[Brag]

Chapter 5

"Damn," Val muttered, shaking his head to come awake. It had been years since the dream visited him--Steadily, a green and a red light approached.
Collision course!
Desperate, Val took the flare gun, aimed over the approaching motor yacht and fired.
The red distress signal arced in front of the vessel.
Above the din of music, a woman's voice yelled, "Woo-hoo."
Like the teeth of a sea monster, the fluorescent wake grew and crunched the becalmed sailing dinghy.
In a maelstrom of broken bits of boat and swirling water, Val was tossed into Chesapeake Bay. The high pitch whine of the motor yacht's propellers grew as Val blew whatever little air he had in his lungs to sink out of the way of the murderous blades.
In the dream, he couldn't swim back to the surface.
The rankness of sweat greeted Val out of a state of semi-wakeful terror. He shook his head. With the damp top sheet, he wiped perspiration off his face.
His bedside clock showed quarter past one. Shivering, Val sat on his bed and let his heartbeat slow down. He wondered what had triggered the nightmare. It had been years since he had one.
He turned on the bedside lamp and got up. The damp sheets made the bed uninviting. He pulled them off. One of these days, he would buy a second set. While bundling the linen to dump into the hamper, he decided to take the smelly mess into the shower.
Almost scalding hot water ran on his back and soothed his nerves while his feet stomped on the bedding, getting even with the bad dream. Twenty six years had passed since that night he was sure he would die. A night that changed him from carefree boy to man with nightmares, and his life for the better.
Why had the dreadful vision returned now?
After the shower, Val went to the tiny kitchen and made hot cocoa. Armed with a mug, he sat in one of the chairs of the patio set he kept in the living room of his two-bedroom apartment. Above his head the bright green and white parasol that came with the set gave the otherwise grim room a tropical ambiance. Or at least that was what Val thought. It had also been cheaper to buy than regular furniture.
The only decoration in the room was his grandfather's model 1909 Dragoon Guard's officer saber hanging on a wall. Tonight, instead of representing the spirit of a courageous and noble man, the weapon made Val think of blood it had spilled. He took a long sip of cocoa to dispel the influence of the nightmare. The dream that always came as a harbinger of trouble. Maybe it was his subconscious warning him that he was blind to danger signals. The last time he had the nightmare was just before his wife left him.
To hell with her, he had better things to think about. Claudia.
Val glanced at his watch. It was ten past eight in Italy. Claudia would be going through her Emails. He went to the spare bedroom cluttered with boxes full of books, a small desk, and a door on two trestles.
He switched on the computer on top of the makeshift table and studied the map next to it while the computer booted up. The map represented the area around Stalingrad. Counters depicting German and Soviet units down to battalion level showed a German thrust north of the city in autumn 1941.
"Welcome," the computer voice said, "You've got mail."
Val glanced at the Buddy List, which showed that Claudia was online.
On an Instant Message, he typed: Good morning.
A few seconds later, Claudia answered: You are up late. Did a lady send you home without your just reward?
Val answered: I got up early to enjoy a few minutes of your enchanting company.
That is a charming lie.
You caught me again. I couldn't sleep.
What pity. Maybe you are adjusting to Europe time for your visit?
I'm really looking forward to seeing you and, of course, the Count.
Professor, you are really only interested in my you know what.
Val chuckled and sent a smiley.
She answered: I am pleased to hear from you but I need to get the people in Rome and Milano to pay attention to what I say. Thank you for thinking of me, I must get back to work.
Val sighed and wrote: Have a nice day.
Her next message made him smile: Ciao ragazzo.

