To Free a Spy Page 21

  He had no better alternative than Antonov’s demand, and no choice if he wanted to be involved. He looked at Antonov and signaled his agreement.

  Antonov looked him in the eye and nodded almost unnoticeably, sealing the contract. “There is a Russian men’s gathering place here in Tokyo—Moscow East, they call it. Private nightclub. Outsiders not welcome—except for some female talent they bring in for entertainment. The regulars play Russian music, dance, gamble, drink, fool around with the women. You know the sort of hangout, Warfield. These men have their good times but it is a rough place located in the back room of a bar having the unlikely name of the Texas Saloon.” Antonov’s eyes smiled as if to say he’d been there a few times himself.”

  “On business, of course!”

  Antonov nodded. “Mostly to watch for Boris Petrevich. Finally saw him. He saw me too, knows who I am—I saw the look in his eyes. Afterwards, Komeito and me, we followed him but lost him somewhere near the airport.”

  “How did you know he was in Tokyo?”

  “Former KGB general I know. Garovsky. Retired now. I ran into him at a market in Moscow. Went for a drink. Conversation got around to the nukes impounded at various Russian sites and how vulnerable they were, how some of the physics boys had already tapped them. Give you one guess whose name came up in that conversation.”

  “Boris Petrevich,” Warfield said.

  “Right. And Garovsky told me he is in Tokyo.”

  “How long?”

  “Year and a half now.”

  “Why didn’t the SVR pursue him?” The SVR was Russia’s central intelligence organization that took over most of the functions of the old KGB.

  Antonov shook his head. “KGB was in shambles when the USSR dissolved, Colonel. Disorganized, broke, demoralized. Even after it became SVR there was more political infighting, and they had no money to operate with, like everything else in Russia. They couldn’t protect the nuclear stockpile. Trying now to contain it but Russia has announced it will go it alone from here on without the help of your country. Nothing is guaranteed. You can thank Putin for that.”

  “Anything more about Petrevich?”

  Antonov frowned. “A former big player at Arzamas-16, our nuclear research site.”

  Just as Abbas had said. Petrevich had worked at the great secret plant where the Russians sent their best engineering and physics graduates to design and build nuclear weapons. Russia’s Los Alamos, and then some.

  Antonov went on. “Petrevich is a dangerous man. A renegade all along, but a brilliant one. Our people had to put up with him because of his mind. He came up with one idea after another for getting ahead of you Americans, but when he was no longer a precious commodity to Moscow he received the same inadequate pension the commoners got. When things started picking up in the last few years and most of the scientists were making at least a few rubles, he was left out. He’d been high-handed during the Cold War, but when he was no longer essential the people he had offended didn’t forget.”

  “Why did it take so long for this information to get to you?”

  Antonov looked up in apparent wonder. “My contacts didn’t know about it. I happened to pick it up in my conversation with my KGB friend. SVR forgot about Petrevich. They had more than they could do with plenty like him who had not yet found a way to do what Petrevich did. When Petrevich left Arzamas-16 he lived close to poverty. No family, no connections. No one noticed he had taken the nuclear materials with him. He knew how to go around the controls they had on the stuff. Covered his tracks very well.”

  “Is he alone here?”

  “I do not think so. Two others may have joined him. I saw one big blond-haired boy with him at the Russian club. He fit the description of one of them. Little rough. Petrevich had trouble keeping him in line that night at Moscow East.”

  Damn Fullwood, Warfield thought. He could have prevented all of this. After a moment he asked Antonov, “You have a plan?”

  The waiter cleared the table and Antonov pulled three cigars out of his pocket. “Cuban,” he said. He smiled with his eyes and winked at Warfield as he offered them around.

  “It’s going to be more difficult now that Petrevich has seen me. Later tonight we may learn more.”

  “Tonight?”

  “The Texas Saloon, entrance to the Moscow East.” Antonov said he had talked with a prostitute named Romi, whom he’d met there. She had noticed the big man with blond hair in the Russian club. Saw him later in the Texas Saloon drunk, obnoxious, talking loud. She told Antonov he might learn more from the bartender at the Texas.

