Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

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Akashin smiled. "Simple really. Lombardi had a couple of his men follow Massey and the woman when they took a train to Boston. They were met there by this man-Stanski." Akashin pointed to a grainy photograph taken at Boston railway station of Massey shaking hands with Stanski, Anna Khorev beside them.

"As you know, Colonel Romulka has taken a personal interest in the woman's case." Akashin smiled faintly. "Apparently, she made quite an impression when she met him in Helsinki. There's more to it than that, of course, but no doubt Romulka wants his pound of flesh. And with respect, Leonid, I'd hardly call the Wolf a piffling matter. He's been a scourge for quite some time."

Kislov sighed. "I suppose you'd better fill me in on what's been happening."

"We're using Lombardi to watch the woman, of course, but Braun's acting as the link."

"Braun'? That animal?"

"Even an animal has its necessity.

"The woman had a suitcase with her," Akashin went on, "so it's likely she was going to stay somewhere. Lombardi's men followed the three of them out of the station but lost them after they drove off in a vehicle driven by the man we think is Stanski. But they got the license number-a New Hampshire registration-and had it checked out. It's definitely registered to an Alex Stanski, with an address at a place called Kingdom Lake in New Hampshire, which confirms his identity."

"Go on," prompted Kislov.

" Curious, but the terrain around there is not unlike Russia. It would seem an ideal place for mission training if Massey is planning a drop."

Kislov nodded. "Anything else?"

Akashin half smiled. "There's a Soviet cargo ship due in New York docks in five days, which rather suits us if things go the way I plan. I'll need you to authorize a dollar payment for Lombardi if we're to go ahead with the woman's abduction."

"Can Lombardi be trusted with such a delicate matter as this?"

Akashin grinned. "He's as shifty as a sewer rat, but a true capitalist who'll do anything for money. Besides, he's not averse to killing."

"Surely Lombardi won't get involved in this personally?

He'll want to leave it to his men."

"I'll insist that he does, considering what we'll pay him. I don't want this business botched."

Kislov thought a moment. "Could Braun and Lombardi make the deaths of Massey and Stanski look like accidents? So that the Americans can't come back at us""

"It could be arranged, I'm certain."

Kislov grinned slightly. "Then perhaps your second option was best after– all, There could be promotion in this for both of US."

Akashin smiled back. "That's what I thought."

"But just remember, the woman is the priority. It's her we want. It's fine if Massey and Stanski are there when we take her, we can deal with them, but if not, just make sure you get that bitch. And tell your people to be careful. By all accounts this Wolf is a dangerous proposition."

New Hampshire.

Popov had recovered, and the following days had been spent on weapons training. He didn't reproach Anna but Stanski saw the blaze of anger in the trainer's eyes every time he looked at her. The meaning was obvious It had started to snow that early afternoon, a late fall that covered the forest and land in a sprinkling of'white. They spent an hour examining Soviet weapons which Popov had laid out on the table in the front room.

"Some of these you may meet on your travels, so it's important you know what you're up against and how to use them if you have to." He picked up the first weapon. "Kalashnikov assault rifle," he said. "Not really a rifle at all, but a machine-pistol and rifle combined. It can fire single shots, semiautomatic or automatic bursts. Designed by an NCO in the Red Army by the same name in 1947. That's how it got its model number–AK47. It fires 7.62 ammunition. An excellent weapon, I have to admit. Hardly ever jams and you can throw it in the mud and dance on it and it will still fire."

He put it down and picked up another weapon with a drum magazine. "PPSU machine-gun. Standard issue to Soviet NCOS during the war. It's noisy and inaccurate, and it fires too fast. Steel pressed parts. It's still in use in all countries behind the Iron Curtain. Fine if you're up close to a kill or need to spray a room at speed but otherwise a waste of fucking time."

He replaced it and selected another. "And now for the Crim de Resistance German MP40 machine-pistol, sometimes inaccurately called the Schmeisser. The Soviets captured thousands of them from the Germans. The Reds even preferred this weapon to their own models during the war. They've armed some of the militia with the MP40 in Soviet Bloc countries until they're replaced with the latest Soviet arms. A lethal weapon, way ahead of its time. Nine-millimeter parabellum shel ' Is, thirty-two rounds in a clip. Better than any of the others You've seen, in my opinion."

