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With the early morning lights of Marseille reflecting off the water in fluid ripples, Talanov and Zak stood beside Krell as the harbor pilot guided the Robert Dole expertly toward a floodlit wharf. On their right was the northern tip of a thirty-foot-high breakwater that was nearly four miles long. It stood protectively between the open sea and the numerous commercial docks and marinas of Marseille. On their left were several giant tower cranes, a number of long low warehouses, and several yards full of steel containers. Adorned with lights, two of the tower cranes glided slowly along the wharf on steel tracks.
Krell knew how to sneak Talanov and Zak past the customs officials, and within minutes they were standing among the shadows and sounds of the waterfront. The fuss of seagulls. The drum and groan of containers being moved. The whine of gears and the screech of steel as a freight train made its way off into the darkness.
“If ever you need another ride, you be sure and look me up,” said Krell.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Talanov, extending his hand.
Krell shook hands with Talanov and Zak before pointing toward a pair of warehouses with forklifts moving in and out of large gaping doorways. A trail of workers were entering one of the warehouses. The morning shift was arriving. He said, “Between those buildings and across the parking lot is a gap in the fence, to the left of those tower lights. Directly beyond are the tracks. Cross them and angle up toward those cars moving along Chemin du Littoral, where there’s a lot of bars and bistros. From there, you can flag down a cab or hoof it into the city.”
After final handshakes, Talanov and Zak made their way past the warehouses, through the parking lot, and across the tracks. They stuck to the dark patches between the tower lights so as not to attract attention. A damp sea breeze surrounded them with the smells of fish and salt.
Within fifteen minutes, they had reached Chemin du Littoral, a two-lane street that curved along the base of a hill. The street was already busy with early morning traffic and Talanov and Zak waited for a break before crossing to the other side, where a string of bistros and bars stretched in both directions. Built above these small establishments were apartments that had been stair-stepped into the face of the hill. The flat roof of one residence was the patio of the apartment above it, and so on up the hill. Lights were on in a few of their windows but most were still dark.
Some of the bars and bistros were just opening. Aproned kitchen staff scrubbed sidewalks with soapy water and stiff brooms. Others were still open from the night before. Music spilled out of their doorways for the early morning shift workers who were now heading home. The music was a mix of accordion, Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, and eighties pop. Drifting out of those same doorways were the smells of fried food, cigarettes, and beer.
Talanov and Zak walked in silence. Talanov had his hands in his pockets and his posture was slumped.
“Thinking about Noya?” asked Zak.
Talanov was actually thinking of La Tâche, the man at the American Embassy in London whom Donna Pilgrim suggested he call. La Tâche was obviously CIA, adopting as he had the cover name of a famous French wine, which meant he, too, should adopt a cover name if was going to call him. He wondered now, as he had on several occasions, why Donna made the suggestion. Had she sensed his evolving resentment of the Soviet system and its oppressive, totalitarian values? Had she seen something in him that he had not even seen in himself? What would he say to La Tâche if he did decide to call? Until now, Americans had always been the bad guys. Now, he was not so sure. In fact, he was certain they were not. Without question, America had its problems. But America offered freedoms no other nation offered. The freedom to speak and the freedom to worship, or not worship, as the case may be. The freedom to bear arms against tyranny and corruption, both foreign and domestic, and God knows, he’d seen enough of that in Moscow. The freedom to think and dream and fly helicopters and pursue liberty and happiness. It was the polar opposite of what the Soviet Union offered. Noya would have thrived in America, and if she had lived, she would have had the opportunity to aim for the sky.
For him, the issue was not so easily defined. Part of him wanted to help the Americans end the atrocities inflicted on others by the KGB. Trouble is, was the CIA any different? Or were they too much alike? The CIA had their own kill squads and dirty secrets, just as the KGB did, and yet if anyone could help him stand up for the Noyas of this world, it was America. And only the CIA possessed the muscle and resources to make things happen the way he knew they needed to happen. And yet if he got caught phoning the CIA – if it somehow reached Moscow that he had done so – his life would be over. Not that Moscow hadn’t already tried. Still, he was just not sure phoning La Tâche was worth the risk.
So Zak’s question about Noya came as a welcome relief. In fact, he took it as a sign that he had been thinking in the wrong direction. Forget La Tâche. There are other ways.
Talanov looked over at his friend and smiled. “Noya was an extraordinary girl,” he said. “I never once heard her complain. In spite of everything she suffered, she never once complained.”
They walked past several men staggering out of a bar.
“And smart, too,” Talanov continued. “You wouldn’t believe how smart she was. She loved Sikorsky.”
“The aircraft designer?”
Talanov nodded. “Knew all about him. How he made a small rubber-band-powered helicopter when he was twelve. How he emigrated from Ukrainian Russia to America after World War I. How he designed and developed a number of helicopters and fixed wing aircraft, as well as a propeller-powered sleigh.” A long moment of silence passed while Talanov smiled at her memory. “Did you know Sikorsky wrote a book, titled, The Message of The Lord’s Prayer?”
“Sikorsky wrote a book on prayer?”
Talanov nodded. “Plus another one called, The Invisible Encounter. Sikorsky was an engineer, a man with a scientist’s brain who was also a devout Christian.”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Talanov thought about the simple prayer for help he had breathed back in Marbella. He thought about the police car he had stolen and all the punishment it had taken in his desperate race to save Noya. How it kept going and going and going, much as he had in the face of everything thrown against him. “I guess not,” he confessed with a sigh.
“Besides, who are we to argue with a genius like Igor Sikorsky?” said Zak with a grin.
