Free Assignment - Suicide by Edward S. Aarons Page A

hub-bub of spontaneous voices reached
across the tables. Durell saw that more than one party usually shared the same
table, and he sought out one of the few designed for just two. A stocky,
middle-aged waitress took their order from the Spartan menu, and Durell looked
about the room until he spotted a telephone in an alcove at the rear.
    In Moscow there was no officially published telephone directory,
but there was a number in his mind which he had committed to memory in McFee’s
office, in Washington. He took several kopeks from his pocket and asked the
operator to connect him with the number. While he waited, he saw with some
surprise a large color-television screen recessed in a wall across the
restaurant, broadcasting a soccer game from Dynamo Stadium. He waited. If all
went well, his call would connect him with an Embassy phone that was rarely
used. Alex Holbrook would be ready for him. The line would probably be
monitored, but if he could just alert the staff in time—
    A burst of raucous laughter came from a nearby table crowded
with Kazak men who seemed in the process of celebrating something. Their table
was littered with dishes and bottles of vodka and Crimean champagne.
    The operator's voice said: “Are you sure you have the
correct number, citizen?"
    “Yes. Please hurry.”
    “I always do my best, citizen.”
    He felt as conspicuous as a bayou duck before a blind in the
open booth, although none of the diners in the stolovaya seemed to pay
attention to him. He looked across the crowded tables to the nook where he had
left Valya.   She sat with her hands
cupped under her chin, but she was not Watching him. Her glance was fixed
on the street entrance, and Durell looked that way. A tall, broad-shouldered
man in a dark coat and gray fur hat came in. He stood there scanning the
tables, only his eyes moving in his broad, flat face. Beyond the
restaurant windows, Durell could see the crowds on the sidewalk under the
bright streetlights, the occasional swift passage of a car, and the ornate
buildings a cool draft of air from the street door as it was opened across the
way. The man in the doorway finally met Durell’s glance and quickly
looked away, drew off a glove, studied his hand with interest, and put the
glove back on again.
    “Operator,” he said.
    “I am ringing now, citizen.”
    He heard the signal buzzing in the phone. His mind rolled
hack to McFee‘s office in Washington. Contact
Alex Holbrook !here—nobody else. His cover job is as a C-5 clerk. He’ll know
what to do for you. Alex will be briefed on Operation Dart.
    A voice with a rich Southern accent said: “United States
Embassy. Who is calling, please?”
    “I want to speak to Mr. Holbrook,” Durell said in English.
    “Who? Please speak louder.”
    Durell looked at the nearby table of revelers. Their drunken
shouting and laughter made it difficult to hear, and the roars from the TV set
did not help, either. He did not dare raise his voice while he was speaking
English. “Holbrook—Alex Holbrook. It’s urgent and he’s expecting me. Tell him
it's Dart calling.”
    “Who?”
    “Dart. Just Dart! He’ll understand. God damn it, will you
hurry?"
    “Just a moment,” the voice said icily.
    There were clicks and buzzings on
the line. Durell looked at the man in the restaurant doorway. He had not moved.
He did not look at Durell. Valya was still at her table. He thought she seemed
a little pale, her Slavic face turned away from him to study the man in the
doorway.
    A woman’s voice rattled on the phone: “Are you the party
calling Mr. Holbrook? Please identify yourself, sir.”
    “Dart,” Durell said.
    “Is that all?”
    “He’ll understand. Please get him at once. This is a
priority call.”
    “Mr. Holbrook has gone to a reception at the British
Embassy. One moment, please. I’ll try to get him there."
    He felt angry and impatient at the supercilious voice. He
started to argue, then realized she was no longer on the wire. There were