Quiller Salamander

15: FOOTSTEPS

It was just after six in the evening when the Russian came down the stairs and looked around him and walked across the lobby to the bar.

I got up from the table in the corner and went over to him.

'Boris Slavsky!' I said. He turned to look at me. I was holding my drink, to let him know he wasn't expected to shake hands. 'Voss,' I told him, 'Andrei Voss.' In Russian I said, 'You don't know me, but I've heard of you, of course.' He watched me with great attention, a touch of suspicion in his pale clear eyes, which didn't surprise me. He wasn't a man who liked to be heard of by strangers. He smelled strongly of a mediocre cologne; I'd caught it when he and Colonel Choen had gone up the staircase earlier in the day, and that was why I hadn't come here alone this evening.

'Would you care to join us?' I half turned to look across the room. 'We're at the table in the corner.'

Slavsky looked in that direction, then back at me, a token smile touching his mouth. 'Why not?'

'You want to order your drink here, or at the table?'

'I'm in no hurry.'

I led him across the room. 'Gabrielle, this is Boris Slavsky, from Moscow.' He looked down at her, the smile more relaxed. 'Gabrielle Bouchard,' I told him, 'from Paris.'

She held out a hand and he leaned over and kissed it; he was a big man, would be broad-shouldered even without the padding in the flashy tropical suit, made, I would think, in the Czech Republic. Forty, forty-five, starting to brush his hair carefully across the scalp, his face also broad, Slav, the cheekbones prominent, the mouth full, predatory in Gabrielle's presence, but would become hard if he were challenged, would sneer, watching the death of an opponent. I didn't know Boris Slavsky but I knew his type, had worked with people like this, had worked sometimes as one of them. I knew his name because it had been in the hotel register when I'd booked a room here just after he had gone upstairs with Colonel Choen.

'Is she for rent?' he asked me as he sat down. He was still looking attentively at Gabrielle.

'I don't know,' I told him, 'I only met her this morning. But I doubt it — she works for a top French magazine.' He hadn't noticed her camera, slung from the back of her chair, but in any case he didn't really think she was a prostitute: she didn't look like one, and this wasn't the kind of hotel where they would sit with their clients. He just wanted to know if she understood Russian, had been watching her eyes for any reaction to his question, had been prepared, even, to get his face slapped. 'Boris says he's delighted to meet you,' I told Gabrielle in French, and she smiled nicely to him.

Having seen this man's flashy suit when he'd come out of the helicopter, and having smelled his eau de Red Square in the hotel lobby, I thought of visiting Gabrielle at the Catholic Mission, partly to know how she was and partly to tell her about the Russian visitor to Pouthisat. I told her I needed to meet him, and she agreed to help.

'I was afraid you might see it,' I said, 'as being asked to use yourself as bait.'

'How do you see it, then?'

'As using yourself as a weapon against Pol Pot.'

'Exactly. That's why I'll do it.'

So when Boris Slavsky had looked across the room at the table in the corner he'd seen Gabrielle sitting there in a raw silk sarong, one slender arm across the back of her chair, her head tilted as she watched him with her deep aquamarine eyes.

'What'll you drink?' I asked Slavsky now.

'Smirnov.,

'How?'

'Straight up.'

Gabrielle's Pernod was low in the glass so I ordered another one and two vodkas. 'Boris has just arrived,' I told her in French with a Russian accent, from Phnom Penh.' I glanced at Slavsky. 'How was the flight from Moscow?' I'd said that in French too, and he was looking blank, so I switched to Russian again. 'I'm sorry, I just thought we might talk in French as a courtesy to Gabrielle. I was asking how your flight was from Moscow.'

'How is any flight from Moscow, in a TU-154?'

Cagey as hell, didn't even admit he'd come from Moscow. I wasn't going to be wasting my time. He'd tested Gabrielle to see if he could speak Russian freely in front of her, and didn't admit to any French, so that I would feel free to say anything I liked to her, anything I didn't want him to understand. He was in the top echelon, I knew that — I'd been in signals with Pringle today. All the top arms dealers make it their business to swat up a bit of French, English, German, Spanish if it's not their native tongue; their trade is international and they don't want interpreters listening in.

