Chapter 12
"Is this really necessary?" asked Laura, as she raised her arms and allowed the bullet proof vest to slip over her head.
"It's just a precaution, Laura, that's all," said Tony Roselli.
Laura was uncomfortably aware of his presence just inches away from her, as he pulled the vest down on top of her black Ton Sur Ton sweatshirt, and began to tighten the straps at the side; she kept her face a blank and maintained an indifferent air nevertheless. Tony was dressed casually, in dark chinos and a gray blouson jacket. Laura looked to her left – about ten yards away, Remington, Mildred and Marisa, also dressed in dark casual clothing, were being helped to put on their vests by three CIA agents, while another was talking to Remington, demonstrating the use of a gun, as Remington nodded his understanding.
"It's nice being close to you again," said Tony.
"Please, Tony."
"What? I'm just saying, that's all. We're friends, aren't we?"
"Hmm," Laura said noncommittally.
"You know, I shouldn'ta let you go so easily, Laura..."
"Tony, let's not go there. Don't delve into the past."
"Hey, come on! All I'm saying is that you're the one that got away."
"Oh dear!" sighed Laura. "Tony...I never got away, because you never had me, okay? Now please, drop this. It could be really embarrassing if Remington overheard us."
"He's a jealous guy, is he?"
"Very. Very, very jealous! Practically uncontrollable!"
"Yeah, figures. I remember him telling me at Las Hadas 'bout how jealous he was when I first met him...Maybe you gotta a point, Laura – that was a few seconds before he knocked seven bells outta Norman Keyes!"
"So, let's make this as...civilized as we can, shall we? I'm a married woman," said Laura, as she put on her black, Members Only leather jacket and closed the zipper, covering up evidence of the bullet proof vest. The jacket helped, too, to keep out the night chill; it was late November and LA was heading into what passed for its winter season, and tonight Laura was not wearing a hat but had left her hair loose.
"A guy's gotta try, hasn't he?"
"You've tried three times, Tony – in Mexico, Ireland, and now Los Angeles. And you've struck out. You of all people should know what that means?"
"Back to the dugout, huh?"
"Benched!"
The other three approached them. Laura instinctively took a pace backwards, putting some space between herself and Tony. Marisa had on a long, dark overcoat which covered up her bullet proof vest, and similarly, Remington, in black Levi 501s and a dark green, Ralph Lauren button-neck cashmere sweater, had donned an English Belstaff Trialmaster motorcycle jacket. Only Mildred had no coat or jacket to cover up her vest.
A car entered the warehouse they were in from the far end, and drove up to where they were standing. A slim, gray haired man in his fifties wearing a suit, got out of the back seat and approached their group. It was Eugene Price, an acquaintance of theirs who was the West Coast Operations Director for the CIA, and someone they had known since the Sheldon Quarry case. "Remington, Laura!" he greeted them.
"Hello, Gene," said Laura.
"Quite a way to spend the night before Thanksgiving, isn't it?" he asked.
"The call of duty, I guess," Laura replied with a grin.
"What are you both doing for the big day? Seeing family?"
"Oh no, Gene, not this year. Remington and I are just spending it at home, with Mildred, her nephew and one or two other friends. So – are you part of our little showdown tonight?"
"This is strictly Mr Roselli's operation, Laura," said Price with a reassuring smile. "But as Operations Director, everything that happens in LA has to be approved by me. I'm just keeping an eye on things." He turned to Tony Roselli. "Roselli, I don't need to tell you to try and keep things straightforward tonight, do I? Let's don't have any gunplay on my patch, and no dead bodies. It wouldn't do our careers any good."
"Yeah, sure, Sir," said Tony, appearing to Laura uncharacteristically deferential; she suspected that Price outranked Tony within the CIA, at least on paper.
"Mr Steele is rather a prominent member of Los Angeles society, so we want him back in one piece, Mr Roselli – understood?"
"You got it, Mr Price."
