Jeffery Deaver: Ice Cold

Guided by the map, and instructions from a helpful service station attendant, Kaverin found the Old East Dallas portion of town. The neighborhood was filled with private residences close together, many with front porches dotted with rockers and from whose roofs hung swings. He noted too inexpensive shops and a few small companies. He parked in front of the boardinghouse where Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín would arrive tomorrow on their mission to track down and kill Comrade 35. It was a one-story, nondescript place, just a notch above shabby. He carefully studied doors and windows and sidewalks. And which neighbors seemed to be home now, during the day—potential witnesses.

He planned out the shootings. He would be waiting here in front of the house when they pulled up, with the trunk of the Bel Air open, pretending to be changing a tire. When they climbed out of their own car, he would shoot them and throw the bodies and their luggage in the trunk.

He drove slowly up and down the street, scanning, scanning. A spy’s primary weapon is the power of observation. His first handler at the GRU, a man who later became a nonperson under Stalin, had insisted that Kaverin and he take long walks through the streets of Moscow. After they returned to headquarters the mentor would interrogate the younger agent about what he’d noted. The initial trips yielded a half dozen vague observations. The later ones, hundreds of impressions, all rendered in acute detail.

Sergei had been pleased. Kaverin pictured the man’s unsmiling yet kind face and could almost feel the affectionate arm on his young shoulders. Then he tucked the hard thought away.

The peculiar circumstances of this assignment made Kaverin particularly cautious. He drove through the neighborhood again, looking for anyone who might be a threat. After fifteen minutes, he was satisfied he had a good sense of the place and of the risks he might face. He piloted the expansive Chevy out of this part of town and onto a main road. In ten minutes he pulled into the parking lot of a large grocery store. As he climbed out and walked toward the front door he thought: This place has the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard of in a retail establishment.

The Russian spy was shopping in a Piggly Wiggly.

FBI Special Agent Anthony Barter sat in his Galaxie, which was parked in the far end of the lot, and watched the spy walk toward the store.

Picking up the spy’s trail had been less daunting than he’d expected. He’d deduced by smell and an examination of the significant oil slick on the garage’s floor that the spy was driving a car that leaked and burnt oil. So Barter had driven to the nearest gas station, a Conoco, and flashed a picture of the man. Sure enough, the attendant said that the man, who spoke English fine, but with an accent, had come in driving a bright turquoise Chevy Bel Air, bought a couple quarts of Pennzoil.

The Russian had also picked up a map of the area. He’d asked about the best way to get to Old East Dallas, then motored off in that direction in his oil-guzzler.

Barter had headed over to that neighborhood himself and cruised the streets until he found the Bel Air, which was paused at a stoplight. It was hard to tell for certain, but he believed the driver was the man in the surveillance photograph.

The FBI man almost smiled as he watched the spy stop in his tracks at the entrance of the grocery store—probably astonished by the multitude of plenty spreading out in the aisles. When he disappeared inside, Barter climbed out of his car and, hoping that the Russian would spend some time browsing the aisles, hurried to the Bel Air.

The vehicle was registered to a company in Plano, which Barter suspected would be phony. The Russian’s jacket and hat were sitting in the back seat. In the pocket of the sport coat he found a key to room 103 of the Dallas Rose Motel, on East Main Street in Grand Prairie, about ten miles away.

Barter returned quickly to his Galaxie and pulled out of the lot before the Russian left the store. He knew this was a gamble but he was worried about continuing to follow his subject. J. Edgar Hoover had required all the agents in the bureau to study communist spies. The message was that the GRU operatives were the best of the best. Barter was afraid he’d be spotted. So he left and drove to the parking lot of a gas station across the street from the Dallas Rose Motel.

He waited nervously. What if the spy had checked out of the motel, and simply forgotten to return the key? What if it wasn’t even his jacket? Had Barter lost his only lead?

If he ever needed a cigarette, it was now.

But he managed to refrain, nervously clenching and unclenching his sweaty hands.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Ah, thank you…

The brashly colored Bel Air rocked into the driveway and pulled up in front of room 103.

Barter’s car was parked facing away from the motel and he was hunkered down, observing through his rearview mirror.

The Russian climbed out, looked around suspiciously but not Barter’s way. He lifted a large grocery sack from the floor of the passenger seat. He disappeared through the door of his room.

Barter went to a pay phone and called his office. He asked a fellow agent about the company to which the Bel Air was registered. The man called back five minutes later. Yes, it was fake. Barter then ordered a surveillance team put together.

In twenty minutes, four FBI agents arrived, in two cars—personal ones, as Barter instructed. One vehicle pulled in front and one in the rear of the motel.

Whatever the Russian’s game might be, it was now doomed to failure.

Kaverin was truly enjoying his time in the motel, which was a word that he had never heard before. It was, charmingly, a hybrid of “motor” and “hotel.” How very clever.

While the décor was rough around the edges, the place was a million times better than the “posh” resorts on the Black Sea—those unbearably shabby shacks, featuring useless plumbing, stinking carpet, dirty sheets and the worst examples of cheap furniture Russian factories could disgorge.

Yet here? The linens were clean, the air fragrant, towels plentiful. The soap was even wrapped; it wasn’t decorated with body hairs from prior guests. No vermin prowled the floors.

And in the middle of the room was a television set! He flicked it on.

He opened his attaché case, removed the guns and cleaned them, eyes shifting from the screen to weapon and back.

A handsome newscaster was speaking into the camera.

“President Kennedy will arrive at Love Field in Dallas around noon tomorrow to attend a sold-out luncheon at the Dallas Trade Mart. More than two hundred thousand people are expected to greet the President as his motorcade makes its way through the city. Governor and Mrs. John Connelly will accompany the President and the lovely first lady, Jacqueline.”

She is indeed lovely, Kaverin reflected, noting a film clip of her waving to people outside the White House.

He put the weapons away and perused the menu card on the bedside table. He lifted the beige receiver of the phone, reflecting how curious it was to make a call—even one as innocuous as this—and not worry about being listened to.

He smiled as he tried to understand the cheerful but heavily accented voice of the woman who took his order. He chose a large T-bone steak, a “Texas-sized” baked potato and a double helping of green beans. To drink, a large glass of milk.

It was decadent, yes, but Mikhail Kaverin had learned that as a spy—in the field or even at home—you could never be sure if any given meal was your last.

At 6 a.m. Special Agent Anthony Barter pulled his Galaxie into the far end of the Dallas Rose’s parking lot.