Point of Contact

Rhodes dashed down the basement stairs straight to the security locker. He spun the tumbler lock until it clicked, then yanked the metal door open. The only keys hanging on the rack were for the old Lada, an underpowered four-cylinder with a slipping clutch and the sex appeal of an outhouse brick. But it was local and clean and his only option. The problem was that he hated driving a stick, and he needed to follow his paper map closely. Better if he had a driver.

Rhodes scratched his head, thinking about his limited options and the ticking clock, when his eye fell on the light shining out from beneath the door at the end of the hall. He hurried down that way. A name plate on the door read PAUL BROWN and FORENSIC ACCOUNTING. He didn’t recognize the name. The door was ajar. He pushed it open wider.

The room was no bigger than a broom closet — in fact, it used to be one, he recalled. A heavyset man sat hunched over a stack of ledger books, scratching notes on a yellow legal pad with one hand and squeezing a pair of hand grippers in the other.

“Excuse me, Paul,” Rhodes began.

Paul startled and swiveled around in his banker’s chair. “You caught me by surprise. No one’s usually around this time of night, except for the Marine guards.”

Rhodes strode confidently into the room, his hand extended. “You’re Paul Brown, aren’t you? You probably don’t remember me. I think we might have met at an embassy function a while ago. My name is Weston Rhodes.”

Paul stood and took his hand, now even more startled that the famous spy, Weston Rhodes, knew his name. He nearly knocked over his steaming cup of tea. “Everybody knows you, Mr. Rhodes. It’s an honor—”

Rhodes waved away the compliment. “Nonsense. We all have our parts to play, don’t we? Speaking of which, I was wondering if you were terribly busy at the moment.”

Paul turned around in his cramped little office, taking in the stacks of ledger books, notepads, cardboard boxes, a typewriter, a personal computer, a dot matrix printer, spreadsheets, and everything else he was using to conduct his current forensic investigation.

“Not really. What can I do for you?”

“Can you drive a stick shift?”

“Every Iowa farm boy does. Why?”

“I’ve got a little problem, and I need your help.”

“Name it.”

* * *

Rhodes talked their way through the few checkpoints they encountered on the way out of the city, doling out generous wads of paper lev to the Bulgarian policemen, resentful and bitter as always, but who nonetheless waved them through as they pocketed the cash in their coats.

Paul sat stiffly in the broken-down driver’s seat, his white-knuckled hands clutching the steering wheel like a life preserver, even after they cleared the city.

“You can relax now. This is the easy part,” Rhodes said. He took a swig from a flask, then offered it to Paul.

“No, thanks. Never touch the stuff.”

“Helps take the edge off,” Rhodes said, taking another swig and capping the flask.

“You do this kind of thing all the time?”

“Oh, you know, ‘When duty calls’ and all of that.”

“I think I like accounting better.”

“I’d shoot myself if I had to sit in an office all day.”

“It’s not that bad. Numbers are interesting. They tell a story—”

“Yes, I’m sure they do. Let me check the map.”

Paul tried to talk away his nervousness over the course of the next hour, but Rhodes wouldn’t have any part of it. He lit a cigarette and filled the cramped cab with smoke. Paul kept waving his hand in front of his face and even rolled his window down in the chill night air, but Rhodes didn’t give a damn and smoked one after the other.

The Lada wheezed and creaked over the two-lane asphalt, winding its way up the grade and into wooded farm country. Paul began to fidget. He’d forgotten to use the restroom before they left the embassy, and three cups of tea were battering against his tiny bladder.

“Slow down, I think we’re close,” Rhodes said, checking the map. “There, the next turn.”

Paul slowed to a near stop and eased the sedan onto a rutted dirt road.

“Kill the lights.”

“Okay.”

They bounced along in first gear for another fifteen minutes, inching along through the ruts in the dark.

“Stop here,” Rhodes said. “See it?”

Paul squinted through the filmy windshield. A quarter-mile away, a small rustic farmhouse stood in a clearing, a few lights burning in the windows. A black ZiL-117 was parked out front, the Soviet version of a luxury four-door sedan.

“That’s Zvezdev.” Rhodes checked his watch. “Excellent. We’re ten minutes early.” He checked all around them. “No one followed us here, and I don’t see anyone around.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It’s just supposed to be me and Zvezdev and the man we’re picking up.”

“What about me?”

“You’re not supposed to be here. I was told to come alone.” Rhodes grinned and patted Paul on the shoulder. “I don’t always do what I’m told.”

Paul nodded. “Where do you want me to park?”

Rhodes pointed away from the farmhouse. “Over there in that stand of trees. Keep your lights off.”

* * *