"Laura, Remington – I've been briefed on this operation, and I know you're both pros, so let me ask the question only once: you're satisfied to go ahead with this? And you Miss Peters? When you go onto that bridge, you'll be alone out there. You'll have back up a short distance away, but right in the middle there you'll be alone – that's why prisoner swaps have always been done on bridges. I want you to be aware of that slight element of risk."
"We understand, Gene," said Remington. "We're in this for Marisa's sake – and for national security, of course. We'll take our chances."
"Right," said Price, looking at his watch. "Nearly 1.30 a.m. Time to go home to bed – my wife probably thinks I'm having an affair, being out at this hour of the morning." He walked back to his car and was driven away.
"Miss Peters, Mrs Steele – shall we run through the briefing now?" asked Alec Trevelyan. He, unlike everyone else, was dressed formally in one of his exquisite black suits, a pale blue dress shirt and a black, knitted woolen tie. He had been silent throughout Eugene Price's visit, and seemed to speak as little as he possibly could. Laura found herself thinking again how unsettling she found the Englishman when he did open his mouth; he seemed to project a sense of disdain even through the most mundane question or statement. The man had no human warmth, as far as she could tell.
They sat in chairs that had been laid out in rows, like a schoolroom, with a blackboard at the front. It was an incongruous sight – this small area laid out for a briefing, with a couple of tables off to the side, and cars with CIA agents coming and going – all in the middle of the vast, abandoned warehouse where they were currently located.
"Right, everybody, could you sit down, so we can brief you?" said Tony. As the various agents and marksmen sat down, Trevelyan and Roselli stood at the front, like two priests before their congregation.
"You are all aware of why we are here: for a prisoner-information exchange. So let's make this a very smooth, simple operation tonight, shall we?" said Trevelyan.
"Yeah," began Tony. "The swap will take place at zero-two-hundred hours on the 6th Street bridge, about two blocks from here, where it crosses the LA River. It'll be done by these civilians, Mr Remington Steele, Mrs Steele and Miss Peters, who will be in that black van over there," he nodded, indicating a GMC Vandura van parked a little distance away. "It'll be driven by their secretary, Miss Krebs."
"Associate, not secretary," said Mildred, looking annoyed. She didn't like Tony Roselli.
"Yeah, sure – associate. Anyway, the Russians will approach the bridge from across the LA River, from East Los Angeles, coming up Whittier Boulevard. Miss Peters and the Steeles will leave here, head a block down Mateo Street and then turn into the 6th Street approach to the bridge, on the western side. Both parties will stop twenty yards from the middle, meet on foot, exchange Robert Peters for the information, and then leave in the same direction they came from. We, of course, will be monitoring."
Tony turned to the chalkboard and pointed to a map. "Snipers – you'll take position on the roof of these buildings here and here, at the entrance to both ends of the bridge. Remain in radio contact with me – I am 'Control' tonight, so final firing decisions are mine. Let me be clear: you're here mainly as a precaution. We're not expectin' trouble, but if anyone draws a gun or there's a firefight, your primary objective will be to protect Miss Peters, her father and the Steeles."
"But try not to get trigger happy, gentlemen, won't you?" said Alec Trevelyan with a sardonic smile.
Tony continued, "Teams A and B, you'll be in these designated warehouses at each end of the bridge, filming the prisoner exchange with high definition telephoto video cameras and condensing parabolic microphones. Teams C and D – you'll be in cars, a coupla blocks from each end of the bridge, ready to do a tail on any vehicles that I instruct you to follow. This is a precaution, as we expect the Russians to quietly drive off, but in case we need to follow them, you be ready. Teams E and F – you'll be parked in a side street close to our end of the bridge – if trouble starts, you drive hell for leather towards the center of the bridge and rescue the Steeles and Miss Peters. Clear? Alright, everyone take your positions."
Most of the CIA agents stood and scattered quickly, jumping into vehicles and driving off. Laura watched the five snipers, dressed in black jumpsuits and loaded up with rifles, bullet proof vests, cartridge packs, radio headsets and night vision goggles, get into a dark van and leave. Only a few agents remained in this temporary base of operations, manning a radio and other control equipment laid out on the tables off to the side. In the shadows, Laura could see an ambulance and a doctor hovering about. She felt a little scared but overwhelmingly excited; she'd become a private detective for nights like these.