#

Val parked his Z3 in the lot of an apartment complex on Rolfe Street in Arlington. Parking here saved him a good bit of money and helped make payments.
To maintain the illusion he was a tenant, Val went into the lobby, waved to the concierge. "Good morning Mrs. Ike."
"For someone who works nights, you sure look fresh in the morning," Mrs. Ike responded cheerfully.
Val took the elevator to the fifth floor. He then trotted down the stairs and went out through the fire escape that opened into a side street.
As he marched the ten remaining blocks to the office, he thought about the weekend he would spend riding his two hunters, preparing them for the season. He kept the horses on a ten-acre plot he owned in Virginia. The only permanent structures on his "country estate" were the horse stalls and an outhouse. A spacious 10x15 foot heavy-duty tent served as his country residence.
Absorbed in thoughts of jumping fences and galloping around the countryside, he hummed and vaguely noticed traffic as he emerged onto busy Wilson Boulevard.
Automatically assuming his learned persona, he stopped humming and entered the building where the Cosmopolitan Affairs Institute had its offices. To keep his legs in shape, instead of the elevator, he used the stairs taking three steps at a time.
On the fifth floor, the maintenance man was removing the door to the Institute off its hinges.
"Morning, Nate. Are we getting a new door?"
Nate looked up. "Bastards must have hid in one of the restrooms."
Val stopped, glanced at the doorsill. Someone had crudely jimmied the door. An unpleasant, light shudder went through him. "What did they steal?"
"From what Ms. Margie said, nothing--Look." Nate swung the door and pointed at the red spray-painted F**k you. "Punks, vandals. Left by the fire escape, setting off the alarm."
"Who would spend hours in the toilet to just break a door and write graffiti?"
"Ah, Professor you don't teach at the university for nothing. That's what I axed myself. For sure, to fool the cops."
Val caught himself clucking his tongue. He went in and stuck his head into the Administration office.
"You just can't wait to get to my coffee." Margie greeted him with a smile and stepped toward the coffee pot on a credenza.
For a second Val's gaze wandered to the trays with croissants and doughnuts, but the idea of someone stealing or messing with his computer contracted his stomach. "My incentive to come early."
"Finicky, finicky. I hope fresh beans from Mount Meru are satisfactory?" She handed him a mug.
Val stuck his nose over the cup as if sniffing the aroma. His gaze rested on Margie's cleavage. Too bad she was married. That was the problem--every woman he liked was married.
"Hmm. Tanzanian coffee is almost as good as Peruvian." After a long sip, he asked, "They didn't take anything?"
Margie sighed. "You'd better check your room, see if anything's missing."
The second sip tasted better. Though he backed his work on disks he kept in a fireproof safe, the idea that someone could have been reading it bothered him.
She went to her desk, picked up a clipboard and looked at it. We're making a collection for a wreath."
"Huh?"
Her gaze centered on Val. "Good thing you weren't here yesterday."
Val shook his head and thought of poor old Pete Garrison. The janitor could hardly push a broom.
"Professor Hermann."
Val almost spilled his coffee. "Nooo."
Margie nodded. "Tragic. Hit and run. I don't know what he was doing. Imagine, double parked in front of the M Street Kinko's." She handed him the clipboard with a list of names and the sum each one had donated.
Wretchedness crept up Val's chest.
Margie touched his arm. "He liked you. And now this door thing." She sighed. "Trouble comes in bunches."
Remembering his nightmare, Val left for his office.
Danger signals, he was missing something.
Trying to put his mental state in order, he thought about the talk he had to give aides to the senators of the Foreign Affairs Sub Committee. With Hermann gone, he would end up briefing the Senators sooner than he had expected.
Checking his computer for signs of tampering, dealing with Emails and reading the file of newspaper clippings took a good part of the morning. He was in the middle of reading yesterday's Le Monde, when the FedEx man walked in.
Irritated by the interruption, Val asked, "What can I do for you?"
"Professor Orloff?"
"Yes, leave the package at reception."
"Personal delivery, sir. May I see your driver's license?"
"Look, I'm busy."
"It's for you, sir, to be delivered in person. Identification required."
After a theatrical sigh, Val took out his wallet and handed his driver's license. He glanced at his watch while the man punched buttons on his electronic clipboard.
After Val signed for it, the man placed the offending package on the desk and left. Val stuck the French newspaper into the clippings folder and put it on top of the stack next to the filing cabinet.
He then looked at the box. A tingling sensation coursed through his head and fingers as blood rushed to his lower extremities. The sender was Hermann.
Val took a letter opener and slit through the transparent tape sealing the manuscript sized box. He removed and opened a red binder. A handwritten title sheet said simply Station DSXV.
It took Val several minutes to decipher some diagonally written scribbles:
this is in Gelwitz code
D'Albano knows

