Never Look Back Read online

He grunted, annoyed.

  She turned, entered the tiny bathroom, and pulled the door closed behind her.

  The balding manager had already taken his position, one rheumy eye peering through a special slit he had created for this purpose in each and every curtain. He had gone out the back door of the office and slipped between a leafless hedgerow and the yellow painted cinder block of the building. The narrow space provided him with privacy.

  He watched Lydia close the door to the bathroom, place her small suitcase on the covered toilet, and open it. Casually, she undressed. The manager began rubbing himself.

  His only disappointment came from her athletic thighs, so unlike the rest of her delicate body. Every gem has its flaw, he allowed, his breaths deepening, the rubbing continuing. She was dressed in panties and bra, and was searching through her bag for clothes.

  The man’s heart raced. His hand increased its pace. God, how he wanted her naked. Yes. Yes. Yes. Go to the man in the room, he willed. But she did not.

  Instead, she rubbed under both arms with a damp face cloth, dried with a towel and rolled on some deodorant, which came packaged in a plastic cylinder edged with purple flowers. She began to dress, this time in a skirt, dark stockings, and cotton blouse. She packed her dirty clothes into a plastic bag and into the suitcase.

  The little man was not pleased.

  He inched over to the windows of the bedroom, searching for his incision in the curtains, finally located it, and spied in on Borikowski, who was sitting on the edge of the bed nearly through the quick task of donning a cast.

  Then the door to the bathroom swung open, seemingly hitting the manager in the face, which threw him off balance and dropped him into the snow.

  He stood back up, angry now because the woman was fully dressed and conversing with the man on the bed, who barely took notice of her. Fool!

  An object moved on the bed. The manager’s heart pumped heavily. Dark metal. Sinister. What was it?

  Borikowski moved and the object slid a few inches. Then it came clearly into focus: the knurled handle; the thin black barrel; the trigger. A gun! Terrorists! Jeeesus, Mary, and Joseph! Criminals!

  The man ran quickly back to his office, his balance tenuous on the slick ground, nerves tense.

  The media had turned Canadian terrorism into front page news for the last year. There had been bombings and cold-blooded murders of innocent people. The little man thought, It has to be stopped before it becomes commonplace. Like Paris.

  His hands shook tremulously as he grabbed for his office door and hurried across the worn rug to the phone. He bumped the wastepaper basket and scattered its contents. His eyes searched a three-by-five card taped to the glass of the desk top: RCMP! Of all the people! He had never expected to be calling them. He had always feared the reverse situation: them arresting him.

  Borikowski knew the cast, though dry to the touch, would require another half hour or so to set fully. But due to his new schedule, he did not have any extra time. Resting an arm around Lydia’s firm shoulders, he hopped out to the car. She helped him into the passenger’s seat, walked back to the trunk, and returned with a pair of crutches. She had followed Plan Three to the letter.

  He had expected no less.

  By this time the manager was busy explaining the situation—with certain omissions—to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, surprised by their apparent lack of concern. Then he heard the Audi’s engine and shouted too loudly, “They’re leaving now!”

  “The car, m’sieu. Please, calm down. We need a good description of their car.”

  With little time, the frenzied man rushed to the nearest window. Then he ran back to the phone. “It’s a foreign car, European I think, dark, with a ski rack and skis on the roof.”

  “What make? What license number?” the policeman questioned, knowing that at this time of year the description fit several thousand cars.

  “I couldn’t see! Jeeesus, Mary, and Joseph! They’re gone! Heading south on 40. He had a gun! By the Mother of God, it was the biggest pistol I’ve ever seen!”

  It was, in fact, one of the smallest automatics made.

  The Audi gained speed and pulled into the light traffic of the autoroute. Borikowski took a few quiet minutes to go over the “script,” as he called it: He was the victim of irony, an orthopedist who had had a skiing accident, his wife now driving him to America to sightsee for the duration of their vacation. The slopes were no fun with a broken leg. He carefully reconstructed Franz Vogel’s past, in case he needed a detail quickly.