"It all seems very thorough, Anthony, old chap," said Remington. "How do you know the KGB is coming from East LA?"
"We've been discreetly following Petrossian – real discreetly," said Tony. "He expects to be followed – it's part of the game – so he always takes precautions. But we tracked his car by satellite and saw that he was headin' for Long Beach earlier tonight."
"Long Beach?"
"A well known Russian pipeline into America, Steele," answered Trevelyan. "It's the United States's second biggest shipping port...Anything – or anyone – they want to secrete into the country can be brought in on a flag of convenience cargo ship, from Panama or Liberia for example, into Long Beach. So much matériel and manpower pass through the port, it's easy to bribe, smuggle or simply passport-in anyone or anything under diplomatic papers."
"And you think that's how Marisa's father was brought into the country, eh?"
"Yeah, sure," said Tony. "My people have been watchin' all the routes from Long Beach to LA, but I think they'll use the Long Beach Freeway – that would make things real easy for them, since it comes directly into East Los Angeles. That's probably the reason they selected the 6th Street bridge for the meeting. You would naturally wanna arrive from Downtown Los Angeles from the west, and they would come at the river crossing from the eastern side."
"And why are you filming the meeting tonight?" asked Laura.
"An excellent question, Mrs Steele," said Trevelyan. "Our main aim is to plant disinformation about Star Wars within the Soviet Union, of course; but capturing Petrossian engaged in espionage on film will be a bonus. We shall file the tape away; it may prove useful in the future if we ever need some leverage over our Russian friend. A mere bagatelle, that is all..."
"You seem to be ahead of the KGB every step of the way, huh?" Mildred observed.
"Quite so, Miss Krebs. And it makes for a refreshing change. For the last few years, they have had rather the better of it, unfortunately – at least from my American colleagues' perspective. I don't need to tell you about John Walker, Ronald Pelton and other, similar, double agents that have recently been uncovered? Let alone those moles American Intelligence have not uncovered. So it will be a most welcome blow that we will have struck, if this little gavotte of ours reaches its conclusion."
Laura, listening to Trevelyan talk, was struck by how relatively animated he was when discussing the espionage plot against the Russians; it was the first time he had appeared more than an emotionless robot.
"Well, it's nearly time – you gotta go," said Tony. "Good luck!"
Trevelyan said nothing, a waxwork statue as Mildred got behind the wheel of the black van, and Laura, Marisa and Remington piled into the back through the side door.
Mildred drove out through the huge doors of the old warehouse, and headed the one block through side streets to the bridge. Just as she turned onto it, she stopped and turned to face Remington. "Ready, Boss?" she asked.
Steele, tense, nodded assent and Mildred pulled onto the bridge and drove to a few yards short of the middle. A dark car with blacked out windows – it looked like an Oldsmobile – approached from the other end and stopped about forty yards away, and then a man in a suit got out.
Laura, Marisa and Remington left the van and went to meet him. Steele walked ten yards to the side of the women, so that if the man pulled a gun, there would be two separate targets. Laura and Marisa went up to the man, right in the middle of the roadway, while Remington stayed off to the side, watching the action but not participating.
"What color is the boathouse at Hereford?" asked the man in some sort of East European accent.
"Blue now, but it used to be green," said Laura, replying with the code phrase that had been agreed between them and the KGB.
"I am Kostmayer. You're Mrs Steele? And Miss Peters? And that man is Mr Steele?"
"Uh-huh," said Laura.
"Mr Steele," said the man, raising his voice slightly. "Should I assume you are armed?" Remington flashed a smile and opened his black Belstaff leather jacket, showing off the shiny nickel-plated automatic which the CIA had given him and which he carried in a holster on his belt. It was a 9mm, heavier and more powerful than the agency's .38 caliber revolver.
"Just a precaution," said Laura. "It's in all our interests for this to be smooth and trouble free, yes?"
