by Jack Mars
This was the guy Bill Cronin had given them? This was the guy Ed and Luke were wandering around Moscow with, looking for a TV producer whose name might be an alias and who might not even be real, and also checking out… rental apartments?
Swann shook his head. This stuff was weird sometimes.
No, scratch that. It was always weird.
His fingers found what they were looking for. Al Jazeera had a TV channel they broadcast to American servicemen in Doha and in the Green Zone in Baghdad. It was like a reverse Radio Free Europe. They were showing the Putin footage.
“I have it with English subtitles,” Swann said.
Trudy got up and came around the table. She hovered just behind Swann’s right shoulder.
On the screen, the man himself was there, Vladimir Putin, the star of a grainy, poorly lit video. But it was definitely him. He sat at his desk wearing a tan sport coat over a shirt and tie. The tie was pulled loose. He was sipping something amber in a glass, with ice. He laughed and said a few words.
“Serbs are built for combat,” said a subtitle across the bottom.
Unseen people in the room with him laughed.
“They are harsh people, designed by God for harsh environments. They are perfectly adapted, and this little disaster will play well on American TV.”
An unseen person, a man, spoke.
“They are our friends,” said the subtitle.
Putin spoke and raised his glass. A hand came in from the right, also raising a glass.
“They are great friends,” said the subtitle at the bottom. “Centuries of friendship. We drink to them.”
Trudy pointed to the screen. “The video is time and date stamped. September fifth, the day after the initial attack. With the time zone difference, this would have been just hours later, and before our counterattack. Would he really be this foolish? We need to get this video analyzed, and find out if Putin is even saying these things. I mean… I don’t think this can be real.”
Swann shrugged. “Thousands of American personnel are probably watching this across the Middle East right now, and working up a nice, murderous rage about it. I’m sure NSA, CIA, DIA, and the rest of the alphabet soup will all be analyzing it in the next ten minutes, if they aren’t already.”
“What does it mean, if it’s true?” Trudy said.
Swann shook his head. Did it mean war was imminent between the United States and Russia? Did it mean someone was trying to take Putin out? Clearly, the video was designed to make him look bad. The President of Russia certainly seemed to be laughing about Serbs invading Alaska and carrying out a massacre against American civilians.
“It means Stone and Newsam should probably get out of there,” he said. “They went in to find out who ordered the attack, and why. If this is real, then that mystery is solved. So there’s no longer any reason for them to be in Moscow. The situation could go south in a hurry.”
“Do you think they’re not aware of this video?” Trudy said.
Swann shrugged. “I have no idea what they’re aware of. We haven’t spoken to them since they left. But I do think it’s probably a good time to launch their exit plan.”
Trudy nodded.
“I’ll talk to Don.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
September 7
12:05 a.m. Moscow Daylight Time
(4:05 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, September 6)
Unnamed footbridge over the Moskva River
Near the Kremlin and Red Square
Moscow, Russia
Tomasz Chevsky was coming to meet Zelazny. Focus on that.
Not this:
“Once, there was a serial killer.”
Albert’s voice floated to them like a disembodied spirit at a seance.
They stood in fog and smoke on the pedestrian bridge over the Moskva River. A thin line of tall grass grew in the center of the bridge like a Mohawk haircut. It was dark here, the mists so dense it was almost impossible to see the man standing next to you. Three hundred meters away, there was movement in Red Square.
From here, it was hard to tell what was happening. Trucks rumbling in. Siren lights flashing. A crowd seemed to be gathering. Luke could hear the low murmuring of a crowd. In his mind, he associated the sound with groups of people hanging around, talking, waiting for something to happen.
A serial killer.
It was an odd thing for Albert to talk about. Something was happening over there, and he didn’t seem to care. He was focused on a mass murderer instead.
“His name is Andrei Chikatilo,” Albert said. “They call him the Rostov Ripper. Horrible man. He kills more than fifty women and children. A madman. When they capture him, they put him on trial. They keep him in cage in the courtroom. He makes foul outbursts during proceedings. Saying obscene words. Cackling laughter. Exposes himself. The judge cautions him, but he does not stop. They put the dog muzzle on him so he cannot speak—like the cannibal man in your American movies. He is found guilty, of course. After trial ends, short time passes. One day guards walk him out of cell, take him down hall to soundproof room. Turn him around, put bullet behind his right ear.”
Albert clapped his hands once, to mimic a single gunshot.
There was a pause in the darkness. Luke could almost hear Albert shrug.
“Russian justice.”
In the gloom, two cars with flashing sirens went by over on the main bridge to Red Square. The sound was muffled, and the red lights of the sirens were muted by the dense mists. The cars themselves were invisible. A few seconds later, a truck rumbled by unseen. The sound of it reminded Luke of a heavy lorry, like a troop transport.
Suddenly, Luke understood.
Albert was still trying to justify the killing of the TV producer. Was he trying to justify it to Luke and Ed, or was he just trying to convince himself?
That wasn’t clear. But what Albert needed to know was Luke, and in all likelihood Ed, had already moved on. There was so much death in this underworld where they lived. There was no sense trying to justify any of it. There was no sense trying to make sense of it.
