Assumed Identity (1993) Read Free Page B

breathing. 'Perhaps two? So little time after so many years of waiting for...'
    'Professor Bartenev, we have to deal with political realities.'
    Politics, Bartenev thought, and wanted to curse. But like Gonzales, he was accustomed to dealing with such obscene realities, and he analyzed the problem with desperate speed. He was out of Russia, free to go anywhere - that was the important factor. There were numerous other major Mayan ruins. Palenque in Mexico, for example. He'd always been fond of photographs of it. It wasn't Tikal. It didn't have the emotional and professional attraction that Tikal had for him, but it was accessible. His wife could accompany him there. They would be safe there. If the Guatemalan government refused to pay for further expenses, that wouldn't matter - because Bartenev had a secret source of funds about which he hadn't told even his wife.
    Indeed secrecy had been part of the business arrangement when the well-dressed, fair-haired American had arrived at Bartenev's office at St Petersburg State University. The American had shown him several photographs of Mayan glyphs. He had asked in perfect Russian how much Bartenev would charge to translate the glyphs and keep the assignment confidential. 'If the glyphs are interesting, I won't charge anything,' Bartenev had answered, impressed by the foreigner's command of the language. But the American had insisted on paying. In fact, his fee had been astonishingly generous: fifty-thousand dollars. 'To ensure your silence,' the American had said. 'I've converted some of it to rubles.' He gave Bartenev the equivalent of ten thousand dollars in Russian currency. The remainder, he explained, would be placed in a Swiss bank account. Perhaps one day Bartenev would be free to travel, in which case the money could easily be obtained.
    Failing that, couriers could be arranged to transport prudent amounts into St Petersburg for him, amounts that wouldn't be so large that the authorities would ask questions about their source. Since that visit, the American had come two more times, in each case with more photographs of Mayan glyphs and with the same fee. Until now, the money had not been as important to Bartenev as the fascinating, although puzzling message (like a riddle within a code) that the glyphs revealed.
    But now the money was very important, and Bartenev bitterly meant to get full value from it.
    'Yes,' he told Gonzales. 'Political realities. I will leave whenever you want, whenever I have served your purpose.'
    Gonzales seemed to relax. But only for a moment. Abruptly the limousine arrived at a hotel, the steel-and-glass modern design of which was jarringly unHispanic. The soldiers escorted Bartenev and his wife quickly through the lobby, into an elevator, and to the twelfth floor. Gonzales came with them as a government official spoke to a clerk at the check-in desk.
    The phone was ringing as Gonzales unlocked the door, turned on a light, and guided Bartenev and his wife into the suite. Actually there were two phones, one on a table next to a sofa, the other on a bar.
    Gonzales locked the door behind them. The phone kept ringing. As Bartenev stepped toward the one by the sofa, Gonzales said, 'No, let me answer it.' He chose the closer phone, the one on the bar. 'Hello.' He turned on a lamp. 'Why do you wish to speak with him?' He stared at Bartenev. 'Just a moment.' He placed a hand over the telephone's mouthpiece. 'It's a man who claims to be a journalist. Perhaps it would be wise to give an interview. Good public relations. I'll listen on this phone while you use that one.'
    Bartenev pivoted toward the phone on the table beside the sofa. 'Hello,' he said, casting a shadow against the window.
    'Go to hell, you Goddamned Russian.'
    As the window shattered inward, Bartenev's wife screamed. Bartenev did not. The bullet that struck his skull and mushroomed within it killed him instantly. The bullet burst out the back of his head, spraying blood across the flying