Black Knight in Red Square by Stuart M. Kaminsky

don’t even know her nationality. I’m sure she was not Russian. She’ll have changed her appearance. Hair may be short, blond or red, possibly curly. She may be wearing glasses. Most likely someone is harboring her. She took a chance posing as Mrs. Aubrey. Why?”
    Tkach had no idea.
    â€œShe wanted to find out what Aubrey had discovered and what we knew about World Liberation,” said Karpo. “To find out if we were a threat to her plans.”
    Rostnikov nodded. There was no smile now.
    â€œWhatever she is planning, it has to be soon,” Tkach added. “She can’t hide here indefinitely. The longer she waits, the more likely she is to be caught.”
    â€œSo,” said Rostnikov, looking in his top drawer for something to put in his mouth, a throat lozenge or piece of hard candy. There was nothing there. “While normal channels are being pursued, we continue our investigation. I will talk to the German. You, Tkach, talk to the Englishman. Call his hotel first and find out if he speaks Russian or French. Emil Karpo, you direct the search for the woman who posed as Myra Aubrey.”
    It was a dismissal, and the two men left Rostnikov looking glumly at his telephone. He finally picked it up, mumbled a curse, and dialed the number of the KGB. He had to pass on to Drozhkin the news about the imposter. It was several minutes before Drozhkin took the call. Rostnikov could tell that the conversation was being recorded. He heard no click and had no prior knowledge, but he assumed that all calls to the KGB would be recorded, and the tone of the conversation made him certain of it.
    â€œColonel Drozhkin,” Rostnikov said, “I wish to report to you that the woman who claimed to be Mrs. Aubrey, the wife of the dead American, has been shown to be an imposter.”
    â€œI see,” said Drozhkin slowly. “You actually talked to her, questioned her?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œAnd where is she now?” Drozhkin went on.
    â€œWe do not know,” said Rostnikov.
    â€œShe, then, is your murderer,” Drozhkin said.
    â€œAnd very likely the key to whatever World Liberation plans to do in Moscow.”
    Drozhkin’s pause was brief. There should have been no hesitation at all. Perhaps age was working against him.
    â€œThere is as yet no evidence to link our knowledge of that group with the murder of your American.”
    Yes, thought Rostnikov, my American. My murder. My problem. But one cannot save one’s neck that easily. This conversation would do Drozhkin no good, but Rostnikov sensed that there might be something in it for him.
    â€œI thought you should know, Comrade Colonel,” he said.
    â€œYes. You are correct. Remember our discussion. I will do what needs to be done here.”
    Without a good-bye, Drozhkin hung up. Rostnikov felt the stirrings of an idea as he switched off the tape recorder and unplugged the microphone he had attached to the phone. He was in a very vulnerable position, but so was Drozhkin. Perhaps there was something to be gained from this. Time and ingenuity would tell. Now he would go feed Anna’s cat.
    Following Rostnikov’s call to Colonel Drozhkin, a series of misunderstandings transpired that led to five deaths and a week of cleanup work for a party sent out by Central Repair Committee. The members of that party were never told what they were cleaning up after and none of them, considering the nature of the debris, really wanted to know.
    It began when Drozhkin told his assistant to order the operatives watching an Arab named Fouad to be particularly alert for any contact he might have with a woman in her thirties, a woman with dark eyes. The same message relating to the other members of World Liberation was passed on to three other operatives. The operatives following the Frenchman named Robert, the woman named Seven, and the Arab named Ali continued their normal routine, simply adding the dark-eyed woman to