White Mountain Read Free

are,” the man said.
    Frank answered in English.   “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
    The sting against his throat became pain.
    “Don’t lie to me, old man.   I knew you in Minsk.   I was assigned to guard you at a medical symposium.   You were born and raised in Georgia and educated in Moscow.   You are Vaclav Waller.   You were nominated for a Nobel Prize in 1969 and reported to have died in a plane crash of the southern coast of the United Stated in 1970.”
    Frank stifled a groan.   He didn’t know how this had happened, but he could only blame himself.   Someone here must have recognized him.   He had come to Brighton Beach to pay homage to his roots and instead had brought down the fragile house of cards that he’d built for himself.
    “Wheat do you want?” Frank asked.   “I have money.   Take my wallet.   It’s in my coat pocket.”
    Rostov cursed.   “I do not want your money, old man.   I want the truth.”
    Frank blinked.   This time the man had spoken in English again.   Was he starting to buy his story, or was he just playing along?
    “I don’t know the truth of which you speak,” Frank said.   “Just take my money and let me go.   I don’t want trouble.”
    At that moment a car sped by outside the alley.   Behind it the sound of approaching sirens could be heard, and Rostov’s hold tightened.
    Frank saw how the sirens made the big man antsy.   The police were obviously after someone else, but maybe he could make this work to his advantage.
    “The police are coming,” he said.   “Someone saw you drag me into this alley.   Just let me go and I won’t tell.   I am an old man.   I don’t want any trouble.”
    “Your trouble is just beginning.” Rostov said.   “You don’t have to talk to me.   You can talk to my superiors…when we get back to Moscow.”
    Frank saw him reach toward his pocket with one hand.   He knew the drill.   Inside there would be a hypodermic syringe filled with some sort of drug that would render him unconscious.   It only took a moment for the decision to be made.   Yes, he’d wanted to go home once more before he died, but not like this.   He was going to die anyway.   Now was as good a time as any.
    Before Rostov knew what was happening, Frank grabbed his hand and lunged forward, plunging the knife blade into his own chest.
    Rostov grunted in surprise and took a sudden step backward, but it was too late.   The damage was already done.
    “What have you done?” he cried, as Frank Walton slumped to the ground.
    The taste of blood was in Frank’s mouth.   “Killed the messenger,” he mumbled, then exhaled slowly.   So this is dying.   Thought ceased.   He’d cheated cancer after all.
    Two police cars sped quickly past the entrance to the alley, in obvious pursuit of the car that had just passed, but Rostov was in a panic.   He’d misjudged the old fool.   Who would have thought he still had it in him?
    Kneeling by the dead man’s side, he quickly removed all the identification from the body, then used Walton’s handkerchief to remove his fingerprints from the knife.   Nervous now, and not wanting to be seen in the alley where a dead man was lying, he tossed the knife into a nearby Dumpster, then slipped over the fence at the back of the alley.
    Ten blocks away, he stripped the cash and identification papers from the wallet, dropped Frank’s hotel key into his pocket and then tossed the empty wallet into a trash can by a bus stop.   The body wouldn’t be found until morning.   It would take even longer for it to be identified.   Confident that the death would appear to have bee robber, he headed for Frank’s hotel.   That crazy old man had upset his plans completely.   Now he was torn between having to lie to his superiors and admitting that he was too old for this job after all.
    It wasn’t until he was standing at a street corner and waiting for the light to change that he realized the old man’s