“NO,” RAND REPEATED, PACING the living-room floor with an after-dinner brandy in his hand while his wife Leila watched from the sofa next to Hastings. “Damn it, every time you come out here for dinner it’s some new intrigue! I retired from Double-C to get away from all that. The last time you even involved Leila in some dangerous business. That’s the end of it. No more! She’s teaching and I’m writing and we’re quite peaceful here in the country.”
“At least give me an opportunity to—”
But Rand cut him off. “No! We’ll welcome you as a friend any time you come, but there’s to be no talk of business, and especially no talk of new assignments for me. In the years since I’ve retired I’ve been almost as busy as I was before!”
“Oh, that’s hardly the case, Rand,” Hastings protested. “You have your days free to work on your memoirs, and Leila teaches at the University. It’s a perfect existence, really, and if I show up once in six months to disrupt things a bit you should be thankful the British government still has such a high regard for your talents.”
“They used my talents for a good many years, but that’s over now. I don’t even do the cipher puzzles in the Sunday paper any more.”
“Still, those were great days with you in London and Taz in Moscow, during the depths of the Cold War.”
“The world changed,” Rand reminded him. “Now we have arms limitation treaties with the Russians.”
“Taz was certainly a worthy opponent.”
“He was,” Rand agreed. “He retired too, remember—but the Russians talked him into coming back for one more assignment. He ended up dead when he set off a bomb in a car.”
Hastings nodded. “Geneva, Switzerland, 1975. I remember it very well. You retired shortly after that.”
“Taz chose to die, and kill a couple of his Russian comrades, rather than kill me and some other people.” Rand stared into his brandy glass. “After that I decided it was time to get out of the business. And of course Leila helped with that decision.”
“What would you say if I told you Taz was still alive?”
“That’s impossible! I saw the body!”
“Nevertheless, he seems to have returned from the dead, if he was ever really among them.”
“Impossible!” Rand repeated, but with less assurance. Was anything really impossible in the shadowy underworld of espionage? “If he’s back from the dead what’s he been up to?”
“Killing people,” Hastings answered. “The Russians want our help in finding him.”
“Our help?”
“Exactly. And that’s why we need you, Rand. You knew him. He even showed some admiration for you in his later days. If anyone can find him and bring him out of hiding, it’s you.”
“The man is dead, Hastings!” Rand insisted.
“Just try for a moment accepting the fact that he might not be. That he’s active and causing trouble for both sides now. Would that be enough to tempt you back?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.
“Would you at least meet with someone?”
“Who?” Rand asked.
“A Russian named Cornelius. At least that’s his code name. He’ll be on the Holyhead to Dublin ferry tomorrow morning.”
Rand thought about it for a long time. Finally he turned to Leila and asked, “Should I do it?”
“Will you be happy if you don’t?”
Rand took the early train from London to Holyhead and then strode across the station and a little outer courtyard to the adjoining ferry dock. He was just in time to board the last morning ferry to Dublin—a three-hour journey across the Irish Sea in a modern ship that carried cars as well as passengers and offered all the comforts of a night at the club.
Rand sat for a time in the plush armchair of the first-class section, until the ship was clear of the docks and well out to sea. Then he went for a casual stroll around the deck. Even in late June the breeze on the Irish Sea could be brisk and chilling, and he saw at once that he was the only passenger who’d ventured out. Next he checked the darkened room where television or movies could be viewed, but only a few children were in there. Two decks below, the large restaurant had a good noonday crowd, but no one that he sought.
Finally, in the bar and lounge on the deck above the restaurant, his search was rewarded. He purchased a beer from the Irish bartender and carried it over to one of the little round cocktail tables bolted to the floor. A man wearing a red plaid vest and a gray suit sat reading a copy of the latest John LeCarré novel. He glanced up as Rand asked, “Could I share this table?”
“Certainly, old chap.” The words were English, but the accent was not quite perfect. Rand knew he had found his man.
“Nice crossing today.”
“It is that,” the man agreed.
“How’s the book?”
“Oh, you know these spy things. Quite far-fetched.”
“I’d have thought differently. I knew a man once who was in the business.”
Rand’s table companion closed the book and glanced casually around the bar. No one was close enough to overhear their conversation. “You would be Rand?” he asked.
“Yes. And you’re Cornelius?”
“As good a name as any,” he replied. He was a tall slim man whose gaunt features reminded Rand of the villains in the old war movies. He looked, in truth, more German than Russian.
