Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

The Spy Who Collected Lapel Pins by Edward D. Hoch[12]

Rand, head of the Department of Concealed Communications, versus Taz, his Russian counterpart — two code-and-cipher experts usually in deadly competition, now seemingly cooperating. Détente or subtle confrontation? But even in a duel of wits, each wary and suspicious of the other, with no love lost between them, these two old enemies had their strict professional pride...

He was not an old man, but the years had not dealt kindly with Comrade Taz. As he walked across the field toward the lights of the distant farmhouse, he could feel the ache in his right leg coming back again. It was a war injury from his youth, 30 years ago, when he’d shown a fleeting moment of courage in front of a German tank on the outskirts of Berlin.

During all those years in Moscow, heading up Section Six of the KBG, he had hardly thought of the old war injury. It gave him no trouble, and he walked without a noticeable limp. It was only now, in retirement to a collective farm an hour’s drive from Moscow, that the ache and the limp had reoccurred. It was the life, his sturdy wife Lara insisted. His legs were made for walking on paved sidewalks, not trudging across newly plowed fields.

As he neared the farmhouse, he was surprised to see a black government staff car pulled in off the road. In this collective, made up entirely of former government employees, one rarely was visited by the bureaucracy. He entered the kitchen door with just a bit of apprehension, to find Lara conversing with two men in overcoats who gave the impression of having just arrived.

Taz knew one of them — Colonel Tunic, a grizzled old man who’d been his immediate superior during the Cold War days. The other, a younger official who carried himself with an air of newly acquired authority, was a stranger to him.

“Comrade Taz!” Tunic greeted him, throwing out both arms in an affectionate bear hug. “You look well. Retirement must agree with you.”

“Lara says farm work is bad on my legs. How are things back in Moscow?”

“Good, good.” He gave a rueful smile. “Détente, you know.” Remembering the other man, he turned to introduce him. “Comrade Taz, this is Stepan Vronsky, a specialist in international matters.”

The two men shook hands, and Taz wondered what Vronsky’s true function was. He wondered especially what had brought these men out here to see him. “You look cold,” he told them. “Take off your coats and have some vodka.”

“I could never live in the country,” Stepan Vronsky said. “The wind is so cold!”

Taz smiled. “One becomes used to it. Lara, bring us some glasses, will you?”

When they were seated around the rough oak kitchen table, which Lara had thoughtfully covered with a piece of flowered oilcloth, Colonel Tunic said, “We miss you in Moscow. You retired too soon.”

Taz merely shrugged. “Cipher experts of my sort have been replaced by machines. Diplomats and machines.”

“Sometimes there is still need for one,” Vronsky said. Taz turned to study his face and saw only the pale reflection of the Russian winter with its sunless days.

“We miss you,” Colonel Tunic repeated. “And now we need you. The government wishes you to come out of retirement for one final assignment to the west.”

The words fell like thunder on Taz’s ears. He’d been expecting it, certainly, ever since he saw the long black car pulled up before his house. But to hear it now was still a shock. “What sort of assignment?” he asked quietly.

“Some material must be taken to Switzerland. It’s in your line — microdots.”

Taz snorted. “A diplomatic courier could get it through for you, as you well know.”

“That’s only part of it. There’s something else.” Tunic shifted in his chair. “An old friend of yours is involved.”

“Who would that be?”

“Remember Jeffery Rand, the head of Britain’s Double-C?”

“Of course.”

Vronsky spoke again. “You should welcome an opportunity to confront an old enemy one more time.”

“Rand is not my enemy,” Taz replied. “We were two professional men doing our jobs.”

“Nevertheless, he is on the other side.”

“Yes,” Taz admitted. “Just what do you have in mind?”

“You are familiar with the Nobel Prize recipient, Kolia Komarov?”

