by Steve Berry
MOSCOW, 5:40 PM
The rain stopped just as Lord exited the Metro station. Tsventnoy Boulevard was damp from a good dousing, the air noticeably colder, a chilling fog draping the city. He still wore no coat other than his suit jacket and looked out of place among the dense crowd wrapped in wool and fur. He was glad night had fallen. That and the fog should help conceal him.
He followed a crush of people toward the theater across the street. He knew the Moscow Circus was a popular tourist stop, one of the premier shows in the world. He'd gone himself once years ago to marvel at the dancing bears and trained dogs.
He had twenty minutes until the performance started. Perhaps during intermission he could get a message backstage to Akilina Petrovna. If not, he'd find her after. Maybe she could get in touch with the American embassy. Perhaps she could get in and out of the Volkhov and talk with Taylor Hayes. Surely she had an apartment where he could wait in safety.
The theater was fifty yards down the street on the opposite side. He was just about to cross and head for a ticket booth when a voice from behind yelled, "Stoi." Stop.
He kept shouldering ahead.
The voice said again, "Stoi."
He glanced back over his left shoulder and saw a policeman. The man was shoving through the crowd, arm raised, eyes locked straight ahead. Lord increased his pace and quickly crossed the congested street, dissolving into the bustling crowd on the far side. A tour bus was off-loading its passengers, and he joined a steady procession of Japanese as they made their way into the brightly lit theater. Another glance back and he did not see the policeman.
Maybe he'd simply imagined the officer was after him.
He kept his head low and followed the noisy crowd. At the ticket booth he paid the ten-ruble admission and darted inside, hoping Akilina Petrovna was there.
Akilina donned her costume. The communal dressing room buzzed with its usual bustle, performers rushing in and out. No one was afforded the luxury of private dressing quarters. That was something she'd seen only in American movies, which depicted circus life romantically.
She was tired, having gotten little sleep last night. The trip from St. Petersburg to Moscow had been interesting, to say the least, and throughout the day she'd thought about Miles Lord. She'd told him the truth. He was the first black man she'd ever seen on that train. And no, she'd never been frightened of him. Maybe his fear had disarmed her.
Lord projected none of the stereotypical descriptions she recalled from childhood, when teachers in the state-run schools deplored the hideous evil of the Negroid race. She remembered comments about their inferior brains, weak immune systems, and total inability to govern themselves. Americans once enslaved them, a point the propagandists hammered home to emphasize the failure of capitalism. She'd even seen photographs of lynchings where white men gathered in ghostly white robes and pointed hoods and gawked at the spectacle.
Miles Lord, though, seemed nothing like any of that. His skin was the color of the rusty Voina River she remembered from visits to her grandmother's village. His brown hair was short and neat. His body was compact and sinewy. He carried an air that was formal but friendly, his throaty voice memorable. He'd seemed genuinely surprised by her invitation to spend the night in her compartment, perhaps unaccustomed to such openness in women. She hoped his sophistication ran deeper, since he seemed interesting.
Exiting the train, she'd seen the three men chasing Lord leave the station and climb into a dark blue Volvo waiting on the street. She'd stuffed Lord's attache case into her overnight bag and kept it, just as she'd promised, hoping he might want it back.
All day she'd wondered if Lord was all right. Men had not played much of a role in her life the past few years. The circus performed almost every night, twice nightly in the summer. When not in Moscow, the troupe traveled extensively. She'd visited nearly all of Russia and most of Europe, and even New York City for a performance at Madison Square Garden. There was little time for male companionship beyond an occasional dinner or a conversation during a long plane or train ride.