  “A man of that description is noticed in Japan, you know,” Antonov said.

  Warfield nodded. “Like us.”

  Antonov released a cloud of blue smoke above the table.

  “Yes, like us.”

  They looked at Komeito. He was laughing at them.

  “What else did this Romi tell you?” Warfield asked Antonov.

  “One other minor detail: The blond Russian kid, there in the Texas Saloon, threatened to kill his boss—his Japanese superior—at his bath house.”

  “She heard him say that?”

  Antonov nodded. “The man’s brother too. I don’t know why the brother. Romi says the blond Russian called him retarded.”

  Warfield seemed skeptical. “How much credibility do you give the girl?”

  Antonov shrugged. “You tell me. She also said he brags about building bombs for a living.”

  “We’re getting warmer.”

  “And that the Russian and the bartender got into a hot argument.”

  Warfield blew a stream of cigar smoke. “Maybe vodka talk.”

  “Could be, yes. Let us ask the bartender what he thinks. Name is Tex.”

  “I suppose Petrevich will not return to the club,” Warfield said.

  “Not openly. Too smart for that. After seeing me there he will play it safe.”

  “You never saw the kid with blond hair again?” Warfield asked.

  “No.”

  “He got a name yet?”

  “No, but we will find him. His eyelids are tattooed.”

  Warfield couldn’t keep from smiling. “That should help! We’ll just catch him sleeping.”

  Antonov chuckled. “Snake on each eyelid. They look at each other. All coiled up, tongues leaping out like this.” He pointed his index fingers at each other and wiggled them, and darted his tongue in and out. Warfield and Komeito laughed. This big Russian could be a clown.

  “Know anything about this bath house?” Warfield asked.

  “Romi knew it was called the Tomodachi Sento-yu. Took me there. I even got into the water to see what it was like. When she questioned the old man running the place for me and described Snake-eyes to him, he said he’d seen a man who fit the description outside the bath house a few days earlier looking the place over. Probably him.”

  Warfield nodded.

  “It gets better,” Antonov said. “We are talking with the super at the bath house when two men walk in together. Japanese. Something wrong with one of them. May be the retarded brother. Maybe not. Romi thinks the man we saw was a radiation victim.”

  “Radiation?”

  Antonov nodded to Komeito to explain.

  Komeito sat forward in his seat. “Romi suspect this because schools in Japan teach about it. When the bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, radiation affected certain fetuses in the womb. Some very badly,” Komeito said.

  “And Romi thinks he might be one of them.” Warfield said.

  Antonov nodded. “After the pair left I got Romi to ask the old superintendent about them. They were brothers who had been coming there since he could remember. He did not know for sure but said the regulars there assumed the slow one was a radiation victim.”

  “So you think the retarded guy’s brother is Snake-eyes’ boss, the guy he threatened to nuke?” Warfield asked.

  “Long shot, but I can’t ignore it. It all fits with what Romi overheard.”

  Ant
onov excused himself and got up to go to the restroom and Komeito followed a comfortable distance behind. Some of the diners watched the tall gaijin cross the dining room toward an archway that led to the restrooms. Not even foreigners were often as large as Antonov.

  Warfield leaned back and mulled Antonov’s theory. To say it was a long shot would be the understatement of the day. What were the odds against Antonov and his prostitute running into Snake-eyes’ boss and his brother there? But on the other hand, Antonov and Romi were at the right bath house—Romi claimed she overheard Snake-eyes call its name, the Tomodachi Sento, and the old attendant there had noticed someone who could have been Snake-eyes hanging around outside the bath house. And how many pairs of men fitting the description of the brothers could there be, at any bath house? Warfield conceded it was worth looking into. Besides, what else did they have to go on?

  Warfield looked around at the wall murals and the décor. The Izumi was elegant by any standard. A vase of cut flowers sat in the center of each table and candles provided soft light. Japanese music played unobtrusively in the background. Every table was occupied and the clientele appeared to be well-heeled, belying the fact that Japan’s economy had languished in the recent several years.