D'Albano? What did Claudia have to do with this? Or was it her husband?
Puzzled, Val turned the page and looked at a photocopy of a message sheet with a Nazi eagle on the top left hand corner. His hands shook as his gaze roamed coded groups. A quick flip through the pages confirmed the box contained a collection of Nazi era coded messages.
Double parked in front of Kinko's. The last thing Hermann did was mail the package.
Val's gaze returned to the binder.
Joachim Gelwitz had been a cryptographer employed by the Nazi Party intelligence section. Had Admirals Canaris and Raeder listened to him, German U-boat losses would have been less severe. Though sure the Allies had broken the Enigma codes, Gelwitz failed to convince the brass to use his unbreakable cipher. Friction between the military and the Nazis had cost Germany dearly.
Not knowing a thing about cryptography, and his interest in the code being purely historical, Val wondered why Hermann had sent him the coded messages collection.
Two or three months ago, Val remembered reading that Christies had auctioned a collection of Gelwitz messages for 12 million dollars. Both, seller and buyer, remained anonymous.
As he was about to place the binder back into its box, Val saw the safe deposit box key.
Hermann's office was bigger than Val's but seemed tiny because of clutter. Val sat behind Hermann's desk and switched on the computer. A blue, blank screen came on, and nothing else. Five minutes of trying, convinced Val that Hermann's computer was blank.
A nasty picture formed in his mind. No, this is real life. You've read too many rubbish novels. Hermann's accident and the break-in had to be a coincidence. Val rummaged through the desk drawers. Inside a checkbook, he found a safe deposit box receipt.

#

Back in his office, Val dialed the Russian Embassy. "Gospodin Dedensky, pozhalusta."
After a few clicks Dedensky came on the line. "Slushayu."
"Do you remember Professor Herman?" Val asked in Russian.
"Who?"
Who? Val felt speechless on hearing the professed ignorance.
"I can see you on Sunday," Dedensky said abruptly.
"I'm going away for the wee--"
"I'll see you on Sunday."
Taken aback by Dedensky's brusqueness, Val listened to the dial tone. It must be the change of weather, he speculated, trying to make sense out of the strangeness of a morning in which the world seemed to have gone crazy.
Time to head for the aides' lunch. Val began to place the binder on top of his news pile, then thought of the broken door and Herman's erased computer. Ridiculous. He stuck the talk notes into a breast pocket, placed the binder inside his briefcase, and went out.

#

Traffic had been bad. The drizzle that started mid-afternoon accentuated the incompetence of drivers. Half of them yakking into cell-phones. It was already dark when Val returned to his apartment. Together with the manila envelope he had taken from Hermann's safe deposit box, Val placed Hermann's binder on one of the chairs of the patio table. After pouring a bourbon, he sat under the flowery parasol, pretending he was on Marie Galante Island in the French Antilles. He had little idea what the island was like, but he liked the name. It made him think of a luscious woman pirate. Claudia.
The binder contained about five-hundred pages, most with several messages. Occasionally a communication would go for a number of pages.
The ice in his glass had melted when he remembered he had made a drink. Val took a long sip and winced. He hated bourbon. But the terrible taste kept him from drinking too much.
Again, he leafed through the messages. After some hesitation he decided to open the manila envelope. After all, if Hermann had sent him the key, he wanted him to see the contents of the envelope.
Val pulled out a half-inch thick sheaf of papers.
His heart beat wildly as he stared at original Nazi message sheets. On each sheet, on the top right hand corner, there were dates written in Hermann's unmistakable scribbles. The earliest date was 8 May 1945, the day after the war ended. The last message was dated 24 August 1945.
Val sat flabbergasted. A Nazi station transmitting for months after the war ended? His eyes darted from the photocopies in the binder and the originals in his hand. Why had Hermann separated the messages sent or received after the end of the war?
Val calmed down and studied both batches. The patterns were the same, but traffic had diminished after the German capitulation. Val's mind buzzed with questions. How in the hell did the Nazis keep transmitting after the Allies occupied Germany? Where did Hermann get the message collection? Why had Hermann sent him the box? What was the significance of the post-war originals?
Did Hermann sell the Gelwitz code collection auctioned by Christie's, instead of the Pissaro?
Val took the binder to the spare bedroom, and dumped it on his little desk.
Though the keyboard was a poor replacement for the piano, Val sat down for his daily half-hour practice. What his father had called the boy's sissy hour. The Old Man, who had lost both legs after stepping on a landmine in Nicaragua, died disappointed in his son who refused to play football.
Normally piano practice soothed Val's nerves. Today he finished playing angry with Dedensky for ruining his sacred weekend.
D'Albano knows. Hermann's cryptic message kept replaying in Val's head. His interest in Count D'Albano's exploits in East Africa during World War II had nothing to do with the code. Except that Hermann had put him in contact with Claudia, who in turn convinced her husband to show Val his diaries and other documents and agree to have Val write about his exploits.
Val wrote Claudia an Email informing her of Hermann's death and added: The good Professor sent me a note indicating that either you or your husband are familiar with the Gelwitz code. Any information you may have will be appreciated.
He hit the Send button, then thought of Dedensky's reluctance to talk on the phone. Val shook his head. Who would be interested in tapping into a historian's phone line?

