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“I salute you, comrade. I have no idea how you discovered it but your information is golden, if not a little out-of-date. The situation is temporary. Gains follow losses in the market. It is the nature of capitalism to—”
She cut him off.
“The loss of millions in liquor. The death of your staunchest ally in Detroit. Your stock market holdings all but wiped out. Please, comrade. Do you take us for fools? Nothing you’ve attempted has worked. How long before you’re beating on our door, begging for funding?”
Now it was relief, deep relief, that Zolner concealed. They did not know the truth behind the stock market losses. He said, “I don’t need a kopeck. I won’t ask for a kopeck.”
“I find that hard to believe. How will you save this situation?”
“Clear the decks and start over.”
“‘Decks’? What are these ‘decks’?”
“It’s an expression, comrade. It means that I will continue building our network as soon as I have cleared an obstacle out of my way.”
“Euphemisms are wasted on me, comrade. Who are you going to kill?”
“The one man making the obstacles.”
“Isaac Bell?”
Zolner laid on fulsome praise. “Your intelligence is golden, comrade.”
She was an idiot. Who else but Isaac Bell?
She said, “You have twenty-four hours.”
Zolner shook his head. “Absolutely not. I will not risk our mission by accepting an artificial deadline.”
“It’s not your deadline, comrade. It is the deadline Moscow has imposed on me.”
“For what?”
“To escort you home.”
“Home?”
“You’ve been recalled.”
33
WHEN MARAT ZOLNER drew himself up to his full height, the Italian courier thought to herself that the rumors about the ballet must be true. It was evident in the elegance of his stature that when he was a child somewhere in some benighted province of czarist Russia, Marat Zolner had indeed trained to be a dancer. Haughty as the aristocrats they both disdained and despised, he looked down his handsome nose at her and said, “Comrade, I know that the Comintern demands obedience.”
“It is well you remember.”
“Absolute and instant obedience makes us strong. Whether we obey out of faith in the revolution or out of loyalty to Russia—knowing that when we carry the fight abroad we keep the international bourgeoisie from invading while the Soviet is still recovering from the civil war—or out of fear.”
She said, “You may keep your motives to yourself.”
His shoulders sagged very slightly, and she fancied that she saw the spirit drain out of him. He turned to the window and stared out at the bay and the blue ocean beyond. He opened the window, lifting the sash with the grace that ornamented his every move, and she had the strangest feeling that he would rather step into the sky and fall ten stories to the beach than return to Moscow.
She said, “Surely you are not considering suicide.”
Marat Zolner turned back to her, thinking, Suicide? Why would I commit suicide? I have wealth, I have power, and I have enormous plans. These setbacks are temporary. The future is mine.
He said, “I am not coming with you.”
She raised her voice: “Gregor!”
