Leon Uris Read Free Page A

OSCAR 612. GREEN LIGHT. SAILBOAT 606.
    Den Permanente houses the works of Danish artisans from crystal and silver to modern teak furniture and wild patterns in fabrics. Like Denmark itself, the place was not large, but its wares were magnificent.
    Near the building, Stebner and a half-dozen ININ agents waited for Bartlett and the blue Ford. Stebner took a position so that he could clearly see Boris Kuznetov with his wife and daughter. They came down from the second floor. Mrs. Kuznetov read the time from a lavaliere watch. Stebner wondered why her husband loved her so. She was a drab and dumpy woman. The daughter, he estimated, was about twenty. A fine figure, but it ended right there. Severe hairdo, no make-up, flat shoes.
    Stebner glanced over to the first set of guards. He was positive of them because he knew that one was an Assistant Resident of the Soviet Embassy. This pair lolled about a table filled with carved wooden figurines of comic Vikings, those monkeys who hang arm to leg in a chain, and several families of teakwood ducks.
    The second set of guards was a pair of women hovering over a fabric counter. They used females, no doubt, to be able to keep tabs on the Kuznetov women, even in the public toilets. The Russian women stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs among the lovely Danish creatures around them.
    Boris Kuznetov pointed to the display counter of the silversmith, Hans Hansen, and they walked toward it, containing their tension admirably.
    Down the block, a blue Ford turned the corner.
    The ININ agents closed in on the entrance as the car moved into the curb lane and inched through the ever-present sea of bicycle riders.
    Now it was halfway down the block.
    In the building, the five-thirty closing bell rang.
    Kuznetov looked desperately toward the door
    Stebner took a step inside and nodded. The Russian offered his arm to his wife and daughter, took the few steps outside quickly.
    The guards dropped the merchandise they were fingering and followed.
    Stebner slammed the doors of Den Permanente in their faces, shoved Kuznetov and his family into the rear of the blue Ford and got into the front beside Bartlett.
    Kuznetov’s guards flung the doors of Den Permanente open and rushed to the sidewalk, only to collide with an ININ man on a bicycle who rode into them. Everyone sprawled to the ground, and as they scrambled to their feet the other ININ agents jostled and bumped them creating an instant of confusion, just long enough for the car to turn the corner and go out of sight.
    It sped north out of Copenhagen along the coastal road with the Kuznetovs crouched in the back. Beyond the suburb, Bartlett turned the Ford off the highway and onto the pier at Taarbaek to switch cars.
    Nordstrom and Hendricks were waiting in the front seat of a Mercedes, Stebner transferred the Kuznetovs and Bartlett returned toward Copenhagen again.
    Nordstrom turned to the shaken family. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he soothed. “Try to keep calm.”
    Kuznetov nodded that he understood.
    “You owe me something. Some documents.”
    Kuznetov took a baggage claim check from his wallet. “At the luggage storage at the main railroad station.”
    It was given to Sid Hendricks to follow through and then they continued north. A few minutes before Elsinore stood Kystens-Perle, “The Pearl of the Coast,” built like a ship with the superb Hamlet Restaurant on the first floor and hotel rooms above. A most chic place for lovers to rendezvous. Stebner guarded the door of Room 6, while Hendricks and Nordstrom kept the family calm inside. Fear, that most prevalent of Russian products, had consumed them into a stunned whiteness. A torturous hour passed, during which he learned little more than that Mrs. Kuznetov’s name was Olga, and the daughter’s Tamara.
    The sharp ring of the phone startled them all.
    “Hello.”
    “Sam?”
    “Speaking.”
    “This is George. Cessna 310 is at the Elsinore Airport, cleared, warmed up and