Chapter 6

Yesterday's drizzle had turned into today's.
The onion shaped cupolas dominating the Saint John The Baptist Church never failed to stir something inside Val's soul. For a millennium his ancestors had attended services in perhaps grander but similar churches. In typical Russian fashion, Val arrived half-hour after the service had started. Inside, he stood engrossed listening to the choir. He seldom prayed but embarked into a passive cosmic voyage of a ritual that remained unchanged for over a thousand years. When in church, he was in God's neighborhood. Today he prayed for the soul of David Hermann.
Val quietly slipped out of church a few moments before the priest started his sermon.
Several people chatted on the church's terrace. Just outside, at the bottom of the steps, Paul Dedensky stood smoking a cigarette, his hands buried deep into overcoat pockets. Val nodded to familiar faces and wound his way toward the Russian.
Besides seeing him in church, Val met Dedensky during opera season, and occasionally they had Sunday lunch together. Though officially listed as a cultural attaché in the Russian embassy, Dedensky was in reality the SVR, Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, liaison officer with the CIA.
"Valentin Georgevich, we finally have been liberated from Washington's tropical discomfort," Dedensky said in Russian.
Val nodded. "Indeed."
Dedensky gave him a curious look, then smiled. "I have two FBI agents tailing me today. Shall we take them to lunch?"
"Lunch with you is always an intriguing experience," Val said, trying to hide his annoyance with Dedensky.
"Let's go to the Europa, prices are reasonable and the food passable."
"You were rather abrupt on Friday. I got the feeling you didn't want to talk to me."
"People listen in on phone conversations."
"The FBI is aware we see each other."
"You're still angry because I caused a change in your plans. I apologize. I have reason to believe the phones in your office are tapped."
"A preposterous notion."
"By someone who doesn't follow the rules of the game." A chuckle escaped Dedensky as he lit a fresh cigarette off the almost spent butt of the one he'd been smoking. Let's take my car, give the Fedias some work to identify who I've met today."
"You've been secretive about our meeting. Now you want to advertise. I don't understand."
"You obviously wanted to talk about Professor Hermann."
"Not about him, but his work."
"I know nothing about his work. You're his colleague."
"Was. He died last Thursday."
"I know. Murdered."
"What?" Of course hit and run was a homicide, but the way Dedensky said it, it raised Val's hackles. "Murdered? You mean like premeditated murder?"
"Seems to me the opportunity to kill him arose and someone took advantage of it."
They reached Dedensky's car, an unremarkable Toyota. Val opened the passenger door, noticed two men get into a gray Ford sedan parked in front of a fire hydrant.
"Climb aboard."
"Why would anyone want to kill Hermann? He was a harmless old boy."
Dedensky chuckled as he slid into his seat. "A man who has spent a good part of his life working for the intelligence community can't be called harmless."
"Sheeesh," Val directed his gaze to the gray sky. "He was a historian and political scientist."
"Yes. But unlike you, he had great political ambitions."
Though Dedensky's remark took Val by surprise, he managed not to show it. "Did he?" He asked nonchalantly.
"You didn't know?" Dedensky gave him an ironic look as he slammed the door shut. "Has it occurred to you that you might be next?"
"Next what?"
"The next victim."
"You must be joking."
"You worked closely with the old boy."
Val turned sharply toward Dedensky. "May I have one of your cigarettes?" he asked to gain time, to think through what Dedensky had said. Surely people didn't get murdered for doing historical research and providing foreign affairs analysis.
Embarrassed, Val caught himself and stopped clicking his tongue.
With a smirk on his face, Dedensky handed Val a cigarette and lit it with a Bic disposable lighter. "From what I understand, Hermann fancied himself as a new Doctor Kissinger who had direct contact with the Kremlin via the KGB."
"You knew he was short-listed for high position if Lunsen was elected?"
"He gave me that indication when he applied for a visa. He went to Moscow to improve contacts and strengthen his position."
This was a completely new angle. Hermann had given Val a completely different reason for going to Moscow. Without inhaling, Val blew smoke and opened his window. "Are you saying he got murdered for having intelligence contacts in Russia?"
Dedensky shook his head. "I don't know. You were his colleague."
"He told me that in Russia he would find answers to some questions on post-war Nazi activities. Of course Hermann was the grand master of the subject."
"Let's go eat."
Val tried not to show he found the conversation disturbing. "Let's go to Maxim's, my treat."
"It's an expensive place."
"Being born here hasn't diminished my genetic penchant for extravagance. Since my divorce I have a yearning for my grandmother's cooking."
A chuckle escaped Dedensky as he lit a cigarette. "Comparing Maxim's with grandmother's cooking. They'd love that."
"I can't wait to get back from my sabbatical so I can report to my students about weekend adventures into the netherworld of spies."
"I'm sure your students appreciate your sense of humor. Life in academia must be like a security blanket. Maybe association with young people has the effect of a fountain of youth. What I'm trying to tell you is that if you have shared Hermann's work, your life may be in danger."
"I wish you would be more specific."
"I could only be more specific if I knew what was going on. All I know is that I have a strong--a very strong suspicion that Professor Hermann was murdered." Dedensky slapped his thigh. "Batz! Gone."