Popov put down the German machine-pistol and turned to a Couple of' handguns, "Only two that should really concern you. The Tokarev TT33 automatic pistol and the Na gant revolver. Both reasonably accurate and reliable. The shortcomings of the Tokarev are it's an awkward design and badly finished. The Na gant is really a Belgian weapon, but the Soviets manufacture a direct copy. It's a good, solid, dependable revolver."

He looked up at Anna. "Pick them up. Handle them. Feel the weight and get used to the mechanical action. You too, Alex. You can never have enough practice. Then outside in the woods in ten minutes."

Anna had begun to feel fit again. The running through the woods and the excruciating exercises had toned her body and she felt more alive than she had in a long time. Stanski had covered the rudiments of parachuting and he and Popov had rigged up a basic training drop to teach her how to land properly. The entire regime had given her little time to be alone and think, her days preoccupied by what she was doing and her nights a haze of sleepy exhaustion.

It was snowing on the second to last day of training, and when they had finished supper and Stanski and Vassily had cleared away the plates she threw her coat over her shoulders, left the cabin and walked down to the lake.

She heard the voice behind her minutes later and turned. Popov came down to stand beside the water. He looked over at her.

"So, we only have another day together. No doubt you're happy to see me go. But I hope you've learned enough to save your life in an awkward situation?"

She looked at him coldly. "Are you worried about me, Popov?" He grinned in the darkness. "I always worry about my pupils. But it's up to them to take as they will of what I teach them. Either they learn enough to survive or they don't and they're dead." He hesitated. "When did you escape?"

"I don't think that's any of your business. And who says I escaped?"

Popov grinned. "How else could you have got out of Russia?

Still, I wouldn't like to see a woman as pretty as yourself caught by the Reds, if that's the case. You know what they would do to you?"

"I can imagine. Now why don't you leave me alone."

"Believe me, if they caught you, rape would be the mildest thing. Then torture. Excruciating torture. After that, death would be a welcome companion. And with the KGB, that usually happens slowly."

"Are you trying to frighten me, Popov?"

The grin behind the beard widened. "I doubt if that's possible. I'm just making sure you know what to expect. You have better nerves than most men I've trained." He crushed the cigarette under his boot. "But whatever you're going to do I hope it hurts the bastards. Good night."

He stared over at her before he turned and walked back up to the cabin.

"Nice conversation."

Anna turned. Stanski stood there in the shadows. smoking a cigarette-she saw the glow from the tip of his cigarette before she saw him. He strolled down to stand beside her.

"He's not as bad as he looks or sounds."

"if you say so."

"You don't like Popov much, do you?"

" No."

' "What you learned from him could save your life, remember that."

"That doesn't mean I have to like him," Stanski smiled. "I guess not."

He flicked away his cigarette and it cartwheeled into the lake. "Tomorrow I'll take you into Concord. There's a hotel, it's not up to much, but the cooking's better than Vassily's. And there's a dance during dinner."

She looked at him, surprised. "Why should you take me there?"

"No reason, except maybe you deserve it after all our hard work. And besides, like you said, maybe it's time we started to act like man and wife. Massey's going to be back tomorrow night to go– over some final things, so we haven't much more time to get to know one another." He went to turn, but hesitated. "Wear a dress tomorrow night if you have one."

She hesitated. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Going into Russia. What's your motive?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I think maybe you volunteered. And happy men don't volunteer."

Stanski looked up at the night sky, then back at her. "None of your business, I'm afraid. Just as yours is none of mine. You'd better get back up to the house soon. You'll catch your death out here."

He turned without another word and walked back up to the cabin.

As he sat in his bedroom Stanski heard Anna come in ten minutes later and climb the stairs. He heard her wash and undress and then the creak of springs as she climbed into bed.

The house went silent again, except for Popov's snoring Stanski crossed to the corner of the bedroom. Hunching down near the window, he took out his penknife and flicked open the blade. He slipped the blade between the two short wooden floorboards and pried. The wood gave easily, and he removed the two foot-long sections. He put his hand into the recess and removed the old rusting biscuit tin, and beneath it, the single manila file Massey had given him to study.

This had been his childhood hiding place when he first came to the cabin. He had trusted no one then, not even Vassily. It had once hidden the only possessions he had brought with him to America as a boy.

