George Martin: Aces Abroad

The cab pulled up to the curb and the driver opened the door. But Tachyon didn't get out. "What's going to happen to you?"

What, indeed? Polyakov thought. "I'm going to become an honored pensioner, like Khrushchev, able to go to the front of a queue, spending my days reading and reliving my exploits over a bottle of vodka for men who will not believe them."

Tachyon hesitated. "For years I hated you… not for exploiting my weakness, but for saving my life. I was in Hamburg because I wanted to die. But now, finally, I have something to live for… it's only been very recent. So I am grateful, you know"

Then he got out of the cab and slammed the door. "I'll see you again," he said, hoping for a denial.

"Yes," Polyakov said, "you will." The driver pulled away. In the rearview mirror Polyakov saw that the Takisian watched them drive off before going into his hotel.

No doubt he wondered where and when Polyakov would turn up again. Polyakov wondered too. He was all alone now… mocked by his colleagues, discarded by the Party, loyal to some ideal that he only barely remembered. Like poor Molniya in a way, sent out on some misguided mission and then abandoned.

The fate of a Soviet ace is to be betrayed.

He was scheduled to remain in London for several weeks yet, but if he could no longer extract useful information from a relatively cooperative source such as the Dancer, there was no point in staying. That night he packed for the return to Moscow and his retirement. After a dinner in which he was joined only by a bottle of Stolichnaya, Polyakov left the hotel and took a walk, down Sloane, past the fashionable boutiques. What did they call the young women who shopped here? Yes, Sloane Rangers. The Rangers, to judge from the stray samples still hurrying home at this hour, or from the bizarre mannequins in the windows, were thin, wraithlike creatures. Too fragile for Polyakov.

In any case, his ultimate destination… his farewell to London and the West… was King's Cross, where the women were more substantial.

On reaching Pont Street, however, he noticed an off-duty black cab following him. In moments he considered possible assailants, ranging from renegade American agents to Light of Allah terrorists to English hoodlums… until he read, in the reflection from a shop window, the license number of a vehicle belonging to the Soviet Embassy. Further examination revealed that the driver was Yurchenko.

Polyakov dropped his evasions and simply met the car.

In the back was a man he didn't know. "Georgy Vladimirovich," Yurchenko shouted. "Get in!"

"There's no need to yell," Polyakov said. "You'll draw attention." Yurchenko was one of those polished young men for whom tradecraft came so easily that, unless reminded, he often neglected to use it.

As soon as Polyakov was aboard in the front seat, the car jumped into traffic. They were quite obviously going for a ride.

"We thought we were losing you," Yurchenko said pleasantly.

"What's this all about?" Polyakov said. He indicated the silent man in the backseat. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Dolgov of the GRU. He's presented me with some very disturbing news."

For the first time in years Polyakov felt real fear. Was this to be his retirement? An "accidental" death in a foreign country?

"Don't keep me in suspense, Yurchenko. The last time I checked, I was still your boss."

Yurchenko couldn't look at him. "The Takisian is a double agent. He's working for the Americans and has for thirty years."

Polyakov turned toward the GRU man. "So now the GRU is sharing its precious intelligence. What a great day for the Soviet Union. I suppose I'm suspected of being an agent."

The GRU man spoke for the first time. "What did the Takisian give you?"

"I'm not talking to you. What my agents give me is KGB business-"

"The GRU will share with you, then. Tachyon has a grandson named Blaise, whom he found in Paris last month. Blaise is a new kind of ace

… potentially the most powerful and dangerous in the world. And he was snatched right out of our hands to be taken to America."

The car was crossing Lambeth Bridge, heading toward a gray and depressing industrial district, a perfect location for a safe house

… the perfect setting for an execution.

Tachyon had a grandson with powers! Suppose this child came into contact with Hartmann-the potential was horrifying. Life in a world threatened by nuclear destruction was safe compared to one dominated by a wild card Ronald Reagan. How could he have been so stupid?

" I didn't know," he said finally. "Dancer was not an active agent. There was no reason to place him under surveillance."

"But there was," Dolgov persisted. "He's a goddamned alien, for one thing! And if his presence on the tour itself wasn't enough, there was the situation in Paris!"

It was easy for the GRU to spy on someone in Paris: the embassy there was full of its operatives. Of course the sister service hadn't bothered to pass its vital information along to the KGB. Polyakov would have acted differently with Molniya had he known about Blaise!

Now he needed time to think. He realized he had been holding his breath. A bad habit. "This is serious. We should obviously be working together. I'm ready to do whatever I can-"

"Then why are you packed?" Yurchenko interrupted, sounding genuinely anguished.

"You've been watching me?" He looked from Yurchenko to Dolgov. My God, they actually thought he was going to defect!

Polyakov turned slightly, his hand brushing Yurchenko, who recoiled as if slapped. But Polyakov didn't let go. The cab sideswiped a parked car and skidded back into traffic just as Polyakov saw Yurchenko's eyes roll up… the heat had already boiled his brain.

Dolgov threw himself into the front seat, grabbing for the wheel, and managed to steer right into another parked car, where they stopped. Polyakov had braced for the impact, which threw Yurchenko's smoking body off him… freeing him to reach out for Dolgov, who made the mistake of grabbing back.

For an instant Dolgov's face was the face of the Great Leader… the Benevolent Father of the Soviet People… himself turned into a murderous joker. Polyakov was just a young courier who carried messages between the Kremlin and Stalin's dacha-sufficiently trusted that he was allowed to know the secret of Great Stalin's curse-not an assassin. He had never intended to be an assassin. But Stalin had already ordered the execution of all wild cards…

If it was his destiny to carry this power, it must also be his destiny to use it. As he had eliminated Stalin, so he eliminated Dolgov. He didn't allow the man to say a word, not even the final gesture of defiance, as he burned the life out of him.

The impact had jammed the two front doors, so Polyakov would have to crawl out the back. Before he did, he removed the silencer and the heavy service revolver Dolgov carried… the weapon he was to have pressed to the back of Polyakov's neck. Polyakov fired a round into the air, then put the revolver back where Dolgov carried it. Scotland Yard and the GRU could think what they liked… another unsolved murder with the murderers themselves the victims of an unlucky accident.

The fire from the two bodies reached the tiny trickle of gasoline spilled in the crash… The crematorium would not get Dolgov.

The explosion and flames would attract attention. Polyakov knew he should go… yet there was something attractive in the flames. As if an aged, dutiful KGB colonel were dying, too, to be reborn as a superhero, the one true Soviet ace… This would be a legend of his own creation.

There were many signs in Russian at the British Airways terminal at Robert Tomlin International Airport, placed there by members of Jewish Relief, headquartered in nearby Brighton Beach. For Jews who managed to emigrate from the Eastern bloc, even those who dreamed of eventually settling in Palestine, this was their Ellis Island.