Free Tool of the Trade by Joe Haldeman Page B

machine pistol Velcro-ed to his side, and on the left by a crossdraw.44 Magnum. He was also wearing body armor and advised me to requisition same. Said it had saved his life twice. I suspected that bullets would bounce off him anyhow.
    I told him in a blunt but, I hope, friendly way that I considered him a liability. An agent has to fade into the background, look like a bank clerk or a schoolmarm. He can’t have a Sherman tank for a pet.
    Surprisingly, he agreed. But he pointed out that this was no normal intelligence operation; everyone involved would know that I was CIA anyhow. His presence might make people think twice before trying anything dramatic.
    We got to the Soviet trade mission by two o’clock. The outer office was large and severe, a few faded Intourist posters not livening things up. The receptionist also was large and severe. She told us that Comrade Borachev saw people by appointment only. I showed her my State Department identification. She said Comrade Borachev wasn’t in today. Maybe on vacation.
    It was a good thing we’d seen a file photo of him; he walked in at just that moment, brushing snow off his shoulders and looking expectantly friendly.
    “Mr. Borachev,” I began.
    “—He’s from the State Department,” she snapped in Russian.
    “—Actually, the CIA,” I said. “—This is a matter of great urgency. No time for games.”
    “We can speak English,” he said slowly. He looked at Jefferson. “You are also from…”
    “U.S. Marines, sir. Security.”
    “You don’t expect violence.”
    “We don’t know what to expect,” I said. “Is there someplace we could talk?”
    “My office.” He walked toward the door, and we followed. He cut off Jefferson. “Actual spies only, please.” I nodded, feeling a little apprehensive, and Jefferson reluctantly eased onto a small chair.
    Borachev’s office was comfortably cluttered. He got us each a cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk. The only other chair was a few inches lower. He smiled down at me, a wan smile. “So you have some interest in the import-export business?”
    “As I say, there’s not time to be coy. I’m sorry to hand you such a shock. I’m sure that the Agency would much rather leave you alone in place—”
    “’Better the devil you know,’” he said.
    “Right. But many lives may be at stake. We have to move quickly.”
    “Forgive me for pointing out that this is a common American trait, certainly in business: perceiving a need for haste in all things.” He looked quizzical. “Many lives?”
    “Yes. What do you know of Nicholas Foley? Do you know where he is?”
    For a long time he chewed at his lower lip. “I think I had better not answer that. If you press me, I’ll have to get a lawyer.”
    “Let me spell it out for you. I know and you know that you are a rather high-ranking officer, a colonel in the KGB. But your official identity here carries no legal perquisites. No diplomatic immunity. And you are implicated in a kidnapping and at least two murders.” His brow furrowed at that, but he didn’t say anything. “Gas chamber,” I added helpfully.
    He covered his face with both hands and kneaded. “No. This is some kind of…CIA trick. Setting me up, as you would say.”
    “Nothing of the kind. Day before yesterday, two people kidnapped Valerie Foley. They spoke Russian.”
    “Valerie Foley, that is his wife?”
    “Yes.”
    He nodded, thoughtful. “It wasn’t anybody from the KGB. You had better look to your own house. I’m sure the CIA has many Russian-speaking employees.”
    “The CIA didn’t kidnap her. If we wanted to pressure Foley, we have dozens of legal ways to do it. You don’t.”
    “But neither do we have a
reason!”
    I had to laugh at that. “Two murdered KGB agents isn’t enough reason?”
    He leaned back, chair squeaking. “All right. Now I know something, uh, fishy is going on. Some sort of game.”
    “Not a game.”
    “I’ve known Professor Foley since he was a