by David Wood
The wheel didn’t budge.
A wave of squealing rats crested the top step and swept toward them. In seconds, the swarm was all around them, nipping at their feet, scrabbling up their legs.
“C’mon, damn it!” Maddock growled. “Turn!”
Leopov reached under his arms, gripping the wheel at the twelve and six o’clock position, and howled like a banshee as she threw everything she had into the effort.
With a rasp of friction, the wheel moved.
“Yes!” Maddock cried.
Once loosened, the metal began to turn smoothly, rotating half a turn before stopping in the fully open position. The undogged door easily swung inward, as if someone had greased the hinges. Maddock didn’t question this rare bit of good luck, but shoved Leopov through the opening, leaping in after her.
Leopov, shouting curses in Russian, kicked at the rats still clinging to her clothes and tangling in her hair. Maddock however ignored their explorations, and instead focused on mitigating the threat. As soon as he was inside, he grabbed the edge of the door and swung it back into place, putting his shoulder into it to supply enough momentum to literally crush any resistance from the rodent vanguard. The sharp edges at the side and bottom of the door mercilessly sliced through furry little bodies like butcher’s shears, and with a final resounding crunch, the door was once more in its frame.
Maddock continued leaning against the door as he swatted and kicked away the rats that had managed to slip past. Those he dislodged and hurled away into the darkness, perhaps sensing that they no longer held any kind of numerical advantage, did not make another attempt, and after a few seconds, even their squeals diminished, leaving Maddock and Leopov in blessed silence.
Maddock finally allowed himself a sigh of relief. He gave himself a quick once over. His bare chest and back were scraped raw, but that seemed to be the worst of his injuries. “Are you okay?” he asked Leopov. “Did you get bit?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “They just nibble, looking for soft places.”
Maddock resisted the urge to chuckle. If there was one thing Zara Leopov wasn’t, it was soft. “Thank goodness that door opened.”
“And closed.”
“Yeah. We were lucky that whoever took all the other doors off left that one...” He trailed off as he considered the import of what he had just said. “Huh,” he mused. “Why do you think somebody did that? Took all the other doors down but left that one in place?”
“I can answer that,” boomed a loud, thickly accented voice from the darkness at the far end of the corridor.
Maddock started involuntarily at the sound and Leopov let out a surprised yelp. There was a laugh from the darkness, and then a figure stepped closer, into the reach of Leopov’s light—a squat, piggish-looking middle-aged man. Several more men—the same men who had accosted them in Red Square—appeared from behind him, striding forward with guns drawn and aimed at Maddock and Leopov.
“I shut that door to keep out the rats,” the man said with a humorless chuckle that did not reach his eyes. “I guess it didn’t work.”
The man had spoken in English, a clear indication that he knew who they were. Maddock shot a glance at Leopov, looking for inspiration. She returned a shrug, then raised her hands and faced the pig-man. “Hey, look. I know we probably shouldn’t be here. We got lost. We promise not to tell anyone about this place.”
The man made a disdainful flicking gesture. “Don’t treat me as fool. I know who you are, Zara Leopov, and I know that you are American spy.”
Leopov winced, but kept her composure. “I am the American naval attaché, but that doesn’t make me a spy. My friend and I weren’t doing anything illegal. When your goons accosted us, we ran. What were we supposed to do? For all we knew, you were gangsters trying to kidnap us.”
“Gangsters. I like this word.” He laughed and then extended his thumbs and fat forefingers to make little pistol shapes. “I make an offer you can’t refuse, no?” He laughed again. “I am gangster.”
Leopov’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Yes, I know you are.” She half-turned to look over at Maddock. “He’s Sergei Yukovitch Telesh, a boss in the Solntsevskaya Bratva.” She returned her gaze to Telesh. “And I guess I should have expected to find you down here surrounded by rats.”
Telesh shrugged. “It was mistake for you to think you would be able to escape me. When you went into the Niglinka passage, I knew you would eventually come here. These old tunnels were like playground for me when I was growing up in Soviet Union. We used them to smuggle goods all over city.”