“You wanted to see me?”
“My superiors suggested you could help.” He dropped his gaze to the bulging briefcase that served Rand as an overnight bag.
Reading his thoughts, Rand said, “There is no recording device. I’ll open it if you want.”
“Not necessary. We must trust one another.”
Rand dropped his voice another notch, keeping his expression casual.
“Taz is dead. I saw the body myself,” he said firmly.
“In an explosion many things are possible. A last-minute substitution, for example. The body was badly burned?”
“Yes,” Rand admitted. “But what is your evidence that he’s alive?”
Cornelius stared at his drink. “Three of our best field agents have been killed during the past two months. Their throats were cut. The first lived long enough to write Taz’s name in Russian on his desktop at our embassy in Vienna. He used his own blood to do it.”
“Just Taz, nothing more?”
“Nothing more. After that Taz’s old Moscow office received a letter from him.”
Rand’s interest perked. “A letter?”
“Typewritten. Here’s a translation of it.”
Rand read the brief note: The body in Vienna was only the first. The Tsar Network betrayed the cause of the Revolution and all its members must die. I have come back to do this and will not be stopped. Taz.
“What is the Tsar Network?” Rand asked.
He hesitated at first, as if weighing how much to tell. Then he said, “The Tsar Network operated in the early 1960s, using seven agents who were known to each other only by the names of the last seven Tsars of Imperial Russia. It operated in various European cities with the aim of gaining intelligence regarding NATO military strength. The network collapsed in 1965 when one of its key agents, Tsar Paul, was captured and killed by West German intelligence agents. We didn’t know how much Paul told before he died, so the network was immediately shut down and the surviving six agents shifted to other assignments.”
“I never heard Paul referred to as a Tsar,” said Rand, who knew something of Russian history.
“The term is interchangeable with Emperor. Most Russian rulers called themselves Emperor, though the final one, Nicholas II, preferred the older, more Russian, title of Tsar. In the network all seven agents used Tsar. There were Nicholas II, Alexander III, Alexander II, Nicholas I, Alexander I, Paul, and Catherine the Great.”
“A woman?”
“Yes. One woman and six men. With the death of Paul five men were left alive.”
“Who was the first man to have his throat slit?”
“Alexander II, in Vienna.”
“Tell me about him.”
“There is little to tell. He was an exceptional agent, especially in his command of the English language. He had a British mother and it was really his native tongue. They said back in Moscow he even thought in English. He was in deep cover with the NATO forces—a mole, to use LeCarré’s term.” He gestured toward the book on the table. “Personally, I thought he should have remained where he was, but when Paul was killed the people in Moscow panicked. The entire network was shut down and Alexander II was shifted to Vienna—under another designation, of course.”
“You said three agents had been killed.”
Cornelius nodded. “A few weeks after that letter arrived, Nicholas I died in Madrid. Again, the throat was cut.”
“Had he been warned of the letter from Taz?”
“Not directly. It was not taken too seriously at first. After Nicholas I died, of course, the others were warned. But it did no good. Alexander I was killed in Amsterdam last week.”
“Throat cut?”
“Yes. Exactly like the others.”
“Did the second or third victims live long enough to leave a message?”
“No.”
Rand leaned back in his chair. “Why does Moscow want my help? We’re still something like enemies, you know.”
Cornelius nodded. “I agree, but the decision was not mine to make. I am simply following instructions. The feeling seems to be that you knew Taz, were even friendly with him for a time. Friendly enemies of a sort. Moscow knows all too well how you managed to anticipate his movements on more than one occasion. They hope you can do it again. Three members of the Tsar Network are still alive. We want to keep them alive.”
“Maybe there’s another reason too,” Rand speculated. “Like Taz, I’m retired. I won’t feel obliged to report everything I learn to British Intelligence.” He paused a moment. “And British Intelligence won’t feel obliged to make an international incident out of it if you kill me after I find Taz.”
“No, no.” Cornelius insisted with a shake of his head. “You English always think of killing! You are still fighting the old war. Russia today is content to let time work on its side. I can assure you of your personal safety, once Taz is found.”
“Have there been any other letters since the first?”
“No letters, but there was a telephone call after the second killing. He phoned the man who had replaced him in Moscow.”
“Was it Taz’s voice?” For the first time Rand seriously considered the possibility that his old foe could be still alive.
“The man met Taz only once. He couldn’t be certain.”