#

A Russian-speaking waiter led them to a table at the rear of the cavernous restaurant. Val allowed that Dedensky had to sit with his back against a wall and facing the entrance. The fellow was like a cinema character. Before the waiter had time to hand out menus, Val ordered fish hors d'oeuvres and vodka.
"Do you like Russian cuisine because you were brought up on it?" Dedensky asked.
"Actually my parents were victims of Americanization. I think it had to do with my father being in the Army. Of course when visiting my grandparents--"
"Eh, babushkihave a talent for messing up parents' plans."
Val's mother died of cancer, his father died four years later of cirrhosis of the liver. Val always got a reaction of guilt when remembering the relief he felt when he moved into his grandparent's house at the age of 13. "Yes, grandparents have a way of influencing one's life."
The waiter brought half a bottle of iced vodka and placed it on the table together with a tray of zakuski. The aroma of freshly chopped dill teased Val's nostrils.
Dedensky poured into shot glasses. "Za vashe zdorovie."
Val answered the toast, gulped the vodka down and chased it with a bit of herring in sour cream.
"Eh. Nothing like vodka to dispel gloom."
Val nodded. Among spirits, vodka did have the property to cheer people. After the second shot he would begin feeling the pleasant effect. He needed it. The last two days have been disturbing. The Email he got this morning from Claudia, curtly said: Have no idea what you are talking about. It wasn't even signed.
By the time Val finished his borsht, the odd sense of unease that had been with him all morning vanished. Dedensky never failed to provide amusing topics of conversation. "Did you know our scientists in Antarctica found interesting viruses which are identical to viruses developed by the Nazis?"
"Yes, I've read about that. Also about the nonsense of a Nazi secret base there, supposedly they communicated with aliens and commuted over the icepack in flying saucers."
Dedensky burst out laughing. "I was always under the impression that historians were serious people."
"Restaurants are places where spouting nonsense is quite acceptable."
The waiter placed chicken Kiev in front of Val.
"And what will you work on while on sabbatical?"
"Researching a book I will write on how art influenced rulers."
"Would anyone want to read it? A bit of an obscure subject, don't you think?"
After sipping his wine, Val chuckled. "Historians write about obscure subjects, but my research shall be brightened by the assistance of Contessa D'Albano, a charming lady who is not only a scholar but an Italian fashion designer."
"I see being a Russian aristocrat still has its advantages."
Val gestured in dismissal. "Nothing to do with aristocracy, it was a lead picked up by Hermann, he met her at an art history seminar, passed on the lead to me. I wrote a book about her husband. Count D'Albano was one of those Italians who didn't surrender when their army in Ethiopia capitulated."
Dedensky laughed. "Sounds like you're having an elegant affair"
"Not an affair. The lady is devoted to her husband."
"I'll call my driver. While we wait for him, we'll have a suitable Cognac to crown this meal." Dedensky signaled the waiter and ordered two Remi Martins.
Glad he would have company, Val thought this as a good plan. "And since we don't have to drive. I'll make Turkish coffee in my apartment to go with another Cognac. We can listen to an enhanced Shaliapin recording I just got."

#

"Interesting," Dedensky said, as the driver pulled into Val's carport. "The Fedias are already waiting for you."
"What do you mean?"
"Out on the street, three men sitting in a black Buick."
"You and your paranoid streak."
Dedensky said to the driver, "Yura, dai pistolet."
Open-mouthed, Val watched the driver dig inside his jacket and hand Dedensky a pistol.
Val realized he was clicking his tongue.