Zelazny had participated in a project that led to the massacre of nearly a hundred civilians. He had probably known about it beforehand. He had done his best to make it look like the work of American soldiers. He had lied to the world about it.
Maybe Zelazny had not killed anyone himself. Maybe he had never killed a living thing in his entire life. Maybe he had never eaten a piece of meat or even stepped on a spider. But to Luke’s mind, the man had signed his own death warrant just the same.
If Luke were killed in battle, in his final moments he might be disappointed and sad. He would be heartbroken for Becca and Gunner. He might even be afraid. But would he find it unfair, or unjustified? No. He had also signed his own death warrant, a hundred times over.
Luke had been surprised that Albert killed Zelazny. That’s all it was: surprise. Luke had thought they might keep Zelazny around in case any other questions came up. But did the TV producer deserve to die? You bet he did.
A silent moment passed.
Suddenly, Albert whispered something in Russian. He did it forcefully, a stage whisper, designed to be heard.
On the walkway, the silhouette of a figure appeared. It was a man, and he was tall and thin. He seemed to stretch toward the sky. In the dark, he almost didn’t seem human, like a stick bug or a praying mantis.
“Zelazny?” the man hissed.
Ed stepped back, into deep shadow, and away from the figure. No sense spooking him right away.
Could the man see Luke here? Impossible to tell.
Albert grunted, a sound like, “Mmmm.”
The slender man barked something in Russian, barely above a whisper. Luke caught the gist of it. “Where have you been? People are searching.”
Albert said something in return. Luke couldn’t grasp it.
This was going to have to happen fast. Albert looked nothing like Zelazny, and he sounded almost nothing like him as well. Zelaz
ny had a guttural voice, raspy with cigarettes and alcohol. Albert had a deep and clear voice.
The clouds parted briefly, and the approaching man stepped into a yellow circle of light from the moon.
“Zelazny?” he said again.
He was a young man, maybe early thirties. And he was big. He must be six and a half feet tall. He wore a long leather overcoat and an old-style hat, like a bowler. He carried a white, knobby walking stick. He looked like an advertisement for the 1890s.
He saw Luke there with Albert, and his eyes went wide with surprise. But he didn’t turn to run. Not yet. Although he was thin, and seemingly all limbs, his shoulders were broad. He did not look weak.
His eyes recovered quickly from their initial surprise. They said he was not afraid.
He barked something at Luke now.
Luke shrugged. “No hablo,” he said.
The man looked from Luke to Albert. Albert pulled the gun he had used to kill Zelazny. The silencer stuck out, long and mean. Then Ed stepped out of the shadows.
A new light dawned in the man’s eyes.
“Americans?” he said in a thick accent.
Luke didn’t answer.
Ed quickly slipped along the other side of the tall grass, past the man and to his rear. The man’s escape back toward Red Square and the Kremlin was now cut off. He had allowed it to happen as if he had momentarily been taken by a dream.
“Chevsky,” Luke said. It wasn’t a question.
“Da. Kto ty?”
It was a simple phrase, and Chevsky spoke it slowly, as if to a small child. Luke translated the man’s Russian easily.
Yes. Who are you?
“Druz’ya,” Luke said.
Friends.
Wrong answer.
Instantly, Chevsky stepped forward and swung his walking stick at Luke’s head. Luke slipped the blow and slapped the stick away. But he didn’t grab the stick, and he didn’t get in his own shot. Chevsky moved too fast.
Chevsky spun past Luke, his bowler hat flying off. Now Ed was no longer behind him. He brought a fist around backhand to the side of Albert’s head. It connected perfectly. Albert’s face squinched and he stepped sideways, off balance. He went down to the pavement and didn’t move.
Knockout—one shot.
Luke sent his own jab, but the man was tall, and his reach was long. He blocked the punch and sent a crazy elongated front kick Luke’s way. Luke sidestepped and Chevsky jumped backwards like some kind of oversized crab.
An image flashed through Luke’s mind: old video footage of the basketball great Kareem Abdul-Jabbar sparring with Bruce Lee.
An instant later, a whistle appeared in Chevsky’s mouth.
The guy was good.
SCREEEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEEE!
He blew the whistle frantically, like a referee calling a penalty. At other times, the sound could have been loud, but now it was muffled by the thick fog and smoke.
Ed moved up and stood next to Luke. They were both on the Red Square side of the bridge now. Chevsky backed away from them. He moved along the bridge, keeping to the right side of the tall grass. Luke felt like he had seen this movie before—in another second, the man was going to turn and run.
Luke and Ed both took steps forward.
“High low,” Luke said. “I’m high, you’re low.” He almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. He had just suggested they resort to the old schoolyard trick.
“Okay,” Ed said. “Watch that stick, though.”
“You want high instead?” Luke said.
Ed shook his head. “No. You got a harder head than me.”
Luke smiled. “On my go?”
Ed shrugged.
“Sure.”
Luke took a breath.
“Go!”
They both jumped forward, moving in sync. Chevsky swung the cane. Luke blocked it with his forearm. The cane connected hard, wood on bone.
Thokk!
That hurt.