  Lydia seemed nervous. He was not impressed by her. She moved her shoulders and legs often, and reminded Borikowski of a snake. Steamy and sexy. Uncontrolled and uncontrollable, as if she was ready to take her clothes off. He knew this was absurd. But of course it wasn’t. It was exactly right.

  She served a useful purpose—for the time being—and that was enough. Their joint cover and “script” would work well. If all went as planned, then at Detroit he would be allowed to be on his own again—according to the rules of this operation. He looked forward to that.

  Fifteen minutes passed quietly. Lydia worried and fidgeted. She was horny; and for the first time in a long time, she was mad at herself for it. She wondered if he liked her choice of clothes, for he had said nothing. She wondered if she was too stiff and formal, for he had not indulged in conversation. She wondered why he seemed so distant. She decided he was a loner. She had never liked loners. Too independent. She liked men who wanted her; and he did not seem interested at all.

  She continued to fantasize about a promotion, continued to coach herself through her anxieties. She recalled more of her mother’s advice—advice that had helped Lydia to be transferred to Europe, and eventually Paris. Her mother had admitted regretfully, “To gain a position of power, of importance, one must be constantly alert and prepared to make any sacrifice necessary. That which seems so distasteful today may bring prosperity tomorrow, Lyditchka. Remember this.” And on that night, Lydia had watched secretly as her mother had paid three quarters of her life’s savings to a disgustingly brash KGB officer who had dozens of necessary connections. Two weeks had passed, and Lydia’s mother had not slept well and had not eaten well, fearing she had made a horrible mistake, for there was little to stop the man from simply walking away with the bribe. But, to their mutual relief, Lydia received notice, shortly thereafter, that she had been accepted into the GRU and had been transferred to cosmetology school in Leningrad, and would be given a Paris assignment following her schooling.

  Her mother had been right. As always.

  She thought, And if she had it all to do over again, I know she would. It’s the way of the world.

  She squirmed in her seat and looked over at Borikowski, who was running his finger along the raised seam of the glove compartment.

  Borikowski somehow knew she was about to speak, and he welcomed it. His attention had fixed to the whirring of the wheels, and he was becoming sleepy.

  She said, “The cast bothers me. It’s my duty to protect you, and with that cast—”

  “Don’t worry, please. Our superiors know what they are doing. What agent in his right mind would don a cast? You understand?”

  “Yes, but if we should have to run, or—”

  “There is no need for concern. It only interferes with clear thought. Understand?” he admonished, depressed by her sophomoric attitude. “The cast is perfect. Brilliant. Who would think of it?”

  “And my clothes?” she asked, instantly regretting having mentioned them.

  “Listen,” he said sternly, wondering seriously now if she was an asset or a liability, “they’re fine. Everything is fine. Let me do our worrying. Relax and enjoy the view. It’s nice, is it not?”

  She had no argument there. The afternoon sun had once again found its way between the constant clouds and was pouring down light. Next to the highway a bottle’s broken glass sparkled. “Yes, it is lovely. I am sorry for my questions. I have never been a wife,” she joked ligh
tly, “and it’s not as easy as I once thought.”

  In the opposing lanes a police car passed. Both of them saw it. “It’s slowing down,” Lydia announced. Her eyes followed it in the mirror.

  “Are you carrying a weapon?” Borikowski inquired hastily.

  “Not that they’ll find. It’s hidden over here in the door panel. It ejects quietly and quickly. But I don’t think we should jump to conclusions. We’ll have plenty of time to use our weapons no matter what they try. At the moment, it’s—”

  “What caliber?” he interrupted.

  “Nine millimeter.”

  “Semi-automatic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me if they cross the highway. I must know exactly when.” He reached inside his coat, took hold of his weapon, and then rolled down the window. His movements were quick and intense, like a person ready to put out a fire.

