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The fleabag hotel Michael was staying in was dilapidated, with peeling paint and flickering lights in the dimly lit corridor. The carpet was worn and stained, and there was a musty smell lingering in the air. As Michael ascended the stairs, he took careful steps, avoiding the creaky ones to maintain stealth. On the second-floor landing, he ran into the concierge, a gruff-looking man with a weathered face and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The concierge eyed Michael suspiciously, taking a drag from his cigarette before speaking.
"Hey buddy, got something you need to know."
"Not now," Michael said, pushing past the gruff-looking man. "I've gotta take a phone call, I'll come see you as soon as I can. We'll talk then."
The concierge lunged forward, his hand clamping around Michael's arm like a vice, his grip surprisingly strong. With a forceful shove, he pinned Michael against the wall, his face contorted with anger and intensity.
"What's the deal, huh? Why's some guy poking around asking questions about you in my joint?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about. Who was asking about me?" Michael said, impatient to be on his way.
The gruff-looking man shrugged eloquently. "He was just some stranger. Asked questions, gave me money. Had to play dumb to protect my hotel and guests. Can be deaf when I need to be." The concierge had the native Californian's loathing for out-of-staters, and he was proud of his bad attitude.
"Please, if they come back, warn me. I need to know." Michael was immediately anxious.
"I'm telling you now," the gruff-looking man said, releasing Michael and shuffling away. "One of them's been hanging around outside all day. I swear, if there's any trouble, I got a shotgun in my office. I'll blow you and whoever's out there away."
Michael let himself into the hotel room. He crossed the living room and looked down into the street. Sure enough, amidst the bustling people below he picked out one man who was not moving. He was young, fair-haired, wearing a cheap-looking biker's jacket and he was leaning half-hidden in a doorway across the street from the entrance to the apartment. Michael was worried but he didn't yet realize the full implications, he didn't feel the fear---that was coming. The phone rang. He picked up the receiver.
"Dragov," a voice said and Michael felt a moment of relief.
"I wanted to tell you that the money's going through," Michael spoke fast. "But something's come up. There's some guy outside my hotel room and the concierge says he's asking questions. I was hoping maybe he was one of your guys."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"Are you alone in the hotel room?" Dragov asked.
"Yes."
"Check that the front door is locked then come back to the phone.
Michael did as he was told.
"Alright," Dragov said. "Now look out of the window carefully, don't go right up to the glass, keep your face in the shadow and describe the watcher to me."
Michael took the receiver to the window. "I can't make him out too clearly," he said. "He's standing back in a doorway and I'm looking down on him but I guess he's young, very young, fair hair, I can't make out his build too well because he's wearing an overcoat. I mean, hell," Michael tried to be rational, "it's probably all some mistake and this guy's waiting for someone outside. It's just the way the concierge tipped me off that got me scared."
"Look down the street," Dragov ordered. "Tell me if you can see anyone else. There should be a relief man sitting in a car, he won't be there alone."
Michael cautiously craned his head. "The place is full of cars and people, I can't make out anyone else. Who is this guy? You sound as if you half-expect him to be here."
"I wasn't expecting him, Michael,' Dragov said. "If I had been I wouldn't have let you and Kathy be at risk. Where is Kathy?"
"She's gone to the bank, then she's going on to an old long-distance friend of the family. After that, she's coming back here."
Like a chess player Dragov had planned his moves, but so had Kazakov. He thought that he had spotted in Dragov a weakness, a chink in his armor and he was poised to strike. Dragov knew what was going to happen now and he couldn't intervene himself, he was too far away. He had to rely on Michael.
"Phone Kathy," Dragov instructed tersely. "Reach her wherever she is and tell her not to come back to her apartment. Tell her to stay with that friend she's going to visit until we contact her. I'm in a phone booth," he gave Michael the number, "I'll wait here until I hear from you, come back to me as soon as you can."
Dragov's voice betrayed none of the fury that he felt for his stupidity but the tension in it infected Michael. He began telephoning and at the same time watching the front door of the hotel room, feeling that something was out there about to break in. Kathy had left the bank. He phoned Dorothy Harrington but the number just rang and rang and nobody answered. He feverishly dialed Harborview, heard the number in the phone booth connect and Dragov answered.