Now he opened the file on Joseph Stalin and read through it again. It contained only the information Massey had said, and no details of the mission. Stalin's habits, information on his health, his personal security arrangements, and particulars of his elite bodyguard. The entire body-guard system comprised almost fifty thousand people, dedicated to his protection and divided into ' departments according to their expertise: Stalin's transport, his food, his health, his physical protection, his entertainment.

Every morsel he ate was produced on special farms, rigidly controlled by the Guards Directorate, which supervised the growing of foodstuffs and the slaughtering of animals, and then transported these supplies along guarded routes to its own storehouses. And even then the food was laboratory-tested and fed to test animals, as well as Stalin's personal staff, before being consumed by Stalin himself.

The file also contained two detailed maps, one of the Kremlin and Stalin's personal quarters, and another of his Kuntsevo villa with information on its security system.

Before the drop Stanski would commit every word and detail to memory. When he had finished studying the file he replaced it in the recess in the floor.

He picked up the rusted biscuit tin, opened it and removed the contents. Two locks of hair tied neatly with red binding thread and a small photograph album, its black lacquered cover cracked and worn.

He remembered how he had clutched them both for months after his escape, clutched them hard to his chest, especially during the long cold journey across the tossing Atlantic swells, hidden in the hold of the stinking boat, hunger in his stomach like a pain but not as bad as the terrible pain in his heart, what was in that little box the only tangible reminder of his family. It offered a small lost boy the only sanity in the whole wide, confused world.

He looked down at the locks of hair. He had loved them both, Petya and Katya, had always wanted to protect them. He vaguely remembered the night a storm came, and little Petya had been so afraid. Lyin– in his bedroom in the darkness, Stanski heard him crying, fearful of the noise and light, of the terrible and frightening sounds outside.

"Are you afraid?"

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled beyond the bedroom window. Petya wouldn't stop sobbing.

"Don't be afraid. Come, sleep beside me."

Petya had snuggled in beside him, a mass of dark curls and puppy fat, still sobbing as Stanski's arms went around him and hugged him close.

"Don't cry, Petya. I'll always keep you safe. And if anyone or anything ever tries to hurt you I'll kill them. You understand, Petya'? And when Mama has her baby, I'll keep baby safe too."

He had held Petya close all night, warm and safe.

But he hadn't kept him safe afterwards. Nor Katya.

Stanski put the locks of hair aside, one dark, one faded blond, all that remained of Petya and Katya, then opened the old album and stared down at the images.

The two men had parked the car five miles away off the forest road and trekked through the snowy woods in @darkness up to the clearing. It stood on a ridge across the lake, sheltered by pine trees, and it was the best location they had found the previous day, with a reasonable view of the cabin.

It took them twenty minutes to set up the equipment, the white camouflage canvas tent and the tripods for the powerful military binoculars. By then it was after two and bitterly cold, a little snow on the ground, and they climbed wearily into their sleeping bags and tried to sleep.

Manhattan, New York. February 21st Carlo Lombardi sat opposite Kurt Braun in the private office above the club on the Lower East Side docks. Lombardi said, "Your friends are still here at the lake house. I have my people watching it, but nice and discreet. Another guy arrived last week with @ a beard, looks like a fucking hick. He's in the cabin. It was in the last report. still sta-@

Braun frowned and leaned forward. "I read that. You got photographs of him?"

"Not this time, and it's too risky for my men to get close."

Lombardi made a face as he looked at the map. "Who the fuck in their right mind would want to live LIP there'? Real shitkicking country." Braun said, "This man who arrived at the cabin, I'll need to know who he is and what he's doing there."

Lombardi shrugged. "Tell your friend Ark@ishin, he'll figure something out. Me, I don't want to blow this thing just to have my boys get a closer look." He looked at Braun. "So what's the deal'?'@, Braun spoke for almost ten minutes When he finished explaining Lombardi whistled. "Serious business." He whistled again. "Serious fucking business."

Braun removed an envelope from his pocket and threw it on the table. Lombardi picked it up and riffled through the thick wad of bills inside. He suppressed the urge to whistle again.

He had a broad grin on his face as he stood. "Vince can come along."

"I presume he's capable?"

Lombardi smiled. "Capable" Mister, let me fucking tell you something" Vince cut his teeth on guns in the fucking cradle. So when do you want it done?"