“What did the message say?”
“That the Tsar Network had betrayed the Revolution.
“In what way?”
“Mr. Rand, a madman needs no reasons. It seems obvious that Taz is both alive and insane.”
Rand considered the courses open to him. “Three members of the Tsar Network remain alive. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Nicholas II, Alexander III, and Catherine the Great.”
“Where are they?”
“Nicholas is in Dublin at the moment. I am on my way to see him. We’re not certain just where Catherine is. She was in Paris, but she left there ten days ago after receiving our second warning.”
“And Alexander III?”
Cornelius bowed his head slightly. “He sits before you, Mr. Rand. I am Alexander III. Or I was, back in those days.”
“I see.”
“You can understand that I have a personal interest in finding Taz before he succeeds in killing the entire Tsar Network.”
“Indeed.”
“I hope you will come with me to meet Nicholas.”
“I’ll come,” Rand agreed quietly.
It was not a long drive from the ferry dock to downtown Dublin, and the sun was still high in the afternoon sky when their taxi crossed the River Liffey and drew up in front of the hotel on O’Connell Street. Cornelius paid the driver and said to Rand, “I will not be staying the night, but if you wish to remain for a day or so, this is a fine hotel.”
“Thanks. Where do we meet Nicholas?”
Cornelius hesitated again, reluctant to reveal more than was absolutely necessary. “He is a member of the Russian delegation here, employed at our embassy. We won’t be going there, though. I’ll phone and arrange a meeting elsewhere.”
The meeting came two hours later, in a Catholic church only a block from the hotel. “They never suspect Communists of meeting in a church,” Cornelius said with a chuckle. “It has served me well in many cities.”
Rand stood near the back of the church, watching a few people drift in for a visit following their day’s work. Some paused by a side altar to drop a coin in a meter and snap on one of the electric vigil lights that glowed in steady rows. A strange leap into the modern age, Rand thought, for a country and a church so deeply rooted in the traditional ways.
Presently Cornelius touched his elbow and went forward to intercept a stout man of medium height with horn-rimmed glasses and slicked-down blond hair. If Cornelius reminded Rand of the villain in an old Nazi film, the man with the code name of Nicholas II looked more like a prosperous American banker.
“Alexander,” he said, speaking softly. “It is good to see you again.” The name surprised Rand, until he remembered the members of the Tsar Network had known each other only by their code names.
“My old friend, I come in a time of great peril for both of us. You have been warned about Taz?”
“Of course.”
“This man is Rand, late of British Intelligence.” He added quickly, “Do not fear! He’s here to help us. He knew Taz and in fact was present at the explosion that apparently killed him.”
Nicholas shifted nervously, glancing about the church. “Taz telephoned me.”
“When?” Rand asked.
“Just last evening, at my embassy quarters. He offered to let me live if I would reveal the present locations of Catherine and Alexander. I could not, of course. I did not know them.”
“So he threatened to kill you?” Rand studied the man as he spoke, looking for anything unusual. But Nicholas seemed only to be a badly frightened bureaucrat.
“I told him I knew very little about the Tsar Network. I told him I was not worth killing.”
“Had you ever spoken to Taz before?”
“No.”
Rand turned back to Cornelius. “What was Taz’s connection with the Tsar Network?”
“No direct connection, although of course his work with the communications section made him aware of our activities.”
“What were those activities?” Rand wanted to know. “What was it that Taz could possibly construe as harming the Revolution?”
“Nothing,” Nicholas insisted. “Absolutely nothing!”
Cornelius glanced at his watch. “I must catch the last ferry back to Holyhead. Will you be staying, Mr. Rand?”
“If Taz phoned here last night he could be very close. I’ll stay, at least for a day or so.”
“Very well.”
“You’re in danger too,” Nicholas reminded Cornelius. “He’s after you.”
Cornelius brushed aside the warning. “Within forty-eight hours I’ll be back at my desk in Moscow. I am safer than those of you on foreign soil.”
“And Catherine? She is the only other one left alive.”
“True,” Cornelius admitted. “But I have not seen her in fifteen years.”
“She was a beautiful girl then.”
“We were all younger. Today we are old and tired—right, Nicholas?”
“You do well in the Kremlin, old friend, while I waste away here in Dublin. When the revolution sweeps across Europe, I hardly think Ireland will be one of its first targets.”
They shook hands and Cornelius turned to Rand. “Do what you can for us.”