Ed went low and got Chevsky around the legs.
SCREEEEEEEEE!
He lifted Chevsky in the air and they both went down to the ground, Chevsky on his back, Ed on top. The walking stick went flying.
Amazingly, the man wrestled Ed.
Ed was stronger, but Chevsky’s arms were lightning fast tentacles. They punched and slapped at Ed, Ed trying to subdue them. Luke moved in close. This couldn’t last long. No man could survive Ed Newsam on top of him.
SCREEEEEEEE!
The whistle was still in Chevsky’s mouth.
Like a magic trick, a snubnose gun, a .38, appeared in Chevsky’s hand. He tried to point it at Ed’s head. Ed shoved it away. They both gripped it, fighting for control. They grunted like pigs.
Now it was real. Luke rolled to the ground next to them. He had to get that gun away before...
CLACK!
In the fog, the gunshot was even quieter than it would otherwise be. A stifled cough. Someone punching holes in a stack of paper.
Chevsky’s head cracked apart, and a jet of blood and bone and gore splattered backward across the ground in a fan shape, surrounding his head like a halo.
A fountain of blood sprayed upward, hitting Ed’s dress shirt in the chest, splashing a Rorschach pattern across the front of it.
Luke looked behind them.
Albert stood there. His eyes were half open. He blinked like a man awakening from a twenty-year nap. He gripped the gun in two hands, the silencer sticking out like a long, accusing finger.
Luke and Ed turned to each other. Ed was sprayed with blood, but nothing else seemed to have hit him. No bone, no bullet. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even hurt. Albert had threaded the needle, shooting Chevsky without hitting Ed.
“You okay?” Luke said.
Ed nodded. “I think so. I don’t know how that bullet went past me, though.”
They both stared at Albert.
He stared back at them quizzically.
“I cannot let him kill you, can I?”
“YOU could have killed me,” Ed said. He gazed down at his own blood-spattered chest. “Look at my shirt.”
Albert shrugged.
“I got some on you,” he said. “Sorry.”
* * *
They were looting the man’s pockets when Albert’s phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen, and ignored the call.
He shrugged.
“Junk call. Number from outside country. Scam artists from Poland or Hungary, probably.”
The three of them were crouched near a concrete barrier, low and out of sight. The barrier reminded Luke of the highway barriers put up around roadwork sites in the United States. It had no business being here. It was as if a giant had dragged the thing out onto this bridge and dropped it, leaving it slightly askew.
Luke felt the press of urgency. They’d been lucky so far, and it felt like it couldn’t last. They had to get rid of this body.
They took the man’s gun, his wallet and state ID, and his money. They took his cell phone. He had an Academy of Sciences badge around his neck on a long tether.
“Electronic,” Albert said, holding up the badge. “Will open door to office building. Might also open office door. Files, computer…”
He shook his head and sighed.
Luke looked at him.
“Very dangerous. Cameras everywhere. I cannot go in building. If I am filmed, I will die.”
Sirens seemed to be all around them now, converging on Red Square. Police cars roared past on the other bridge.
After a few moments, they had searched the guy thoroughly, all the way down to his underwear and his shoes. They seemed to have everything they were going to get. Albert sat propped against the concrete barrier, scrolling through Chevsky’s telephone. Luke and Ed kneeled beside the body, feeling for anything else it might offer.
Albert shook his head, the phone still in his hand. “Nothing here. Nothing we need. Friends. Family. Wife and child. It is no good. We must get his computer.”
Luk
e’s shoulders slumped. An image of Becca and Gunner flashed through his mind. This guy Albert was cold-hearted to an extreme.
“What do we do with the body?” he said to Albert, although he already knew the answer. “We can’t leave it here.”
Albert shrugged and gestured at the river with his head. “Moskva, like before. In Russia we have saying. The river is hungry. So feed it.”
Luke looked at Ed.
Ed gestured at the articles of clothing they had gathered around the body. “Let’s keep the hat and coat. And the stick. If we play it right…”
Luke raised his eyebrows, but he already knew what Ed was thinking.
“We need to get into his office,” Ed said. “Otherwise, what are we doing here?”
Luke nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
Together, they lifted Chevsky’s body and dumped it over the railing. The body was heavy. Not for the first time, or the tenth, it occurred to Luke how much heavier people were dead than alive.
At the sound of the splash, Albert looked up from scrolling through Chevsky’s text messages and photos.
He nodded. “Good. Now you go in his office.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
4:30 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time (12:30 a.m. Moscow Daylight Time)
The Oval Office
The White House
Washington, DC
“Aw hell. This just keeps getting better and better.”
The room was full of aides, assistants, and even senior advisors, but Clement Dixon had never felt more alone. No one had a reasonable explanation for what was going on, and no one seemed to know what was coming next.
Dixon glanced outside the tall windows at the Rose Garden. It was happening again. A lovely, late summer day was passing into oblivion.
Tomorrow morning, he would be attending, and giving remarks, at a prayer service for the fallen, to be held at the National Cathedral. It was almost more than he could bear. The final count was eighty-seven oil workers dead, along with five men missing, and three dead Navy SEALs.