“Certainly.” Despite nominal press censorship, almost everyone in the Soviet Union must have been aware of the Komarov case. A powerful novelist in the tradition of Turgenev, his choice as the Nobel laureate last fall had stirred up all the old fires in Russian literary circles. Though Komarov had written harshly of past Soviet governments, the men in the Kremlin did not want another Pasternak or Solzhenitsyn case on their hands. They had allowed Komarov to leave Moscow to accept the award in Stockholm. In his acceptance speech he announced to the startled world his defection from Russia.

“Then you know he’s living in Switzerland now. And you also know he was forced to leave several of his manuscripts behind when he fled.”

“Yes.”

“Komarov still has a great many friends here. Recently his wife — who fled with him to Switzerland — contacted a cousin. Arrangements were made to smuggle his manuscripts out of the country. The cousin, a loyal Party member, came to us.” Vronsky smiled slightly, proud of his accomplishment. “Specifically, to me.”

“I see.” Taz took a sip of his vodka. “And where do I fit in?”

Colonel Tunic took over the story. Despite the difference in their ages and bearing, Tunic and Vronsky might have been partners in a traveling comedy act. Taz thought about this and chuckled inwardly. He wondered why he had never laughed at Tunic during all their years together in Moscow.

“The manuscript material has been reduced to microdots,” Tunic said. “With your experience in the field, and especially your experience with Rand, you are the natural choice to deliver it.”

“Rand would hardly believe I was performing an act contrary to Soviet policy. He knows I am loyal. And you have not yet told me how Rand figures in all this.”

“Rand will be involved when you get him involved. You make contact with him and arrange a meeting in Geneva. He’ll come, of course. You explain that you have always been a great admirer of Kolia Komarov’s writing, and for this reason you have smuggled his manuscript out of Russia, in microdot form. You ask Rand’s help in getting you through the guards to visit Komarov. He does so, the microdots prove to be useless, and the British are discredited in Komarov’s eyes.”

“A trick,” Vronsky chortled. “A hoax!” The thought seemed to please him.

“Is this the way we wage war now?” Taz asked distastefully.

“We wage it any way we can.”

“You don’t need me for it,” Taz decided with a wave of his hand, as if chasing away a pesky fly.

“We need you for Rand.”

“And why do you need Rand? He is not the British government. He is not even British Intelligence. He is only one man, like myself.”

Colonel Tunic shifted uneasily. “There is more to it, Comrade. We cannot tell you everything at this point, but you must trust us.”

Lara came back into the kitchen. Taz saw her eyes catch his, but he couldn’t read the message there. Perhaps it was only a reflection of his own misgivings.

With the coming of winter London had settled beneath a dreary mantle of mist, reminding Rand of his annual promise to move to the south of France. This morning especially was one of low dark clouds that blotted out the sun. From his wide window overlooking the muddy Thames he could see only the bare outlines of the city — the new high-rise apartments, the dome of St. Paul’s that was Christopher Wren’s supreme achievement. Everything else was a somber gray blur.

He was halfway through the morning’s routine of reports and mail when Parkinson entered. “We’ve got something unusual here, sir.”

“On the Syrian matter?”

“No, it’s a message we intercepted in the old cipher the Russians used when Taz was in charge. I haven’t seen it in years.”

“Odd.”

“Odder still, the message seems addressed to you.”

Rand took the sheet of lined intercept paper that Parkinson held out. Rand, it read, you may see your old friend from Paris at the Hotel de Ville in Geneva on Monday next.

“What do you make of it, sir?”

“I don’t quite know.” The message had been sent by a route that Taz must have known the British would intercept.

But Taz was in retirement.

Or was he?

Later that day Rand phoned Hastings and told him he would be out of the country for a couple of days the following week. There was a matter in Geneva that needed checking into.

He’d always found Geneva to be a beautiful city, situated as it was at the point where the Rhone River exited from its brief journey across Lake Leman. There were lovely little parks running along both sides of the river at the point of exit, with jetties leaping out from either shore and beacons to guide the traveler.

The Hotel de Ville was in another of the city’s parks, a half mile from the water. It faced the University and the Monument of the Reformation, both flanking the Promenade des Bastions which ran through the center of the park. Rand had checked in just after three, and was considering whether the park or the shore would make the more pleasing stroll while he waited for contact.

