by David Wood
He wasn't sure how he felt about working with Zara Leopov again. The two prior occasions where they had worked together had not exactly gone smoothly, but he supposed their shared history counted for something.
Born in Soviet Russia, Leopov's parents had tried to escape when she was just a young girl. The effort had only partly succeeded. Leopov's father had sacrificed himself to ensure that his wife and daughter would find freedom in the West.
Leopov had honored her father's memory by joining the US Navy, and putting her cultural and linguistic expertise to good use as an intelligence officer, working directly against the government that had taken him from her. That had been her plan, at least. By the time she had finished her training, the Cold War was winding down, the old Soviet menace collapsing from within. Now, Russia was something else—not quite an enemy, definitely not a friend—but no longer a police state with closed borders.
During both of their previous missions, Maddock had been given cause to wonder about her true loyalties. Now that the Motherland was free, would she continue to honor her obligations to the country that had offered refuge? In both instances, his suspicions had proven baseless, and evidently her superiors had complete trust in her loyalty, but he remained uneasy about the coming reunion. The fact that Leopov had specifically asked for him was unusual, to say the least.
From the Arbat, he took two more taxi rides, each to a randomly selected hotel, and after entering the latter, he slipped out a back entrance and headed to the nearest Metro station on foot. There, he purchased a thirty-day Smart Card from an automated kiosk, and consulted a map of the rail system. He could not speak more than a few phrases of Russian, and had no ability to understand it when spoken or to read its crazy backward alphabet, but he knew where he had to go. Like most subway maps in the developed world, the Moscow Metro was color-coded, and once he figured out where he was—at a station on the Orange Line—he was able to navigate to a connecting Green Line train, which brought him to Sokol Station, a short walk from his ultimate destination in the nearby residential neighborhood.
The safehouse was situated on a narrow tree-lined street, a few blocks from the urban maze of austere apartment blocks. The house, which judging by the architecture, was at least thirty years old, was nice, if a little run down. Maddock knew that under Communist rule, the average Muscovite had been obliged to live in small apartment flats assigned by the government, and that free-standing homes such as this were reserved for senior party officials. This one had probably been considered a mansion in its heyday. Now, it was just another piece of real estate, which the American government had acquired through a series of cut outs and shell companies. According to public records, it was a rental property owned by an Iranian oil company.
Bones greeted him at the door. “Dobro pozhalovat’ v Moskvu,” he said, stepping aside with a flourish to allow Maddock entrance.
“Do I want to know what you just said?”
Bones shook his head, disparagingly. “Way to encourage multi-culturalism, dude.”
“He said, ‘Welcome to Moscow,’” intoned a familiar female voice from just beyond the door. Zara Leopov stood there. Like Maddock and the others, she wore casual attire; her outfit consisted of blue jeans, and a leather bomber jacket over a dark red T-shirt. Her long, straight honey-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail to fully reveal her high Slavic cheekbones and eyes that were almost black. “He really wanted to impress you. He practiced for nearly an hour.” Her tone was disapproving, but there was a hint of a mocking smile on her lips. “Now you have made him sad.”
“He’ll get over it,” Maddock replied, sounding a little more dismissive than he intended. “Sorry. That’s the jet lag talking.”
Leopov reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. “I heard what happened. I’m so very sorry.”
Maddock sighed. He’d heard those words so often that they’d ceased to have any real meaning. He looked past her to the front room where Willis and Professor were on their feet, waiting. He saw the same sentiment, unspoken but easy to read in their eyes.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I mean, thank you.” With an effort, he managed a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Zara.”
“Why don’t I believe you,” she murmured, almost too softly for him to hear—almost.
“These are pretty cool digs,” Bones said quickly, as if to force a change of subject. “A lot nicer than that crap-shack in Sarajevo. In case I forget to say it, thanks for getting us out of that goat rope.”
“Don’t thank me,” Maddock said quickly, nodding at Leopov. “It was her idea.”