The Soviet vessel will be arriving in New York in twenty-four hours, I think the sooner the better, don't you?"

New Hampshire.

Stanski parked the pickup in the town's main street. The windows of the pretty New England town were lit up in the evening darkness as they walked to the hotel on Concord Street. There was a dance band playing on the rostrum and the waiter showed them to a window table set with fresh flowers and a red candle. He came back with two bottles of beer and poured it into their glasses before taking their order and leaving. Anna looked around the hotel restaurant. It was Friday night and the people there were mostly middle-aged, but some young couples were on the dance floor.

When their meal came Stanski said, "It's not exactly New York, but this is where the locals come for their night out."

"It's the first time I've been to a place like this in America."

He smiled at her. "You know, you look very pretty tonight."

She looked across at him. He was staring at her. Her hair was down and she had put on lipstick and makeup and she wore the black dress she had worn the first night she had met him in New York.

"Is this where you come to find girlfriends?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Hardly, it's only my second time." He looked across and said, "Tell me about yourself, Anna."

"What do you want to know?"

He sipped his beer and put down the glass. "Anything you want to tell me,"

"No," she said. "First you tell me about – Yourself.

He raised his eyes, faintly startled, a little amused, and suddenly he seemed more at ease. "There isn't much to tell. Maybe it's better if you ask me what you want to know."

"How did you come to live in America?"

He toyed with his glass as if he seemed to be wondering how much to tell her. He didn't look at her directly when he spoke.

"My family lived in a village near Smolensk. When my parents died my younger brother and sister and myself were sent to an orphanage in Moscow. I was twelve. I hated the place. It was cold and heartless. So I made up my mind for us to escape. A relative of my father's lived in Leningrad and I thought he'd take US in. The night we planned to escape we were caught. But I managed to get away alone and climbed aboard a train at the Leningrad Station. When I reached Leningrad the relative wasn't very pleased and wanted to hand me back. I wandered the streets until I found myself at the docks looking at a ship. I didn't know where it was going and I don't think I much cared. But I knew that ship was destiny waiting for me." He smiled briefly. "You know what the Russians say. The seeds of what we'll do are sown in all of us. So I stowed away on board."

"What happened afterwards?"

@"Two weeks later I was on the docks in Boston, cold and very hungry."

"For a boy of twelve what you did was remarkable."

He shook his head. "Not so remarkable. I didn't know it until I landed in Boston but there were four other stowaways on the same ship. In those days it was a lot easier to escape,"

"How did you end up with Vassily?"

Stanski smiled. "I proved a little troublesome after I arrived in Boston. They sent me to an orphanage just like in Moscow, only the food was better and the people were kinder. But it didn't help. And then someone had the bright idea to send me up here."

"He's a good man, Vassily."

"The very best type of Russian. Good and kind."

"And your brother and sister, what happened to them?"

He didn't reply and as Anna looked at him she realized it was the first time she had seen any real sign of emotion in his face. There was a flash of pain but he seemed to want to suppress it as he leaned forward and the smile came back again. "Now it's your turn."

"What do you want to know?"

"Do you like Massey?"

The question surprised her. She hesitated and looked away a moment. When she looked back she said, "He was the first good man I met when I escaped to Finland. The first honest and caring human being I'd known in a long time. He trusted me and helped me. They would have sent me back to Russia had it not been for him. For that I'll always be grateful."

"Were you ever married, Anna?" Suddenly she wanted to tell him the truth, but she said, "Do we have to talk about it now?"

"Not if you don't want to."

"Then I don't want to." She changed the subject. "Do you trust Popov?"

He laughed. "Of course."

The Ukrainians were the worst beasts in the SS. They killed women and children without reguard, without so much as a second thought. How can you trust him?"

"Is that why you kicked him between the legs?"

"He got what he deserved. He should have taken heed of his own advice."

"You really don't like him, do you, Anna?"

"Men like him were traitors. ]'hey betrayed their own people by fighting for the Germans. They raped, they murdered."

He heard the anger in her voice and said, "You're wrong about Popov, Anna. And you're neglecting an essential truth. In Russian schools they teach you a very biased history. The Ukraine was not always a part of the Soviet Union. Lenin subdued the country with his Bolsheviks. Then Stalin. He had almost five million Ukrainians killed or sent to Siberia. Men, women, children. Whole families uprooted and massacred. You have no idea of the scale of it and Soviet history books never tell the truth."