As it turned out, the decision was made for him.

“Message for you, sir,” the clerk called as he was crossing the lobby toward the street.

“For me?”

“You are Mr. Rand?”

“That’s right.” He opened the folded piece of paper and read: Your old friend awaits you by the Jetty of the Spring Tides.

Rand smiled slightly and slipped the note into his pocket.

The Jetty of the Spring Tides was the one closest to the hotel, on the south bank of the river. He reached it after a twenty-minute walk that reminded him again of the city’s charms.

At first he didn’t recognize the iron-haired man with the beard who occupied a bench near the jetty. He’d almost gone by when a half-remembered voice said, “The lake is enchanting here, with the mountains in the background.”

“Taz!”

“Are you surprised?”

Rand sat down beside him. “Not really, I suppose. You are the only one who would have used that old cipher.”

“I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if—”

“What is it? I’d heard you retired to a farm outside Moscow.”

Taz smiled, and Rand caught the glint of a gold tooth he hadn’t noticed on their previous meetings. Perhaps Taz had never smiled then. “A collective — a special one for loyal government employees like myself. It would bear little resemblance to your farms in England.”

“What brings you to Geneva?”

“I have come out of retirement. The indispensable man.” He said it with a slight smile.

“That’s bad news for Concealed Communications.”

“Not so bad, really. Our cipher section is fully automated now — rotor-type cipher machines, one-time pads produced by machine, even electronic voice scramblers. They hardly need a man at all.”

“And yet you’ve come back.”

Taz shrugged. “A simple courier mission.” He took out one of the familiar long Russian cigarettes and lit it. “But tell me about yourself, Rand. Any thought of retirement?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “I’m getting married soon.”

“Married?”

Rand smiled at Taz’s surprise. Hastings had been surprised too. “You may have heard of her — Leila Gaad, from Egypt. She’s been living and teaching in England since last summer.”

“Oh, yes. You shared some adventures with her, I believe, back in the days when we were active in her country.”

“Right.”

“Does she want you to retire?”

Rand nodded. “And I’m thinking seriously about it. All this détente is bad for the budget. Besides, with you retired, the fun’s gone out of it.”

Taz nodded, stroking his beard. “We can leave it for the younger men.”

“Even your writer, Kolia Komarov, has retired — at least from Russia.”

Taz seemed to tense a bit at his words. “Why do you mention Komarov?”

“Oh, come now! We’ve sparred at long distance for too many years not to know each other fairly well. At the moment the only thing of interest to the Russians in Geneva is Kolia Komarov.”

“You are correct, of course,” Taz admitted readily. “I make no secret of it. In fact, since you have guessed the purpose of my mission, perhaps you can even assist me with it.”

The whole thing was coming too easily. Rand felt as if he was being drawn into something that had been carefully orchestrated by Moscow. “How can I do that?” he asked.

“As you know, Komarov and his wife fled while in Sweden to accept his Nobel Prize. They fled without his precious manuscripts and notes. In recent weeks attempts have been made to smuggle these papers out of Russia.”

“A difficult job. I understand they’d fill a large filing cabinet.”

“That is correct.”

“Where do you fit in?”

“Here,” he answered simply. He opened an attaché case on the bench by his side and removed a stiff leather-covered folder. “My znachki collection!”

The Russian opened the folder to reveal a felt surface bedecked with dozens of colorful souvenir lapel pins and covered with a protective sheet of plastic. The collecting of such pins, Rand knew, was a popular hobby in the Soviet Union. Virtually every organization in the country minted the little emblems, which were bought and traded with relish.

“A good hobby for a retired man,” Rand observed. “In England we still collect stamps.”

“This is the lapel pin of the Rostov Bureau of Travel,” Taz said, reaching beneath the plastic sheet to remove it and hand it to Rand. “It’s very rare. I had to trade five others for it.”

The small metal disc looked something like a military decoration. Rand turned it over and studied the back. A tiny black dot was affixed to the very center of the metal. At a casual glance it might have been part of the workmanship.

