The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [77]
“Paul,” he said. “We can only talk for ten minutes. Don’t waste the time. You know what I want.”
“I think so. But I can’t help you, Gherman. Walk into the American embassy. You can be there in ten minutes in a taxi.”
“Christopher—don’t do this. They know. I’ve been running for a week. Where do you think they expect me to go? They’re waiting outside the embassy in the Via Veneto. You know the system—a car is waiting around the corner. They’d have me before I could walk across the sidewalk.”
Christopher shrugged. “Then go to Paris or Bern.”
“You’re my only hope. I’ve been waiting for three days. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Look,” Klimenko said. “I have no more energy for charades.” He seized Christopher’s arm. “I told you, I’m worn out.”
Klimenko’s teeth chattered. He walked back and forth rapidly on the roof, swinging his arms around his body to warm it. He came back, close to Christopher, and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“Paul—have I ever given a hint that I knew about you in all the years? Ever? How many times have I seen you, in how many places? We drank whiskey together in the bar of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi. We had lunch in the Fin Bee in Geneva, as if we were friends. We talked about opera, the ballet, the way BOAC is always late.”
“I’m glad you have such tender memories,” Christopher said, “but if you think you know anything about me, you’re wrong.”
Klimenko stood up to his full height. He was still a foot shorter than Christopher. Holding his clenched fists at his sides, he said, “All right. In 1959 you were in the Sudan; a Pole named Miernik was killed by the natives in the desert and you brought his body out. In 1960 you were meeting an agent named Horst Bülow in front of the S-bahn station at the zoo in Berlin; he was run down by a black Opel and killed before your eyes. In 1962 you penetrated the Chinese operation in Katanga with Alphonse Nsango and gave him gold to pay for the juju that broke one of their insurgent groups. In 1961 you were in Laos talking to a certain Hmong who is now a general. Your case officer is Thomas R. Webster, who lives at 23-bis, avenue Hoche, Paris. The chief of clandestine operations in Washington is David Patchen, and in practice you are answerable only to him. I can go on.”
Christopher said, “If all that is true, why do you think I won’t shoot you right now?”
Klimenko opened his eyes. “You people don’t kill. We know that, too.”
Christopher was not surprised at the quality of Klimenko’s information, and he knew that Klimenko did not expect him to be startled.
Klimenko took Christopher’s arm and walked him around the gallery. The mossy slope of Michelangelo’s dome rose behind them. Christopher heard the wail of pipes, and saw a shepherd walking across the piazza below; the man wore a sheepskin tied around his waist with a rope and a red cap like the bagpiper he’d seen by the Tiber. Straining his eyes, Christopher saw that this man had a different face.
“They close this gallery at four-thirty,” Christopher said. “We’d better go down.”
“I didn’t come out empty-handed, Paul. I can show you samples.”
Klimenko’s voice was growing thinner, as if he had suddenly caught cold. “Name a place,” he said. “Just make sure it’s secure.”
“This is not my work.”
Christopher put a hand on Klimenko’s shoulder; the flesh was loose under his thick overcoat. Christopher had always liked the Russian, but he knew what mistakes he could make. “How long do you expect to stay operational if you go around in public like this?” he asked.
“Not long. You see what’s happened to my nerves.”
“Why did you come out? You’ve always been a loyal Russian, haven’t you?”
The skin of Klimenko’s sagging face was blotched, brown and white like the meat of a bitten pear. “Loyal to Russia, yes —and I still am. I no longer agree with the line.”
“It’s no different than it ever was.”
“No. But I am. One gets tired. Doubts become more important—Klimenko’s Law: as life shortens, misgivings magnify.”
“Then