  Warfield glanced at his watch. Antonov and Komeito had been gone for ten or twelve minutes now. When he looked toward the restrooms Komeito was walking toward him, almost running. Antonov was nowhere in sight.

  By the time Komeito reached the table it was obvious something was wrong. He leaned over Warfield’s shoulder.

  “You must follow me, quickly, quickly!” His voice was quiet but demanding. When Warfield started asking questions Komeito was firm. “You must trust me and do as I say now. Do not delay!”

  Warfield was stunned. “Where is Antonov?”

  Komeito drew a breath through clenched teeth. “Warfield, you must comply this second. You are in danger.” Komeito started toward the main entrance through the bar.

  Warfield, his mind reeling, followed as Komeito routed his way through the tables, out the front door and to a black limousine sitting at the curb. It was Antonov’s and Komeito rattled off instructions to the driver in rapid-fire Japanese as he and Warfield climbed in. Then he turned to Warfield, his eyes wide with terror. “Antonov is dead!”

  Warfield was dumbfounded.

  As the driver hurried away from the Izumi, Komeito spoke to someone in Japanese on his cell phone, listened for a moment, looked at his watch, and barked another mouthful of words. He lowered the privacy window that separated them from TK the driver and rattled off more Japanese.

  There was a time to lead and a time to follow, and Warfield understood his role in the present situation. He was in a strange place, didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the city. Komeito did, and Warfield, believing Antonov trusted him, was inclined to follow, at least until the immediate crisis was over. But the obvious questions raced through his head all the same. If Antonov was dead, who killed him? Why? Was Komeito involved? Was it possible Warfield was the dupe in some kind of plot? In Warfield’s business nothing was taken at face value. But don’t jump to conclusions, he reminded himself. Observe, analyze, plan, then act. Every crevice of his mind searched for something he could grasp.

  Sirens wailed in the distance as TK cut the car lights and pulled to a stop in the darkness of an alley at the back of a building. Warfield recognized the dimly lit logo on the delivery door as the East Island Winds Hotel where he checked in hours earlier. The hotel door opened but light rain had started to fall and the steam rising from the warm pavement made it difficult to make out the human figure silhouetted against the light inside. The car had not even stopped when Komeito jumped out, ran to the person at the door and got back in the car with a luggage bag. He told TK to go.

  “If all right with you,” Komeito said, “we go to my gensanchi. Safe there.”

  Warfield nodded. As they drove through the worst scramble of streets he could remember, the rain got heavier and the sounds of the sirens faded. TK had put distance between them and the Izumi—and Antonov’s dead body. Warfield tried to imagine the scene at the restaurant and knew the police would learn of his involvement with Antonov. Someone at the restaurant would describe the Western-looking man sitting with the victim and the authorities would learn Antonov was connected with Komeito, and Komeito with Warfield: He was with Komeito at the hotel front desk when he checked in. Being caught up in a police investigation would mean his and Komeito’s names and photos in the papers with Antonov’s, and that could alert Petrevich.

  Petrevich of course was Warfield’s prime suspect in Antonov’s death. Antonov was a threat to him and his project, whatever that was.

  Komeito listened to news on the radio and told Warfield they were announcing the discovery of a man found dead in the restroom at the Izumi.

  When they reached Komeito’s home his face reflected the trauma of the last hour. Warfield wondered whether he himself looked as bad. He now demanded that Komeito explain what happened at the Izumi.

  “First, Antonov waited outside the door while I checked out the toilet security. Opened all the stall doors. No one there, so Antonov goes in. I wait outside restroom for him. No one enters during that time. After he has been there too long I go in to check. Throat is cut. Head almost separated from body. Blood everywhere.” Komeito shook his head as he recounted the scene.

  “God almighty!” Warfield whispered.

  “Hai! I cannot believe this has happened. It is my responsibility,” Komeito said, looking at the floor.

  Warfield was puzzled. “But you said you checked it out first. How did the killer get in there, Komeito?”