“Microdot,” Rand said in a neutral tone. “On the backs of them all, I suppose.”

Taz grinned. “No one questions an old man’s hobby. Actually, it is a trick I learned from the Americans. As early as their Civil War, the Rebels were carrying minutely photographed dispatches hidden inside metal buttons. An amazing accomplishment for the early days of photography!”

Suddenly the thing fell together for Rand. “Are you telling me these microdots contain Kolia Komarov’s manuscripts and notes?”

Taz merely spread his hands in a gesture that might have meant anything. “I have contacted you because I feel you could arrange a meeting with Komarov. They say he is guarded by agents of British Intelligence.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Rand answered, a bit stiffly.

“Could I see him?”

Rand studied the lapel pin in his hand. “How do I know this is what you say it is?”

“I’ve not said what it is, but you are free to take that one and examine it.”

“Thank you.”

Taz put a hand on his shoulder. “My old friendly enemy Rand! We have been through so much together.”

Rand dropped the lapel pin into his pocket. “When will I see you?”

“I will be here at the same time tomorrow.” He patted the folder. “With my znachki.”

By the following morning Rand had an enlargement of the microdot along with a visitor from the security division of Intelligence. His name was Michael Gentres and he was a calm man who moved very slowly.

“You’re Rand, I suppose. Here’s the print you wanted.”

Rand glanced at the enlarged pages of typewritten Russian text. “What is it, Major?”

“Part of Kolia Komarov’s novel in progress. He saw it this morning and confirmed its authenticity,” Gentres replied.

“I see.”

“Is there more where this came from?”

“Apparently.” Rand shrugged.

“What’s the price?”

“I don’t really know,” Rand admitted. “My contact is willing to deliver the rest, but only to Komarov personally.”

“That might be difficult to arrange. He’s staying at a safe house and we want it to remain that way.”

“Could I see him?”

“I suppose so. You have a double-X security clearance.”

Gentres drove Rand to a little house near the edge of the city, taking care to see they weren’t followed. It was a quiet street of elderly retired people, in an older section of Geneva, and there was little to distinguish Komarov’s house from others on the street.

The man who answered the door was obviously armed and probably in the pay of British Intelligence, which had taken a special, if clandestine, interest in the Russian author’s safety. Gentres spoke a brief quotation from Keats — obviously the day’s password — and they were shown into a sparsely furnished parlor.

The woman appeared first, and Rand recognized her from newspaper pictures as Mrs. Komarov. She was both younger and prettier than the news photos had shown, with straw-colored hair and tanned skin that might have come from a youth spent in the wheatfields’ of central Russia. “Her name is Sasha,” Gentres said. “But she speaks no English. Her husband speaks a little.”

She sat down quietly with hands folded and after a moment Kolia Komarov himself strode into the room. Immediately Rand sensed a charging of the atmosphere. The Russian author was tall and bushy-bearded, with deep brown eyes that flashed at the person to whom he was speaking. His English was remarkably good, though his vocabulary seemed limited.

“You are Rand?” he asked, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”

Rand showed him the microdot blowup. “You saw this earlier today?”

“Yes. It is my manuscript.”

“It is possible we can recover all of it. And your notes too. They’ve been smuggled out of Russia on microdots by a man named Taz.”

He’d spoken too fast for Komarov to absorb it all, and he went back over it slowly. Finally the Russian glanced at his wife and said a few questioning words in his native tongue. When she shook her head he replied, “We know of no Taz.”

“He was a cipher expert in Moscow. He’s retired now.”

“Ah. We do not know him. Why should he do this?”

“I don’t exactly know,” Rand admitted. “But he wants to see you to deliver the rest. I could arrange it for this afternoon.”

The brown eyes flashed. “He wants me to return?”

“No, he wouldn’t have brought the manuscripts if he wanted you to go back.”

Komarov nodded. “Bring him. Then I can work.”

Rand glanced at Gentres for confirmation. “Oh, very well,” the Major said.

“Fine. I’ll try to set it up for later today.”