"Yes. So let's have no tricks." The man turned and gestured to the Oldsmobile. The doors opened and two figures descended. Laura recognized Petrossian. The other, older man was very tall, maybe even taller than Remington, and had brown, thinning hair; wearing dark, formal pants and a heavy, casual style jacket which was too warm for Los Angeles, he was slightly stooped over and walked a little slowly, but unsupported. Robert Peters.
"Miss Peters, Mrs Steele – we meet again," said Petrossian, when the two men had reached the group.
"Nice to see you, Mr Petrossian," said Laura.
"Dad!" said Marisa, staring hard at her father. She began to cry, as Laura squeezed her upper arm in a gesture of support.
Robert Peters was staring at Marisa blankly, as if he didn't recognize her. "Marisa? What am I doing here? Why am I being released?"
"It'll be alright, Dad. I'll explain everything later."
"Miss Peters, believe me," said Petrossian, "he may have lost a little weight, but for a man of his age, he's quite well, I can assure you."
"He does look thin. Don't worry, Dad, we'll have to feed you extra portions, to build your strength back up, won't we?"
Robert Peters smiled for the first time. "You sound like your mother, Marisa. She was always trying to stuff me with food as well...she always said a person wasn't healthy unless they had a round face!"
Remington watched the father and daughter reunion, but kept a weather eye on Petrossian's henchman, Kostmayer. He concentrated on looking mean but not twitching. Steele was no expert with a gun, and didn't like them – in fact, Laura was a much better shot than him – and he knew that if the KGB thug got nervous and pulled his weapon, he would easily get the drop on him. Steele thought that it would have been better if Laura had played the bodyguard role and he had done the talking with Marisa.
Petrossian interrupted Marisa and her father. "You have the disks?"
Laura handed them over. "Farndale must have told you that the disks have an identifying hologrammatic symbol on them? These are the real disks, believe me."
"I know about the hologram," said Petrossian. "And, as perverse as it may sound, Mrs Steele, I trust you."
"You do?"
"Of course. Your husband is Remington Steele. Everyone in Los Angeles knows that his word is his bond."
"Yes, of course...how silly of me."
"And the three of you have just committed treason, so I know you have as much to lose as we do."
"Agreed. We don't want to be exposed, and we don't want to expose Farndale, because if his role comes out, ours will too. So let's all of us just quietly go our separate ways, shall we?"
"Certainly, Mrs Steele. It is a pleasure dealing with such a practical, pragmatic woman. In Russia, most women are not so practical – stoical, yes, but not practical." Laura nodded at his compliment, and wondered whether Petrossian was flirting with her; if so, it was the sternest flirtation she'd ever experienced. "And in any case, I think that after our business has been conducted, I shall soon leave your fair city. I believe I shall be transferred to another, and even more important, posting."
"Making your way up in the world, huh?" Laura said with a smile.
"Certainly not, that is a bourgeois concept."
"No career ladder in the KGB?"
"There are only different levels of authority that have been earned, Mrs Steele. Not granted by cronies or achieved through some default sense of entitlement!"
"Well, enjoy the new posting – and the dacha – Mr Petrossian."
Petrossian turned to Marisa. "Miss Peters, this must all be kept quiet. If American Intelligence finds out we have this missile code, it will become useless to us. So, keep the release of your father as quiet as possible, and do not alert the media, even your own newspaper. Keep him 'under wraps' as you say, for as long as you can. Understood? Of course, his release will eventually be noticed, but your story will be that he was released by the Soviet Union on compassionate grounds. There must be no mention of the Steeles, of Farndale, of Petrossian, of the KGB…clear?"
"I understand," replied Marisa, now standing with her father, holding hands.
"In that case, I bid you goodnight. Please do not make any sudden moves as you leave," said Petrossian, bowing to the women and Robert Peters, before heading for his car, accompanied by the ever-watchful Kostmayer.
Laura, Remington, Marisa and Robert Peters backed towards their van, keeping an eye on the retreating Russians, until they had all climbed inside. Mildred swung it around and drove off of the bridge in the direction from which they had come.