  Komeito shook his head. “Door to supply closet is standing open when I go back in to check on Antonov. Killer must have waited inside closet with door locked, and when someone enters he checks to see if it is Antonov. Closet locked when I go in before Antonov.”

  “So the killer tracks Antonov there to the Izumi and waits for him in the supply closet, figuring Antonov is going to the john sooner or later. When he does, it’s his waterloo.”

  Komeito shook his head. “Waterloo?”

  “Means it was over for Antonov,” Warfield said, “but how the hell did the killer exit? You were standing at the door.”

  “Window to outside. It is cranked open wide when I find Antonov.”

  Warfield thought for a second. “Why the stop behind the hotel?”

  “The man at hotel works for me sometimes. Trustworthy. He went to the general’s room and packed his things. That’s what he brought to the door.” Komeito gestured to the suitcase.

  Warfield thought for a minute. “Tell me everything you and Antonov did before I got here.”

  Komeito spent ten minutes describing when, where and what. When he finished, Warfield asked about Romi.

  “Gaishou, whore, as Antonov said. Took us to Tomodachi bath house. Antonov and Romi stayed there and Antonov sent me to meet you at airport. After I left you at hotel, I picked up Antonov and Romi at a bar near bath house.”

  “You know her, Komeito?”

  “Only few days, with general.”

  Warfield opened Antonov’s travel bag from the hotel. There were the usual—slacks, shirts, underwear, toiletries—but a couple of things caught his attention. A leather notebook contained a five-by-seven black and white photograph of a man. “What’s this say?” Warfield said, referring to Cyrillic characters at the bottom of the photo.

  “Ahh, Boris M. Petrevich. So now at least you know what your man looks like.”

  The other item of interest to Warfield was a note pad from the East Island Winds Hotel. Antonov, or someone, had penciled two sets of numbers on it.

  “First one is a phone number,” Komeito said.

  The other was the number 8.6, underlined twice. Komeito said it meant nothing to him.

  “You will be staying in Tokyo?” Komeito asked, after they finished going through the bag.

  Warfield nodded.

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nbsp; “I work with you if you want.”

  Of course Warfield wanted to keep him around. He wanted to keep an eye on him. No one was eliminated as a suspect in Antonov’s death, at least not yet.

  “Need a different car. Regular sedan that won’t be noticed.”

  Komeito nodded.

  “And check into a hotel. They’ll start looking for us. I’ll move to a different one under another name.”

  “Okay.”

  “You trust TK?”

  “Yes. He drove for Antonov. Russian security clearance, like me.”

  “You got a private voice-mailbox?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anybody else have access to it?”

  “No one.”

  “Change the access code anyway. We’ll use that to communicate. No direct calls between us. I’ll need the phone number and code.” Both men were lost in their own thoughts for a few seconds. Then Warfield said, “Now let’s go to the Texas Saloon.”

  On the drive to the Texas, Warfield went over what he knew, and every detail of what Komeito had said. When they got to the bar TK parked about a block away and Komeito suggested he and TK go in alone, as the Japanese bartender would be less inclined to open up to an outsider.

  Warfield vetoed that. He wanted to see the bartender himself. Komeito could go with him.

  It was after midnight when they walked in. The lounge was rather deep but relatively narrow from side to side, having a hardwood-covered section of the floor to the left, which adjoined the bar and separated it from an L-shaped carpeted area with tables on the right side and to the rear. It was empty except for a Conway Twitty song pouring from the jukebox and cigarette smoke that lingered in the air. And the bartender.

  “Too late. Bar is closed,” the bartender said, without looking up from the cocktail glass he was washing.

  Warfield had told Komeito to keep an eye on the back of the lounge and watch the door that connected to the Russian hangout in the rear. Warfield walked to the end of the long bar where the bartender was putting things in order to close for the night. Tex-san was sewn into the white shirt he was wearing, which was adorned with black pearl snaps instead of buttons. The Western hat he wore was too large for his face and despite his muscular build gave him a cartoon-like appearance.