“Look,” Maddock said, “clearly there’s some kind of misunderstanding—”
The gangster jerked his finger-guns toward Maddock, his smile gone. “Shut up,” he snarled. “There is no misunderstanding. You are hiding Lia Markova. Tell me where she is, or else.”
“Or else what?” Maddock challenged. “You’ll kill us? You’re going to do that anyway.”
“Kill you?” Telesh put the emphasis on the second word. “I don’t think so. You are much too valuable to me alive. No, I have much better idea.”
He turned and nodded into the darkness behind him. There was a shuffling sound and then the two men Maddock had earlier dubbed Tweedledee and Tweedledum appeared, with a reluctant hostage suspended between them. Maddock immediately recognized her as the woman Leopov had hired from an escort service to act as a decoy for Lia Markova.
The woman glared at the men but offered no resistance. A crust of blood on her lips suggested that she had learned the futility of fighting back the hard way.
Maddock’s gut twisted with apprehension as he guessed Telesh’s intention. It was one thing to face one’s own death with stoic reserve, but a threat to an innocent was something else. Still, he could not sacrifice the mission, nor could he jeopardize one life—Markova’s—to save another. “Sorry, Telesh, but we couldn’t tell you where she is even if we—”
Telesh brought up one hand and abruptly closed it into a fist, whereupon Tweedledum let go of the woman’s arm, and then with unexpected suddenness, stepped behind her, clamped her head between his massive paws, and gave it a savage twist.
The sound of snapping vertebrae was like an electric jolt to Maddock’s nervous system. A metallic taste filled his mouth as Tweedledum let go of the woman, allowing her lifeless body to slump to the floor. He started forward, more a reflexive action than a move to attack, but Telesh’s men were ready for him. They swarmed forward and closed in on him and Leopov, bodily restraining them both.
“Bastard!” Leopov snarled.
Telesh sneered. “That is what means gangster in Russia.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Maddock said. The protest sounded pathetic in his ears.
Telesh affected a look of indignation. “I did nothing. You did this. Or that is what police will believe.” He nodded his head toward Leopov. “You hired this woman, no? That is what the witnesses will say. You hired her to show you and boyfriend good time, but then things got rough. He killed her, dumped body in Metro tunnel.”
Leopov was incredulous. “You’re framing us for murder? That’s your plan?”
Telesh laughed. “No. This is plan.” He opened his fist into another finger-gun and pointed it at Maddock. As his thumb came down, something heavy crashed into the back of Maddock’s head and then there was only darkness.
EIGHT
With their impromptu performance, Bones and Willis had the full attention of the policeman for several minutes, but rather than escalating the situation with further shenanigans, they stood by meekly until the man finally lost interest and resumed meandering up and down the platform. Not long thereafter, the boarding call was given, and the two men filed onto a passenger car and found seats. Bones surreptitiously scanned the other passengers, but saw no sign of Professor or Lia.
“Think they’re okay?”
“Sure,” Willis said, confidently. “Prof knows what he’s doing.”
Bones did not doubt
this for a second, but that didn’t mean he was reassured. Unfortunately, there would be no way to know for certain until they reached their next destination, the northern port city of Saint Petersburg—a journey that would take several hours. Even if everything had gone off perfectly, Professor would not risk making contact with them while there was even the slightest chance that they might be under surveillance by police or FSB agents.
And if something had gone wrong... If Lia had been caught, or Professor, or Maddock and Leopov, there wouldn’t be a thing he or Willis could do to help them out. That was the nature of their job, but it didn’t make waiting any easier.
After the train left the station, he did his best to play the part of wide-eyed tourist, gawking at the landscape as it passed them by and offering boisterous commentary. After a couple hours of this, with the train now well away from the urban environs of Moscow and deep into the boreal forests of western Russia, he managed to nod off and slept sporadically during the remainder of the journey.