  The police car crossed the median, skidding through the snow. Its lights began flashing. “Now!” she spat out. “They’re crossing now.” She watched as Boriskowski tossed the weapon. It traveled ten feet and disappeared into the snow. She was incredulous—it was as if he had practiced this routine a hundred times. He stripped off his jacket and removed the canvas holster. He looked perplexed, and suddenly the rehearsed section was over; he appeared trapped in stage fright. He just stared at the holster. Then his spell broke and he glanced over his shoulder at the approaching vehicle. He seemed tempted to toss the holster out the window too, but did not. “Shit! I need to dispose of this!”

  “Give it to me. Take the wheel.”

  The police car’s siren kicked on, two hundred yards back.

  In the confined and limited space of the car, their motions seemed frantic. He took the wheel. She grabbed the holster from him, folded it twice, lifted her skirt, pulled down her underwear, and pushed the folded canvas between her legs. She pulled the skirt down and took the wheel, refusing to look at him.

  Leonid Borikowski was dumbfounded. And impressed. It was a perfect idea. “I thought in the door panel,” he explained.

  “No room,” she said.

  As the police car closed the distance, its siren sounded like the wail of a tortured cat.

  Borikowski put back on his coat. He took a deep breath and released it.

  The police car was fifty yards back.

  “Why are we doing this?” she suddenly questioned.

  “I think I know what happened. Use the weapon if you have to. But only if you have to.”

  She snapped her head toward him.

  “Be natural. Pull over. Go on! Pull over.”

  Slices of the bright lights caught Borikowski across his eyes. His head throbbed. He hated bright lights. Both vehicles pulled over and stopped. The cat groan purred and was then silent.

  Borikowski also hated cats.

  The Mountie’s door shut. Uniform shining and pressed, gold stripe down the pant leg, he marched over to the driver’s window—visible in the rearview mirror from his crotch to the double-stitched, pleated shirt pockets. He stood in back of the door post, his right hand casually covering his holstered gun. He bent over, cautious and ready. His breath caught the cold of her window and marred the visibility.

  Lydia rolled the window down, her face obviously not what the officer had expected. He pursed his lips.

  Borikowski’s French had just the right amount of German in it, a combination difficult for even him, and one that required absolute attention. “What seems to be the trouble, officer?”

  The man’s tough face came clearly into view for the first time. A labyrinth of blood vessels mapped his nose and cheeks. A history of fights with fists and pipes and sticks had chiseled his nose. He was clean-shaven and bony. Simple-faced and boyish. Untrusting. “Hands on the dash, if you please. Thank you.”

  They looked strange like this. She spoke first, appropriately intimidated but sexy and charming. “Was I going too fast?”

  “Non, mad’m. May I see your driver’s license and registration please?”

  “My hands?”

  He nodded to her.

  She located the documents and handed them politely through the window, an actress practiced and confident. She was ready to shoot the man.

  The Mountie said, “If you please.”

  She returned her hands to the dash.

  “Thank you.”

  The Mountie inspected her papers. “Passports please. Slowly. You first,” he told Borikowski.

  Borikowski had to protest. No male would just sit there. “What is this all about?”

  The Mountie didn’t answer. After a moment he had both passports in his hands, then he said, “Just checking, sir. Vacation?”

  Borikowski continued his feigned anger. “You check every car on the highway, do you?”

  She ignored Borikowski. Her voice was chatty—powder room chatter, and was laced with a thick East European accent. Not by design. It was the only way she could speak. This was why all her passports listed her homeland as West Germany. “Skiing your Laurentians—I have the most difficult time pronouncing that—some of the best snow we’ve seen in years, superior even to Gstaad. We were both going a bit too fast I suppose, although you know, we’ve skied much faster than that. Franz, you see, hit a mogul terribly hard and his binding released.” She reached over and took Borikowski’s hand off the dash and held it in hers. The maternal wife. “Poor thing. His right binding stayed tight… kept his balance for a moment… I heard it break. What do you call it, dear?” She looked inquisitively at Borikowski, who thought she was taking things a little too far. Astonished, he found himself appreciating her. She was good.