Pringle had done well. I'd telephoned him from the post office, gone straight there after I'd booked in at the hotel. 'How soon can you contact Moscow?'

He couldn't have been ready for that but he didn't react, got straight on with it.

'I can go through the Russian telecommunications satellite direct, but it'll depend on the traffic.'

'I need an updated coverage of the top Russian arms dealers and their networks, particularly those who might be supplying or intending to supply our target.'

'Understood. This is interesting.'

'Yes.' A couple of Khmer Rouge rebels came in from the street cuddling their AK-47s and I turned to face the wall. 'A Russian flew in half an hour ago and he was met at the airfield by Colonel C. He's now booked in at the Hotel du Lac.' This amounted to interim debriefing, and yes, this time Pringle had something for London. 'Colonel C.,' I told him, 'was carrying an attache case, something like half a million US dollars in size. He left the hotel twenty minutes later, without the case.'

'What is the visitor's name?'

'He booked in as Boris Slavsky, and I've no reason to think it's a nom de geurre.' Arms dealers, especially those who wear flashy suits and eau de Red Square, are proud of their names and their reputations for selling megadeath in the marketplace.

'So you need information specifically on him.'

'Yes. By this evening if you can.'

'I shall make every endeavour.'

Pringlese for try like hell and we shut down the signal.

It took him less than two hours to contact our chief agent-in-place, Moscow, and when I phoned Pringle at six o'clock he had what I wanted, even down to a recent bit of scandal concerning Slavsky's involvement with one Fifi Dufoix, the daughter of the French ambassador to Spain: Slavsky had jumped, of necessity, from a third-floor balcony right into a garbage truck to avoid the attentions of her fiance, a national hero of the bullring at that moment murderously enraged. This I would use, but the main briefing concerned the Dmitrovich organization.

'I heard on the grapevine,' I told Slavsky now, 'that you'd be coming to town.'

He swung his head away from watching Gabrielle, and his eyes changed, blanked off. 'Which grapevine?' I knew he'd have to ask: there could have been a leak, and leaks are unwelcome in any extensive enterprise, can wreck a deal, cost money.

'There are so many grapevines,' I said, 'aren't there?' I turned to Gabrielle and said in French, 'Would you excuse us? This is business, and Boris doesn't have any French.'

'But of course.'

She was sitting stiffly in her chair, and Slavsky noticed. 'She's had an injury?' he asked me.

'Apparently she was getting a heavy video-camera off a shelf, and it swung down and bruised a rib.'

'She's a beautiful woman.'

'Isn't she? I wish I could see more of her, but I'm flying out tomorrow, and I don't want to spend tonight — you know — getting involved.' I spread my hands flat on the table. 'So many grapevines, we were saying, weren't we? Look, I'm with Dmitrovich.' I waited, watching him.

His eyes didn't change. 'Who is he?'

I sat back, leaving my hands on the table, ignoring his question. He knew the Dmitrovich group perfectly well — they controlled almost half the underground arms trade in Russia. 'The thing is,' I said, 'your client approached us first for what he needed, but our price was too rich for his blood. As you know, we choose not to be competitive, since we can always guarantee the supply and can often obtain merchandise difficult for others to acquire. Also, your client gets his pocket-money from Beijing, but that's about all it is. So, frankly, when we heard you were meeting his proposals, Dmitrovich was quite pleased.' I leaned forward again. 'It's in our interests that this particular client succeeds in reversing the status quo in Cambodia — or should I say Kampuchea? — and we're quite confident that you'll be able to help him.'

I let him think about that, and turned to Gabrielle, saying in French, 'Even if you could understand us you'd be just as bored, business being business in any language.'

'I'm not bored,' she said with a smile. 'I'm playing a game, picking out the das and the nyets, which are the only words I know. He seems a very nice man,' she added.

I'd briefed her at the mission that Slavsky spoke French but might pretend otherwise. She knew he understood what she'd just said, and that was why she'd said it.

'He's interesting,' I nodded, 'yes. Women find him attractive. Excuse us again.' I looked at Slavsky and switched to Russian. 'She's quite taken with you, I think. And by the way, you know who I ran into last week in Madrid? Little Fifi Dufoix! She married that awful matador fellow, did you hear?'

