodka. ”You must not refuse me.”
”Let us go forward into the modern age,” said Lenny, throwing the vodka down his throat.
He hated vodka.
4.
MR. STERNE AND MR. WEBLEY.
FLORRY MET HOLLY-BROWNING THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY on a bench in Hyde Park. The older officer had a bag of peanuts for the pigeons and a briefcase. Mr. Vane sat quietly three benches down the walk, looking blankly off through the trees. on a bench in Hyde Park. The older officer had a bag of peanuts for the pigeons and a briefcase. Mr. Vane sat quietly three benches down the walk, looking blankly off through the trees.
The major sighed, his eyes settling on some obscure object in the far distance. He sh.e.l.led a peanut, launched it to the walk, and a doddering, scabby old pigeon contemptuously gobbled it off the concrete.
”I wonder if this is quite necessary,” said Florry impatiently.
”Oh, there's not much to say, Mr. Florry. The technical business is quite easily taken care of. We try to keep things simple. You'll find this is useful.” He handed over a package, which Florry opened quickly. It was a thick, densely printed book.
”Tristram Shandy? I loathe it. I loathe Laurence Sterne. I never was able to finish it.” I loathe it. I loathe Laurence Sterne. I never was able to finish it.”
”I haven't met anybody who has. And that's the point. But it will do for an introduction to a chap in Barcelona called Sampson. David Harold Allen Sampson-”
”The Times Times writer?” writer?”
”Yes, indeed. You've seen his dispatches?”
”He's awfully dull, I think. Julian's stuff is much better.”