Jeffery Deaver: Ice Cold

More or less refreshed after three hours’ sleep, he climbed out of the car and walked casually toward the sedan containing the FBI surveillance team. Crouching, he asked the agent on the passenger side, “Anything?”

“Nup,” drawled the man. “Nobody came or went.”

“Any outside calls, in or out?”

That too was negative. Nor had the spy used the pay phone in the lobby. He hadn’t left his room since his return from Piggly Wiggly.

Barter found his hands making fists, then relaxing. He looked over at the Bel Air.

“What do we do, Tony?”

“We wait till he exits, then follow him to see who he’s rendezvousing with.”

Barter’s hope was that the spy was working with employees of LTO Inc. or one of the other big defense contractors here, whose engineers were designing sophisticated weaponry for the army and air force. He was hoping to bring down a whole cell of traitors spying for the Soviets.

He returned to his Galaxie, blinking as he noted a black sedan speed toward him and skid to a stop nearby. Barter was irritated; the Russian wouldn’t have a view of this spot from his window but the squealing stop might have put him on his guard.

The driver leapt out and sprinted through traffic.

“The hell’re you—?” Barter got no further than that. The young agent from his office was thrusting a telex into his hand.

Urgent.

Russian who entered country illegally two days ago identified as Mikhail Kaverin, GRU agent. Specialty reported to be close-in assassination of double agents and other enemies.

Hell! He’s not a spy. He’s a killer!

And Barter suddenly understood why Kaverin had come to town—not to steal secrets, but to assist in an assassination attempt. It was too much of a coincidence that a trained GRU killer was here just prior to the President. True, the Soviets would never risk an international incident by being directly involved in an assassination. But one of their agents could easily have come here to protect someone else whose mission was to kill Kennedy, someone private, without a direct connection to Russia, most likely a U.S. citizen.

Oh, Jesus Christ…

He explained his thinking: “Kaverin’s here to back up an assassin. Maybe he’s providing guns or acting as a bodyguard for the trigger man, or helping him with escape routes. I don’t care if we break every bone in his body but we’re going to find out who he’s helping. Move now !

With guns drawn, the agents ran to the door of Kaverin’s room and kicked their way in.

Somehow, in his heart, Barter wasn’t very surprised to find that the room’s sole occupant was a bag of untouched groceries from Piggly Wiggly.

Nor was it any shock that the back window was unlocked.

Kaverin looked out the window of his room in the Skyline Motel, in north Dallas.

The parking lot and road were clear. The agents who’d been on his trail were, of course, still at the first motel he’d checked into, the Dallas Rose in Grand Prairie.

He’d become aware of a possible tail yesterday as he’d driven through the neighborhood of Old East Dallas, assessing risks, looking for anyone who might be unusually interested in him. He’d noted a Ford Galaxie—red body and white top. The car had been driving the opposite direction when he’d first seen it, but moments later it reappeared, following him.

Kaverin had left that area immediately and driven along commercial roads until he found the Piggly Wiggly and pulled in. The Galaxie followed. It too parked and the driver sat there alone, not smoking, not reading. All he was doing was ostentatiously not looking toward the Bel Air.

Clearly, this was suspicious: A man alone in a grocery store parking lot, who was not waiting for his wife?

He’d decided to find out the identity of his pursuer. So Kaverin left his jacket, containing the Dallas Rose room key, on the backseat and had gone into the grocery store and he’d slipped out the back, circling around to the parking lot. Yes, there was the man who’d been tailing him, wearing a suit—an official-looking one. He’d sidled up to the Bel Air and, looking around casually, too casually, eased the door open and went through the interior.

Kaverin himself had hurried to the man’s Ford Galaxie—and found the registration. Anthony Barter. He found nothing of the man’s affiliation but he’d hurried back to the Piggly Wiggly and used one of the store’s pay phones, which—unlike in Russia—actually worked. He had had to make only three calls—to the Dallas Police, to the Texas Rangers and to the FBI, asking for an Anthony Barter. The secretary at the last of the three had started to put him through to Special Agent Barter’s office. He’d hung up, bought a sack’s worth of random groceries and returned to his Bel Air.

The agent had left by then but when Kaverin had returned to the Dallas Rose he saw that, yes, the Galaxie was parked across the street. Kaverin had taken the groceries, gone inside, put on the TV and then quickly gathered his belongings and climbed out the back window. He’d made his way through a field to a bus stop and had ridden a mile then gotten off near a car dealership. He’d bought a four-year-old DeSoto Firedome coupe, huge and with impressive rear fins, with some of the thousand dollars Spesky had given him in Miami. He’d driven north until he found another motel, the Skyline. It was here that he’d spent the night, watching television, cleaning his weapons again and enjoying the sumptuous steak dinner.

Now, it was time to complete his mission. According to Rasnakov, Luis Suarez and Carlos Barquín would be arriving at the boardinghouse soon, to prepare for the killing of Comrade 35. Kaverin left the hotel and was at the boardinghouse in twenty minutes. He parked the DeSoto across the street, slipped the smaller of the guns—the Colt .22—into his waistband. He got out and opened the trunk, set the jack and tire iron on the grass beside the car and rested the spare tire against the bumper.

And he waited.

Fifteen minutes later a yellow Chrysler pulled slowly down the street, two men in the front seat. Men with mustaches and observant eyes.

Yes, they were his targets.

Kaverin’s hand eased into his jacket, gripped the handle of his pistol. It didn’t make much noise, just a pop, like a bigger gun with a silencer, but it was much more accurate.

He was breathing steadily, focusing on finding that unique place within you where you had to tuck your soul away when you took a human life. He murdered for his country, for the cause of what was just, for communism, for his own self-preservation. He was efficient at this dark task, even if he didn’t enjoy it.

He knew he was ready. And flicked the safety catch off the gun as he crouched down, watching the Chrysler in the reflection of his car’s chrome bumper.

It was then that a voice from behind startled Kaverin.

“Need some help there, sir?”

Still facing the Chrysler, he looked back to see a Dallas police officer standing on the sidewalk. Hands on his hips.

“I’m sorry?” the spy asked evenly.

“Have a flat? Need some help?”

“No, I’m doing fine, thank you, Officer.” Kaverin was speaking over his shoulder, with his back to the officer. His jacket was open and the pistol obvious.

“Don’t mind helping, really,” the man drawled.

Kaverin casually fixed buttons, but as he did he looked across the street and saw his two targets staring his way. Perhaps they thought the police and he were working together, looking for them. Or maybe the officer’s voice had simply caught their attention and they’d seen the pistol. In any event, the driver—it was Luis Suarez—aborted the parking maneuver, put the car in forward and eased into the street. He didn’t speed away—not just yet. But once the Chrysler turned the corner, Kaverin heard the big engine accelerate fast.