Guess Who’s Coming to Kill You

Chapter 5

It was going to be a fine day for sailing, Brook decided at the clubhouse window. The mischievous fifteen-knot wind that had been predicted by noon was just beginning to tinker with the sea. The sky was clear and small; cumulus mobiles overhung the horizon.

Brook sipped his coffee. He stood at the end of the teakwood bar unnoticed by the score or more of belly-uppers who were gathered in their sailing clothes before the race. He had never been able to explain his talent for making himself invisible in a crowd; it was part of him, like the Cheshire Cat’s face. Once he had discussed the matter with a fellow-agent, an ex-actor, who had argued rather loftily that it was simply a state of mind: if Brook became unaware of himself he would not seem to be there to others. Brook remembered thinking that the argument had all the real force of a debater’s point. No, it had to be something else. He had once even considered discussing it with Holloway, but had sensibly decided against it.

The sailors made an animated group; there was ozone in the air as well as spirits. It was remarkable what a polyglot bunch they were, all talking English with the accents of a dozen different tongues.

He sensed a stir — no more than a hesitation — as a big man came into the bar. Brook recognized him immediately. It was Aleksei Krylov. A boyish smile was on the Russian’s lips, the effect helped along by the gap between two of his upper front teeth. His face was strongly Slavic; good muzhik features, Brook supposed they would be called in Russia. But it lacked the dourness of the typical Soviet face, that look of waiting for a blow to fall which even the highest specimens in the Kremlin seemed to have. Krylov’s was all candor, peace, and joy. His dark hair was curly with unkemptness, as if in rueful resignation to the inevitable. Here, you instantly felt, was a big eager puppy of a man on whom you would turn your back with complete trust.

Like everyone else in the bar the Russian intelligence agent wore sailing clothes. In his case it was a polo shirt and khaki shorts which revealed manly arms and legs covered with a shag bleached by the sun.

The pulsebeat pause broke into waves; there were calls of greeting. Hi, Alex!.. What d’ye say, old boy?... Krylov grinned and waved back. He walked to the bar.

Brook spotted Krylov’s shadow, a man with Brook’s talent for melting into backgrounds. He wore a dark suit that might have been a chauffeurs uniform or an undertaker’s working clothes. He was short and squat. His lumpy, yellowish face had all the character of a washed potato. The eyes were a pale blue-green. As Krylov moved smiling into a place made for him at the bar, this man was suddenly seated in a wicker armchair to one side of the room, the gloomy side, leafing through a yachting magazine. He began to read something with the air of an aficionado.

Brook sipped as Krylov traded banter with the men beside him. When the Russian’s coffee arrived he dug out a pack of Russian cigarettes, selected one, crimped the long cardboard tube, put it to his boyish lips, and lit up. He smoked Russian style, holding the cigarette with the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger from beneath. Brook had no doubt that he could smoke American style with equal facility.

The dumpy man in the wicker chair continued to watch Krylov from behind the magazine.

Brook watched him, too.

From the pantomime — Brook was too far away to hear the conversation — he caught Krylov’s discovery that he would be without a crewman in the morning’s race. Krylov stared at the blackboard, frowned his boyish frown, then looked about the room.

Brook set his cup down and elbowed his way to Krylov’s side. “Good morning. Are you Mr. Krylov?”

“Yes?” The Russian agent sounded friendly enough, but there was no amiability in his blue eyes. No hostility either, of course; he was too well-trained for that. What he was doing was sizing Brook up; you did that automatically.

“I’m Pete Brook. New around here, but I’m aching to get into the race. I hear you’ve lost your crewman.”

“Yes,” Krylov said. A little warmth had crept into his pleasant voice; it said, I don’t know what your game is, Amerikanski, but I’m going to play it. “My man inconsiderately had his arm broken last night by a street ruffian. You are experienced, Mr. Brook?”

“Some. I’m a naval architect, mostly small-craft design.”

“That sounds fortunate for me.” Krylov nodded toward the bartender. “A drink, perhaps?”

Brook traded him boyish grins. “After we win the race, positively.”

“I like a prudent man. Good, come along.” He glanced at his watch. “We have some time. Let us spend it getting acquainted.”

“Sounds like the thing to do,” said Brook. “I want another coffee.” He squirmed up to the bar.

Krylov was surveying him with a smile. “You’re American, of course.”

“Sure thing.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Not really. I know your name from the blackboard.”

“I am cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Tokyo.”

