by David Archer
“Sergey Chegin?” he asked. The surprise man stared into his eyes, but refused to answer. Noah pressed the gun against his left cheek and asked again. This time the man nodded once. “Where can I find Nicolaich Andropov? Answer me, and you might live through this.”
“Nicolaich? I don't know, I don't even know who you mean.”
“Wrong answer,” Noah said. He removed the Glock from the man's cheek, pressed it against his left shoulder and squeezed the trigger once. The forty-caliber slug almost tore his arm off, and the man screamed. “Let's try this again. Where can I find Nicolaich Andropov?”
“I don't know, I swear I don't know! I don't even think he's in the city, the last I knew he was on his way to the UK.”
Noah quickly patted the man down, removing a pistol from a holster on the back of his waist. He let go of Chegin and spun back to his car, getting in and driving quickly away. In the rearview mirror, he could see Chegin fumbling with what looked like a cell phone.
Fifteen minutes later, he found another target. Nikolai Ukhov was standing on a sidewalk in front of the building where he had an office. As far as the locals knew, Ukhov was a financial analyst, but his real duties involved funneling laundered money into black operations accounts. Noah pulled up and parked just beside where he stood talking to another man, lowered the passenger side window and leaned over so that he could speak to them.
“Nikolai? Is that you?” Noah asked.
Ukhov and his companion both looked down at Noah. “Yes? Do I know you?”
“Not really, I just wanted to ask where I can find Nicolaich Andropov.”
Ukhov suddenly looked wary, and his companion turned white. Both of them began to shake their heads, but Noah raised his pistol and fired once, blowing the top of Ukhov's head completely away. The other man spun and ran, but Noah let him go.
Over the next three hours, Noah struck six times. Two of his victims were left alive, wounded but not mortally. The rest died instantly, immediately after they were heard by bystanders to deny any knowledge of Nicolaich Andropov or his location.
Noah was cruising, looking for another victim, when an armored police car suddenly appeared behind him. The lights came on, and Noah slapped the car into manual mode and floored it. He was on Ul. Ostozhenka, a main thoroughfare, and was doing more than a hundred miles per hour in less than eight seconds. Fortunately, the traffic was fairly light, but he knew that the police car would radio ahead. He saw an intersection approaching just after he passed a couple of large trucks, and he managed to slow the car to about sixty before he had to cut the wheel and drift around the corner. The turn cost him speed, but then he spotted an alley in the middle of the block. He downshifted again and managed to slide the car into the alley without hitting the buildings on either side. He pressed on the brake pedal to slow the car even more, and then took a left turn onto the next street it met.
He continued to zig and zag for several minutes, until he was certain that he had lost the police car. Driving sedately again, he continued to cruise for several minutes more, but then he heard Neil's voice in his ear.
“Hey, Boss? I think I got something. I just heard Nicolaich's name mentioned on the call, and I'm running it through a translator right now. Give me a couple of seconds to listen.”
“Go ahead, Neil,” Noah said. He waited patiently for almost a minute, and then Neil's voice returned.
“You've got some people pretty shook up,” he said. “Whoever just called that safe house was screaming that people are getting killed. He claims that a dozen of their best agents have been blown away by somebody in a super car who keeps asking where to find Nicolaich. Whoever answered in the safe house told him to calm down, and to repeat what he was saying more slowly. The next voice to come on the line sounded different, deeper, and apparently it was Nicolaich himself. He seemed pretty pissed off, and said it was, and I quote, that crazy American doing it.”
“Good,” Noah said. “It means I've got his attention. Now let's see what he's going to do about it. Call Moose and tell him to get back to base. I'm headed there right now.”
“You got it,” Neil said, and then Noah could hear him talking to Moose on the phone.
Noah pointed the car toward the outskirts of the city, intending to circle around and avoid running into more police, but his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID display and saw that it was blank, so he tapped a button and held it up to his ear.
“Colson,” he said.