Talanov chuckled. “Gorev told me the only time he saw Noya smile is when she talked about Sikorsky and helicopters. That’s why Gorev wanted to defect, so Noya could follow her dream. Like Sikorsky, to aim for the sky.”
Zak did not reply.
“I killed her dream, Zak,” said Talanov bitterly.
“You weren’t the one who jabbed her with that syringe.”
“It never would have happened if I hadn’t tracked them down. She didn’t deserve that. She deserved to fly helicopters and get married and have kids and grow old with dozens of grandkids running around.”
“Quit torturing yourself. This is precisely the reason we’re trained not to care. To prevent us from going through what you’re going through right now.”
“Do we not violate this training ourselves?” asked Talanov. “Look at us, you and me, and all we do for each other. We’re closer than brothers.”
“Sometimes, you think too much.”
“You know I’m right.”
“And you are forgetting Gorev’s culpability in what happened. He subjected his family to the risks of his defection. He knew we would come after him.”
“And Moscow knew I’d find him. Was counting on it, in fact. And then they ordered me killed. I have no idea who ‘they’ were, but whoever they were convinced Kravenko to put Sofia in charge without telling me. And she nearly pulled it off. She had me in her sights but made the mistake of shooting Noya first. If it had been the other way around – had she shot me first – then I’d be dead, too. But Sofia wanted me to see Noya die.”
“What happened?”
“After Sofia shot Noya – I thought she’d killed her, and we were fighting for possession of the gun – I decided to crash the car into the side of a building and kill us both. I didn’t care about me. All I cared about was killing Sofia. Then I heard Noya cough. So I kept fighting, although, in the end, it made no difference because I couldn’t save the one person who truly deserved to live.”
Directly ahead, a truck was parked in front of a café, where a deliveryman was wheeling five crates of wine on a two-wheel dolly. Dressed in gray overalls and a T-shirt, the deliveryman looked to be in his sixties and walked with a limp.
The café itself was fronted by a patio enclosed by a wrought iron railing decorated with colored lights. Small tables filled the patio. At this early hour, all of the tables were empty save one that was occupied by a young couple. The girl was sitting in the boy’s lap and had her arms around his neck. On the table in front of them was a wine bottle, two glasses and a basket of bread.
Approaching a step, the deliveryman turned the dolly and prepared to pull it backward up the step. When he did, he tripped. The deliveryman managed to hold the dolly upright although a case of wine slid off and smashed on the sidewalk. The box split open and spilled broken glass and red wine everywhere. Several unbroken bottles rolled away from the carton and down the sidewalk.
Talanov dashed over to the deliveryman and helped him stand. “Êtes-vous blessé?” he asked, inquiring if the deliveryman was hurt. The deliveryman said his ego was hurt more than anything else. At Talanov’s urging, he hobbled to a chair and sat.
The owner of the café came rushing out. “Imbécile! Stupide!” he cried out, throwing his hands in the air. “Who will clean up this mess?”
“Calm down, Cheval,” the deliveryman replied. “You are ready to burst like a sausage on the grill.”
“Maladroit! I do not know why I put up with you.” With a string of curses, Cheval stormed back inside.
By now, Zak had gathered up the unbroken bottles and brought them back to the table. The deliveryman thanked Zak, who went inside to get a broom.
“Cheval is the husband of my sister,” the deliveryman said while Talanov retrieved a metal trashcan from near the door and began picking up glass. “I introduced them. He has never forgiven me.”
Talanov smiled and kept picking up glass.
“Please, my friend, no more,” the deliveryman said, wincing while trying to stand.
Talanov steadied the deliveryman and helped him sit.
“Thank you,” the deliveryman said. “Some coffee and a bite to eat and I will be good as new.”
Talanov knelt and again started picking up glass.
“You are not very talkative,” the deliveryman remarked.
“Long day,” replied Talanov in French.
The deliveryman nodded just as Zak emerged from the café with a broom and a dustpan.
“I sweep, you scoop,” Zak said in Russian.
The deliveryman raised an eyebrow while Zak began sweeping up glass. “Are you two Soviet?” he asked.
Talanov did not reply.
“We heard reports of a Soviet hero in Spain.”
Talanov did not reply.
The deliveryman thought for a moment. “Cheval, three Croque Monsieur,” he shouted, ordering butter-fried sandwiches of ham, gruyere cheese, and eggs. To Talanov: “After a long day, one must eat.”
With an appreciative smile, Talanov stood and allowed Zak to sweep the rest of the broken glass into the dustpan. When they were finished, the deliveryman nodded his thanks. A few minutes later sandwiches were served and Talanov stood and took out some cash.
“Put that away,” the deliveryman said with a wave of his hand. “You have spared me the wrath of Cheval and that deserves a sandwich.”
Talanov chuckled and nodded.
“By the way,” the deliveryman added, “if ever you pass this way again, I live above the café, up there, on the top floor. Stop by for a glass of wine. You may be interested to know that I have a younger sister. Her name is Marie-Paule and she is very pretty.”
Talanov laughed. “I will keep that in mind. Apologies, my friend, but we must go. We still have a long day ahead. Thank you for the sandwiches.”
“My pleasure,” the deliveryman said, shaking hands with Talanov and Zak. “Until next time.” He handed Talanov one of the bottles of wine Zak had rescued earlier. “To wash down Cheval’s cooking,” he said with a grin.
Talanov smiled and looked at the label. When he did, he nearly dropped the bottle. Staring up at him was a name he had heard before. La Tâche.