“Oh? Glad to meet you, Mr. Krylov.”

“You do not disapprove?”

“Disapprove? What the hell for?”

Krylov shrugged a Slavic shrug. “Some Americans become emotional at the discovery.”

Brook laughed. “Not me. Anyway, there’s no politics in sailing, I always say.”

“I am happy to hear it.” Krylov glanced at the man in the wicker chair. He wanted me to see that, Brook thought, and wondered why.

Brook promptly said, “Your friend?”

“My chauffeur,” Krylov said with another shrug. “You know the diplomatic services. Or perhaps you do not. My embassy prefers that we do not drive ourselves. This seems to be especially important in the Orient, with its preoccupation with face. And Volodya takes his duties seriously, sometimes too seriously for my taste. He does not allow me out of his sight.” He chuckled at bureaucracy everywhere. Was it a warning? A feeler? Brook could not decide. Krylov said suddenly, “But you, Mr. Brook. Is this your first visit to Japan?”

“I’m on a business trip this time,” Brook said. He recited his legend about manufacturing sailboats. It seemed to satisfy Krylov. He’s a good one, Brook thought. He reacts to subtleties like an honest man. Not that, if Brook were an agent, Krylov would expect to fool him. These were the traditional gambits, tried and proved in ten thousand deadly games.

“We do not sail much for sport in my country,” the Russian said, shrugging again. “I was bitten by the bug, as you Americans say, when I was sent abroad. Now I am completely infected. It is difficult to explain the mania to others, is it not? I have a theory about this. Sailing is partly art, partly science. It appeals to a man with an interest in both.”

“You may be right at that,” Brook said. “In designing a boat you can construct a line — the sheer line along the deck, for instance — according to a mathematical equation, but it somehow never comes out as well as the line you draw by eye.”

The conversation took this pleasant tack for some time. Krylov was well-informed; he knew how to listen, and he made sensible responses. Like most sexless male conversations, this one wandered. The Russian skimmed a number of subjects, from vintage wines to the proper ammo for big-game hunting. Brook noticed only a trace of what General Levashev had mentioned in his briefing — that Krylov was just a little eager to show off his knowledge of the leisurely life. He embraced the role of dilettante as though to prove that a Soviet Russian could become a cultivated man as well as anyone if he set his mind to it.

If it was Krylov’s weakness, it had its advantages. In a remarkably short time they had established a rapport. On guard as he always was, Brook found himself liking the fellow nevertheless; he sensed, suspiciously at first, and then with conviction, that Krylov liked him. They quite naturally began calling each other “Alex” and “Peter.” I’ll really have to watch my step with this operator, Brook thought. Observing and weighing Krylov’s charm at close range, he saw that the Russian’s value to his service must be considerable. All he had to do was mix with the foreign community; sooner or later his charm, his ease of manner, his man-of-the-world air, his cultural and scientific catholicity, would loosen tongues. He must pick up a great deal of information.

They drifted with the others down to the breakwater, where an attendant in a launch ferried them out to the boat to which they had been assigned.

“Number Thirteen.” Krylov grinned. “Are you superstitious, Peter?”

“I’m a realist,” Brook said solemnly. “That ought to meet with approval in your country.”

“Officially, of course. But at heart we Russians are creatures of sentiment. That makes us unpredictable. It is an advantage.”

An opening? It would not be hard to turn the subject of national traits into a discussion of national ideologies, and then to drop a hint about Krylov’s reputed desire to defect. But Brook resisted the temptation. It was too early for that. If he pushed too hard, Krylov might smell a trap and shy off. It was a matter of timing, of sensing the moment when Krylov would be most vulnerable.

As they rigged the boat, Krylov watched him frankly. Brook raised the jib and reminded him to put the battens into the main. Without being told, he pushed the boom down at the tack to tighten the mainsail, then fastened the downhaul smartly on the cleat.

Krylov beamed. “It is good to have a sailor aboard. I was furious when I heard Jan could not come.”

“Jan?”

“Jan Quackernack, my regular crewman. It was very strange, what happened to him. As I mentioned, he was attacked by a Japanese — at least he was in Japanese clothing — near his house. Jan was knocked unconscious, but not robbed.”

“You mean it’s strange because he wasn’t robbed?” That’s going to cost you, Benny, Brook told himself grimly. It was an unforgivable oversight.

“No, no, the man might have been frightened off by some passerby.” Brook felt relieved. “No, Jan told me on the telephone that the ruffian rendered him unconscious with a karate blow. I ask you, Peter, what ordinary hooligan is familiar with karate?”

