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“It looks as though you don’t appreciate disinformation when it works against the U.S.S.R., even though you’re pretty good at it yourselves,” said Quinn.
The general had the grace to shrug in acceptance of the barb.
“All right, we indulge in disinformatsya from time to time. So does the CIA. It goes with the territory. And I admit it’s bad enough to get the blame for something we have done. But it is intolerable for us to be blamed for this affair, which we did not instigate.”
“If I were a more generous man I might feel sorry for you,” said Quinn. “But the fact is, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Not anymore.”
“Possibly.” The general nodded. “Let us see. I happen to believe you are smart enough to have worked out already that this conspiracy is not ours. If I had put this together, why the hell would I have Cormack killed by a device so provably Soviet?”
Quinn nodded. “All right. I happen to think you were not behind it.”
“Thank you. Now, have you any ideas as to who might have been?”
“I think it came out of America. Maybe the ultra-right. If the aim was to kill off the Nantucket Treaty’s chance of Senate ratification, it certainly succeeded.”
“Precisely.”
General Kirpichenko went behind the desk and returned with five enlarged photographs. He put them in front of Quinn.
“Have you ever seen these men before, Mr. Quinn?”
Quinn studied the passport photographs of Cyrus Miller, Melville Scanlon, Lionel Moir, Peter Cobb, and Ben Salkind. He shook his head.
“No, never seen them.”
“Pity. Their names are on the reverse side. They visited my country several months ago. The man they conferred with—the man I believe they conferred with—would have been in a position to supply that belt. He happens to be a marshal.”
“Have you arrested him? Interrogated him?”
General Kirpichenko smiled for the first time.
“Mr. Quinn, your Western novelists and journalists are happy to suggest that the organization I work for has limitless powers. Not quite. Even for us, to arrest a Soviet marshal without a shred of proof is way off base. Now, I’ve been frank with you. Would you return the compliment? Would you tell me what you managed to discover these past thirty days?”
Quinn considered the request. He could see no reason not to; the affair was over so far as any trail he would ever be able to follow was concerned. He told the general the story from the moment he ran out of the Kensington apartment to make his private rendezvous with Zack. Kirpichenko listened attenti
vely, nodding several times, as if what he heard coincided with something he already knew. Quinn ended his tale with the death of Orsini.
“By the way,” he added, “may I ask how you tracked me to Ajaccio airport?”
“Oh, I see. Well, my department has obviously been keenly interested in this whole affair from the start. After the boy’s death and the deliberate leak of the details of the belt, we went into overdrive. You weren’t exactly low-profile as you went through the Low Countries. The shoot-out in Paris made all the evening papers. The description of the man the barman described as fleeing the scene matched yours.
“A check on airline departure and passenger lists—yes, we do have assets working for us in Paris—showed your FBI lady friend heading for Spain, but nothing on you. I assumed you might be armed, would wish to avoid airport security procedures, and checked ferry bookings. My man in Marseilles got lucky, tagged you on the ferry to Corsica. The man you saw at the airport flew in the same morning you arrived, but missed you. Now I knew you had gone up into the mountains. He took up station at the point where the airport road and the road to the docks meet each other, saw your car take the airport road just after sunup. By the way, did you know four men with guns came into the terminal while you were in the men’s room?”
“No, I never saw them.”
“Mmmm. They didn’t seem to like you. From what you have just told me about Orsini, I can understand why. No matter. My colleague ... took care of them.”
“Your tame Englishman?”
“Andrei? He’s not English. As a matter of fact, he’s not even Russian. Ethnically, he’s a Cossack. I don’t underestimate your ability to handle yourself, Mr. Quinn, but please don’t ever try to mix with Andrei. He really is one of my best men.”
“Thank him for me,” said Quinn. “Look, General, it’s been a nice chat. But that’s it. There’s nowhere for me to go but back to my vineyard in Spain and try to start over.”
“I disagree, Mr. Quinn. I think you should go back to America. The key lies there, somewhere in America. You should return.”
“I’d be picked up within the hour,” said Quinn. “The FBI doesn’t like me—some of them think I was involved.”
General Kirpichenko went back to his desk and beckoned Quinn across. He handed him a passport, a Canadian passport, not new, suitably thumbed, with a dozen exit and entry stamps. His own face, hardly recognizable with its different haircut, horn-rimmed glasses, and stubble of beard, stared at him.