She was a year shy of thirty and wondered if marriage would ever come. Her father had always hoped she'd settle down, give up performing, and start a family. But she'd watched what had happened to her friends who'd married. Laboring all day at a factory or store, only to come home and tend to the household, the process repeated interminably day after day. There had been no equality between men and women, though the Soviets had proudly proclaimed communist women the most liberated in the world. And little comfort came in marriage. Husbands and wives usually worked separately, at different times, even vacationing separately since rarely were both simultaneously excused from their jobs. She understood why one in three marriages ended in divorce. Why most couples birthed only one child. There was no time or money to cope with anything more. Such a life had never appealed to her. As her grandmother used to say, To know a person, you have to eat salt together.
She took her place before the mirror and squirted water into her hair, tightening the damp braids into a bun. She wore little makeup on stage, just enough to abate the harsh, blue-white floods. She was pale-skinned, having inherited an almost total lack of pigment, blond hair, and stark blue eyes from her Slavic mother. Her talent came from her father. He'd worked as an aerialist with the circus for decades. Luckily, his abilities had translated into a larger apartment, more food rations, and a better clothing allowance. Thank goodness the arts had always been an important element of communist propaganda. The circus, along with the ballet and opera, had been exported for decades--an attempt to show the world that Hollywood did not hold a monopoly on fun.
Now the entire troupe was a moneymaking proposition. The circus was owned by a Moscow conglomerate that continued to parade the spectacle across the globe, the difference being that profit was the goal instead of propaganda. She actually earned a decent salary for somebody living in post-Soviet Russia. But the minute she could no longer dazzle an audience from the balance beam she would most likely find herself among the millions of unemployed. Which was why she kept her body in excellent shape, watched her diet carefully, and regulated her sleep habits precisely. Last night had been the first night in quite a while she hadn't slept a full eight hours.
She thought again of Miles Lord.
Earlier, at her apartment, she'd opened the briefcase. She recalled him removing some papers, but was hoping there might be something that might shed insight into a man she found fascinating. There'd been nothing beyond a blank pad, three ballpoint pens, a few cards from the hotel Volkhov, and an Aeroflot ticket for yesterday from Moscow to St. Petersburg.
Miles Lord. American lawyer with the Tsarist Commission.
Maybe she'd see him again.
Lord sat patiently through the entire first half of the show. No militsya had followed him inside--at least no uniformed policemen--and he hoped no plainclothed men were around. The arena was impressive, an indoor amphitheater rising in a half circle around a colorful stage. Padded red benches accommodated what he estimated to be a couple of thousand people, mainly tourists and children, all sitting close, sharing in the emotion radiating from the performers' faces. The surroundings bordered on the surreal, and the trampolinists, trained dogs, trapeze artists, clowns, and jugglers had, at least for a while, taken his mind off the situation.
Intermission came and he decided to stay in his seat. The less moving around, the better. He was only a few rows from the main floor, in a direct line of sight with the ring, and he hoped that when Akilina Petrovna appeared she would see him.
A bell dinged and an announcer noted that the second half would start in five minutes. His gaze circled the expansive arena one more time.
A face registered.
The man was perched on the far side, dressed in a dark leather jacket and jeans. It was the man in the baggy beige suit from the St. Petersburg archives yesterday and the train last night. He was nestled amid a group of tourists who were busily grabbing a few last photos before the
start of the show.
Lord's heart raced. His gut went hollow.
Then he saw Droopy.
The demon entered from the left, between Lord and his other problem. The dark hair shone with oily dressing, pulled tight in a ponytail. He wore a tan sweater over dark trousers.
As the lights came down and music blared for the second act, Lord stood to leave. But at the top of the aisle, no more than fifty feet away, stood Cro-Magnon, a smile on his pockmarked face.
Lord sat. Nowhere to go.
The first act was Akilina Petrovna, who bounded onto the stage barefoot, wearing a sequined blue leotard. She skipped to the lively beat of the music and quickly mounted the beam, starting her act to applause.
A wave of panic swelled inside him. He glanced back and saw that Cro-Magnon was still at the top of the aisle, but then he spotted the deeply lined gray slab face of Droopy, the demon now sitting about half way down. Coal-black eyes--Gypsy eyes, he concluded--focused with a look that signaled the end of a hunt. The man's right hand nestled inside his jacket, which he peeled back enough to exhibit the hilt of a gun.