Chapter 7

Inside Val's apartment, Dedensky pulled a curtain slightly back and peered outside. "Interesting. As the Fedias following us pulled in, the other three left. What do you think, Professor?"
"The FBI knows about our contacts."
"Why would they have been waiting for you?"
"We don't know that. Why are you carrying a gun?"
"In case the Fedias following lost us." Dedensky removed his overcoat and stared at the patio furniture. "Do you get too much sunshine through the ceiling?"
"It protects me from harmful radiation generated by aliens."
Dedensky sat under the parasol and pointed at the window overlooking the street. "I doubt the three fellows waiting would respect diplomatic immunity."
Val tried to make head or tails out of what Dedensky was saying. The Russian spook appeared to live on another level.
"Coffee?"
"Thank you, yes."
Amused by Dedensky's paranoia, Val made Turkish coffee while it grew dark outside. He arranged a lemon peel shaving on each saucer, added a bottle of Cognac and glasses to the tray.
Dedensky looked up from a coffee table book on Impressionist art and slapped the covers shut. Val placed the tray on the table, sat down, put the lemon peel into the coffee and inhaled the aroma. "Okay. According to you, Hermann learned something in Moscow that got him killed. I'll accept that. I haven't been to Moscow, I haven't learned anything."
"Are you sure?"
Taken aback by Dedensky's tone, Val stared at the Russian spy. "You seem fixated on that subject. This is Washington. Next week I start my sabbatical and will write a book about how art affected history."
After sipping his coffee, Dedensky put the cup down. "My hunch that you're a prime candidate for the next murder just got stronger."
Val laughed at the incongruous suggestion.
"Are you familiar with the work Hermann was doing for the NSA?"
"No." As consultants, he and his colleagues did so many projects for so many institutions it was hard to keep track of who did what. And there was an awful lot of moonlighting.
"Hermann trying to break an old Nazi code for the NSA. Do you know anything about that side of his work?"
Val poured Cognac. Despite his unease, he tried to make fun of the subject. "You're a master of fashioning an amusing afternoon."
"May I smoke?"
Val nodded and pushed a large glass ashtray closer to Dedensky. "What has historical work, even for the NSA have to do with anything?" He thought of the collection of messages sitting in the next room. If he managed to get someone to break the code, he would probably find a trove of lost Nazi secrets. This would be a dramatic way to firmly establish his reputation as the foremost authority on World War II.
Dedensky smiled thinly. "Have you ever met Academician Lidya Dimitrienko?"
Val's mind searched for a connection with the name. The Economics of the Japanese Occupation of Manchuria. He had read the paper some years ago. "I think she's a Far East expert."
Dedensky grinned. "Her real name is Stuart. Her father, a descendant of the Scottish royal family changed his name during the revolution. She changed back to her real name during Perestroika."
"And?"
"Why would Hermann want to meet her?"
"No idea."
"When someone gets murdered, detectives usually reconstruct and retrace the deceased's history. Maybe you should do that. I can arrange your visa. You'll be safe in Moscow."
Val sighed. "With your imagination, you should be writing popular spy novels."
"Why write when you can live the adventure?" Dedensky stood and gestured toward the window. "I see a little drama developing. When I leave, the representatives of American security will depart following me. I'm willing to bet the three men in the Buick will return." He bent down to crush his cigarette.
"To prove my point I'll go home now. Thanks for a wonderful lunch and your hospitality."
"We haven't listened to Shaliapin," Val said in a hurry as alarm stabbed him. Dedensky's words were having a negative effect. Val knew he had to disregard the melodrama. The Russian spy was probably showing off like a child. Look guys, I have a pistol.
"Thank you, got things to do." Dedensky put his overcoat on and left the apartment.
"Hmm." Maybe it was just the loneliness of living in the stupid apartment that gave him childish heevie-heevies. Copying the Russian spy, Val peered from behind the curtain. He watched Dedensky stride out of the apartment complex, get into his car and drive off.
Val felt strangely alone. Damn it, he had to admit, Dedensky had succeeded in frightening him. Val went to the door and secured the chain.
Ten minutes later, Shaliapin's basso profundo voice had done nothing to ease Val's discomfort. He turned the player off and listened. All he could hear was the muffled hum coming from Rockville Pike.
Again, he cursed the melodramatic Russian who had ruined his day. Val sat and read the Sunday comics. He had trouble concentrating.
His body jerked when someone slammed a door in the corridor.
To relieve the gloomy atmosphere in the apartment, he put on a recording of the Merry Widow. The silly operetta was bound to cheer him up.
When the overture was over, he noticed he had lit a cigar. Damn, His mind was slipping.
As the first act started, the apartment filled with voices as if he had a party going. Anyone wanting to do him harm would hear laughter and music. Val walked to the door and peered through the peephole. An empty corridor. He was imagining things.
He was going to pour another Cognac, put the bottle down.
There was someone outside his door. Imagination.
He forced himself not to get up and peer through the peephole.
"Ta-ta-ta-ta-de-de-dum," Val sang along with the grisettes de Paris.
The front door crashed down.
Val had barely time to realize men in ski masks had entered before a blow knocked him to the floor. He remembered to relax, like when falling off a horse, and managed to roll away as a boot swished past his head.
A knee crashed into his chest, knocking air out of his lungs.
Something shiny, a knife, pressed against his throat.
"Not a peep."
Val tried to breathe. Couldn't.
Something warm slid down his neck. Val knew it was blood. He gulped air. The knife bit deeper into his skin.