Upon arrival at the Moskovsky railway station they disembarked and moved to the spacious Renaissance-inspired lobby where they pretended to browse the contents of a souvenir kiosk while watching the other passengers filing off the arrival platform. Bones hid a relieved smile when he spotted Professor, walking by himself, nose evidently buried in a tourist map. He did not acknowledge Bones and Willis, nor did they give him more than a casual glance. But as the human flow dwindled to nothing with no sign of Lia, Bones grew anxious again.
“Did you see her?” he finally asked.
Willis, who was trying on sunglasses and watching the crowd in the reflection of the provided mirror, murmured, “Check the newsstand at your three o’clock.”
Bones rolled his gaze slowly in the suggested direction, and caught the eye of a young woman who was standing in front of an adjacent kiosk, apparently trying to bum cigarettes from passersby. She wore a long black T-shirt, belted like a tunic dress, and with her spiky black hair, black lipstick and eye makeup, and black fingernails, she reminded Bones of Winona Ryder’s character in the movie Beetlejuice.
“The goth girl?” he asked, smiling at her. She wrinkled her nose at him then turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. He grinned. “She’s hot, but I don’t mess with jailbait.”
Willis stared at him over the top of a pair of mirrored aviator shades. “Seriously?”
“What? You think she’s legal?”
“Man, Sherlock Holmes has nothing to worry about.” Willis returned the sunglasses to the rack and then turned toward the lobby. “Come on. Let’s go find Prof.”
Bones shrugged and followed the other man to the exit. Once outside, they joined a line of people who appeared to be waiting for rides. A few minutes later, a black sedan pulled up near them and a familiar face appeared in the lowered passenger window. It was the goth girl.
“Hey sailors,” she called out, in slightly accented English. “Need a lift?”
Bones gaped at the young woman, then flashed a sidelong glance at a laughing Willis. “Wait, is that...?”
He looked at her again, and this time, was able to recognize the face behind the exaggerated black make-up, the same face he’d seen in the photograph at the safe house—Lia Markova.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he circled around to the opposite side of the car and slid into the back seat behind the driver—Professor.
Bones cast a suspicious glance at Willis who took the seat behind Lia. “You knew it was her? How?”
“Easy. She was wearing Professor’s belt.”
“That’s quite a transformation,” Bones remarked as the car pulled into traffic. “I guess when you retire from the Navy, you can step right into a new career as a punk makeover artist.”
“Best I could manage under the circumstances,” Professor replied. “Amazing what you can do with shoe polish.” He glanced over at Lia. “I promise, it will wash off eventually.”
Lia’s black-painted lips curled into a wan but grateful smile. “A small price to pay for my life,” she said. “Thank you all.”
“Don’t thank us yet,” said Professor. “We’ve still got a long ways to go.”
They drove west along a main boulevard. Professor informed them that it was Nevsky Prospekt, named for somebody famous, but Bones willfully tuned him out. Nevsky was just a name on a map for him, nothing more. After a few “crazy Ivan” maneuvers to make sure they weren’t being followed, and several more unprompted lectures from Professor, they left the city behind and headed west on a narrow, poorly maintained two-lane highway. There was sparse traffic on the tree-lined road and even fewer residences. After a while, Professor ran out of things to talk about and they rode on in silence.
About half an hour after leaving the city, Professor pulled the rented car to the side of the road and shut off the lights. They waited in darkness for another few minutes to make sure that they had not been followed, and then got out and began hiking into the woods. A short trek brought them to a white sand beach at the edge of the Gulf of Finland. Bones could see twinkling lights out on the water—fishing boats coming and going.
“There,” Willis called out, pointing to a spot further down the beach to the east. Bones’ sharp eyes immediately picked out the faint red gleam of a hooded flashlight about fifty yards away. He produced his own penlight and used it to flash out a message in Morse code. A few seconds later, the red light began flashing an answering message. With the correct countersign given, they moved cautiously to the rendezvous point where two men in nondescript oilskins waited near a beached skiff.
