Jeffery Deaver: Ice Cold

Despite the bristling of nerves up and down his back, Oswald noted that no one seemed to have much interest in him. He shivered again, though this was from the chill. He was wearing only a light jacket over his T-shirt, and he had a slight frame with little natural insulation.

Inside the depository he greeted fellow workers, nodding and smiling to some of them. And he got to work. It was while he was filling out paperwork for a book order that he happened to look down at a scar on his wrist. He was thinking of his attempt to become a Soviet citizen several years before. He was about to be deported but had intentionally cut himself to prolong his stay after his visa expired, and convince the Russians to accept him.

Which they had and they welcomed him as a comrade. But there was a lot of important work to do in this hemisphere and, with his Russian wife, he’d returned to the United States, where he’d resumed his procommunist and anti-American activities. But now, he wanted to return to Russia, for good, with Marina and their two baby girls.

There’d been a setback, though. An incident had occurred that had put his plans—and his life—at risk. After he finished his task tomorrow he wanted to go to Cuba for a while and then back to Russia. Just last month he’d gone to the Cuban consulate in Mexico City to get a visa to allow him to travel to Havana, but the bastards had given him the runaround. The officials had looked over his records and said he wasn’t welcome in Cuba. Go away. None of them understood what an important man he was, more important than his five-foot-nine, 135-pound frame suggested. None of them understood his great plans.

The rejection in Mexico City had sparked his terrible temper, and he’d said and done some things he shouldn’t have. The Cuban security force had been called and he’d fled the capital and eventually made his way back home.

Stupid, he told himself, making a scene like that. Like fighting with the waitress at the diner. He’d lost control and made a spectacle of himself.

“Stupid,” he raged aloud.

He shivered once more, this time from pure fury, not fear or from the chill. And gazed out the window of the depository, looking for people spying on him.

Fucking Cubans!

Well, start being smart now. He decided it wouldn’t be safe to go back to the boarding house. Usually he spent weekdays at the boarding house. Tonight he’d return to the Paines in Irving, stay the night. Considering what he was about to do tomorrow, he couldn’t afford any complications at the moment.

His serenity returned—thanks largely to a memory of his time in the Marines in 1954, specifically the day his firearms instructor had looked over his score on the rifle range and given him a nod (the man never smiled). “You did good, Ozzie. Those scores? You just earned yourself the rank of sharpshooter.”

Anthony Barter swung his slim frame out of the car.

He stretched.

The thirty-one-year-old was tempted to light a Winston, needed one bad, but his employer wouldn’t approve. It wasn’t like drinking—that was wholly forbidden—but even taking a fast drag could get you in hot water.

So he refrained.

An old Martin 4-0-4 roared overhead and skewed its way onto the runway at Love Field.

He straightened his narrow tie and his dark gray felt fedora, from which he’d long ago removed the green feather—very bad form, that.

Barter looked around, oriented himself and went to the Eastern Airlines luggage claim area. His long hands formed into fists, relaxed and contracted once more.

He found a supervisor, a heavyset, balding man, sweating despite the pleasantly cool temperature. He displayed his identification.

The man drawled, “Oh. Well. FBI.”

Barter was from New England; he’d been assigned to Texas, though, for ten years and recognized an accent from much further south, probably El Paso.

He explained he needed to find out about a passenger who’d arrived that morning from Miami. The supervisor almost seemed amused at the idea that luggage handlers could recognize a passenger, but he went off to gather his employees.

The Bureau’s New York field office had informed their colleagues in Dallas-Fort Worth that a man believed to be a Russian military intelligence agent had arrived in the country yesterday or today and continued on to Dallas. There’d been debate in New York and Washington about the purpose of the agent’s trip, if he was indeed an agent.

There was, of course, the question of Presidential security. Kennedy was coming to town tomorrow, and lately the threats against him had been numerous—thanks largely to the U.S.’s aiding Cuban rebels at the Bay of Pigs invasion, as well as Kennedy’s and his brother’s support for civil rights. (He’d kicked some Soviet ass last year, too, of course, with the missile blockade, but no one in national security believed that the Russkies were stupid enough to attempt to assassinate the President).

No, more likely the spy’s mission was pure espionage. The GRU was the intelligence organ specializing in stealing technology secrets—specifically those dealing with nuclear weapons and rocket systems—and Texas was home to a number of defense contractors. Barter’s boss, the special agent in charge of the office here, immediately assigned him to the case.

The only lead was a photograph of the purported spy, entering the country as a Polish businessman. All individuals coming in from Warsaw Pact countries were surreptitiously photographed at Customs at Idlewild airport. The image was crude but functional. It depicted a sullen man, blond and large, wearing a fedora not unlike Barter’s. The man was about forty years of age.

After viewing the picture of the Russian, however, the baggage handlers reported that they hadn’t noticed anyone resembling him.

Barter thanked them and stepped outside into the low November morning sun. Speaking to the cabbies was more productive. It took him only a half hour of canvassing to find the Prompt Ride taxi driver who recognized the man in the photo. He’d taken him to a boarding house off Mockingbird. The man remembered the number.

Barter climbed back into his red and white Ford Galaxie. He headed in the direction of the place and parked up the block. He approached cautiously but noted it was abandoned. Barter found a neighbor, a retiree, it seemed, who was washing his car. He showed his ID and asked about the house.

After the typical blink of surprise at the credentials, the man said, “Yessir, been closed up for months now. Bankruptcy. Foreclosed on. Damn banks. All respect.”

Barter stifled a frown of frustration, fists clenching and relaxing. “Well, I’m trying to find someone who might’ve been here several hours ago.” He displayed the picture.

“Yup. Saw him. Got outa a taxi cab. I was impressed. Them cost money. Taxis. Anyway, that fella picked up a car from the ga-rage and drove off.”

“Car?” Barter’s heart beat a little faster.

But the man had only heard the engine, not seen the make or model.

They walked to the small detached structure. Barter opened the unlocked door. The place was empty.

“Sorry I can’t be more help.”

Barter sniffed the air and bent down to examine the floor of the garage.

“You’ve been plenty helpful, sir.”

“So was I right? Bank robber? He looked plum like one.”

“You have a good day, sir.”

Mikhail Kaverin had checked into the Dallas Rose Motel, left his luggage and was enjoying piloting the Chevrolet Bel Air through the spacious streets of Dallas.

What a wonderful car this was!

A Bel Air! How Kaverin loved cars. He’d always wanted one, though in truth not a Russian make. For one thing, you waited forever and then you had to take whatever the government had on hand to sell you—for an exorbitant price (where was communism when you needed it?). And the best you could hope for was a temperamental, boxy AZLK or the slightly more stylish and popular GAZ Volga (whose manufacturer’s hopes for a handsome income stream by sales to the West never materialized—since the vehicles’ sole decoration was a big red Soviet star).