“Noah?” It was Sarah's voice that came through the phone, and she sounded shaken. “I'm sorry, Noah, they just kept at me and kept at me and I—I told him who you are. Noah, I'm so sorry…”
“So you are not Mister Colson,” Noah heard, in the voice he had known as Dimitri. “Your lady friend was surprisingly strong, and it took quite a lot of persuasion to make her give up your name, Mister Noah Wolf.”
“Hey, what can I say?” Noah asked. “You use a fake name, I use a fake name. That's just part of our business, isn't it?”
“Of course it is. However, it is not your use of a false name that I'm interested in, as you well know. I could care less about your Elimination and Eradication Agency. Every nation has such an organization, I don't begrudge them anything. You, on the other hand, you have personally offended me. Vasily was my youngest child, still only a boy. How dare you kill him?”
“Oh, go screw yourself, asshole. If you wanted your kid safe, you should have kept him out of the family business. He was involved in international blackmail, and my orders were to terminate anyone I found mixed up in it. It was just business, nothing personal about it.”
“Really?” Nicolaich asked. “And will it be personal to you, when I cut the throat of this pretty young girl?”
Noah suddenly felt impatience rising up in him again, and forced it down. “She's not the one you want, it's me. You know that and so do I. Why don't we cut the bullshit and just meet face-to-face? Only one of us walks away, how about that?”
Nicolaich laughed. “Now you are beginning to understand,” he said. “We will most definitely meet face-to-face, and very soon. I want to look into your eyes as I kill this girl, I want to see the anguish in them as she bleeds to death in front of you, and then I want to watch the life go out of them as I kill you, Mister Wolf.”
“Then say when and where,” Noah said. “Let's get this show on the road. Just remember, only one of us will walk out alive, and I plan on it being me, with Sarah alive right beside me.”
The laugh got even louder. “Oh, Mister Wolf, you are such an optimist. Very well, let us meet. There is a liquor establishment called Krysha Lindow. It opened an hour ago. My men are already stationed there, so that you will not have a chance to pull any tricks. They will wait outside, to make certain you bring no weapons in. Go into the club and get us a table. The young lady and I will join you shortly. We will sit together at a table and talk about things, and perhaps you will persuade me not to take her life. Perhaps you will persuade me to let both of you go free. We shall see what the conversation brings.”
The phone went dead. Noah looked at it for a moment, then shoved it back into his shirt pocket. “Neil? Did you catch all that?”
“Holy shit,” Neil said, “I sure did. Smart move, holding the phone up to the Bluetooth thingy. I could hear both of you almost crystal-clear. Want me to get Moose in position at that club?”
Noah thought for a second. “Call him and tell him to find high ground, a sniper position. Tell him whatever he does, do not fire unless he sees me walk out the door with Sarah. Then I want him to take out everyone who even looks like one of Nicolaich's people, just as fast as he can. I have to go in unarmed, but I'll do my best to come out alive and bring her with me.”
“I'm on it!” Noah heard him calling Moose again, and relaying the orders.
Noah punched up the club on GPS and pointed the car toward it. He would be there in less than twenty minutes, probably before Moose could get into position. That didn't worry him, because he was
certain that Nicolaich's agents would let him enter the club. It was getting out again that was uncertain. By that time, Moose would be somewhere on top of a building in the area, ready to cover them as they made their escape.
He pulled into the parking lot of the club, and three men with obvious and poorly concealed weapons approached his car. Noah slid the Glock up under his seat, then stepped out and locked the car. The three men advanced cautiously, but Noah smiled and raised his hands.
“I'm not going to give you any trouble,” he said. “Nicolaich told me to go inside unarmed, and I'm doing exactly what he wants. Feel free to pat me down, I have no weapons on me.”
One of the men stepped forward and ran his hands roughly over Noah's body, unashamedly groping him everywhere. A moment later he nodded at the others, and they waved Noah inside. He stepped through the door that one of the men held open, and then stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Music was playing in the back of the room, but Noah ignored it as he moved toward an empty table. It was in a corner, and Noah took the chair that was protected on two sides.