Bones grinned at her. “I get that you’d want to spend some quality time with me, but why did you have to invite him? Trying to find a date for your ugly sister?”
Leopov shrugged. “I thought you two were a package deal. Isn’t that a thing with you SEALs? Swim buddies, forever joined at the hip?”
Fearing what Bones might say in reply, Maddock stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “I’m here, now. Let’s get down to business.”
Leopov inclined her head and then turned and gestured to the front room. When they were all seated, she took a manila folder from the coffee table and handed it to Maddock. He flipped it open and saw that it contained a few candid photographs of a harried-looking young woman who bore a passing resemblance to pop singer Lisa Loeb. There was also a typed transcript of a debriefing, and a map of the city with Russian names written in both Cyrillic and Roman alphabets, but no additional markings.
“We were just discussing how to proceed,” Leopov began. “I don’t know how much you were told, but I’ll start from the beginning so that we’re all on the same page.”
Maddock nodded for her to continue.
“Lia Markova is a graduate student at Moscow State University, dual major in Library Science and Twentieth Century Russian History. Three days ago, while working on a research project for the History department chair, she evidently discovered something she wasn’t supposed to see. About an hour or so after she told her boss about it, he called her back. At first, he tried to get her to join him at their workplace, but then he shouted a warning for her to flee for her life. And that’s exactly what she did. She’s been hiding out in the sewers—there’s a whole hidden city down there. Anyway, long story, short, the NSA intercepted the call and routed it to the Embassy, and I was tasked with bringing her in.”
“Why you?” Maddock asked. “I mean, why Naval Intelligence? Why did the CIA pass this up?”
“Two reasons. First, I’m actually Russian, which means I can move around the city with a little more freedom than anyone else. Second, it’s believed that Lia might be more receptive to a female than a male. Honestly, though, I think the real reason is that the station chief doesn’t think it’s worth his time. He’s not going to risk getting his assets blown to rescue a damsel in distress, especially if she’s bringing nothing of value to the table.”
“I guess saving an innocent life isn’t reason enough,” said Maddock.
“It’s not,” Leopov replied, evenly. “Espionage and chivalry are mutually exclusive. We’re all playing the long game here. It takes years to cultivate an asset, and the intel they provide might save hundreds, even thousands of lives someday. You don’t throw that away to save one life.”
“I guess that’s why I’ll never be a spy. I could never make a calculation like that.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “If you agree with the Agency’s assessment, why are you trying to save her?”
She flashed a tight smile. “Because I’m too much like you. And... I think what Lia found might be more important than anyone realizes. Anyone but the people hunting her, that is.”
“What exactly did she find?” asked Maddock.
Leopov indicated the file with the transcript of Lia’s debrief. “It all seemed to be triggered by something she found relating to the capture of Heinrich Himmler at the end of the war. Specifically, there was mention of a high-ranking SS officer named Mueller, whom
she took to be Heinrich Müller, head of the Gestapo.”
Professor leaned forward. “Heinrich Müller was the highest-ranking SS officer whose fate remains unknown,” he explained. Professor had earned his nickname by virtue of his encyclopedic knowledge of trivia and his tendency to lecture. “He was last seen in Berlin, shortly after Hitler’s suicide, but he was never captured and his body was never found. Theories about what happened to him range from suicide to an escape to Argentina.”
“If he is the same man mentioned in the documents Lia was researching,” Leopov said, “Then he was still alive a week later, and somewhere near a place called Bremervorde.”
“It’s a little town in the north,” said Professor. “About halfway between Hamburg and Bremen. We know that Himmler was in Flensburg, near the Danish border, a few days earlier, so he was traveling south when he was captured.” He paused a beat. “If that helps.”
“The document indicated that Müller was carrying something of great value but it doesn’t say what,” Leopov continued. “Given his seniority, it must have been pretty important. Plans for rebuilding the Reich. Bank account information. Who knows what? Himmler committed suicide before he could be interrogated. Since there’s no indication that Müller was captured in Bremervorde, it’s likely that he escaped with it, whatever it was.”