"And Popov is different?"

"He wasn't a war criminal. He was a camp instructor, and a good one. Besides, he hates the Reds."

@"Why?"

"During the kulak wars when Stalin stole all the grain from the Ukraine his people perished in the famine. What the Germans did was terrible, but what the Russians did to the Ukraine was worse."

He looked at her but she didn't speak. He put down his napkin as if to change the Subject and stood and held out his hand.

"Come on. Let's dance. This is getting too serious."

"But it's a long time since I danced."

"It's never too late to start again."

He led her onto the floor just as the band changed to a slow dance. He held her close and as they danced he said, "What happened at the ridge ... I owe you an apology."

She looked up at his face for a moment. "You don't have to apologize."

"But I do. You were right, I didn't want you along, but not for the reasons you thought. I just didn't want you to be hurt getting involved in this."

"And do you still think it would be better if I didn't come along?"

He smiled. "Now I'm not so sure."

They danced two sets, and she was aware of Stanski holding her tight and how comforting it felt. There was some lively music at the end which had people kicking their legs in the air as a man played a fiddle. The dancing made her warm when they came back to the table some more people came over to say hello and she saw several women nearby give her envious glances.

Stanski smiled. "You know you're going to ruin my bachelor reputation in this town?"

"Does it bother you?"

"Not one little bit."

It had been a long time since she had danced with a man. She remembered the night Ivan had danced with her on the banks of the Moscow River and suddenly it seemed a long time ago and she felt a little sad.

When they finished the meal they walked back to the car, and Stanski draped his coat around her shoulders to keep out the cold.

As they climbed into the pickup neither of them noticed the dark blue Ford sedan parked across the street, the two men inside watching them.

Massey's car was parked outside the house when they got back. He was sitting at the table drinking coffee with Vassily when they went in and when he saw Anna he smiled.

"it looks like you two have been enjoying yourselves." Stanski said, "All part of the training, Jake. Where's Popov?"

"Gone to bed. He's starting early back to Boston tomorrow. Pull up a chair."

They sat and talked for ten minutes over coffee, and then Vassily went to bed. Anna said good night shortly thereafter. Massey waited until she had gone upstairs and said, "Something's different about her tonight."

"Like what?"

"A look in her eyes. What have you two been up to?"

Stanski found the bottle of bourbon and poured them one each. "A dance and @ meal and a few drinks. It did her good."

"So how's she shaping up?"

"Better than I thought." He told Massey about Popov's experience and Massey smiled.

"He ought to have known better. Maybe he's getting old."

"How was Paris?"

Massey told him about the arrangements in Paris and Helsinki. "We'll use Lebel's girlfriend's dacha when you two get to Moscow. It's ideal-remote and safe."

"You think it's right getting Lebel's friend involved?"

"She won't be. If things go according to plan, as soon as Anna and you arrive in Moscow, Irena and she will leave on Lebel's train. Then you'll have the place to yourself."

Massey went over the details and then Stanski looked across at him. "You look like you've got something on your mind, Jake."

Massey drank his bourbon and put down the glass and stood. "Remember what I told you about Max Simon and his little girl'? I think I've found who did it. A man who uses the name Kurt Braun. One of Moscow's hired killers. And he's in New York as an illegal."

"What's he doing in New York?"

"God only knows, but he can't be up to much good."

Stanski half smiled. "Why do I sense something coming?"

"From what I've heard of Braun, he's the worst scum you could meet. He's a psycho, Alex. He was serving time for manslaughter and rape in a German prison before the Germans got desperate for men and put him in an SS penal battalion. The Russians captured him in forty-five. They gave him a choice. Work for them or freeze to death in a Siberian camp. Not surprisingly, he chose the first option."

"So what are you going to do?"

Massey crossed to the window and looked back, a look of anger on his face. "Branigan wants me to forget about him."

"-",But You have other plans, right?"

"I checked with immigration. Braun arrived using a West German passport in the name of Huber three months ago. I've got his address. An apartment in Brooklyn. I want to pay it a visit. If it's him, I'm going to settle the score."

"What about the Russians?"