"I can't get hold of her," he said breathlessly.
"Alright." Dragov sounded calm. He had a chance to think. "Did Kathy tell you about a man named Kazakov?" he asked.
"A little."
"I think it must be one of his men out there. They're waiting to get you and Kathy together, then they can use you both to blackmail me. Can you get hold of the concierge?"
"I've tried," Michael said. "He's gone out."
"What time are you expecting Kathy?"
"I don't know. Maybe an hour from now. She was going to do some shopping on her way back."
"Give me the number you have for her," Dragov ordered, "I'll keep trying to reach her there. Meanwhile, I want you to leave the hotel. Try and get past the man in the doorway, look scared, and make sure that he knows you've spotted him. I want them to think that you've already tipped off Kathy or that you're on your way to do so. Lead them away from the apartment, take them right away from there---buy me time to contact Kathy."
"Where do I go?" Michael asked, terrified now.
"Choose some area of Los Angeles that you've visited before, keep to the streets where there are plenty of people. They might follow you for a while then go back and wait at your hotel: it depends on how many men he's got. But if they're still with you at dusk, you'll know they mean to get you. They will start closing in and that's when you've got to lose them. Remember, choose some area of the city you've seen before and keep up with the crowds. Oh, and watch out for cars coming up behind you," he added. "Don't go someplace where they can just pick you off the pavement."
This was too much for Michael's mind to cope with. "Why don't I just call the cops?"
"What will you tell them?" Dragov retorted coldly. "You can't arrest a man for standing in a doorway and when they're ready to make their move against you, I can assure you, you won't have the chance to call the police. I warned you both that it might come to this, Michael. You should have listened to me then. Now we've wasted enough time; Kathy could be coming up the stairs at any moment. Get out of that hotel, lead them away from her. I figure that you're safe as long as you aren't together, at least for the next few hours. I'll be waiting by this phone boot, call me back when you can."
The phone went dead and Michael put the receiver down. He went carefully to the window. The man was gone---no, he wasn't, he was still there, but in a different doorway further down the street. Michael looked more closely. It wasn't the same man, this one was the same age and much the same build, but he was wearing a different overcoat. Michael looked wildly up and down the street, trying to find the other man. He couldn't see him, he must be inside the building. He could almost hear his footsteps on the stairs. Oh, God, there he was alone with no means of defense! Suddenly he was entering a world of violence that he knew nothing about and the prospect of going out into the street scared the hell out of him.
Michael took a cab to Kathy's apartment, using his key to let himself in upon arrival. Quickly scanning the living room, he noticed that Kathy wasn't there. In a hurry, he grabbed a nearby notepad and pen from the coffee table and hastily scribbled a note. With a few swift movements, he tore off the sheet and left it on the kitchen counter, making sure it was prominently placed where Kathy would see it when she returned. Then, without lingering, he headed back out the door, his purpose urgent and his expression determined. He went cautiously down the steps, noticing for the first time how gloomy and badly lit the building was. At the bottom, he knocked on the landlord's door again and again but there was no answer. Michael forced himself through the hallway and into the street.
The man in the doorway spotted him and Michael didn't have to act out Dragov's instructions, he lived them. He hurried off towards the 6th Street Viaduct and turned left along Sunset Boulevard. He kept looking back over his shoulder: sure enough the bastard was following him. Michael was moving so fast that he was almost jogging, he forced himself to slow down, clear his head, and work out a route. Dragov had said to choose an area of the city he knew well, but at the same time had told him to keep with the crowds.
Michael dodged into a subway entrance and hurried down the steps. He glanced at his watch: he had been on the streets for less than 15 minutes. Dragov had told him to buy Kathy time but how much did he need? He resolved to get to a phone box and call in, but one of the tags came up just behind him. Michael had felt safer underground, but the fright of seeing the man so close kept him moving on. He came up into Santa Monica Boulevard, seething with traffic and pedestrians.
There were two tags, young, fair-haired, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the warmly-clad passersby except for their cold eyes set in old-young faces, and the fact that whenever he looked back they were there just behind him. Michael glanced at his watch: forty minutes later, they were still going up Santa Monica Boulevard.