"Don't move, pretty boy." The smell of garlic emanated from the ski mask.
A voice came from the corridor. "Narcotics raid, get back inside."
"Where is the book?"
A surprising calm came over Val. The same as at the beginning of a fencing match with sabers. "What?"
"You're gonna die, motherfu**er. Where's the book?"
"What book?"
"The one you got by FedEX."
A strange popping noise came from the entrance hallway. The man standing by the door staggered and slumped to the floor.
Val's attacker turned his head. Skull fragments ripped through the back of his mask. The knife slid across Val's throat.
Vaguely aware of what was happening, Val looked toward the entrance.
Yuri, Dedensky's driver, stood in the hallway, a silenced machine pistol in his hand.
One of the raiders came out of Val's office.
Yuri's machine pistol spat.
The man dropped the DSXV binder and crumbled.
Yuri nodded and stuck the machine pistol under his trench coat.
With revulsion, Val pushed the dead body off him, staggered to his feet and took in the mess. The patio table was broken, the door smashed off its hinges, the Venetian blinds were splattered with brains. Three men bled on the champagne colored carpet. He looked at Yuri who fiddled with a cell phone.
Not knowing how to behave in such a preposterous situation, Val wondered what his grandfather would have done or said. "Can I offer you something? A drink?"
The thick-faced man gave him a wry smile. "Maybe later." He then spoke into the phone. "Boss? Deal's in the hat. A sleeping troika. Yes, immediately." He put the cell phone into a trench coat pocket, and faced Val. "You better pack your things."
"Wait a minute. Pack? I've got to call the police."
Yuri waved his finger in a signal of no. He bent over one of the bodies, pulled out a badge and showed it to Val. "DEA, these are three dead cops."
Val's knees wanted to buckle.
Yuri removed a pistol from the corpse and offered it to Val. "Here, you may need it."
Val shook his head.
"These people report to someone. You'd better don't waste time getting out of here before someone realizes things have gone wrong. There's a flight going to Toronto. Leaves in an hour and a half."
"Toronto?"
Yuri cleared his throat. "I'll drive you to the airport. And I'm out of here in five minutes."
Val's gaze roamed over the bodies. One of them was face down, his back emblazoned with bright yellow letters saying Police. A battering ram, like he had seen used by police in the movies lay in the entrance hallway.
"The boss says you won't survive a night in jail."
Indignation rose up Val's chest. "You killed them."
Yuri chuckled. "You tell that to the police."
Val picked up the binder and took it to his bedroom. He hesitated, looked around. His suitcase was in the closet. Why did he take the binder into the bedroom and not his office? Val realized his subconscious had taken over.
Narcotics people going for the binder? That made even less sense than Dedensky. Maybe Yuri was right. He had to leave.
Val ran his hand across an itchy throat. His fingers came out stained with blood. He went into the bathroom, wiped blood off with a towel. He took a styptic pencil and ran it across the cut where new droplets of blood appeared.
In the bedroom, Yuri threw several shirts into the suitcase, on top of the binder. He handed Val a silk scarf. "You better wrap this around your throat. Five shirts, five set of underwear and socks, two ties, one suit. Do you have money?"
"Traveler's checks." He studied Yuri for a moment. Of course, the man would never admit he killed three policemen. Besides, policemen didn't go around sticking knives on people's throats. This professional killer was right. Val had to get out of here. He went to his office and took his passport and the airline tickets and three thousand dollars worth of checks he had purchased for his trip to Europe.]
"Let's go," Yuri said as he removed Val's overcoat from the closet.
Val remembered the manila envelope, stuck it into his briefcase.
Downstairs, Val handed Yuri the keys to his car. "Could you pick up my car tomorrow? It's parked--"
"I know where it is."
Yuri drove through the back streets frequently turning corners. Val stared at the windshield wipers flopping back and forth.
"It is rather handy to be listed as a chauffeur, the Fedias don't bother much with lowly people like me. On the way to Toronto, relax, have a drink or two. Make sure to eat the peanuts they'll offer you on the flight."
Yuri turned onto the Beltway heading toward Virginia. "In Toronto, someone will meet you. You will be asked if you're doctor Shephard. Your answer will be: Sorry I'm Miles Standish. You think you can remember that?"
"Shephard, Standish," Val repeated.
"With luck, we'll be able to delay the Aeroflot plane for you to get on. By tomorrow afternoon you'll be in Moscow."
"You seem terribly well organized."
"No--fast."
"Care to explain what's going on?"
Yuri chuckled softly. "If we knew what's going on, I would not had to kill those meatheads. People get killed when intelligence fails. I don't know why my boss has taken you under his wing."
Val glanced at Yuri, wanting to ask him who in the hell he thought he was to talk to him as if he was a child. Instead, he clicked his tongue. He might as well keep his mouth shut. In the apartment, he had acted as a pathetic, incompetent victim, and the professional killer had saved him.
There was little traffic when they drove along the Washington Parkway toward National Airport.
"I will leave you in one of the parking lots. From there, take the shuttle. If anyone is watching the terminal, at least they won't spot my car."
The same loneliness he had felt when Dedensky left the apartment descended over Val. Well, he wasn't a baby. His father had taught him how to shoot and his grandfather how to use the saber. Not many modern day killers had both skills. Anger rose up his chest. In his mind, using his grandfather's saber, he skewered his assailant, quickly withdrew the blade, and with a horizontal slice chopped a masked head off.
Feeling better, he said to Yuri. "Thanks for all you've done for me."