A barmaid came over and switched to English when she realized that he didn't speak Russian. “What would you have to drink?”
“You know how to make a vodka Collins?” Noah asked, and the girl nodded. “That's what it'll be, then.”
The barmaid walked away and Noah sat quietly, just watching the room and the other patrons. Most of the people he saw were younger, couples who enjoyed getting out on the dance floor. The scene reminded him of dancing with Sarah only a few nights earlier, and he wondered if they would ever get to do so again.
“Boss?” Neil said in his ear. “Moose is in position. He says there are six SVR around the building, but two of them are where he can't get a shot. You'll have to watch for them when you come out.”
“Understood,” Noah said. “Keep him on the phone with you, and you keep listening to what happens here. Don't talk to me, I can’t afford distractions.”
“Got it, Boss,” Neil said, and then he fell silent.
His drink arrived, and he sipped at it slowly. He had been there for almost 20 minutes when the door opened, letting light in, and he looked over to see Sarah and Nicolaich walk into the room. As Noah had done, Nicolaich stopped and let his eyes adjust. A moment later, they began walking toward the table where Noah sat alone.
Nicolaich put Sarah in a seat that placed her between him and Noah, on his left and Noah's right. The table was small, so they were all pretty close together. The barmaid hurried back over, and Nicolaich spoke to her in Russian. She nodded and left, and then Nicolaich looked at Noah.
“So,” he said. “There have been rumors in the intelligence community that the Americans had an organization of assassins, and that they had recently acquired a new one who was particularly well skilled. I understand that this is you. Is it true that you have no emotions? This young lady seems to believe it.”
“It's true,” Noah said. “Something got screwed up in my brain when I was a kid, and I don't have any feelings. No conscience, either, so if you're expecting an apology for blowing your kid’s head off, you can kiss my ass.”
Nicolaich grinned from ear to ear. “My goodness, but you do have a sense of humor. Let us sit here and wait until our drinks arrive, shall we? We don't want to be interrupted. Then we can talk.”
Noah looked at Sarah, and could see that her face was badly bruised. He slowly raised a hand and reached out to touch her cheek, watching Nicolaich for any sign that he would object. He didn't, and Sarah leaned her face against his palm. There were tears on her cheeks, and Noah brushed one away with his thumb.
“Noah, I'm so sorry,” she whispered, but he shushed her.
“It's okay, Sarah,” he said. “I'm here now, and I'm going to do my best to get us out of this.”
“Ah, the American spirit. I never tire of the optimism your people display. I have killed dozens of you, and I have yet to see one that didn't hold out hope until the very last second.”
“I don't have any dealings with hope,” Noah said. “Did you ever see Star Trek? Well, an old friend of mine got me started watching it when I was a kid, because she said I was just like Mister Spock. The more I watched him, the more I knew she was correct. I deal in logic, Nicolaich, and my logic tells me that your success in killing me is not a foregone conclusion.”
The Russian continued to smile. “And that may be true,” he said. “We will know, before this day is over. However, let me explain to you that I tend to be very good at what I do.”
“So do I, Nicolaich. So do I.” Noah let his eyes bore into Nicolaich's own, a game of stare down between two men who knew nothing of fear. Neither of them looked away, and neither blinked, until the barmaid returned with a pair of glasses. She set one in front of Sarah, and gave the other to Nicolaich.
As she walked away, the Russian raised his glass. “I propose a toast,” he said. “To the survivor. May the best of us be the one to end this day alive.”
Noah looked at him for a second, then raised his own glass and touched it to the other. Both men were surprised when Sarah clinked her own against theirs, but she proposed a toast of her own.
“To me,” she said, “as I piss on your corpse.” She pulled her glass back and took a drink, then set it on the table.
Nicolaich looked at Noah, then shrugged and drank. Noah took a sip of his own drink, then set his glass down on the table as well.
“So where do we go from here?” Noah asked.