His eyes changed now. He could have killed me. Some men might have laughed it off, seen the funny side of it by this time, but not this one, not Boris Slavsky; he didn't like to have people picture him wallowing among the ripe and reeking contents of a Spanish garbage truck. But the mention of little Fifi had done its job, as I knew by the next thing he said.

'If you people turned down my client's offer in the first place, why has Dmitrovich sent you to Cambodia?'

Gloves off now.

'I wasn't actually sent. It was my own idea to come here.' Leaning forward again: 'As I say, we have every confidence in you, but as you know as well as I do, accidents happen — the source suddenly dries up, or official suspicion is aroused, supply lines are compromised, even the weather can be a problem: remember when our group was trying to deliver some goods to Serbia a couple of years ago and the transports ran into mud slides because of the rain?'

'That was Plechikov?'

I looked at him steadily, frowning.

'Plechikov?'

'Running that assignment.'

I shook my head. 'We haven't got any Plechikov with us.'

We watched each other. He'd left it late, and I'd started waiting for it, listening for it — a word or a name thrown in to check me out. I was on to it at once because it was a stock trick: he knew there was no one working with Dmitrovich called Plechikov, and so did I.

'Someone else,' he said at last.

'Actually,' I said, 'it was me. Mud up to our ears, I can tell you — and you know what those fucking Serbs tried to do to us? They gave us counterfeit German Marks!'

He lifted his head an inch, levelling his eyes. 'So somebody got shot?'

'How well you know us,' I said softly. 'Two of them, in fact, the minister and his aide. Dmitrovich offered me the pleasure of taking care of it personally.' In a moment he looked down, having seen enough of what I'd put into my eyes for his attention. 'But anyway,' I said, 'you get my point, I'm sure: in any enterprise, however well-managed — as I know yours always are — there can be problems. And I am here, with Dmitrovich's approval, to offer you our full support should you need it at any time.'

In a moment: 'Why?' He didn't like this. The door-to-door megadeath salesmen don't support one another, they cut one another's throats, and everybody knows where they are.

I shrugged. 'If you fall down on it, we'll pick it up and deliver. At your price.'

'Why at my price?'

'Because we want this man to succeed, so we don't mind losing a little on the deal. If he succeeds, he won't stop there. With Beijing's encouragement he'll catch North Vietnam vacillating between sucking up to the Americans for favoured-nation status, with all it implies, and going ahead in the caves and cellars concocting their very first little nuclear bomb. Then there'll be South Vietnam in your client's sights.' Hands flat on the table again, my voice almost down to a whisper. 'Can you imagine how much joy it would give that man to destroy the very nation that drove him out of Cambodia?' I sat back. 'But you know all this, Slavsky. As a lackey of Beijing this client of yours could create a Communist block in South-east Asia at a time when the West is desperate to establish democracy here on China's doorstep. We don't see this man as just another sadistic terrorist still ambitious to kill off another million peasants; once he's got real power in his hands he'll rise to the occasion politically and of course ideologically — and he'll need real toys to protect his new territories, not just the bundle of surface-to-surface missiles you're selling him now. And with the huge treasure-chest of merchandise still stockpiled in Russia and Ukraine — conventional and nuclear — we're looking at a brand new and rapidly-developing market, and that is what interests Dmitrovich.'

Above us the ceiling fans stirred the tobacco smoke, and moths began tracing the air with gold under the flickering lights; through the windows the sky was blood-red as the long day neared its end. I hadn't taken much of a risk when I'd talked about a bundle of surface-to-surface missiles: if Pot Pot wanted to take over this country again he could only do it by threatening the capital, and since he'd failed to do it politically he had to do it by a show of force and from a distance, and a cluster of short-range missiles was the perfect tool.

Slavsky drained his vodka and I signalled the boy. Gabrielle's glass was still full, and so was mine — something that Slavsky hadn't noticed yet, but if he did, he'd comment: for a Russian to sit in front of a glass of vodka for more than five minutes was almost an outrage. I would tell him, if necessary, that I'd eaten some uncooked vegetables here and my stomach was queasy. Tonight I had work to do.