#

Once Val had settled in the first class seat he had to buy to get on the flight, his hands began to shake. He followed Yuri's advice and asked the stewardess for a bourbon.
It took two drinks to slow down his agitation and try to make sense of what had happened. He then realized that thinking in the past tense was wrong. Whatever is going on it is still happening and I have only seen the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Without the Russians' intervention, I would be dead.
What incentive existed for people to kill over an old code? Hermann had at least broken the code sufficiently to insert handwritten dates. If station DSXV continued to transmit after the war, it opened a number of possibilities. Maybe it was part of the futile attempt to resist Allied occupation by the so-called Werewolves or maybe it had something to do with Nazis escaping to South America. Where was station DSXV located? How did it manage to operate after the occupation?
Val's train of thought was interrupted by the rumble and thump of landing gear locking and the stewardess on the PA telling passengers to return their seats to the upright position.

#

A young woman in a blue uniform approached Val as he came out of the gate. "Doctor Shephard?"
Though Yuri had told him about the password business, Val was surprised to be approached with one in real life. "No, Miles Standish," he answered, feeling foolish.
She seemed to repress a laugh and looked at her shoes. "Please come with me and let me have your luggage tags."
Admiring her graceful walk and shapely derriere, Val followed the woman through a maze of corridors. She came to a door and punched a key- pad. They entered a narrow passage with doors displaying various airline logos. The woman opened an unmarked door and motioned Val to walk in.
Inside the cramped office a man in a tweed sports coat sat behind a desk. "Doctor Shephard?"
Val repeated the silly password.
"Sit down, professor."
Val sat on a straight-backed metal chair.
The man pushed an airline ticket across the desk. "Toronto-Moscow, in the name of Standish. Let me see your passport."
Val reached into his breast pocket. "One-way?"
The man smiled, extending his hand. "You can make further arrangements at your destination."
Val thought that not too long ago a one-way ticket to Moscow had a completely different meaning. He hesitated, then handed the passport over.
After leafing through the pages, the man opened a drawer dug out a stamp, stamped and signed a page. "Your visa, valid for thirty days. You'll be met at Sheremetyevo." He glanced at his watch. "The flight is almost three hours late."
"Why Standish and not my name?"
The man gave him a thin smile. "That's the name that will show on the passenger manifest. Authorities and other people love to look at manifests."
"I see. Thank you." Val took the free, one-way ticket and his passport and wondered about his judgement in going along with the Russians. The memory of the knife blade against his throat brought out a shiver.
He was glad his real name would not appear on the manifest.


To be continued.