Jeffery Deaver - Ice Cold

“Why did you suspect him?”

“Top-brand vodka and paté and smoked oysters and bread with very little mold.”

Barter shook his head.

Kaverin continued, “Spesky told me his wife had sent him such gifts from Moscow. No GRU field agent’s wife would ever be able to afford such delicacies, only the wife of a KGB agent could.”

“But why would he betray you? Wouldn’t the KGB have the same interest you would—to keep the President alive so he’d withdraw the troops from Vietnam?”

Kaverin smiled again. “Logic would suggest that, yes. But in truth the essential interest of the KGB is in furthering the interest of the KGB. And that cause is advanced every time the GRU fails.”

“So your security agencies spy on each other, for no other purpose than sabotaging their rivals?” Barter muttered, his tone dark.

Kaverin fixed him with a piercing look. “Yes, shocking, isn’t it? Something that could never happen here. Fortunately you have Mr. J. Edgar Hoover to uphold the moral integrity of your organization. I know he would never illegally wiretap politicians or civil rights leaders or members of other governmental agencies.”

Anthony Barter offered his first smile of the evening. He said, “I can’t make any deals myself. You understand that?”

“Of course.”

“But I think you’re telling the truth. I’ll go to bat for you. You know what that means?”

Kaverin gave a broad frown. “Please. I am a fan of the New York Mets.”

Barter laughed. “The Mets? They had close to the worst season in major league history this year. Couldn’t you pick a better team?”

Kaverin waved his hand dismissively. “It was their second year as a team. Give them some time, Agent Barter. Give them time.”

The Russian then slid the photographs of the top-secret documents toward the agent, along with the keys to the DeSoto. He uncuffed the agent and, without a moment’s hesitation, handed over both of the pistols.

“I’m going to make some phone calls, Major Kaverin. I hope you won’t mind if I put the handcuffs on you .”

“No, I perfectly understand.”

He slipped them on, albeit with Kaverin’s hands in front of him, not behind his back. Before he reached for the phone, though, he asked, “Would you like to have a beer?”

“I would, yes. In Russia we have vodka but we don’t have beer. Not good beer.”

The agent rose and went to the refrigerator. He returned with two bottles of Lone Star, opened them and handed one to the spy.

Kaverin lifted his. “ Za zdorovie! It means, ‘To our health.’”

They tapped bottles and both took long sips. Kaverin enjoyed the flavor very much, and the FBI agent regarded the bottle with pleasure. “I’m not supposed to be doing this, you know. Mr. Hoover doesn’t approve of drinking liquor.”

“No one will ever know, Special Agent Barter,” Kaverin told him. “I’m quite good at keeping secrets.”

NOVEMBER 26, 1963

FROM: OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF DEFENSE, THE PENTAGON, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

TO: SECRETARY OF THE ARMY

SECRETARY OF THE NAVY

SECRETARY OF THE AIR FORCE

SECRETARY OF THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF

Be advised that President Lyndon Baines Johnson today issued National Security Action Memorandum 273. This order reverses NSAM 263, issued by the late President Kennedy in October of this year, which ordered the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Vietnam and the transfer of responsibility in countering communist insurgency in Southeast Asia to the Vietnamese and neighboring governments.

NSAM 273 provides for maintenance of existing U.S. troop strength in Vietnam and sets forth a commitment to increased American military and advisory presence in combating communism in the region.

The incident in the small Cape Cod town of Westbury began on an evening of dismal weather. A freakishly early snow mixed with sleet had closed most of the roads off Route 6, the Cape’s main artery, and knocked out power and telephone service throughout much of Barnstable County. By some stroke of luck, though, Westbury was spared.

So at 2:50 in the morning the phone rang in the bedroom of the house belonging to Westbury’s police chief, Henry Silva.

He rolled over and reached out in the darkness without looking and grabbed the touch-tone’s handset. “Silva,” he said.

“Chief, Melissa here at county dispatch.”

He coughed, rubbed his eyes, switched on the lamp. On the nightstand were a pad of paper and a Bic pen. He uncapped the end of the pen with his teeth. “Go, what do we got?”

“A fatal shooting. Vladimir Polowski of 14 Old King’s Highway.”

“The old guy? Christ. Where’s Jeff Crane?”

“His cruiser’s stuck in a drainage ditch off Long Pond Road. Says he should be freed up just as soon as Tucker Towing gets him out.”

“Oh, jeez,” Henry said. Jeff Crane was Silva’s only officer. “All right, who called it in?”

“Ray Richardson.”

“Don’t know him. Is he a neighbor of Polowski’s?”

“No. He’s not from around here. Says he’s been living up at the Westbury Motel for the past couple weeks or so.”

Henry scribbled a note. “Where is this Ray Richardson now?”

“Says he’s in the victim’s kitchen.”

“Huh. He say what he’s doing in there?”

A pause. “Yeah. He says he’s the one that killed him.”

That jolted Henry wide awake. “Say again?”

“When he called it in, he identified himself, gave the address, and said he shot Vladimir Polowski. He also said he’d be sitting in the kitchen with his hands up whenever the cops arrived. I asked him why he did it, but he wouldn’t say. He said he’d only tell the chief of police.”

Henry fell silent for a long moment.

“Chief?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Okay. Tell Jeff Crane to haul ass over to Vladimir Polowski’s house soon’s they get him out of the ditch. Then call the county district attorney’s office, get a hold of the assistant D.A. on duty, and alert the State Police. Medical Examiner’s too, while you’re at it.”

“Got it, Chief.”

“All right, I’m getting dressed and heading out there.”

“Okay,” Melissa said. “And Chief…?”

“Yeah,” he answered, dreading what she was about to say.

“Sorry about your wife. Carol was good people.”

“She sure was,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in his police cruiser, waiting for the engine and the interior to warm up. The 1978 Ford LTD was sheeted with ice. He turned the windshield defroster all the way up. While he waited for the car to thaw out, he listened to the AM radio, catching WBZ out of Boston, with its strong signal.

It was one of those all-night talk shows. He sat listening with folded arms and a scowl. They were arguing about a tragedy that had happened a few weeks ago and a half-world away. The Russians had shot down a Korean Air passenger jet over Sakhalin Island in the North Pacific. The two hundred and sixty-nine people on board had all been killed. Unbelievable. The plane had been en route from New York to Seoul, South Korea, carrying sixty Americans, a U.S. congressman and—most terrible of all—twenty-two children.

Henry remembered arguing about it with his officer and the owner of Al’s diner, Al Perry, over coffee at the counter not long ago.

“You need any more proof those bastards are the evil empire?” said Al, a giant, ruddy-faced, potbellied guy whose father, Big Al, had opened the diner right after the war. Al—Little Al, as he was sometimes still called—was hand-wiping a stack of dishes hot from the dishwasher’s station. “A civilian airliner happens to stray a little bit over into Soviet airspace and they shoot it down in cold blood. I mean, for the love of God.”