He turned back toward the stage.
Akilina Petrovna was strutting across the beam in an amazing display of poise. The music softened and she kept step to the gentle beat with agile movements. He focused hard, willing her to glance his way.
And she did.
For an instant their eyes met and he caught a glint of recognition. Then he registered something else. Fear? Did she likewise recognize the men behind him? Or did she read the terror in his own gaze? If she realized any of that, she did not let it affect her concentration. She continued to impress the crowd with a slow, athletic dance while perched atop a four-inch oak beam.
She performed a one-handed pirouette, then leapt from the beam. The crowd applauded as clowns burst onto the stage riding tiny bicycles. As stagehands carted away the heavy balance beam, Lord decided he had no choice. He bolted from his seat and sprang onto the stage, just as one of the clowns rode by, honking a horn. The crowd roared with laughter, thinking him part of the show. He glanced left and saw both Droopy and the man from St. Petersburg rise. He slipped behind the curtain and ran straight into Akilina Petrovna.
"I've got to get out of here," he told her in Russian.
She grabbed his hand and yanked him deeper backstage, past two animal cages holding white poodles.
"I saw the men. You seem to stay in trouble, Miles Lord."
"Tell me about it."
They passed more performers busily going about their preparations. No one seemed to pay them any attention. "I need to duck in somewhere," he said. "We can't keep running."
She led him down a hallway crowded with old posters tacked to a dirty wall. A sour whiff of urine and wet fur tempered the air. Doors lined the narrow corridor on both sides.
She twisted one of the knobs. "In here."
It was a closet that contained mops and brooms, but there was enough room for him to squeeze inside.
"Stay here until I come back," she said.
The door closed.
In the blackness, he tried to catch his breath. Footsteps passed outside in both directions. He couldn't believe this was happening. The policeman outside must have alerted Feliks Orleg. Droopy, Cro-Magnon, and Orleg were all connected. No doubt about it. What was he going to do? Half the job of any good lawyer was telling his client what a damn fool he or she was being. He should take his own advice. He needed to get the hell out of Russia.
The door swung open.
In the hall light, he registered three male faces.
The first he did not recognize, but the man held a long silver blade tight against Droopy's neck. The other face belonged to the man from yesterday in St. Petersburg. He was clutching a revolver, its barrel aimed straight at him.
Then Lord saw Akilina Petrovna.
She stood calmly beside the man with the gun.
PART
TWO
TWENTY-ONE
"Who are you?" Lord asked.
The man standing beside Akilina said, "There is no time to explain, Mr. Lord. We need to leave here quickly."
He was not persuaded.
"We do not know how many more are here. We are not your enemy, Mr. Lord. He is." The man motioned toward Droopy.
"A bit hard to believe with a gun pointed at me."
The man lowered the revolver. "Quite right. Now, we must go. My associate will deal with this man while we take our leave."
He stared at Akilina and asked, "You with him?"
She shook her head.
"We must go, Mr. Lord," the man said.
His expression telegraphed to her, Should we?
"I think so," she said.
He decided to trust her instincts. His hadn't been so good lately. "All right."
The man turned to his associate and spat out something in a dialect Lord did not recognize. Droopy was forcibly led down the hall toward a door at the far end.
"This way," the man said.
"Why does she have to come?" he asked, motioning to Akilina. "She has no involvement."
"I was instructed to bring her."
"By whom?"
"We can talk about this on the way. Right now we have to leave."
He decided not to argue any further.
They followed the man outside into the cold night, stopping only to allow Akilina to retrieve a pair of shoes and a coat. The exit opened into an alley behind the theater. Droopy was being stuffed into the backseat of a black Ford near the alley's end. Their host walked to a light-colored Mercedes, opened the rear door, and invited them inside. Then he climbed into the front seat. Another man was already behind the wheel, the engine idling. A light rain started to fall as they left the theater.
