Warren Murphy - In Enemy Hands

When Ivan Mikhailov heard he had been promoted to major he wept. He fell to his knees, his weight cracking the ceramic tile of the floors. He prayed. He thanked God, St. Lubdinasivich, and Lenin, Marx, and Stalin.

Vassilivich told him to be quiet, his voice carried. But Ivan would hear none of it. He asked God to look after Stalin and Lenin who must be in heaven now.

"We don't believe in heaven, major," said Vassilivich acidly.

"But where do you go if you are a good Communist?" asked Major Ivan Mikhailov.

"Insane," said General Vassilivich, who believed that Communism would ultimately be the best form of government for man if a few kinks could be worked out, but wondered if the kinks might not be endemic to man. This line of thought led inevitably to the conclusion that man himself might not be ready for self-government.

"Insane, major," said Vassilivich. In the room was a refrigerator stocked with small bottles of imported whiskey and fruit drinks in cans. The hotel stewards checked the refrigerators every morning and put on the bill anything that had been consumed.

Vassilivich opened a l 1/2 ounce bottle of Johnny Walker Red and made notes on the list. The names were not even coded. Just a list. They might as well have handed him random pages from a telephone directory. There were no teams at his disposal to isolate and to set up the targets. With Ivan in this state of excitement at his promotion, he might just tear down a building to get to an assignment.

Well, even if the rest of the team was going to pieces, Vassily Vassilivich was not about to betray his training. He noticed seven of the names were Italian Communists, men he personally admired.

He and Ivan would make early morning hits of two each day, waiting to hear if their descriptions were put out over the radio, and then continue until their descriptions were known, at which point they would pull out. Already, there had been descriptions issued on Team Alpha and Team Delta. In saner times they would have been withdrawn to Moscow.

He was interrupted by Ivan's crying.

"What's the matter, Ivan?"

"I am major and no one is around to order around."

"There will be plenty of people to order around back home," said Vassilivich.

"Can I order you?"

"No, Ivan."

"Once?"

"Tomorrow, Ivan."

Just outside of Rome, in the small city of Palestrina, Dr. Giuseppe Roscalli made himself morning coffee and a light breakfast cake. He sang as he took the cake out of the old iron stove with the same bunched-up cloth he used to dry the dishes. He had been one of the pillars of the Moscowites, a small faction within the Italian Communist Party which favored following the Moscow line. At least until the week before, when a former friend of his had published revelations about life in Russia, and a day later had been crushed to death in an elevator. Dr. Roscalli was sure it was murder, and he was sure the Russians were behind it. He had wildly informed the Russian consul of this and threatened exposure. He was going to denounce Moscow.

He worked the lines of his speech in his head, already hearing the applause. He would accuse Moscow of being no different from the czars, except that the czars were more incompetent and had a cross on their flags instead of a hammer and sickle.

"You who claim to be the will of the masses are the owners of the masses. You are the new slavers, the new royalty, living in splendor and opulence while your unfortunate serfs labor for pittance. You are an abomination before all thinking and progressive peoples."

He liked the word abomination. It was so fitting because what Russia had promised made its reality so much more vile. Abomination. Only an American movie actress with cotton for a brain could fail to see it. Human beings, more and more, were recognizing the Communist menace.

He heard a knock and the announcement of a package for him. He opened the door. A well-dressed man held a small box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a pink bow. The man smiled.

"Dr. Roscalli?"

"Yes, Yes." said Roscalli and a giant of a man suddenly appeared behind the gift bearer. A massive hand closed on the mouth of Dr. Roscalli. From ear to ear it covered his face. He felt a thumb like a spike press into his spine, and still seeing everything quite clearly over a finger the size of a banana, he felt the lower part of his body float off somewhere, and then, as if he were caught between Spanish castanets, the life snapped out of him.

"Put the body near the chair, Ivan," said Vassilivich.

The package also came in handy that morning for Robert Buckwhite, an American on loan to the Italian oil industry. Buckwhite was a geologist. Buckwhite also worked for the CIA. In different times, he would be considered just one of their spies, to be watched by one of Russia's spies.

Buckwhite was a relatively minor functionary who would, on his death, be replaced by another relatively minor functionary. Nothing would be gained by his death, except another name for Treska to put on the bodycount list it would send to the central committee.

So as Buckwhite returned to his home in the small town of Albano where his mistress waited, two men signaled his car to the side of the road. One had a package in a silver wrapping with a pink bow.

"Signer Buckwhite?"

Buckwhite nodded and his head did not finish the nod. His neck was shattered at the wheel.

"Take his wallet, Ivan."

"But you say we not steal."

"Right, but I wish to make it seem as if others steal."

"Can I keep wallet?"

"No. We throw it away later."

"Why take it if no keep it? Why? Why?"

"Because Stalin in heaven wants it that way," said Vassilivich.

"Oh," said Ivan.

Ivan wanted lunch. Vassilivich said lunch would have to be later because in towns where people had been crushed, big men might attract attention.

Ivan wanted to give his one order now, being a major.

Vassilivich said he could.

"I order you to have lunch now," said Ivan. "All mens to have lunch. Immediately. Is order from Major Mikhailov."

"We will follow your order later, Ivan."

"Now," said Ivan.

He had two legs of lamb in garlic butter, eating them like lamb-chops, a gallon of Chianti and twenty-seven canolis, filled with rich, sticky white cream. A team of carabiniere bristling with sidearms arrived with the twenty-seventh canoli.

They demanded to see identification. They demanded that the two men eating lunch keep their hands on the table. They demanded immediate politeness.

Ivan burped. Then he broke them like breadsticks. One got off a shot. It went into Ivan's shoulder. It had as much effect as sticking a tack into a rhino's hip. There was another shot, but this too proved woefully inadequate. It was a .22 caliber short.

In the car, Ivan picked the small slug out of his shoulder the way teenagers popped pimples on their face by pressing the flesh together. He did not calculate that the Italian policemen had been using .25 caliber weapons. He did not reason that since the Italians were using .25 calibers, the .22 short must have come from somewhere else. He did not bother to think that maybe the only man who might try to kill with a .22 short would have been General Vassily Vassilivich.

Ivan held the little bloody nuisance of a slug up to the front of the windshield, then crushed the lead flat between two giant fingers.

Vassilivich felt his bladder release and his shoes become soggy. He suggested that because Ivan's meal had been interrupted, in Rome he himself would make Ivan a meal. In a dropoff flat overlooking Via Veneto, an expensive way station for fast flight and exit, Vassilivich ordered bags of spaghetti, boxes of mushrooms, gallons of wine and a side of beef.

He had to personally select the seasoning. He went outside to a small shop and got fourteen cans of an American rat poison.