Lia sucked in an apprehensive breath.
“Don’t worry,” Professor assured her. “They’re friendly.”
“Americans?”
“Finnish Coastal Jaegers.”
“They’re commandos like us,” Bones supplied. “Only not quite as badass.”
“We’ve done joint training exercises with them in the past,” Professor continued. “They’re good guys.”
One of the pair offered a terse greeting in halting English, but that was the extent of the conversation. Like Bones and his companions, the Finnish commandos were focused strictly on accomplishing the mission, which in this case meant getting off the beach and out into the water as quickly as possible.
Bones remained on high alert as the Jaegers first rowed, then motored the flat-bottomed boat out into the Gulf, but the transition out of Russian territorial waters was completed without incident. The skiff pulled up alongside a run-down trawler where two more “fisherman” were waiting to help them aboard. Only then did Bones allow himself a small sigh of relief. They had accomplished the main objective of the mission. Lia was safely out of Russia.
“This is where we say good-bye,” Professor told her.
Lia let out a dismayed yelp. “You’re not coming?”
Professor shook his head. “Our covers are still intact. We might need to use them again someday, so it’s better if we leave through the front door. We’ll head back to St. Petersburg. Play tourist for a while. I’ve always wanted to visit the Hermitage.”
Lia’s gaze darted toward the men waiting on the fishing boat then back to Professor. Clearly, she wasn’t happy about being handed off like a football.
“Don’t sweat it,” Bones said, making a scooting gesture. “You’ll be fine. Dane and Zara are waiting to meet you in Helsinki.”
But then one of the ersatz fishermen made a braying sound like the buzzer on a game show and called out, “Sorry, Squanto. Survey says: Wrong answer.”
A premonition of dread seized Bones. His skin suddenly felt too tight for his body. He snapped his gaze up to the man, recognizing both the face and the voice. “Captain Midnight? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Ruining your vacation.” The CIA officer paused a beat before continuing. “Maddock and Leopov are missing, which means your op, which was crap to begin with, is now completely FUBAR.”
“Missing?”
“Earlier this afternoon, the
Moscow police put out a BOLO for two Americans who bear a striking resemblance to your pals. They’re wanted for questioning in connection with a murder investigation—dead hooker fished out of the Moskva...” He paused and snorted with laughter. “Fished hooker. Get it?”
“You’re a real humanitarian,” Bones said, rolling his eyes to hide his dismay.
“Simmer down, Geronimo. I’m just the messenger. Anyway, when the Moscow station chief realized that the naval intelligence attaché was implicated in a murder, he decided to bring in a professional.”
“Really?” Bones dead-panned. “Who is he sending?”
Huntley ignored the dig. “Word on the street is that a Russian mobster named Telesh is behind all this. Unfortunately, he’s connected—I’m talking best pals with the Russian prime minister. Maddock and Leopov are in the wind, which I guess is better than being in a Russian prison cell, but this is still a major league diplomatic balls-up. I’ve talked to your CO and he mostly brought me up to speed on this epic cluster, so I understand the what, but not the why.” He turned his gaze on Lia, and the young woman, who already looked deathly pale in her improvised Goth get-up, went a shade whiter. “Why the hell are you so important?”
Maddock did not lose consciousness completely, or if he did, it was only for a moment or two. As his awareness returned, he felt strong hands lifting him, turning him onto his belly. His arms were pulled together behind his back, secured with several yards of heavy-duty tape. A strip of the sticky adhesive was slapped over his mouth, and then the world went dark a second time as a sack hood was dropped over his head.
Primal panic surged through him. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to suffocate inside the sack.
Pull it together, Maddock, he told himself. You will suffocate if you don’t calm the hell down.
With an effort, he brought the urge to breathe under control, held what little breath he had left. Beyond the confines of his hood, his captors were manhandling him to his feet, but he let himself go limp in their arms, as if he had indeed passed out. After a silent ten-count, he succeeded in drawing a shallow breath through his nostrils. It was enough.
