their surveillance. Alexi Vukovo, the operative following Fouad, decided that he would need to stay much closer to his quarry if he was to determine whether or not a woman had dark eyes.
Vukovo was quite eager, quite intelligent, and ambitious to the point that it now caused him trouble. He wasnât incautious as he boarded a bus going down Lenin Avenue. He was simply not quite as careful as he should have been, and he did not take into account Fouadâs animal-like sense of danger. A man who survives to the age of forty-four, having alienated the PLO, Black September, and the Israeli secret police, is someone to be reckoned with. Also among Fouadâs enemies were the intelligence services of every major country of both East and West. The only nations that didnât seek him were the small ones that didnât know of his existence. He was a survivor. So, when the young man with the good clothes appeared both in the park and on the bus, Fouad decided to kill him. He did not put great thought into the decision. The man might simply have the misfortune born of coincidence. The bus was crowded and the traffic thick. Fouad looked out the window and jotted down on his hand the license number of a passing taxi: 53-65. It meant nothing, but Fouad was sure that he had aroused the attention of the well-dressed young man.
It was a bright, shiny day. Fouad wandered to the door, got off at the next stop, and crossed to a grassy ridge under a tree. A red flag a few feet away was flapping in the slight breeze, and a small boy began to cry as his mother dragged him toward the tall apartment buildings beyond the parkway. The boy wanted something, but Fouadâs Russian was not good enough for him to determine what it was.
The well-dressed young man did not get off at the stop with Fouad. That was no surprise. The Arab leaned back against the tree, squinting into the sun as he watched the bus move down toward Lenin Hills Avenue. Then it stopped, and several people got off. One, Fouad was sure, was the young man. A group of six people scuttled between the traffic, which was moving slowly as always, and Fouad walked in the opposite direction, crossing to the grassy median strip behind a white-helmeted motorcyclist.
There was no doubt now. The young man was heading his way. One more check. Fouad crossed the road and paused near another tree, glancing back. Yes, the young man had seen him and was now crossing. Fouad was not worried, but thoughts were coming quickly. If he is following me, he thought, why is he not more concerned about our distance at this point? One answer, the most reasonable and disturbing one, was that the man did not need close contact because he or someone else could pick Fouad up somewhere else. Which meant that they might well know about Kalinin Street.
Fouad passed through the line of trees to the pedestrian walkway and began a steady but unhurried walk toward Kalinin Street. The walk was long, and with every step he was more sure of the danger. There was no phone in the apartment, and even if there were, it would be madness to use it. So when he got to Vorovsky Street, instead of continuing, Fouad turned into Malaya Molchanovka Street and paused in front of the old house where the poet Mikhail Lermontov once lived. Fouad had no idea of the cultural importance of the place; he chose it because he remembered that the side of the building was hidden from the street. He paused, pretended to be looking for someone, checked his watch, and moved to the side of the building. Alexi Vukovo appeared a few minutes later, and he, too, moved around the building. Twenty seconds later, Fouad reappeared on the street.
He walked slowly and deliberately down the narrow street that would take him directly onto Kalinin. Five minutes later, he was at the door to the apartment. This was just about the time that Vukovoâs body was discovered by a hairdresser on his lunch hour. The members of World Liberation moved
Vukovo was quite eager, quite intelligent, and ambitious to the point that it now caused him trouble. He wasnât incautious as he boarded a bus going down Lenin Avenue. He was simply not quite as careful as he should have been, and he did not take into account Fouadâs animal-like sense of danger. A man who survives to the age of forty-four, having alienated the PLO, Black September, and the Israeli secret police, is someone to be reckoned with. Also among Fouadâs enemies were the intelligence services of every major country of both East and West. The only nations that didnât seek him were the small ones that didnât know of his existence. He was a survivor. So, when the young man with the good clothes appeared both in the park and on the bus, Fouad decided to kill him. He did not put great thought into the decision. The man might simply have the misfortune born of coincidence. The bus was crowded and the traffic thick. Fouad looked out the window and jotted down on his hand the license number of a passing taxi: 53-65. It meant nothing, but Fouad was sure that he had aroused the attention of the well-dressed young man.
It was a bright, shiny day. Fouad wandered to the door, got off at the next stop, and crossed to a grassy ridge under a tree. A red flag a few feet away was flapping in the slight breeze, and a small boy began to cry as his mother dragged him toward the tall apartment buildings beyond the parkway. The boy wanted something, but Fouadâs Russian was not good enough for him to determine what it was.
The well-dressed young man did not get off at the stop with Fouad. That was no surprise. The Arab leaned back against the tree, squinting into the sun as he watched the bus move down toward Lenin Hills Avenue. Then it stopped, and several people got off. One, Fouad was sure, was the young man. A group of six people scuttled between the traffic, which was moving slowly as always, and Fouad walked in the opposite direction, crossing to the grassy median strip behind a white-helmeted motorcyclist.
There was no doubt now. The young man was heading his way. One more check. Fouad crossed the road and paused near another tree, glancing back. Yes, the young man had seen him and was now crossing. Fouad was not worried, but thoughts were coming quickly. If he is following me, he thought, why is he not more concerned about our distance at this point? One answer, the most reasonable and disturbing one, was that the man did not need close contact because he or someone else could pick Fouad up somewhere else. Which meant that they might well know about Kalinin Street.
Fouad passed through the line of trees to the pedestrian walkway and began a steady but unhurried walk toward Kalinin Street. The walk was long, and with every step he was more sure of the danger. There was no phone in the apartment, and even if there were, it would be madness to use it. So when he got to Vorovsky Street, instead of continuing, Fouad turned into Malaya Molchanovka Street and paused in front of the old house where the poet Mikhail Lermontov once lived. Fouad had no idea of the cultural importance of the place; he chose it because he remembered that the side of the building was hidden from the street. He paused, pretended to be looking for someone, checked his watch, and moved to the side of the building. Alexi Vukovo appeared a few minutes later, and he, too, moved around the building. Twenty seconds later, Fouad reappeared on the street.
He walked slowly and deliberately down the narrow street that would take him directly onto Kalinin. Five minutes later, he was at the door to the apartment. This was just about the time that Vukovoâs body was discovered by a hairdresser on his lunch hour. The members of World Liberation moved
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