“And took it to Argentina?” Bones suggested.
“Possibly. My working theory is that somebody—possibly someone in the Russian intelligence service—has been looking for Müller, and when Lia contacted her boss about what she’d found, it tripped an alarm and they went after her.”
“Why?” Maddock countered. “It doesn’t sound like she actually knows anything.”
Leopov spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Maybe she knows more than she realizes. Or maybe they’re just tidying up loose ends. All I really know is that she’s in danger, and we can help.”
Bones leaned forward. “Are we sure there’s really a threat?”
“Her boss seemed to think so, and now he’s missing.”
“There could be any number of explanations for that. Maybe he owed some money to Ivan the Loan Shark. Maybe his jealous wife was on the warpath.”
“There’s something else.” Leopov paused a beat, and then lowering her eyes in embarrassment, added, “I think I’ve been made.”
Maddock, who had been idly perusing the transcript of the debrief now looked up sharply.
“Yesterday afternoon, I noticed I had picked up a tail,” she went on. “I don’t know how long they’ve been watching me, but I called Lia on the burner phone I gave her and warned her to change locations. She’s still safe.”
“Isn’t it standard operating procedure for the FSB to keep tabs on embassy personnel?” asked Professor.
“Not everyone. Until now, they’ve pretty much ignored me. It’s possible that this has nothing to do with Lia’s situation, but then again, if they’re looking for her, it would be SOP to ramp up surveillance on anyone they think she might turn to. That would include embassy staff.”
“But you shook them?” Maddock pressed.
Leopov’s chagrinned expression deepened. “No. I didn’t want them to know I knew. I made a couple of stops to create a false trail, but nothing too crazy.”
“Did they follow you here?”
She spread her hands in a helpless gesture.
Willis sat back, clapping his hands on his thighs. “Damn, girl. You couldn’t have led with that?”
Maddock could barely contain his ire. “So now we’re compromised.” He was starting to remember why he hated working with Zara Leopov.
“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Leopov said. “They know that I came here a couple hours ago, but that’s all. They don’t know you guys are here.”
“They just saw me walk through the door.” Maddock countered. “You should have waved me off.”
Leopov shook her head. “No, listen. We can turn this against them.” She held his gaze, a conspiratorial gleam appearing in her eyes. “I’ve got a plan.”
FIVE
Despite his initial misgivings, Maddock had to admit that Leopov’s plan was pretty good. While not as elaborate as their aborted plan to roll up the Rat in Bosnia, it relied on the same principle of misdirection and had a low probability of escalating into violence. This would be a stealth mission, relying on tradecraft not combat prowess. Shooting their way out of a bad situation simply wasn’t an option. They didn’t even dare carry weapons. If things went south, their only salvation would be to go full ghost-mode—disperse, disappear, and make their way to a friendly border.
They spent forty-five minutes going over the details, troubleshooting and working out contingencies, and then Maddock and Leopov left together to carry out their part of Lia’s rescue. As they reached the street, Maddock quickly identified Leopov’s watcher—a man sitting in an idle taxi cab parked half a block away. Maddock had noticed the cab on his initial approach but not realizing that Leopov was already the subject of surveillance, had dismissed it. The fact that it had not moved in at least an hour was more than a little suspicious. He considered approaching it and asking the driver to give them a ride, but decided that would just invite trouble. Instead, he pretended not to notice the taxi, and they continued on foot to the nearby Metro station.
As they walked, he easily spotted two more watchers—a pair of hulking men in slovenly track suits who looked enough alike to be twin brothers. Both were hyper-focused on Maddock and Leopov, and it was a challenge to avoid accidentally making eye contact with them. Their lack of subtlety surprised Maddock. “It’s like they don’t care if we know they’re following us,” he told Leopov as they waited on the platform.
