Read Online The Proxy Assassin by John Knoerle - Free Book Online Page B

diplomats, not really. They’re all members of the
Cheka
, an acronym for Committee to Combat Counter-revolution or somesuch. Imagine the FBI, CIA and State Department all rolled into one tight-knuckled fist.
    So I didn’t swear vengeance for Nikolai Sayavenko. I was angry for the bright-eyed girl in the photograph, little Tina, now consigned to some dreary Soviet orphanage to be fed a diet of cold porridge and correct thinking.
    I dumped the paper in a trash can and continued walking east. Guy Burgess figured to be sleeping it off at half past nine in the morning. Could be he’d slam the door in my face. I
had
dumped him on his backside at the Conklin’s party.
    Then again I had maintained decorum by not shoving his mug into the tureen of sheep testicles.
    It’s been my experience that scumbags generally keep a strict ledger of these things.
    -----
    4001 Nebraska Avenue NW was a leg-stretcher and then some. I stood on the sidewalk and stretched my back when I arrived, stood there long enough for the NKVD to get a few snaps from whatever apartment window they were holed up in.
    I climbed brick steps and knocked on the door of the apartment I had seen Philby and Burgess enter two nights ago. First floor, on the right.
    I knockedagain. No answer. Burgess was probably zzz’ed out with a pillow over his head. I crowded closer to quick pick the cheesy lock while pretending to wait for the door to open.
    I opened the door, made gestures appropriate to being welcomed, entered the apartment and closed the door behind me.
    The parlor was a mess, stuff everywhere. I went to a back bedroom. Chaos. The place had been tossed!
    Maybe not. I heard a toilet flush. My first instinct was to bolt but I told myself to grow some gonads. It would be swell if they got pix of us leaving the apartment together.
    Guy Burgess stepped out of the bathroom in his boxer shorts. His hair and face were wet.
    â€œOh good, you’re here,” I said, cheerily.
    Burgess, bleary-eyed, was speechless.
    â€œI wanted to give you a heads up in case you hadn’t heard. Nikolai Savayenko – Soviet attaché, guy I was trying to recruit in the Town & Country Lounge yesterday – he was fished out of the Potomac this morning. We were among the last people to see him alive. I’m afraid the cops will trace his steps back to me.”
    Burgess shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œI just explained that.”
    â€œWell say it again. Slowly.”
    I walked him through it again, admiring the gutsiness of Burgess’ plan. His walking in on my confab with Nikolai had risked raising my antennae. He covered that by pretending to be a hungover zombie. Well, he
was
a hungover zombie, but a very timely one.
    â€œI don’t remember any of that,” said Burgess.
    â€œThe point is we need to come to an agreement.”
    Burgess went to his dresser and grabbed a starched and folded dress shirt. From his closet he selected a charcoal gray suit and a red bowtie. The dark suit was a good choice. Hecould spill food down his front all day and night and no one would notice.
    Burgess didn’t speak till he had assembled himself in front of the dresser mirror. “What sort of an agreement?”
    â€œAn agreement that we never saw Nikolai Savayenko in the Town & Country Lounge.”
    â€œHow does that work?”
    â€œThe other patrons were tourists and the barkeep was Winston.”
    â€œThe Negro?”
    â€œThe same.”
    â€œAnd he’ll keep his mouth shut?”
    â€œHe will.”
    Burgess affixed black pearl cufflinks and a matching tie tack, chewed up a breath mint, then turned to face me with a smile thin as shaved ice.
    â€œAnd pray tell me, Mr. Schroeder, why I should give a flaming fuck?”
    I hung my head. “As a favor to me,” I said, simpered. “I don’t want to be known as the man who let Nikolai Savayenko get dumped in the