"There's nothing they could do about it. Braun's an illegal and they can't even acknowledge he exists. And hopefully he won't @after we're finished."

"And Branigan?"

"He needn't ever know if we do it properly."

"we ?" Massey said hopefully, "I was kind of expecting you'd come along for the ride. Just the two of us. I'll need someone watching my back. Anna can stay here with Vassily."

"You're sure you know what you're doing, Jake?"

Massey nodded and Stanski said, "When?"

"Tomorrow."

It was almost seven when Massey and Stanski left for New York the next morning, but Demitri Popov had risen early and left at six to drive back to Boston.

It was ten minutes later when Popov saw the Packard with New York license plates overtake him at speed. Five minutes later he saw the same Packard parked off the road, the driver kicking the front nearside wheel in anger.

The man waved him down and Popov pulled in and rolled down the window. "What's the problem?"

"I hit a fucking pothole in the snow. I ask you, mister, is this what we pay our taxes for?" The man held up a wheel jack. "The tire's warped as a bent nickel and my jack's broken. You got one I could borrow?"

Popov grunted and stepped out of the car. the little fat man with the thin mustache looked useless, all blubber with a New York accent and gold rings on his pudgy fingers. Popov found the jack in the boot and brought it over to the man, then pushed him aside and said, "Here, let me."

"Hey, thanks, mister, you're an angel."

The tire looked undamaged but as Popov bent down to examine it he felt the crushing blow of something metallic on the back of his skull and then another before he keeled over.

Then a foot slammed hard into his crotch and before he could yell in agony he heard the rush of feet from out of nowhere and the fat man's voice saying, "Get the fucking hick into the car.

Then something sharp jabbed into his arm and he went under.

New York. February 22nd It was just after one and raining hard as Massey pulled up outside the apartment block in Brooklyn. It was an old redbrick tenement building with a fire escape at the back, and the place looked seriously in need of attention. "How do you want to handle it?"

"The simplest way is always the best." Massey smiled and held up a piece of headed paper with the seal of the US government. "Internal Revenue come to have a friendly chat, Braun's apartment is on the top floor at the back. You go up the fire escape and cover me, while I go in the front. Once I'm inside, we take him."

Stanski tossed his cigarette out of the window and took out a Tokarev pistol with a silencer, then slipped it into his waistband under his coat. "You're sure you know what you're doing, Jake?"

Massey removed a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 from the glove compartment and checked the chamber before slipping it into his pocket.

"Trust me."

Feliks Akashin was tired. There were dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep and as he turned from the bedroom window of Braun's apartment he looked at Popov's body slumped in the chair.

Two of Lombardi's men had delivered him, and the ropes around the big man were tied securely, but Akashin knew there was no need. The man was barely conscious from the drug and hardly capable of moving.

Akashin lit a cigarette and came back from the window. He stared down at Popov's bruised face, at the trickle of blood running from his mouth down his beard, then his hand reached over and lifted the man's chin. "You're really making this very difficult. Don't you think it would be a lot easier if you told me what Massey is up to at the lake?"

Popov grunted and his eyes flickered, then his head rolled in Akashin's hand and slumped to one side. Akashin si-he'd. He and Braun had spent an hour trying to make the man talk and he had barely uttered a word.

His wallet lay on the table. His name was Demitri Popov, which told him nothing except he was Russian or Ukrainian. No doubt one of the immigrant the Americans used. There was a hypodermic syringe on the table and a phial of scopolamine, the truth drug, Akashin's last resort. As he reached for them he heard the knock on the door and turned, slightly alarmed.

He was about to reach for the Walther pistol on the coffee table when he heard the voice.

"I really wouldn't, not unless you want to lose your fingers.

The blond man who stood behind him held a silenced Tokarev pistol in his hand and the window that led to the fire escape was open, the curtain blowing in the breeze. Akashin paled when he recognized Stanski.

, Just drop the gun on the table, then be a good boy and open the front door, nice and easy."

Akashin did as he was told, placing the Walther on the table, breaking out in a cold sweat as he crossed to the door. His face dropped when he saw who stood there.

As Massey came in, Stanski said quietly, "Jake, I think you'd better take a look at who our friend's got in the bedroom."

Massey sat in the chair opposite Akashin and said in a hard voice, "You'd better tell me what the hell is going on here, and fast."