Taz was seated on the bench by the water, as he had been the day before. He watched Rand’s approach with an interested eye, keeping one hand always on the attaché case by his side.

“I am glad you could come,” he said, smiling broadly.

Rand sat down beside him. “I saw our man this morning. He’s most anxious to obtain the rest of the documents.”

Taz continued to smile. “I thought he would be.”

“Tell me one thing first. What’s in this for you?”

Taz shrugged. “I have always admired his writings. It is with such men as Komarov that the future of Russia lies — not with the bureaucrats in their Kremlin offices. Now that I am retired I owe my allegiance to Russia, not to the Party.”

Rand nodded. “I think you’ve made a wise choice. I’ll take you to see Kolia Komarov.”

“How soon?”

“Later this afternoon if you’d like. After dark might be best, when there are fewer people to see you. His location is a secret, but your people may already have it under observation.”

“I wouldn’t want them to observe my arrival,” Taz admitted.

“I thought not.” Rand mused for a moment. “I could have my car pick you up at the park across from my hotel.”

“That would be fine.”

“Shall we say five thirty? It’ll be dark by then.”

“Good.”

Rand got to his feet. “The park across from the Hotel de Ville, then. I’ll be in the car, with a driver and perhaps another man.” He was thinking that Gentres might insist on joining them, and he could offer no objection to that.

“Until then,” Taz said, and they shook hands.

Heading back to his hotel, Rand hoped this wouldn’t be a night like one other he’d spent in Switzerland years earlier. That time, on a mission to Berne involving the Chinese embassy, Rand had been double-crossed by his own people. The memory of it still rankled. If he couldn’t trust his own people, whom could he trust?

Taz?

“Comrade Taz!”

Colonel Tunic greeted him with a smile, throwing open his arms. “How did your meeting go?”

“Very well,” Taz acknowledged. “Rand is picking me up across from his hotel at five thirty.”

“To see Kolia Komarov?”

“Yes.”

Colonel Tunic gripped him by both shoulders. “Excellent! Excellent! I knew you would not fail us. Do you hear that, Stepan?”

Vronsky came in from the other room. Their suite in Geneva’s other leading hotel was hardly austere enough to inspire confidence in the workers back home, Taz decided, but then the workers would never know about it.

“Good news,” Vronsky agreed. “Do you have the znachki?”

“Right here,” Taz said, opening the attaché case.

Vronsky took the folder and opened it, revealing the assorted lapel pins. “Now here is what you will do. Deliver this to Kolia Komarov at the safe house where he’s staying. Spend a few minutes with him, and then leave at once. You understand?”

Taz was just beginning to. “You said back home there was more to it.”

“And there is. But you don’t want them to discover the microdots are faked, do you? At least, not while you’re in the room.”

Taz suddenly felt very tired. “The microdots are not faked. I examined several of them myself this morning with a magnifying glass.”

“Why would you do that?” Colonel Tunic asked. “Did you doubt our word?”

“With cause, it seems. You told me it was to be a hoax.”

“And so it will. Please do not spoil our careful planning, Comrade Taz.”

Taz sat down then, in one of the ornate golden-armed chairs. “I remember a story,” he said slowly. “It happened a decade ago in a Middle Eastern country. One of our code clerks at the embassy there was ordered to commit an act of political assassination. The KGB supplied him with an electrically operated pistol and poisoned bullets. The fact that he was in cryptography meant nothing to those higher up. He was simply one more tool to be used and discarded. As you must remember, the assassination was successful.”

“We remember,” Colonel Tunic said dryly.

“And Kolia Komarov?”

A shrug. “Deliver the znachki, Comrade.”

“Is this all I am good for after a lifetime of service?”

Vronsky still held the leather-covered folder in his hands. He reached under the protective plastic covering and made a slight adjustment to one of the metal pins. Then he closed the cover and handed the folder back to Taz. “Now then, no more foolish talk. Deliver it, and then leave the house at once.”

Taz sighed and accepted the folder. “Tell me one thing. Why did you need to copy all the material? Why make all the microdots authentic?”

