Lockington had been sleeping for three minutes, or perhaps it’d just seemed like three minutes—he wasn’t sure. Lockington wasn’t sure of a lot of things. In fact, he wasn’t sure of more things than he was sure of, but there was one thing that he’d have bet his shirt on—somebody was sitting on the edge of his bed. His .38 police special was in his shoulder holster where it should have been, but his shoulder holster was slung over the back of a chair in the kitchen where it shouldn’t have been. Sometimes one mistake like that is all a man ever gets. In the darkness Natasha Gorky said, “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
Lockington said, “Did I forget to lock my door?”
Natasha said, “No, it was locked. Why?”
Lockington said, “Just thought I’d ask.”
Natasha said, “You know, it really wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be.”
“Picking my lock?”
“No, convincing my superior that Devereaux really had written a book.”
Lockington sat up in bed. He turned on the nightstand lamp, found a pair of cigarettes, lit them, and gave one to Natasha. He said, “I thought that the KGB was laughing at that book yarn.”
“It was, but it’s stopped. I said that it was a very big book, and very well written. I said that Devereaux had told of the Athens matter.”
“The Athens matter?”
“Yes—also the Belgrade business.”
“The Belgrade business?”
“Uh-huh—Boris turned pale when I said that Devereaux had gotten into the Belgrade business.”
“Boris?”
“Boris Kaputchev—he’s in charge of Midwestern KGB affairs.”
“You’ve been in bed with Boris Kaputchev?”
“He’s my superior.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, it does. But that was before my retirement.”
“Your retirement—when did you retire?”
Natasha took Lockington’s wrist, tilting it against the light, peering at his watch. “Fifty-three minutes ago.”
Lockington said, “Hell, it could be an hour—you can’t trust that watch.”
Natasha yawned. “Small matter—time’s of no consequence when you’re retired.”
Lockington got out of bed, hitching up his pajama bottoms, walking toward the darkened living room, Natasha following him closely. In the living room he tripped, falling like a redwood. He said, “Lights, for Christ’s sake!”
Natasha switched on a lamp. She said, “I don’t believe I should have left it there.”
Lockington sat up dazedly. “You don’t believe you should have left what where?”
“My overnight bag—I don’t believe I should have left it in the middle of the floor.”
Lockington was shaking his head. He said, “At the risk of seeming presumptuous, I believe it is time that I learn just what the hell is going on here.”
Natasha said, “Oh, yes—well, you see, this evening I went to see Boris Kaputchev. He was at work.”
“Uh-huh, and where does Boris Kaputchev work?”
“He’s night janitor in the Chicago CIA offices.”
“Ah, yes—Boris has access to the Telex room?”
“Certainly—I met him there tonight. Noisy place.”
“How did you get into the installation?”
“I told them that I was taking up a collection for charity.”
“What charity?”
“They didn’t ask, but I raised seventeen dollars.”
“Nothing like airtight security. Back to Boris, please.”
“We had a long talk—I told Boris that there are many copies of Devereaux’s manuscript. Then I made certain inferences and stressed certain conditions.”
“Certain conditions?”
“Yes, we were discussing my severance pay.”
“The KGB gives severance pay?”
“It does now—in my case, one hundred thousand dollars.”
Lockington didn’t say anything.
Natasha said, “Plus the black Mercedes I’ve been driving—I’ve become accustomed to it, you see.”
“I see.”
“It’s parked out front—my luggage is in it.”
“But your overnight bag isn’t.”
“No, I brought it in because I didn’t know what you might have in mind. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to leave now or in the morning.”
“Leave—for where?”
“I was thinking in terms of Youngstown, Ohio. It has trees—like Odessa.”
Lockington got to his feet. He said, “It’s now or in the morning?”
Natasha Gorky took his face between her hands, looking up at him with starry pale-blue eyes. She said, “Let’s make it in the morning.”