“And if I find Taz?”
“Do what is best.”
Then he was gone.
“I must get back to my quarters,” the man known as Nicholas said.
Rand handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s my phone number at the hotel. If Taz calls again, telephone me at once. Otherwise I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Whom should I ask for at the embassy?”
Even then Nicholas was reluctant to reveal his real name. “I will call you, Mr. Rand.”
“Be careful.”
“If Taz comes for me, he will not have an easy time of it.”
Rand left the church first, walking quickly back to his hotel. Indeed, he decided, the world was changing. Who would have thought he’d ever be having a secret meeting with Russian agents in the back of a church, or using his wits to try saving their lives?
These thoughts were still in his mind as he unlocked the room assigned to him and stepped over the threshold. He was hardly expecting the beautiful dark-haired woman who came out of the bathroom with a Beretta pistol pointed at his stomach.
Rand smiled and gave a little bow. “Let me guess—you’d be Catherine the Great.”
“Your intelligence is only equaled by your bravado, Mr. Rand. Has my fame preceded me?”
“Within the hour I heard a compliment to your beauty, which was certainly justified.” He guessed her to be nearing 40, which meant she’d been under 25 in the active days of the Tsar Network. The Russians would have found her of great use in prying NATO secrets from tired middle-aged generals. “Why don’t you put away that gun so we can talk?”
“The gun stays, for the moment. I want to know what you’re doing in Dublin, Mr. Rand, and why you arrived here in the company of Alexander III. I assume you know that designation since you addressed me as Catherine.”
He took a careful step closer. “I do indeed. And I know of the Tsar Network too. A bit of humor, that—with seven Russian agents using code names of dead Russian emperors.”
“We were quite serious at the time.”
“And quite successful too, I imagine, until Paul fell victim to West German counterintelligence. Tell me something—why is Taz trying to kill you all?”
“I don’t believe Taz is.” He could see now that her eyes were green. “Taz is dead.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling those fools,” Rand agreed. “But if Taz isn’t killing them, who is?”
“I think you are, Mr. Rand, which is why I’m holding this gun.”
“Me! That’s insane!”
“Is it? The British would like nothing better than to remove a half-dozen top enemy agents without being blamed for it. This way we fight among ourselves, suspecting each other, while you go about your business. After all, you were present when Taz met his end. You’re in the best position to know the body could never be fully identified.”
“You know a great deal about me.”
“After Tsar folded I was reassigned to Moscow. I worked under Taz in the early ’70s, and he told me a great deal about you.”
“Then you knew him well.”
“Well enough. He had a candid photo of you on his office wall.”
“I never knew that. Did you throw darts at it?”
“No. Taz had a great deal of respect for you.”
“And yet you think I’d do something like this? Kill off Russian agents and blame it on him?”
“We are still enemies, Mr. Rand. My eyes are not clouded by SALT treaties and good-will missions.”
“Moscow asked for my help. I came out of retirement to find Taz, if he’s still alive.”
“They asked for you?” She frowned and considered that bit of information. “It’s difficult to believe.”
“It’s difficult for me too. But that’s what I’m doing here. Cornelius—the man you know as Alexander—met me on the ferry from Holyhead this morning. Apparently I did so well outwitting Taz in life they think I can do it now that he’s dead too.” He’d moved close enough to grab the gun from her hand, but he hesitated, waiting for her next words.
“All right,” she said, lowering the weapon. “I will take a chance.”
“Good! Now suppose we talk about this over a drink.”
But she balked at that. “If what you say is true I must be on my way. A moving target is more difficult to hit.”
“Certainly you can’t think Taz would come after you!”
“Taz, or whoever.”
“Anyone could have left that dying message with Taz’s name.”
“No, anyone couldn’t,” she said. “That’s one reason Moscow is now treating this whole thing so seriously. As I understand it, Paul was writing the message in his blood when they found him. With his throat cut he couldn’t speak, and he died before they could help him. But the message was not faked.”
“Someone could have impersonated Taz, of course.”
“Why impersonate a dead man? Why not simply wear a mask?” She tucked the gun away in her purse. “The killer couldn’t have known Paul would live long enough to identify him.”
“I don’t know the answers,” Rand admitted. “But I have more questions. Who knew you were in Paris, and why did you leave so suddenly?”
“Moscow knew where I was, of course. No one else did. When I heard of the last killing in Amsterdam it seemed wise to move on. I could have returned to Moscow, but I knew Nicholas was assigned to our Dublin embassy, so I came here.”