“In Japan?” Brook said innocently. “I thought every Japanese knew karate?”

“That is not so, although it is widely believed in the West. And then there was the matter of Jan’s arm. It was broken.”

“Oh, your friend probably broke it when he fell down.”

“Perhaps.” Krylov did not sound convinced. Damn, Benny should have taken the guy’s wallet. “Jan does not remember how that happened.”

“Does it matter, Alex?”

Krylov laughed. “To a Russian everything matters. Especially strange things in a foreign country. It is like catching a misstep in the ballet. Or a false note.”

“But what could be wrong?”

“If I knew, my friend, I would not be wondering about it.” Krylov glanced at the sails, then shrugged, sat down, and took the tiller. “We can move now,” he said abruptly. Brook threw off the bowline and backwinded the jib to bring the boat around on its course.

They sailed in silence out of the small basin to sea, where other boats were already coasting up and down, their skippers trying them out before the first warning signals. Brook sat on a thwart and manipulated the backstays and jib sheets, trimming the small forward sail constantly so that it drew just the right amount of wind.

He was thinking: Maybe we goofed in taking Quackernack out. Benny for using karate, and not robbing the guy, myself for not cautioning Benny beforehand. Krylov was sharp, and they should have allowed for it. He might have mentioned the incident to let me know he knows who I am and just what’s going on. To throw me off balance? If that was his purpose, damn him, he’s succeeded.

To the eye Brook and Krylov were in close communion. Brook saw immediately that Krylov was a superb sailor, ruthlessly competitive. Although they were merely making their way to the starting line, the Russian insisted on the finest possible trim with each changing puff. He was dedicated to the main point of pleasure sailing, which was to move the boat economically and beautifully.

The first warning flag rose on the committe launch’s short mast. Krylov pointed to it, and Brook nodded.

“Practice start,” Krylov said. “You have a stopwatch?”

Brook tapped the Rolex on his wrist.

“What I shall try today is a start to the right of the committee boat. Twenty-five seconds on a broad reach, ten seconds to jibe, then twenty-five seconds to return to the mark on a close reach. We will be on the starboard tack when we cross.”

“We’d better not overshoot or undershoot. We’ll never get in.”

“I know, I know.” Krylov smiled. “It is a risk, but that is how one wins, is it not? By taking risks?”

“Sometimes,” Brook smiled back. And wondered again if Krylov was giving him an opening. It’s that damned Russian accent, he thought. Or my conditioning to it. He decided to play hard to get a little longer.

They joined the boats milling about near the line and practiced Krylov’s tactic. The perfect start would be to cross at the crack of the gun. If they crossed early they would have to turn around and cross again; in this case the other boats would have right of way, making it difficult to get back fast. On the other hand, if they came to the line too late, the others would have the advantage of a head start. Krylov handled his boat skillfully in the tryout and they reached the line again fifty-two seconds after they had left it. “All right,” Krylov said with satisfaction. “Twenty-two seconds out, eight seconds to jibe, twenty-two back. That should do it if the wind does not change.”

Brook lost himself in their preparations for the race. Krylov was keeping a sharp eye on the warning flags as they changed, putting the boat through several maneuvers; at one point he had Brook crawl forward and give the forestay turnbuckle another turn.

Once Brook glanced toward shore. Sure enough, there was the squat figure of Volodya, the “chauffeur,” silhouetted on the breakwater.

He kept calling the time, and on the tick of the final warning flag’s rise they were racing away from the committee launch and the fleet; most of the other boats were using the orthodox tactic of sailing to leeward at right angles to the starting line. He divided his attention between his stopwatch and the trim of the jib. At twenty-two seconds Krylov jibed the boat like a master and headed back. Brook called off the seconds. Judging the rapidly decreasing distance to the line, Krylov slowed or accelerated by letting the mainsail in or out. His performance was astonishing: at the last moments Brook thought they would cross the line early, but in a lightning maneuver Krylov swung to windward and back again. His final pull on the helm and mainsheet, while Brook swiftly brought the jib in tight, put them in close-hauled, with their bow only a few feet from the starting line.

The gun went off.

They were first across, showing their tail to the nearest boat by many yards. For some time to come Krylov would stay on his present course, the first leg of the tacking route to the buoy.

“Very nice, comrade,” Brook said with absolute sincerity.

“Thank you.” Krylov’s grin was shy.