The cold shock that had numbed his mind was lifting. An innate sense of survival was making him aware of his position on the street and of the people around him. His perception seemed heightened as never before and now that his brain was functioning again, he began to work out the moves. They crossed over Sunset Boulevard and continued along Melrose Avenue.
Michael knew where he was going now, he was heading from Silver Lake and the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. He slowed his walking pace right down, wasting time, conscious now beyond his fear that he was doing a good job, drawing them away from Kathy. He looked up at the apartment blocks rising on either side of the street. He'd never noticed so many dogs before. He couldn't understand how Americans could leave their dogs all alone through the day to bark hysterically at the windows of high-rise apartments and then bring them down at night to foul the city's pavements. He glanced at his watch: another half-hour at least before darkness descended. Already he could feel the clammy chill of the oncoming night. The tags were still with him; he quickened his pace again. Ahead of him now were the curving ivy-covered walls and massive wrought-iron gates of Hollywood Forever.
Dragov had said if they're still with you when night falls, then you'll know that they're serious about picking you up and that's the time you've got to lose them. Watch out for cars coming up behind you, don't choose a place where they can just pick you off the pavement. If they kept Michael on the streets too long after dark the crowds would thin, and the thought of a car coming up on the pavement after him was more than he could bear.
Michael walked through the gates of Hollywood Forever.
"Hey, you there! The cemetery closes in thirty minutes! Get moving!" the uniformed guard shouted, his tone laced with irritation.
Michael nodded to show that he understood. He followed Wilshire Boulevard, passing a scattering of tourists who were drifting towards the exits ahead of the oncoming evening. The Angelenos had designed their mausoleums very much as they pleased, and the cemetery was reputed to house one of the most fabulous collections of necromantic statuary this side of the Pyramids. Michael passed an array of stone, metal, and concrete memorabilia lining either side of the boulevard with larger-than-life-size representations, ranging from dogs and nymphs to angels and ballerinas. He turned into a narrow, cobbled pedestrian way leading up several flights of steps into the heart of the cemetery.
An air of distinguished yet seedy eroticism seemed to pervade the place. Many of the great mausoleums of the great stars of early Hollywood were falling into disrepair. Some had their ivy-covered doors forced open, and stained glass and broken vases littered the floors before the altars inside.
At one time many of the great names of the silver screen had been buried here and the ground beneath their sarcophagi had been tunneled out into burial vaults of up to ten meters deep, where, resting on slabs, one on top of the other, lay generation after succeeding generation of thespians. In the case of families who had died out and left nobody to renew the lease, workmen would disinter their bodies. Beside a memorial with massive, spreading angels' wings or similar ornament would be a deep dark hole, choked with litter.
As the last of the tourists disappeared an intensely gloomy feeling. Michael headed, in the failing light, for a small exit on the far side of the cemetery leading into Silver Lake. Before he reached there he intended to lose his tags in the narrow paths that led through the mausoleums. He dodged in and out amongst the great tombstones and by the time he heard the whistles blowing, the guards warning that only ten minutes remained before they closed the gates for the night, he had convinced himself that he had evaded his pursuers.
Michael made his way ahead cautiously, looking back again and again, checking that there was no movement behind him. He dashed across a graveled alley and hid behind a marble tomb. He made himself wait, counting the seconds. No one was following: he would have heard their footsteps across the gravel. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Never before had he known such a terror of being hunted, the suspicion of every man's hand against him. He had only minutes remaining to reach the exit. He began to move on quickly. The guard, blowing impatiently on his whistle, had already half-shut the gate.
Michael was about to break from his cover among the tombstones and race down the steps when he spotted the figure of a man just in front of him, crouching behind a mausoleum, out of sight of the guard, covering the only possible way to the gate. The light was fading fast, but there was still enough of it left for Michael to see that the man had a gun in his hand, and he felt the panic of being trapped. The guard looked at his watch for the last time, let his whistle drop, and walked out, pulling the ten-foot iron-spiked gather closed behind him and locking it. There were two more exits but it would have taken Michael twenty minutes to reach either of them. The whole cemetery was enclosed by a high brick wall and the occupants were locked in for the night.
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