“Then you know the true identity of Nicholas, not just his old code name?”
“I worked in Moscow for many years, you’ll remember. We learn such things there.”
“You speak English very well.”
She smiled. “It was one of the requirements of the Tsar Network. Before we were recruited we had to know the language from A to Z.”
“I wish I could say I knew Russian from A to Z.”
“That would be difficult, since there is no Z in the Russian alphabet.”
“That’s right. I remember a fellow who worked in the cipher room with me. When the message came through in Russian he used to say he knew the language from A to three, because—”
The telephone by the bed gave two sharp jingles, startling them both.
Rand picked it up and heard a voice he recognized as belonging to Nicholas. “Taz just phoned me,” he said. “Not five minutes ago.”
“What did he say?”
“The same as before—that he’d let me live if I told him where the others were. He wants to meet me tonight at ten.”
“Where?”
“In the courtyard at Trinity College, near the library.”
“Go there, but be careful. I’ll try to arrive early and get a look at him. If it is Taz, it’s time we put an end to this. Do you have a gun?”
“Yes,” Nicholas replied. “I’ll be safe enough.”
“Get there a few minutes late, so I have time to locate him.”
“All right.”
Rand hung up and told Catherine about the meeting. “I want to come with you,” she said.
“Don’t be foolish. You’re a target too. Stay here in my room.”
“All right,” she agreed, much too readily.
He ordered dinner sent up to the room so they wouldn’t be seen together. If Taz was on the prowl in Dublin he could be anywhere. Later, as they ate, he asked, “What is Nicholas’ real name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I might need to know, and he wouldn’t tell me.”
“It is Max Satatov.”
“Thank you.” He made a note of it.
As he prepared to leave she placed a delicate hand on his arm. “Be careful, Mr. Rand.”
Outside the streets were slick and glowing with a light summer drizzle that had begun to fall, almost invisibly, and Rand was glad he’d packed a lightweight raincoat. The rain was not heavy enough to seek out a taxi, and he walked quickly south across O’Connell Bridge, then a few blocks to Trinity College. He could feel the sharp stones of the courtyard through his shoes as he passed the gate and crossed in the general direction of the library building. Except for a few summer students he passed in the dark, the college seemed almost deserted. The rain had glistened the stones of the courtyard to reflect the occasional lights from a window, but most was darkness. He wondered how he’d ever find Nicholas or Taz here.
Or would only one be waiting for him?
He moved carefully among the shadows, hoping to spot some movement before he was himself seen. For a quarter of an hour there was nothing except the occasional passage of students on their way back from the library. Then, as he pressed his digital watch to read the time as 10:06, he heard a low groan from the shadows of a nearby building. He stepped out cautiously, ready for a sudden attack, and his eyes made out the figure of a man supporting himself with one outstretched arm against the building’s wall.
Rand moved closer and saw the dim features of Nicholas. The man tried to speak, and then Rand saw the blood welling up from beneath his chin. Before Rand could reach him, Nicholas collapsed to the ground.
Rand turned him over and felt for a pulse, but it was too late. Taz had claimed a fourth member of the Tsar Network.
There was a sound of movement farther into the shadows of the building, and Rand moved quickly. His searching hands encountered the sleek plastic of a raincoat and he grappled with the other figure until a little screech of pain brought recognition.
“Catherine!”
“God, Rand, you almost killed me!”
“I told you to wait in the room.”
“I get nervous waiting. What’s happened here?”
“Nicholas is dead. His throat was cut, not moments ago.”
She took a frightened step backward and almost stumbled over the body. “Then Taz must be here!”
“Perhaps. An hour ago you weren’t so sure he was alive.”
“But he phoned Nicholas!”
“Or else Nicholas made up the story.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Suppose Nicholas and some other member of the old Tsar Network plotted the murders together. Suppose getting me here tonight was just another stunt to indicate Taz was alive. And then suppose Nicholas was double-crossed and killed by his partner.”
“You think I killed him?”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“But why? Why would I kill any of them?”
He couldn’t see her eyes in the dark, but he remembered how green they were. “I think it all goes back to the first one to die—Tsar Paul, fifteen years ago. Who betrayed Paul to the West Germans, Catherine?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“It was a member of the network, wasn’t it? Is that why Taz thought you all had to die, because one of you was a traitor?”
