The Istanbul Decision

Eleven

Translated from the Hungarian, the sign in the dirt and stone plot that passed for a courtyard read: "Béla Kun Housing Project. Erected 1968. Western Hungarian People's Housing Collective." Beyond the sign stood six concrete rectangles, seven stories high, each rectangle composed of many smaller rectangles, each smaller rectangle with an iron balcony railing across it, and from each balcony railing a line of wash flapped in the late morning sunlight. It was Sunday, the family day. People milled on the sidewalk, and promenaded up and down the street, laughing and talking with neighbors and pushing baby carriages.

Carter sat in Roberta's Fiat, parked in a line of cars directly across from Building "A," his eyes sifting the movement on all sides of him, alert for anything unusual.

The grandmother was definitely here — Judit Konya, age ninety-three, first floor center — and she had received a message earlier in the day that had set up a bucket-brigade conversation between her apartment door and the phone because she was too old to make it to the end of the hall. Carter knew this thanks to a garrulous maintenance man with an acute appreciation of fine Hungarian wine who was not averse to receiving several bottles as a present in exchange for a little information.

And yet even though remembering the grandmother's name, then finding it in a phone book of thousands of Hungarian names — all of which began to look alike after a few pages — was a small triumph in itself, the mere fact that she was here was no guarantee Kobelev was coming. The longer Carter sat, the more he began to suspect he wasn't, and that in his zeal to find a chink in Kobelev 's armor, he had succeeded only in wasting more time, precious seconds that brought Cynthia closer and closer to the inevitable debriefing and execution deep in the bosom of Mother Russia.

He folded the newspaper he'd been using to cover his surveillance and got out of the car. A sick feeling in his stomach told him everything was going wrong. He put his hands in his pockets and walked resolutely to a small restaurant at the end of the block. Three old men playing ultimo on an upended crate stopped talking as he walked by, and he realized he was beginning to raise suspicions in the neighborhood, which only increased his uneasiness.

The owner-manager, a heavyset, round-faced man, was having an animated conversation with a young man at a back table in the otherwise empty room. He looked up as Carter walked in and gestured impatiently. Carter went to the counter to the phone. It was the fourth time this morning he'd made this call, and the ritual with the owner had abbreviated itself into a routine.

He was slipping, he told himself as his connection went through; he was getting sloppy. The whole block knew he was here, waiting for something, and that wasn't good. If he had any sense, he'd abandon this whole line of action.

"Nick?" Roberta Stewart was on the line.

"Anything yet?" he asked in Hungarian.

"The circus just got off. Isn't it funny how Kobelev thinks? He's kidnapped the entire train, won't let anybody off, yet he still feels he has to keep the passengers entertained. It's almost as if he's apologizing for the inconvenience."

"He's mad. I just hope his egomania proves his undoing," said Carter.

"Then there's nothing new on your end either?" she asked, a bit of anxiety spilling into her voice.

"Nothing."

"Listen, Nick, I've been thinking. Kobelev doesn't know me from Adam. He's got a whole slew of flower girls lined up here waiting to board. I could get one of those costumes real easy…"

"Absolutely not," said Carter, cutting her off.

"But Nick…"

"No, Commander. You've been outranked. I've changed my mind. You 're not to make any attempt to board that train. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," she said after a long hesitation.

"I don't want to hear any more of that kind of talk. I'm coming to the conclusion Kobelev is still on board and has no intention… wait a minute."

The sleek outline of a black Soviet-made Zil limousine with diplomatic tags suddenly appeared in the restaurant's plate-glass window.

"I think I'm getting a bite. I'll get back to you." Carter hung up and strode out the door. The limousine moved slowly up the street, stopping every few buildings.

Carter walked briskly back to the Fiat. The Luger was in the glove compartment. He got it out, pulled the ammunition clip from the handle, and began stuffing it with the cartridges he had in his pocket. These shells, along with all other firearm paraphernalia, were forbidden to private citizens of Hungary and finding them early on a Sunday morning had been a tribute to Roberta's seemingly endless connections on this side of the border.

The limousine jerked to a stop in front of Building «A» just as Carter finished loading the pistol. He pushed it into the holster he still wore at the small of his back, then got out of the car and walked off rapidly in the opposite direction.

When he reached the middle of the block, he crossed over and started back down the other side. Two men had gotten out of the limo and stood with their hands thrust deep in the pockets of their trench coats. They glanced up and down the sidewalk. The usual KGB goon squad, thought Carter. A moment later a man with an unmistakable mane of snow white hair climbed out of the back seat. It was Kobelev.

At the corner Carter ducked right and raced across a soccer field to the back of Building "B." The rear door stood ajar. He slipped in and hurried down the basement steps.

Normally, he would have set this up along the lines of the classic sniper's approach: find a perch with a commanding view of the target, wait until he's in your sights, and fire. Escape percentages soar with even as scant a lead as five hundred yards on your pursuers. Altogether a preferable modus operandi, and he'd spent half the morning wishing Kliest were around with his tripod rifle. But he wasn't, which left only Wilhelmina. And although he knew its every foible, from its hairtrigger to the way it tended to pull to the left when there was a grain too much powder in the cartridges — something he was able to sense by the second firing — he did not trust the Luger at distances greater than one hundred yards. Even fifty was pushing it. To be absolutely certain Kobelev went down and stayed down, he was going to have to get close, close enough to smell the flesh burn.

At one end of the basement was a door labeled BOILER. This, too, was open, and Carter went in and switched on the light. He had been here earlier with the maintenance man, and it was at that time he'd noticed something peculiar in the construction of these buildings. In the interests of economy the People's Housing Authority had opted for only one central heating system. A massive boiler had been built in the basement of Building "'B," large enough to heat the radiators and provide hot water for every unit in the project. This meant that somewhere in the ground between these buildings ran ducts big enough to hold all the necessary plumbing and big enough for a man to pass through in case something had to be repaired.

The boiler room was two stories high, the boiler in the middle taking up almost every inch. Along its bottom, flames danced through the grates of four large furnace doors. It was here Carter had first found the maintenance man. He was gone now, his wheelbarrow and shovel standing in the corner.

A catwalk ringed the room on the second level, leading to a door that stood next to the tunnel down through which pipes were fed. Carter vaulted the railing, ran up the stairs and down the walkway, but when he reached the door, it was locked. Taking out his wallet, he squeezed a narrow, awl-shaped piece of metal out from along the seam and inserted it into the lock. In a few seconds the door swung open, emitting a blast of scorching hot air.

He groped for the light switch but found nothing but rough cement. Repairmen apparently carried lanterns. He put one hand on the railing. It was hot. He stepped inside, feeling his way down the narrow walkway between the pipes and the side of the tunnel, trailing the other hand on the wall.

Something nagged at the back of his mind. Kobelev. How could the man make such a monumental mistake as getting off the train?