“Rand is no fool. He might have asked to examine some at random. Besides, it makes no difference. Kolia Komarov will never use the material.”

“The public outcry—”

“Will be directed against the British who were guarding him. We will deny everything, of course. You will be safely back home. The Moscow intellectuals will have received a warning they can’t ignore. And Rand will be dead or in disgrace.”

“Yes,” Taz said slowly. “Yes, I see.” He placed the folder carefully inside his attaché case, handling it with new respect. Then he rose to his feet. “I must be going. It is almost time.”

Stepan Vronsky had a final word of caution. “You saw the lapel pin I adjusted. Do not touch it under any circumstances.”

“I understand.”

“Good luck, Comrade.”

Rand tapped the driver on the shoulder. “That’s him, across the street. And right on time.”

“I don’t know about this,” Michael Gentres said uneasily. “London wouldn’t like it.”

“We’re getting Komarov’s manuscripts back, aren’t we?”

“Couldn’t that have been done without Taz meeting the man?”

“Do you expect him to pull a gun out of his pocket and begin shooting?”

“Stranger things have happened. They used an ax on Trotsky.”

“I assume you’ll search him for axes and guns,” Rand said dryly.

They pulled up before the waiting man and Rand opened the door on his side. “You British are very prompt,” Taz said as he climbed in with his attaché case.

“We try to be,” Rand answered. “This is Michael Gentres, Comrade Taz.” He didn’t introduce the driver because Gentres hadn’t mentioned his name. But the man seemed to know their destination without being told. He drove quickly through the dark streets of the city, negotiating turns with the skill of a London cabby. Rand would not have remembered the route to the safe house, but the driver apparently knew it by heart.

Presently they pulled up before the house Rand had visited earlier. There was a man on duty inside the door and he opened it as they approached. “You’ll have to be searched,” Gentres told Taz.

“Of course,” the Russian replied, obviously expecting it.

The man at the door ran his hands quickly over Taz’s body, then used a battery-operated metal detector for a more careful search. Each time it buzzed the Russian produced his keys or cigarette case and other metal objects, all of which were examined. There was also a portable x-ray unit, similiar to those used to inspect carry-on luggage at airports. The attaché case with its folder of lapel pins was passed behind the screen while they watched.

“All right,” Gentres said with a grunt, satisfied with the rows of metal emblems that appeared on the x-ray screen. “You can take the folder in, but leave the attaché case out here.”

Taz did as he was told, removing the znachki with care. “This is a great moment for me,” he said quietly. “I have admired Kolia Komarov for many years.”

The driver and the guard remained by the door, while Gentres escorted Rand and Taz into the living room. They sat waiting quietly, and after a few minutes the bearded Komarov appeared as he had done earlier in Rand’s presence. He looked around the room uncertainly, and bowed slightly to Taz.

“My znachki collection,” Taz said, speaking English so the others could understand. “You should find it quite interesting.”

Komarov accepted it and opened the folder, gazing down at the rows of little metal lapel pins. “Once I had them too,” he said, speaking with some difficulty. “Back in Moscow.”

“But not like these. Examine the backs.” Taz bent over and slipped one of the lapel pins from under the plastic cover. “See?”

Rand stepped closer to look. The microdot was in place, at the exact center of the pin’s reverse side. “Do you have viewing equipment here?” he asked Gentres.

“Certainly.”

The microdot was inserted into an optical viewer and immediately blown up to readable size. The neatly arranged pages of Kolia Komarov’s manuscript leaped into view. “Is it authentic?” Rand asked the author.

“It seems so. Yes, I remember these pages.”

Rand looked up at Taz. “And the rest?”

Taz motioned toward the collection. “There are forty-eight lapel pins. Each of them contains a microdot. Each microdot can be enlarged to show dozens of typewritten pages. I leave them to you.”

“You’re going?”

“I have been here too long already. They may be watching my hotel.”

“Wait—” Rand said, not knowing why he spoke. There was something not quite right. “Can I see you alone for a moment, Taz?”

