Who's on First by William F. Buckley Page B

minutes had gone by and clearly they were reaching the outer environs of Paris. This time she was alarmed.
    â€œWhere are you taking us?” Her voice was suddenly abrupt.
    Blackford reached back with his right hand, and Viktor took from it the proffered envelope. Blackford then electrically elevated a thick glass partition between the front seat and the back seat, and doggedly followed the blue Mercedes, which was now, having passed Porte de Clignancourt, proceeding at over fifty miles per hour on the highway to Chantilly. Upon arriving there, there would be a certain chance of exposure—but not a great deal, Rufus had reasoned. The window glass in the rear was especially thick. The window handles—and the door handles—did not engage. It would be difficult for the passengers to attract the attention of other motorists. And Anthony’s nimble Mercedes, ahead, could provide a certain degree of interference.
    Viktor tore open the envelope. The communication was brief and in Russian. It said: “The driver of this car is my friend. Please cooperate with him. Neither you nor Tamara will be hurt.” It was signed by a series of numerals. Viktor studied them—and turned excitedly to Tamara.
    â€œVadim! It is Vadim! Vadim Platov has done this!”
    Tamara grabbed her husband by the arm. She extended her hand to the window handle opposite, next to Viktor, and was not surprised that it turned without effect on the window. It was so with the door handle. She sighed. “There isn’t anything we can do. We’ll have to wait and see.”
    â€œI wonder, I wonder,” Viktor was talking as if to himself. “Is he trying to arrange it so we can escape? Oh, Vadim, Vadim, you will reintroduce us to the nightmare. I know it.” She soothed him though she suspected Viktor was right. And began to suspect that nothing would ever again be the same. Their hearts beat fast when their taxi turned off the highway and went briefly in toward the town of Chantilly. They made no effort to catch the attention of the one or two bystanders they might conceivably have engaged. Viktor began to concentrate on the route the driver had taken. He wondered that he was being permitted to observe the route, the road signs so clearly visible. How easy it would be, when they were released, to find the destination … when they were questioned … by the police. The French police. Then the KGB. He felt his blood turn to ice, his throat go dry.
    â€œTamara!” he ordered her. “Close your eyes! Mine are closed. We don’t want to know . We don’t want to know anything . One more thing. When we arrive, wherever we are going, say nothing, understand, nothing! Let me cope. I don’t want anything ever to be attributable to you. Do you understand! ”
    â€œYes, my darling.”
    The car had come to a halt. Blackford opened the passenger door; they stepped into a pebbled driveway in front of a modest chateau surrounded as far as the eye could see by lawns and fields and, down from the front lawn, a small lake with three swans causing the only ripples in that warm, airless July day.
    Blackford had removed his beret.
    â€œWon’t you come in, Madame Kapitsa, monsieur?”
    Blackford turned and walked toward the door. Clutching his briefcase with one hand, his wife with the other, Viktor followed. Inside the hallway Blackford opened the door to a comfortable antechamber, and indicated the way. Tamara accepted her guide’s instructions, but when Viktor was about to follow her into the room, Blackford gently detained him.
    â€œPardon me, monsieur. For just a moment, we must talk with you alone.”
    Viktor looked at Tamara. She gestured that he should comply. Blackford, engaging Tamara’s attention, pointed to the open door of the well-furnished little room, the washroom at the other end, and just then a maid arrived with a tray of tea and sandwiches. Blackford closed the door