'Will your friend,' Gabrielle asked me, 'be staying overnight?'

'I'm not sure, but I should think so. He can't get a plane to Phnom Penh at this hour in any case, otherwise I'd be on it myself — regrettably.' I gave her a rueful smile. 'He might speak a bit of English, by the way — would you like me to ask him?'

'Perhaps.'

The boy was coming up in his rubber flip-flops, and I ordered a single vodka. Slavsky was staring into his empty glass, his strong thick fingers turning it slowly round. I didn't interrupt him, and in a moment he looked up.

'It sounds like a threat,' he said.

'What does?'

Your offer to "pick things up and make a delivery" if I can't manage it.'

I leaned back, raising my hands to shoulder-level, palms towards him and fingers spread. 'My dear Boris, if we'd wanted to move in on your deal we would have done so before now. Be logical.'

He turned his large head away to watch the sundown in the windows, turned it back to watch the innocence in my eyes. 'How soon could you deliver the merchandise,' he asked, 'if something went wrong with my own plans?'

I shrugged. 'Almost immediately. We've got underground stockpiles of stuff like that all over the place, as I'm sure you know. But you don't need to worry yourself over — '

'And what kind of accident would you think I might have, that would prevent delivery?' He was forgetting to leave his eyes blank now, was concerned, defensive.

I leaned forward. 'Look, all you need consider is how much my group stands to profit in the long run from your client's success, and you'll understand — I very much hope — that Dmitrovich is more than happy to see you deliver on time by the nineteenth, without impediment. Tell me, have you ever met him?'

'Dmitrovich?'

'Yes.'

'I've not had that pleasure.' His sense of humour was surfacing, and I noted it.

'He's tough,' I said. 'Dmitrovich is very tough. You know that. But he's prone to indulge himself, and for him to watch over your successful enterprise out here as a kind of benevolent patron is rather attractive to him. The bear that refrains from cuffing the badger is simply demonstrating his greater strength — if you'll forgive the analogy.'

'Well, yes, that I can believe. He's an arrogant bastard — if you'll forgive the description.'

I laughed generously, and it wasn't difficult. The breakthrough I'd made was holding up, and if this man wasn't yet convinced I was a potential ally he seemed to be getting close. But we'd reached the point where it could be dangerous to push things, and as the boy brought Slavsky's drink I looked at my watch and then at Gabrielle. 'As you can tell, we've finished our business.'

'Did it go well?'

'We needed to reach an understanding, and I think we've done that. He's a good man to negotiate with. But I'm feeling a bit under the weather — I ate some raw vegetables at lunch time, which was pretty stupid, and I'm ready for an early night. Would you like me to leave you in Boris's good care, or shall I see you to your hotel?'

She turned away to look across the table for a moment, a mischievous smile on her mouth. 'Perhaps he might ask me to dinner,' she said, 'who knows?'

'I'm damned if I like sitting this one out, but I wouldn't be much company, the way I'm feeling. How long will you be in Pouthisat?'

'For quite a while. I'm here on a photographic assignment.'

'Then maybe I can see you again.'

'I'd like that,' she said.

I looked at Slavsky and switched back to Russian. 'So let's leave it like that, Boris. If you come up against any problem with delivery, I'll be there to help.'

'How will you know?'

I smiled. 'I shall know because I'm here on what we might call a watching brief.'

'You've got your spies out.'

'Oh my dear fellow, that sounds so uncharitable. Do you speak English, by the way?'

'When necessary.'

'That's a good answer, because the lady was asking just now If you're in town overnight.'

'And what did you say, since you know so much?'

I laughed again. 'I told her there are no more planes in any case. She also suggested you might be in the mood to ask her to dinner. I'm out of the running, as I mentioned.' He swung his heavy gaze to Gabrielle. 'But you'll have to do better,' I told him, 'than "the cat sat on the mat", or there won't be much conversation.'

Leaning towards Gabrielle he said in careful English, 'It would give me greatest pleasure if you may have dinner with me tonight.'

I got up, leaving some money for the drinks on the table as Gabrielle said in pleased surprise, 'I'd be delighted.'

