The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [236]
"Yob tvoyu maht!" the technician breathed, in one of his language's more repulsive imprecations: Fuck your mother. Then he handed the page to one of the supervising inspectors, whose reaction was little different. Then he walked to the phone and dialed Yefremov's number.
"Pavel Georgeyevich, you need to see this."
Provalov was there when the chief of the decryption section walked in. The printout was in a manila folder, which the head cryppie handed over without a word.
"Well, Pasha?" the homicide investigator asked.
"Well, we have answered our first question."
The motorcar was even purchased at the same dealership in central Moscow, the sheet read. There is no fault to be found here. The men who performed the mission are both dead in St. P. Before I can make another attempt, I need an indication from you on the timeline, and also on the payment to my contractors.
"Golovko was the target, then," Provalov observed. And the head of our country's intelligence service owes his life to a pimp.
"So it would appear," Yefremov agreed. "Note that he doesn't ask payment for himself. I would imagine he's somewhat embarrassed at having missed his target on the first attempt."
"But he's working for the Chinese?"
"So that would appear as well," the FSS man observed, with an inward chill. Why, he asked himself, would the Chinese wish to do such a thing? Isn't that nearly an act of war? He sat back in his chair and lit up a smoke, looking into the eyes of his police colleague. Neither man knew what to say at the moment, and both kept silent. It would all soon be out of and far beyond their hands. With that decided, both men headed home for dinner.
The morning broke more brightly than usual in Beijing. Mrs. Yu had slept deeply and well, and though she awoke with a slight headache, she was grateful for Wen's insistence on a couple of drinks before retiring. Then she remembered why she was in Beijing, and any good feelings departed from her mind. Breakfast was mainly green tea and was spent looking down, remembering the sound of her husband's voice in the bleak acceptance of the fact that she'd never hear it again. He'd always been in a good mood over breakfast, never forgetting, as she had just done, to say grace over the morning meal and thank God for another day in which to serve Him. No more. No more would he do that, she reminded herself. But she had duties of her own to perform.
"What can we do, Zhong?" she asked, when her host appeared.
"I will go with you to the police post and we will ask for Fa An's body, and then I will help you fly our friend home, and we will have a memorial prayer service at the—"
"No, you can't, Zhong. There are police there to keep everyone out. They wouldn't even let me in, even though I had my papers in order."
"Then we will have it outside, and they will watch us pray for our friend," the restaurateur told his guest with gentle resolve.
Ten minutes later, she'd cleaned up and was ready to leave. The police station was only four blocks away, a simple building, ordinary in all respects except for the sign over the door.
"Yes?" the desk officer said when his peripheral vision noted the presence of people by his desk. He looked up from the paper forms that had occupied his attention for the past few minutes to see a woman and a man of about the same age.
"I am Yu Chun," Mrs. Yu answered, seeing some recognition in the desk officer's eyes result from her words.
"You are the wife of Yu Fa An?" he asked.
"That is correct."
"Your husband was an enemy of the people," the cop said next, sure of that but not sure of much else in this awkward case.
"I believe he was not, but all I ask is for his body, so that I might fly it home for burial with his family."
"I do not know where his body is," the cop said.
"But he was shot by a policeman," Wen put in, "and the disposal of his body is therefore a police matter. So, might you be so kind, comrade, as to call the proper number so that we can remove our friends body?" His manners did not allow anger on the part of the desk officer.
But the desk