The Miernik Dossier - Charles McCarry [11]
We went into the hall to talk to the policeman. He asked for all our papers and wrote our names in his book. “You are witnesses,” he said. “I have no more to say at this time.” He went down the stairs.
Collins watched him go. “I don’t think that the copper is going to forgive Tadeusz Jerzyvich,” he said.
Inge came out the door. She gave Brochard a look, and he followed her out. “There’s nothing to do,” he said.
“Mongolian,” Inge said.
Inside, Miernik lay on the sofa with his head in Ilona’s lap. “He’s asleep,” she said.
“Fifteen minutes too late,” Collins said. He beckoned Ilona away from the sofa. She smoothed back Miernik’s hair and stood up.
They all left. I took off Miernik’s shoes and tried to loosen his tie. He opened his eyes.
“Would you agree that I’ve been a fool?” he said. “You were carried away by vodka. We all forgive you. (This business of “I forgive you” is an in-joke at the expense of the Russians. Miernik imitates them: “I had to shoot your mother, Ivan!” “I forgive you, Igor!”)
“That policeman will make a report to the WRO. No contract after that.”
“Yes. And he may file charges, diplomatic immunity or no diplomatic immunity. There’s a law against insulting the police in this country.”
“In all countries.”
“Almost all. It’s a sad world.”
“What about America? What is the law there?”
“You can say what you want to the cops. If they don’t like it, they break your skull.”
Miernik turned over and put his face in the cushions of the sofa. “Tonight I lost everything,” he said. “My contract, my Swiss asylum.”
“We’re both losing sleep,” I said.
“I must become an American. That is the solution.”
“I don’t think you can. You’re a Commie rat.”
“I am a Christian and a lover of truth.”
Miernik sat up. His hair fell into his face. His suit, in spite of everything, was still neatly buttoned. He looked odd without his glasses.
“Paul,” he said, “I am lost. I have insulted the Swiss police. You should have stopped me.
“You were too quick for me. Léon and Nigel both tried to stop you.
“No Swiss asylum now. I am in their files as a troublemaker. The Polish wheel turns against the Swiss wheel, and Miernik is in between.”
“You’d better go to bed.”
“I’d rather go to America.
“With your background, you’ll have to go by Russian submarine.”
“I die. You joke. That’s the American answer to the Polish question.”
“You won’t die, Miernik.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I think you’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I will die, my friend. You will live. Do you know why? Your passport is green, mine is brown.”
“Go to bed.”
Miernik got up and searched for his glasses. He examined the broken lenses and put the frames in his breast pocket. He began to laugh.
“I am now seeing the humor in this situation,” he said. “You are bored. Victims bore you. Would you save me if I were less of a bore?”
I didn’t answer. Miernik smelled his own armpit. “I’ve always thought that I smell like a corpse,” he said. “It’s a Central European malady.”
I said good night. In the street, I looked up at his window. He was moving around inside, clearing up the mess of the party. When he opened the sash to let in the air, I saw that he was wearing glasses again—an extra pair, no doubt.
13. REPORT BY AN AMERICAN SURVEILLANCE TEAM IN GENEVA.
Kirnov* emerged from Hotel du Rhône at 0312 hours on 22 May. He proceeded on foot to the corner of Boulevard Georges Favon and Rue du Stand, where he unlocked a gray Simca Aronde with registration number BE 80987 and drove away.
Chase vehicle kept subject in sight northbound across Pont de la Coulouvrenière, then eastbound on Rue de Lausanne, south on Avenue de France and the quais to the Pont du Mont Blanc. Subject then proceeded to the left bank and through a number of small streets in the vicinity of the Parc de la Grange. This was interpreted as a maneuver to spot our surveillance, and we accordingly ceased following so as to avoid detection.
We made new contact four minutes after breaking it, in Place Neuve. Kirnov parked and locked car and proceeded on foot to 21-bis,