On his way to the first mark he not only held their lead but lengthened it. Brook busied himself trimming the jib and changing it whenever Krylov called for a tack. The Russian maneuvered their zigzag course so that they were able to round the buoy by tacking rather than jibing. In an incredibly short time they were skimming across the wind on their reaching leg, the boat’s fastest point of sailing. She was heeled over now, her lee rail awash, and Brook and Krylov leaned far out to windward to balance her.

“This is living!” Krylov cried.

“For me, too!”

“I began sailing in Denmark. The first time, the very first time, it excited me. I was overwhelmed. I looked about at the sea, the world, and I said, ‘What have I been missing? This is for me!’”

“That’s the way we capitalists get you guys,” Brook said gaily. Might as well take the plunge now. The moment felt right. “It can’t have been the only thing that grabbed you about the West.”

Krylov laughed. “Certainly not. I have been seduced in many ways. Here, out of range of ears human and electronic, I admit it freely. To a sailor like you I do not mind saying such a thing. In confidence, of course.”

“Of course.” Brook looked at him. “Could be you’ve found the right man to talk to, Alex.”

It appeared to Brook that the Russian was not surprised. “What does that mean, Mr. Brook?” he asked. There was nothing to be squeezed out of his voice.

“It was Peter a minute ago.”

“Now, I think, it should be Mr. Brook. Until we have developed this curious dialogue.” Krylov’s blue eyes remained on him. “What did that remark mean?”

Here goes. “We’ve been trying to get to you for some time, Alex. You had an appointment a while back with a man named Wilkinson. That appointment was never kept.”

He watched Krylov closely, without subterfuge. The Slavic face showed no more than his voice. “You are this Wilkinson’s surrogate?”

“Talk plainer English than that.”

“You are from his apparat?”

Brook smiled. “You must have known, when you started dropping hints here and there months ago, that they’d get back to us. My hunch is you’ve been waiting for somebody like me to show up.”

Krylov worked the tiller and mainsheet. When he turned back to Brook there was the faintest crease between his heavy brows. “You have some identification?”

“Oh, come on, Alex.”

Krylov was silent.

“You’ll just have to take my word for it. If you want something badly enough, you’ve got to take risks — isn’t that what you said a few minutes ago? This is it, Alex. Put up or shut up.”

Krylov muttered, “In one I lose a race. In the other my life.”

“Maybe this will help. At the Canadian Embassy garden party on September tenth last year, you had a chat with Major General Buey of the United States Air Force. No one else was near; no one not officially informed could possibly know of the conversation. You expressed admiration for the United States and said to the General — I’m quoting — ‘Perhaps some day I shall be able to visit your country, for a long time, without restrictions. It would depend, of course, on what opportunities develop.’”

“Yes,” Krylov said. “Yes.”

“General Buey reported your words, and a special file was started on you. I couldn’t possibly know about it if I weren’t what I represent myself to be.”

He saw Krylov swallow.

Poor bastard. He was laying his life on the line, all right.

Brook waited patiently to let him think it out. He would have done the same thing. He might well be an agent from Krylov’s side, sent to lure the “attaché” into a treasonable admission.

“Stand by to jibe!” yelled Krylov.

Brook looked around and saw that they were at the second buoy. Krylov turned the boat and Brook brought the jib over to the right side. He was glad that these smaller boats were raced without spinnakers; he would have time to talk instead of fighting to put up a billowing sail. In a moment, Krylov had the boat on its new course, running with the wind slightly over the starboard quarter. Yards behind them several other boats were just beginning to approach the mark they had rounded.

“There were other occasions when you made similar remarks,” said Brook. “I can repeat them to you—”

“It will not be necessary.” Krylov squinted back at their pursuers and took a breath of the salt and neutral air. Brook felt a twinge — half satisfaction, half regret. He really liked the guy. It was like seeing a man spit in his mother’s face. She could be a bitch, but she was still his mother. He smiled at himself. Bourgeois sentimentality, the old Krylov would have called it. Something stronger and saltier in Holloway’s damnation. “For some reason I find myself wishing to tell you a very long story. How I became disenchanted with the rigors of Communist life, the fears that followed like Siberian wolves, the suffocation of — why should I not say it? — the soul. How I struggled to understand what was happening to me, why I wished to come over to your side—” he shrugged “—defect. Defector. It is like saying ‘traitor.’ But it is not treason to my country, only to its system of government. I prefer the other term.”