“I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t know what happened to Paul. I don’t—”
Something clattered against the cobblestone pavement and Rand turned, the misty rain on his face. He froze as he saw the tall figure step from the shadows not 20 feet away. Instinctively he placed his body between Catherine and the newcomer.
“Good evening, Mr. Rand,” a voice said, thick with accent. Rand couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard it before.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“We last met in Switzerland, some years ago.”
“Taz?”
The figure moved a bit but kept to the shadows. “I did not die in that explosion, though it was a very near thing. I’ve come back now, Mr. Rand—back from the dead, as they say.”
“You killed Nicholas and the others?”
“I killed them, yes. They didn’t deserve to live. It is my good fortune that Catherine has come here too. Now I can make an end to this business.”
He moved then, and Rand saw the glint of light reflected off the knife blade. There was no time to reach his own gun and he knew the blade would strike him down on its way to Catherine’s throat. He knew, and was frozen there seconds from death suddenly remembering a sentence he’d never finished.
“…he knew the language from A to three, because in Russian the symbol for Z looks just like a 3.”
“You’re not Taz!” he shouted as the knifer lunged. And behind him Catherine the Great stepped into the shimmering reflected light and fired three quick shots with her little Beretta.
The figure with the knife staggered, half turned, and toppled to the wet stones.
It wasn’t Taz.
It was Cornelius.
Rand left the bodies there and took Catherine with him on the next ferry back to Holyhead. There was no point in involving the Irish police in a complicated story they’d never understand. He would make his report to Hastings, for transmission to the Russians, and they could carry on as they pleased.
Seated across from Catherine on the ferry, Rand said, “You have to realize the backwards nature of the thing. Cornelius never meant to impersonate Taz at the beginning—I’m sure of that. He was forced into it, to cover up the real meaning of the first victim’s dying message.”
“Real meaning? But the man wrote TAZ in his own blood!”
“Not exactly. Alexander II was killed in the Russian embassy in Vienna, so we can safely assume his body was found by Russians. They reported, and I was told, that the dying man wrote Taz’s name in Russian! But consider the facts. The members of the Tsar network were recruited for their expertise in English, and the first victim actually had it as a native tongue thanks to a British mother. It was said he thought in English. So it’s more likely his dying message was written in English rather than Russian.”
“Of course!” she agreed readily. “There is no Z in the Russian alphabet! TAZ would be written TA3 in Russian.”
“Exactly. The Russian symbol for Z looks exactly like the number 3. If the dying man wrote in English, which I’ve shown is likely, then he was writing TA3 and not the name of the dead Russian.”
“TA3.”
“A dying man’s quick abbreviation of Tsar Alexander III, the only name by which he’d ever known Cornelius.”
“But what about the letter and phone calls from Taz?”
“Cornelius realized the meaning of the dying message at once, naturally, but when the people in Moscow mistook it for a reference to the dead Taz he strengthened the theory by writing that letter. The phone calls, carefully placed to people not familiar with Taz’s voice, did the same. As long as they were thinking about Taz, they weren’t looking for another meaning to TA3.”
“He would have killed me too.”
“Yes, he would have. Both of us. Actually what puzzled me from the beginning was how Taz could know the cities these old agents were working in. And even more puzzling, how he could get close enough to cut their throats even after they’d been warned. Cornelius held an important Moscow post, with access to that information. And even men on their guard against Taz relaxed when they saw it was him—their old comrade from the Tsar Network. He even got to Nicholas, who was armed and expecting an attack.”
Catherine thought of something. “What did you do with my Beretta?”
“Left it in Nicholas’ hand. If the police think they killed each other, so much the better.”
“Why did Cornelius do it?”
“Moscow sent him to make contact with me, so he was high up in the chain of command. I suspect he was in line for an even bigger position, and he felt the need to remove any trace of a past indiscretion. I think Cornelius betrayed Paul to the West Germans fifteen years ago. Either that or some bungle of his caused Paul’s arrest. In any case, he had to silence the witnesses, the members of the old Tsar Network, before he’d be safe in his new position.”
“And you came into it only because of Taz? Because you wanted a chance to battle him again?”
“No,” Rand answered, remembering the old Russian’s face the last time they’d met. “I wanted a chance to prove him innocent of these murders.”
At Holyhead they shook hands rather formally before parting, and Catherine the Great said, “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
Rand answered with a smile. “But if we do, we’ll probably be enemies.”