“I noticed that. Maybe they’re the ones we’re supposed to see.”
Maddock had considered that possibility but dismissed it. “I think we’re dealing with amateurs here.”
“Not FSB?”
“Hard to say. Who else might have an interest in this?”
“Possibly finding a fortune in Nazi loot? Who wouldn’t?”
Maddock shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t change what we have to do.”
“Maybe makes it easier.”
“Let’s hope.”
The train arrived a moment later and they boarded. The men in track suits got on as well. In what appeared to be an attempt at actual tradecraft, they entered the car through different doors, but once aboard, they resumed their flagrant vigil.
Maddock and Leopov rode the Green Line train a few stops to Tverskaya where they took the connecting underground tunnels to Pushkinskaya Station, and boarded a Purple Line train one more stop to Kuznetsky Most. Another underground tunnel brought them to Lubyanka Station where they emerged from the underground into the infamous Lubyanka Square.
During the Cold War, both the square and the station had been renamed for Bolshevik hero Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Cheka, the original Soviet secret police agency. There was still a bust of “Iron” Felix in the vestibule of the station, but the statue in the square had been destroyed by protestors following the failed coup by hardliners to oust the Soviet premier Mikhail Gorbachev. In its place, a memorial had been erected to honor the victims of the notorious Gulag prison system. But even though the fall of the USSR had brought a measure of freedom to the Russian populace, the Lubyanka Building, the imposing yellow structure that had served as the headquarters of Dzerzhinsky’s police agency under all its various names, remained under the control of its latest incarnation—the FSB.
He glanced over at Leopov, curious to see her reaction to this enduring symbol of the oppressive regime that had taken her father from her, and was surprised to see that her gaze was focused in the opposite direction, specifically at an even larger brick building which featured several high arches framing enormous banners showing children at play. She noticed his attention and threw him a wistful smile. “Is Detsky Mir,” she said. “Is largest toy store in all of Russia.”
Maddock did n
ot fail to notice that her accent, normally all but undetectable, had thickened considerably.
“I think my parents brought me here when I was child,” she added, and then shook her head as if the memory had slipped away. “Was long time ago. We should get moving.”
She gestured to the south, where a brick pedestrian lane led away from the plaza. As they walked past storefronts Maddock surreptitiously checked their six o’clock in the window reflections, and wasn’t at all surprised to see the two men in track suits trailing along. He was starting to reconsider Leopov’s assertion that the men might be part of a larger surveillance team, and that their blatant obviousness was intentional, but for the moment, it suited his purpose to continue ignoring them.
They strolled at a leisurely pace down the lane until emerging in the vast open square around which several of Moscow’s most iconic and historic structures stood. The Grand Kremlin Palace—a magnificent yellow structure topped with ornate arabesques, rising above the massive red brick wall that bordered the southwest side of Red Square. To their left, at the southeast corner, was an even more iconic symbol of Moscow. Saint Basil’s Cathedral, with its multi-colored domes, looked a little like something built out of Christmas tree ornaments.
Maddock could not help but feel awed by his proximity to the buildings, which were not only monuments in their own right but symbols of Russia—symbols that, despite their beauty, had for most of his life represented the oppressive government of the USSR—the enemy of freedom.
They headed out across the square, orienting toward the low, ziggurat-like structure positioned in front of the Kremlin wall. While not as impressive as Saint Basil’s Cathedral, the step pyramid, composed of blocks of a polished red granite-like stone called porphyry, marked the exact center of Moscow, and contained the embalmed remains of the first Soviet leader, Vladimir Lenin. There was an honor guard of soldiers stationed at the door of the monument, which was open to allow visitors to view the preserved cadaver. Maddock also spotted a few uniformed policemen amidst the small crowd of people milling about the plaza—mostly tourists, bundled up against the chilly weather, busily snapping pictures with disposable cameras. When they reached the middle of the square, Maddock turned a lazy circle, as if immersing himself in the panoramic experience.