'You're a dark horse, Boris,' I said, 'your English is better than mine. The best restaurant in this dump is Les Deux Magots, by the way, and I recommend the escargots and the coq au vin — but for God's sake don't eat any salad or anything else uncooked. Have a nice evening, and don't worry about a single thing.' I kissed Gabrielle's hand and said in English, not to be outdone, 'It is nice for me when I may see you again.'

'Au plaisir, m'sieur.'

The clock over the bar was at twenty past six when I left, and I was stationed in cover not far from the hotel entrance an hour later when Slavsky and Gabrielle came out and climbed into a cyclo, sitting side by side as it started off in the direction of Les Deux Magots.

It was a simple tumbler lock on the door of Room 27 and I went inside and left it half open, going across to the window and opening that too, looking down. There was a drop of eight or nine feet onto a pile of what looked like empty crates outside the back entrance, be a noisy exit and I'd have to watch I didn't get a foot stuck between the broken slats when I landed, would cost precious time, but there was no yard wall or anything to stop a clear run if I needed one.

From the distance a bell tolled in one of the temples, like the incessant chiming of a clock; the relative cool of the evening crept into the stifling warmth of the room; through the plaster-and-lattice wall came the faint sound of voices, Asian by their tone.

There was a flashlight on the bed table and I used that instead of putting the lights on, found Slavsky's midnight-blue silk dressing-gown and hung it from the top hinge of the half-open door to cover the narrow gap. Then the bathroom: Slavsky wasn't an espion, wouldn't have had any training in clandestine operations, hadn't shown himself to be terribly bright this evening in the bar, was simply a man who shipped munitions out and took the money home, but he might have learned that the underneath of the toilet cistern cover and the space between the bathtub and the wall are the only places where you can hope to hide anything from the amateurs.

Nothing there.

I didn't know how long I had. I'd briefed Gabrielle to avoid putting any questions to Slavsky as to what he did for a living, simply to accept the standard cover he'd give her — that of an import-export agent. But at some stage he might think she'd been set up to coax information out of him, and that would put an end to their cosy little evening and he'd be back in this hotel in a panic trying to find a vacant line to his base in Moscow — have you heard of a man called Voss who's meant to be working with the Dmitrovich group? He would also be through that doorway over there at a run to make sure the attache case was still where he'd left it.

I checked for hairs drawn taut across the gaps between the tops of the drawers in the dressing-table, found none; the telephone directory wasn't lined up in any particular way on the bedside table, didn't have one corner exactly at the edge or anything; there were no match-ends anywhere, balanced on movable surfaces, no little traps of any kind. I hadn't expected them — again, Slavsky wasn't an espion, didn't imagine anyone in Pouthisat would search his room; but I had to take the most extreme care while I was here, because if I left any sign of intrusion he'd telephone Moscow and change his plans for delivery and we wouldn't know what they were.

We wouldn't necessarily know what they were now: I could come away with nothing, draw blank.

A great deal would depend on Gabrielle Bouchard. I wouldn't have stood a chance of getting Slavsky to open up in the bar this evening without the distraction she had offered to dull his thinking; I wasn't sure I would even have approached him, despite the in-depth briefing I'd had from Moscow via Pringle. But with Gabrielle there it had gone off well enough — I'd got Slavsky at least to admit, however tacitly, that he was running arms to the Khmer Rouge. And at this moment Gabrielle was still working for the cause, keeping the Russian amused while I checked the drawers, the cupboards, the hidden spaces in the room, coming up with only toys so far: Madonna's Greatest Hits on cassette, a plastic sachet of hard-porn photographs, a packet of exotic condoms with stars and stripes, an American DP51 high-capacity 9mm pistol, a half-empty flask of Smirnov.

The attache case was under the chest of drawers, pushed right back so that it didn't show: Slavsky hadn't trusted the hotel safe and didn't want to attract attention by carrying the thing around in a town where a kid's piggy-bank would be an instant target.

Bundles of banknotes, denomination 500 Swiss francs, nothing underneath them. I shut the case and slid it back against the wall. If Slavsky had -

Footsteps and I froze.

They were on the stairs, climbing. Not, I thought, hurrying, but then a man as big as Slavsky might have been told not to hurry up any stairs, not to surprise the heart: cardiac arrest was the leading cause of death among the top international arms dealers.