“Plenty of time for that,” Brook said. “Right now we’d better start making arrangements.”

“Not yet, Mr. Brook,” Krylov said. “Not quite yet. There are several points that must be laid down first. Let us call them conditions.”

“All right. Shoot.”

“Perhaps we need that long story after all,” Krylov said. “At least its denouement. There is a difference between thinking of taking such a step and actually taking it — a very great difference, my friend. For each temptation a man succumbs to, he resists a hundred. This is not romanticism, it is a fact of life — anyone’s life. And when the contemplated act has such enormity as this, there must be a more immediate temptation than ideology.”

“Oh,” Brook said. “A woman.”

“Yes,” Krylov said. “I fell in love.”

“Oh?” Brook said again.

“You smile. Do not smile like that at me again, Mr. Brook, Ever.” There was a thickness in Krylov’s voice, a furry savagery, that raised Brook’s hackles. “Do you think we do not fall in love in the Soviet Union? I assure you we are as intense and energetic in such matters as the Italians, and with much greater depth. And sometimes with catastrophic results. That is what has happened to me. I have managed to fall in love beyond reason. Her name is Kimiko. She is a hostess at a nightclub in Tokyo. She is — beautiful. I have no other word.”

“You don’t need one,” Brook said. “I’ve seen her photo. It’s in your folder. I apologize, Alex. We thought it was one of those things. We didn’t know it was serious.”

“Your people are thorough.”

“So are yours.”

“Yes. Well. Then you know. It would be impossible for me to take Kimiko back to the Soviet Union. It would not be permitted. Besides—” he hesitated, then laughed “—I already have a wife in Moscow. Her uncle is high in one of the ministries. We made a marriage of convenience many years ago. She resembles a Mongolian pony — stubborn and bad-tempered. I will not miss her, she will not miss me. She will no doubt say that I am insane and a capitalist spy, and that she was about to denounce me.”

“So you figured you can take Kimiko with you to the United States.”

Krylov nodded. “The Japanese government would not grant me asylum, I think; they are anxious to promote good relations with the Kremlin. So it was this that finally settled the matter in my mind. Therefore my conditions: For me to come over to your side, your side must agree to bring Kimiko Ohara to the United States. It must be arranged so that we can remain together. Secondly — if you will forgive the capitalist note — the means for a comfortable existence in your country must be provided for us.”

“What do you mean by a comfortable existence, exactly?”

“So. We bargain.”

“No. I have to know what you have in mind.”

“Whatever it is you are paid by your government per annum, plus fifty percent.”

“All right. You know, Alex, I can’t agree to your conditions. I can only pass them along. You understand that.”

“Of course.”

“Now, for arrangements—”

“No,” said Krylov. “I will not discuss the matter further until I am given assurances that my conditions will be met.”

“Fair enough,” Brook said with a frown, “but it complicates our problem. I mean, we might not have another chance to talk alone like this.”

“Granted. It will be difficult. If we tried to sail together again I think it would be once too much. They are watching me — of late more closely. It could be that they already suspect my loyalty. So that it will not do to plan, for example, on my walking into your embassy and asking asylum. I would almost certainly be killed before I reached your doorstep.”

“Then why don’t you—?”

“No,” Krylov said. “My conditions first.”

“All right, all right.”

“Then there must be a plan, and it will have to be a clever plan.”

“I’ll come up with something.”

“Very well. When will you know the answer?”

“It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

“Then let us plan to meet here at Katori Spa next Saturday. We shall have to be careful. I must ask that you do not make any attempt whatever to get in touch with me before then, either yourself, through an emissary, or by any sort of message.”

“Understood.”

“One thing more. You must see Kimiko for me. Under the circumstances it would not be wise for me to go to her nightclub again. It must look like a mere passing affair — it is quite important that my people should believe that it is over. You must tell Kimiko to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. She will understand. We have discussed it many times.”

“You’re sure it’s wise to let her know so much, Alex?”

Krylov shrugged. “I would stake my life on it. In fact, Peter, that is what I am doing.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. The boat behind them was gaining. Krylov reached forward to push the boom of the mainsail out another inch.

Brook adjusted the jib and glanced toward the finish line, which extended from the committee launch to an orange buoy, and beyond it to the breakwater that jutted out from shore. In the distance he could just make out Volodya’s dark suit on the jetty. There were twin glints of reflected sun in the area of the man’s eyes. Krylov’s shadow had a pair of binoculars trained on their boat. He hoped fervently that the man was not a lip reader.