  “Compound.”

  The officer nodded. He had seen them. “A fresh cast?”

  Lydia, her hands free now, reached to trigger the release of the hidden gun, but Borikowski leaned across her, preventing the move.

  She liked the contact.

  The Mountie took a step backwards. “The dash please!”

  They obliged.

  Borikowski grinned and explained, “That damn rain earlier in the day, officer. I was caught in the slush in Montreal. I’m afraid it destroyed the first cast. It became much too wet. Took it off myself. We stopped in… Brockville?” He looked inquiringly at her, his body still pressing against hers. She was very soft, he suddenly realized. Very soft. And warm.

  “Yes, dear… Brockville.”

  “Brockville. I put this one on myself. Pretty damn good job, if I do say. I’ve put a few thousand of these on other people, but never on myself. That was a task. I’m a doctor of orthopedics.” He smiled sarcastically.

  The officer nodded. The hand covering his gun unobtrusively popped off the safety strap. His thick lips moved slowly. “Would you happen to be carrying a gun, sir?”

  “Of course not! You have laws against that. I must say, I wish I was, with all the trouble you Canadians are having.” He paused and said, “I know what’s happened: those motel rooms are wired with cameras. Someone was watching us. Am I right?”

  “We’ll search the car, if you don’t mind,” the Mountie declared, looking at them suspiciously.

  “Of course I mind,” Borikowski told him.

  A glint of hazy sunlight sparkled from the edge of the Mountie’s badge.

  Lydia thought, You knew before they even pulled us over. That’s why you threw the gun. Now I know how you’ve survived.

  After a signal the backup officer joined them on Borikowski’s side of the car.

  They were instructed to get out of the car, one at a time, Lydia first.

  The Mountie patted her down and, without being lascivious, spared her no contact. He turned her sideways and brushed over her chest and back simultaneously. His hand hit the lump at her crotch and without any hesitation she blushed and said, “My time of month.”

  The Mountie stood, nodding, but refused to look at her.

  Borikowski thought, Nice touch.

  The search took ten minutes. When they opened Borikowski’s suitcase h
e said, “I still assume we were being watched….” He had to steal their attention from the bag. He could not afford for them to inspect the bag closely. And if they began to… “You’ll find a hair dryer in there. It’s black. I used it to dry the cast. That’s your weapon.”

  She thought, Nice touch.

  The red-nosed Mountie studied the hair dryer. It did look remarkably like a pistol, and from a distance…

  Borikowski sensed they were safe now. It was over.

  A minute later they were back in the car. The Mountie said, “Everything seems to be in order, mad’m, m’sieu. I am sorry for any inconvenience.”

  “I don’t appreciate my privacy being violated. If you have people at motels—snoops—I certainly hope you’ll make them better informed. And what of my wife? How do I know whoever it was didn’t watch my wife undress? What about that? I should sue….”

  “Be polite to the officer, Franz,” she said, appropriately annoyed at her husband. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “If you’re done drilling us, we’ll be on our way,” Borikowski told the officer.

  The policeman returned the passports and looked Borikowski in the eye. “Sorry to have delayed you. Drive safely.”

  They drove off.

  When they were well away she asked him, “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. All I knew was that without that gun, we were as legal as the next couple.”

  “What about bullets?”

  “Someplace they could never find them.”

  “We were lucky.”

  “Yes, and I hate the word.”

  She smiled. They were closer now. She told him, “Take the wheel. This thing’s uncomfortable.”

  And he did.

  12:37 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Alone in a small and private conference room in the glossy new DeLaney Hotel in downtown Washington, D.C., Parker Lyell and Karen Kwang shook hands.

  As she sat down he had a moment to study her beauty, and thought, I’ll be damned. She is a classic.

  He prepared himself for a kind of verbal gamesmanship comparable to hunting buffalo while hidden beneath a buffalo hide. He knew he would remember this conversation for a long, long time. Like it or not. It was always so when he admired his interviewee.