Climbing the stairs and reaching the passage now.

The window exit was an option only if I'd finished here, and I hadn't. The other option was to stay in the room and take Slavsky and give him to Pringle, have one of his agents-in-place grill the Russian to the point of death, suck him dry if he'd talk at all.

So I moved across the floorboards, placing my feet in time with the footsteps of the man out there to give them sound cover, and stood behind the door.

He sounded heavy, a heavy man. If he were Boris Slavsky his footsteps would slow as he saw the door was halfway open. The 9mm in the drawer might not be his only weapon; if he had something on him he would draw it, seeing the door like this. I hoped it wasn't Slavsky out there: to take him would simply be an alternative to letting him take me, and it would undo everything I was here to do, even if I had him grilled, even if he talked. We needed him to go ahead with his plans for delivery: it was the only way we could hope to stop them.

A cricket was singing somewhere outside the building, and as I waited, listening to the footsteps, I saw a flickering against the wall over there in the gloom as a salamander came in through the open window, tracing a shadow across the plaster.

There was no mirror in the room. The man out there wouldn't know where I was — wouldn't know there was anyone here at all — until he came right through the doorway, and by that time I would see his hand with the gun in it, if he had one with him, and that was all I would need, this close, say three feet from my sword-hand to his wrist.

The footsteps weren't slowing, but he wasn't yet within five or six doors of this one, wouldn't have noticed from that distance and in the wan flickering light out there that this one was open.

He might of course make a dramatic Drug Enforcement Agency entrance, hitting the door wide open and going into the shooting stance and yelling freeze. If he did that I'd have to move, and very fast; it could even be a little dangerous if he began sweeping the gun from this angle, be a matter of half a second to work in, all I'd get.

Hadn't slowed, they hadn't slowed, the footsteps. And it's sometimes like this in the course of a given mission, where the whole outcome, success or failure, the executive's life or death, depends on something quite trivial: whether the opposition's vehicle is closing in at three kph or four at a max of ninety, whether the drop from a roof is too high to use without critical injury, whether the footsteps along a corridor in the heat of the night are slowing, or simply coming on at a steady pace.

Signal: The night hasn't gone well, but for what it's worth I've taken a prisoner. There'd be one of his bloody silences on the line. They think you don't feel anything, the directors in the field, when things go wrong.

If this was Slavsky coming it wouldn't be Gabrielle's fault; she had what the recruiting desk at the Bureau calls 'espion-like qualities,' an eye for shadows, reflections, artifice in a man's walk; an ear for echoes, footsteps, deception in a man's tone. Nothing of this was manifest in her; I simply recognized it as a mirror image — or I could never have asked her to help me with Slavsky.

Now they were slowing, the footsteps, as the man out there reached the door of his room, or noticed the door of this one, half open.

Slowing.

I relaxed my legs, let my right arm hang loose, shook the tension out of the fingers like shaking water off, watched the floor where his shadow would come when he reached the doorway, breathed deeply, slowly, let the nerves receive the automatic signals from the brain — that in a little while, perhaps in fifteen seconds, ten, the organism might be required to undertake action at maximum speed and with maximum force — let the understanding build in the autonomic nervous system that copious quantities of adrenalin might be needed at an instant's notice to fire the muscles, waiting, I was waiting now through the final count-down until suddenly the man was standing in the doorway, his shadow reaching across the floor.

I listened to his breathing.

'Tae mien nehna tii non te?'

Then the shadow of his arm moved, lifting, and I felt the rush of adrenalin come surging through the system as the mind took a millisecond to rehearse the action of the sword-hand swinging up, power-driven from the heel through the hip, the shoulder, the entire organism now taut as a drawn bow as the hand of the man moved to the door and he closed it and went on his way along the passage, a janitor, security guard, someone like that, finding a door open and closing it, a trivial function of his duties done.

It took me less than ten minutes more to find what I hoped I would find, and as I stood looking at it in the beam of the flashlight with the unused adrenalin still shaking the muscles and souring the mouth, I saw that here, yes, I had the specific information Pringle had asked me for at our first meeting at the airport in Phnom Penh: the objective for Salamander.