Topaz - Leon Uris [3]
Hendricks abruptly left the astonished girl and plunged into the maze of zigzag paths, hawkers, strollers, the labyrinth of glass buildings, the blaze of flowers, the multitude of restaurants, exhibits, fun and amusement booths, the fairyland that made up the wonderment of Tivoli.
Sid Hendricks led the Russian in circles. Along the artificial boat lake he doubled back so that he walked past his pursuer, then made up the steps of the multitiered Chinese pagoda. From here he could look down and study all the activity below. Only the single Russian clung to his trail.
He was now satisfied that the Russian was not being followed, and he passed from the Tivoli, crossing the teeming Raadhuspladsen filled with the usual complement of pigeons that inhabit city-hall squares throughout the world.
His deputy, Dick Stebner, waited in the lobby of the Palace Hotel. Without further word, the three walked the stairs to the third floor. The long corridor was covered by Hendricks’ men. Stebner made down the carpeted hall to an end suite, opened the door and the three of them entered.
Harry Bartlett, another deputy, waited by the false fireplace. The Russian stood in the center of room. The lock clicked behind him.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Bartlett asked.
“I want to see Nordstrom,” the Russian retorted. “You are not Nordstrom. You are one of the ININ men in Hendricks’ office.”
The bedroom door opened slowly. Michael Nordstrom entered. His bulk made the Russian seem even smaller. “Yes,” the latter whispered, “you are the one I wish to see.”
“Shoot.”
“Shoot?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The Russian studied Stebner and Hendricks at the door and the other one, Bartlett. “My compliments to you, Nordstrom. You are very good. You did this quickly and your Hendricks is clever. Do you have a cigarette?”
Michael cupped his hands to hold the flame and his eyes met the Russian’s. The man was frightened despite his professional poise. He sucked deeply on the cigarette as though calling on a friend and he licked his lips in a gesture of fear.
“I am Boris Kuznetov,” he said, “chief of a division of KGB. I wish to defect.”
“Why?”
“I have reason to suspect I am going to be liquidated.”
“What reasons?”
“Two close comrades in KGB who shared my views have been purged recently. I travel in the West often. This time surveillance on me is unusually heavy. And then,” he sighed, “a close dear friend told me before I came to Copenhagen that if I have a chance to clear out, I had better make the break.”
Kuznetov pulled hard again on the cigarette. He knew the men arrayed before him would naturally suspect he was a plant.
“This friend of yours,” Hendricks said, “wasn’t it dangerous for him to warn you?”
“It makes no difference if you are a Russian or an American, Mr. Hendricks. Our profession is cruel, yet ... they cannot take from us all that is human. Humans, in the end, are compassionate. Someday you may need a friend. Someday a friend will need you. Do you understand?”
“If you are under such tight watch,” Nordstrom challenged, “how did you cut yourself loose just now?”
“I am in Copenhagen with my wife and daughter. I left them at the restaurant. As long as they have guards on my family they know I will return, so it is normal for me to be away for a few hours, perhaps to make an intelligence contact, perhaps to shop, perhaps even to visit a woman. But I am a devoted family man and I always come back.”
“How did you know I would be at the Wivex Restaurant?”
“Because of your basic intelligence attitude. We Russians hide our intelligence people and never let it be known who they are. You Americans advertise who is CIA, who is ININ, on the theory that people will come to you with information. In this case, your theory works. It is not secret you are in