Nicolaich grinned, leaning his elbows on the table. “What makes you think that we will be leaving? If one of us dies here this day, he would not be the first to lose his life in this place. I've left two of my victims sitting in chairs right here. No one is truly surprised when a body turns up dead in this club.”
Noah returned the grin. “I was speaking metaphorically,” he said. “I was asking what you want to discuss, and how we're going to determine which of us lives through the evening.”
“Ah! I see, more American idiom. I have made a great study of your language, but there are so many things about it that I simply do not understand. Sometimes an American says something that I take as a joke, only to find that he is deadly serious. Other times, I take them seriously and literally when he is only being rhetorical. Your language is hard to grasp in its entirety.” He took another drink from his glass, then looked back at Noah. “We shall have a little contest here, with this girl as the prize. If I win, she will die. If you win, she will live, at least as long as you do. Once we have concluded that little game, you can get down to the serious matters.”
Noah raised his eyebrows slightly. “And what are the rules of this game?”
“But I have just told you. Oh, you mean how to play. That is easy. At some point, as we sit here, I will strike to kill her. If you can stop me, you win. Simple, isn't it?”
Noah could see Sarah's face in his peripheral vision and knew that she was terrified, but he didn't take his eyes off of Nicolaich for even a second. “I'd rather play a game where you and I go into a dark alley, and see which one of us comes out alive. Wouldn't that be more satisfying for you? If you win, you killed the man who killed your son.”
“Ah, but that would be the second part of the game. First, we must conclude the beginning. You're doing quite well, by the way. Most people would have turned to look at the girl, but you have watched me without fail.” He sighed deeply. “You may have a small chance of winning, but I doubt it.” He looked over at Sarah, and she cringed back into her chair. “How does it feel, little girl, to know that you may be within minutes of your death?”
“Don't let him get to you, Sarah,” Noah said without taking his eyes off Nicolaich's face. “He's trying to make you more afraid; he thinks that will make me look away from him at you. If I do, that's when he'll strike, and I probably wouldn't see it in time to stop it.”
“I'm okay,” she said, but he could hear the tremor in her voice. “I just want you to kill the son of a bitch.”
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“I'm sure he intends to,” Nicolaich said. “The only question is whether you will be alive to see which of us survives.”
Noah continued to watch the Russian, keeping his eyes focused on the man's face. Many years before, his martial arts instructor had taught him that every move a man's body might make can be seen in his face just before it happens. Noah had never forgotten that lesson, and had spent the years since then studying every possible expression and micro expression the human face could make. He could spot them in a split second, even the ones that most people never saw at all. It made it difficult to deceive him with a lie, but it also gave him the ability to predict what an opponent would do.
Nicolaich, on the other hand, had a face that was constantly in motion. He was constantly moving from a smile to a frown to an expression of curiosity, or surprise, or even one of mock fear. Noah didn't dare take his attention from the man for the smallest fraction of a second, because he might miss the tiny twitch of facial muscles that telegraphed his next move.
“Drink up,” Nicolaich said. “This place serves the finest liquor in Russia—we should not let it go to waste.” He picked up his glass and took another drink, then looked at it as he set it down. He seemed to be contemplating what he would say next, but Noah never relaxed his attention.
TWENTY-ONE
And then it happened. Nicolaich's left cheek twitched slightly, and his eyes moved the barest fraction of an inch toward Sarah. In his peripheral vision, Noah saw the Russian's left shoulder tense, and knew the strike was going to come from his left hand, which was resting on his leg under the table. Noah had put both his hands under the table, gambling that Nicolaich planned to strike low, and now he knew that he had made the right bet. He shot his right hand out toward Sarah just as he saw Nicolaich's left arm move toward her. Something struck Noah's hand and an intense pain shot up his arm, but he closed his fist around the object and yanked.
Something clattered to the floor. Nicolaich's eyes went wide, and suddenly he slammed his left hand on the table. It was empty, but then Noah brought his own hand up.