"Who are you?" Lord asked again.
The man did not reply. Instead he handed him a business card.
SEMYON PASHENKO
Professor of History
Moscow State University
He was beginning to understand. "So my meeting him was not coincidental?"
"Hardly. Professor Pashenko realized the great danger both of you were in and directed us to keep watch. That was what I was doing in St. Petersburg. Apparently, I did not do a good job."
"I thought you were with the others."
The man nodded. "I can see that, but the professor instructed me only to make contact when forced. What was about to happen back in the theater, I think, would qualify."
The car wove through heavy evening traffic, its windshield wipers clunking back and forth, not doing much good. They were headed south, past the Kremlin, toward Gorky Park and the river. Lord noticed the driver's interest in cars around him and surmised that the many turns were designed to avoid any tails that might be lurking.
"You think we're safe?" Akilina whispered.
"I hope so."
"You know this Pashenko?"
He nodded. "But that means nothing. Hard to know anybody around here." Then he added with a weak smile, "Present company excepted, of course."
Their route had taken them away from the blocks of anonymous high-rises and neoclassical oddities, the hundreds of apartment buildings little more than trushchoba--slums--and life there, he knew, was a tense daily grind, noisy and crowded. But not everyone lived that way, and he noticed they'd turned onto one of the unobtrusive, tree-lined streets that radiated from the busy boulevard. This one ran north toward the Kremlin, linking two of the ring roads.
The Mercedes veered right into a lighted asphalt lot. A guard watched the entrance from a glass booth. The three-story apartment building beyond was unusual, fashioned not of concrete but of honey-colored bricks laid straight and true, a rarity for Russian masons. The few cars in the lined spaces were foreign and expensive. The man in the passenger's seat pointed a controller and commanded a garage door to rise. The driver steered the Mercedes inside, and the paneled door rolled shut.
They were led into a spacious lobby lit by a crystal chandelier. The sm
ell was pine, not the horrid scent of mud and urine most apartment lobbies wafted--The smell of cats, one Moscow journalist had called it. A carpeted stairway led up to a third-floor apartment.
Semyon Pashenko answered a light knock on a white paneled door and invited them inside.
Lord quickly took in the parquet floor, Oriental rugs, brick fireplace, and Scandinavian furniture. Luxuries in both the Soviet Union and new Russia. The walls were a soothing beige, broken periodically by elegantly framed prints depicting Siberian wildlife. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes. "You live well, Professor."
"A gift from my father. To my dismay, he was a devoted communist and afforded the privilege of rank. I inherited the amenity and was allowed to purchase it when the government starting divesting. Thankfully, I had the rubles."
Lord turned in the center of the room and faced his host. "I guess we should thank you."
Pashenko raised his hands. "No need. In fact, it is us who owe you thanks."
Lord was puzzled, but said nothing.
Pashenko motioned to upholstered chairs. "Why don't we sit. I have dinner warming in the kitchen. Some wine, perhaps?"
He glanced at Akilina, who shook her head. "No, thank you."
Pashenko noticed Akilina's costume and told one of the men to fetch her a bathrobe. They sat before a fire and Lord removed his jacket.
"I chop the wood at my dacha north of Moscow," Pashenko said. "I so like a fire, though this apartment is centrally heated."
Another Russian rarity, he thought. He also noticed the driver of the Mercedes take up a position at one of the windows, periodically peeking out through the closed curtains. The man peeled off his coat, exposing a handgun nestled in a shoulder harness.
"Who are you, Professor?" Lord asked.
"I am a Russian who is glad for the future."
"Could we dispense with the riddles? I'm tired, and it's been a long three days."
Pashenko bowed his head in an apparent apology. "From all reports, I agree. The incident in Red Square made the news. Curious there was no mention of you in the official reports, but Vitaly"--Pashenko motioned to the man from yesterday in St. Petersburg--"saw it all. The police arrived just in time."