“Certainly.”

They stepped into the next room, leaving Gentres and Komarov alone with the folder of lapel pins. Rand faced him and sighed. “Taz, my old enemy—”

“What is it?”

“The znachki is just too large for a mere forty-eight microdots. They could be carried on your passport, or in a bandage on your finger. In our business, large attracts attention, and all attention is bad. Ever since the days of the Trojan Horse we have had reason to question anything that is larger than it should be.”

“Trojan Horse?”

“You remember it, surely. Could your znachki be a Trojan Horse, Comrade Taz?”

“In what way?”

“Not a listening device, because that would have shown up on the x-ray. But something nonmetallic, like a thin layer of plastic explosive hidden in the leather binding, would pass inspection. One of the lapel pins could be the detonator, and when it was removed from the felt backing—”

Gentres interrupted with a call from the next room. “Rand, we’ve checked all the lapel pins. There are forty-eight microdots, just as he said. We’re starting to view them now.”

Taz allowed himself a slight smile. “So much for your theory, Mr. Rand. If it was correct, we would all be in pieces now.”

“I’m sorry,” Rand said simply.

“Now I really must be going. Perhaps we will see each other again someday.”

Rand followed him to the door. “They’re waiting for you outside? Is that it?”

Taz picked up his attaché case and opened it. Rand caught a glimpse of a second znachki folder, identical with the first. The driver and the guard were watching them, and Taz stepped very close so his words could not be overheard. “Understand one thing about me, Rand. I have no love for the West, no love for your system. Someday we will still bury you. But I am a proud old man, and I do not come out of retirement to ply an assassin’s trade. The znachki collection you have is harmless. I changed one of the pins.”

“Then I was right?”

Taz merely smiled. “Perhaps this is one time when we both were right, my old enemy.”

He opened the door and stepped outside. The street seemed deserted, and he started off along the sidewalk. “The car can take you back,” Rand called. Taz kept walking, ignoring him.

“Follow him,” Rand told the driver. “But at a distance. I want to know if he’s picked up.”

“I have to take my orders from Major Gentres, sir.”

Rand cursed softly. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” He slipped on his coat and followed Taz.

Colonel Tunic was holding open the door of the car when Taz reached it. He’d walked for three blocks, and had been about to give up searching for them. “We did not want to get too close,” Tunic said. “How did it go?”

“Well.”

Vronsky sat behind the wheel of the car. “Is that all? I heard no explosion.”

“You will not hear one,” Taz said firmly. “I do not fight my wars that way. I am not the simple code clerk in that Middle Eastern embassy, ready to jump when the KGB pulls the strings.”

Colonel Tunic bit his lip. “Comrade Taz, where is the folder?”

“Right here,” Taz said, opening his attaché case.

In the front seat Vronsky yanked the pistol from his coat and fired once at Taz’s chest.

He was just an instant too late.

Rand was still a block away when the explosion shattered the night on the quiet street. His reflexes threw him to the pavement for an instant. Then he was up and running toward the flaming car.

People were rushing from the houses, and after a moment the pulsating whine of a siren could be heard in the distance. He could see it was too late to help the car’s occupants. He tried to get close, but the flames drove him back.

Presently Gentres joined him. “Was that Taz?” he asked.

Rand nodded solemnly. “Looks as if there were one or two others with him.”

“My God. That could have been us.”

“No,” Rand said. “Taz decided it wouldn’t be us.”

“You mean he turned against his own people?”

“I think it had something to do with a man’s pride in his work. I think they recruited the wrong person for this job.”

“Definitely the wrong person,” Gentres said, watching the flames.

“But it was a close one for Komarov. They were able to follow your driver here.”

The fire engines had arrived, and a stream of water hit the blazing car with a hiss and shower of sparks. They moved back out of the way.

“Not such a close one,” Gentres said. “You see, I didn’t trust Taz as much as you did, Rand. And Russians with full black beards look pretty much alike. The real Kolia Komarov is ten miles from here. Perhaps in the morning you’d like to meet him.”