Topaz - Leon Uris [15]
“You are being very entertaining tonight,” Kuznetov answered sharply, as though annoyed.
Michael went on, all business. “We’ll prepare a full set of all necessary papers. Birth certificates, college degree, honorable discharge from an American military service. You’ll be provided with records to show you’ve been a member of certain social and benevolent societies and have carried insurance for three decades.”
Nordstrom lit up, held the flame for the Russian’s cigarette. It was like the first time at the Palace Hotel in Copenhagen. The man’s nerves belied his outward calm. Kuznetov was very shaky.
Nordstrom let it all sink in.
“I saved the best for last.” He opened a folio containing photographs and specifications of a modern motel. “This is a real-estate listing for a forty-two-room motel in Bakersfield, California. It has a good bar and restaurant business and exchange privileges with a nearby golf course and riding stable. Year-round swimming pool, centrally air-conditioned. A separate and very nice apartment for the owner. The present owner nets over twenty thousand dollars a year in addition to his quarters and board. That’s clear after taxes. We will install you in here with sufficient equity to guarantee your income for life. There’s a good small college in Bakersfield, and after you’re settled, maybe you’d like to teach here. Los Angeles is within spitting distance. Excellent concerts, good museums, beaches, libraries.”
“You’re very thorough.”
“As for Tamara ...” The mention of his daughter brought on an obvious reaction. “As for Tamara, four years of music at Rochester, at Curtis, Peabody, or Juilliard. She’ll graduate with a degree.”
Kuznetov shook his head, pinched his brows with his fingers. “I have no answers for you tonight.”
“Have one by tomorrow,” Nordstrom said tersely.
Boris looked into stern eyes. Yes, Nordstrom was all business now. “I understand that to be an ultimatum.”
“You’ve got the picture,” Michael answered. “You’ve been calling the tune for over six months. From a professional standpoint I’d play for another six months, even a year.”
“And from a personal standpoint?”
“I’m sick of you. You’ve taken deliberate advantage of the fact that we won’t terrorize people.”
“My alternative?”
“Papers and taxi fare to the nearest airport. Tickets to the city of your choice and one month’s allowance. From then on, brother, you’re on your own. Go live in the shadows and spend every breath in fear waiting for the KGB to liquidate you. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You asked for Devereaux. Then you conveniently forget why you wanted him. He may be able to keep the information from Paris for a week or even a month, but sooner or later French SDECE has to be advised. The minute this leaks to Moscow, your value to us drops close to zero.”
“I understand,” Kuznetov said harshly.
“You’ve planned enough liquidations to know what a filthy bunch of gangsters you slept with in KGB. You don’t owe those butchers a goddamned thing.”
The screen door slammed behind Nordstrom.
Kuznetov had run out the string. But even so, how much longer would the Americans have played? And how much longer could he bear the unhappiness of Olga and Tamara?
He stood before the models, then suddenly swept them off the bench with a backhand, sending them crashing to the floor.
He saw Olga edge into the room, marble-faced. “We heard everything,” she said. “Tamara translated to me what Nordstrom offered.”
“I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”
She followed him across the room until the wall stopped him and continued to speak at his back. “You swore to us if we were able to make an escape we would have a decent life. We’ve never had a decent life, Boris, except those few moments we could steal at a concert or a museum or a restaurant in