The moldy air surged into his lungs. He needed every bit of strength—and oxygen—to run farther, faster. But Jonathan suddenly crashed into something—something metallic—and then another rod-like object. He stumbled and rolled to the floor, as did the shattering pieces of whatever he had crashed into. He felt his hands plough through the cold, sandy soil. The stone ground had vanished. He crawled forward, and the soil became clumpy. Feeling his way ahead, several objects, perhaps tools, littered the ground. As he moved further, trying to get back up, his injured shoulder bumped into what felt like furniture. The object collapsed and a protracted sound of thumps followed. So did his excruciating pain. He’d just knocked over a bookcase, maybe two. He quickly turned, remembering what he had just touched seconds earlier—what had felt like a lamp, the kind you see on construction barricades. Now on his knees, he desperately searched the ground, his fingers feeling everything in arms’ reach to find the light. He lunged forward, the throbbing pain in his shoulder exploding. He felt warm blood dripping down his right arm.
He finally grabbed the light, examining its surface with his fingers. He depressed the switch and the yellow bulb illuminated his surroundings. Jonathan quickly glanced at the myriad antique bookstalls that covered the walls. Hundreds—thousands—of dusty leather-bound books filled the shelves. The library? he asked himself as he remembered Alexandre repeating the rumor that there was an ancient Byzantine library buried somewhere under the Kremlin. Amazing!
From the looks of it, the place was an archeological site, with excavation equipment, including ladders, netting, brushes and other tools all over the ground.
The sounds of his pursuers echoed from the tunnel behind him. Jonathan glanced ahead, at what looked like another passageway. He quickly dimmed the light, held it close to his chest and sprinted over a mound of dirt to the other side of the vast room.
“Finally,” he hissed upon seeing a faint light directly ahead. He was again on a stone floor. Like earlier, the light came from a ventilation duct in the ceiling. He jumped and punched it loose, the loud clanging sound echoing down the tunnel. He jumped again, this time miraculously popping it completely loose from its brackets. Once more he jumped, grabbed the ledge that circled the opening and pulled himself up. His shoulder now felt on fire, the pain crisp.
Jonathan continued to grab the sides of the shaft to pull himself upward. The lamp that he had secured under his shirt fell and smashed on the stone ten feet below him. He looked up and saw another metal cage, but this time, a lot more light appeared through it. His arms barely sustained his weight, but he persevered. Three feet. Two. One. Then, his head butted the cage loose. He grabbed each side of the opening and pulled himself out of the shaft. His hands felt a thin layer of carpet as he rolled his body out of the manhole and over onto the floor, his exhaustion freezing him in place. He breathed in deeply.
Jonathan knew his escape was far from over. He was in a hallway illuminated by a row of half-lit incandescent lamps on the ceiling. But he was probably still in the Kremlin, and when he again heard noise rising from the shaft, he realized he was still being pursued.
He got up and raced into the hall. He spotted glass display cabinets and larger display windows lining both sides of the corridor. A museum. He shook his head and scanned every direction, seeing mostly extravagant gowns, hats and ceremonial flags dating back to the 18th Century. I’m in the fucking Armory Museum.
Jonathan had to get the hell out. At any moment, the men chasing him would pop out of the same hole he’d crawled out of and resume their shooting. Jonathan walked rapidly toward another gallery. He found himself in a large circular room the size of a two-car garage with twenty-foot ceilings, filled with displays of antique weapons—swords, spears, shields and axes and other blunt, bone-crushing objects. A large collection of helmets and two armor-clad mannequins, probably 17th Century, stood behind the glass. But the thought of facing men with guns jolted a fresh idea to mind. He needed something more powerful than what he’d seen so far. He frantically scanned the hundreds of weapons exhibited on the walls, until he spotted something familiar, something he’d used a million times before in his youth: a crossbow.
Jonathan again heard noise behind him. He had only seconds to decide. The crossbow rested on two hooks flat against the display’s far wall. Jonathan darted to the other end of the room, picked up a chair and threw it at the glass. The alarm sounded instantly from multiple sirens, both in the large room and in the adjacent galleries. He lunged forward, his feet trampling over the glass remnants that littered the floor, and grabbed the crossbow and three arrows that lay below it. His heart quickened, and adrenaline gushed through his veins. He placed an arrow in the slot and checked the tension of the cord. He feared that there would be another dead man soon, within seconds, and he hoped it would not be him.
Jonathan ducked, peeked around the corner and focused on the shadowy figure pulling himself out of the ventilation duct in the floor. Once the man had exited the shaft, he raised his arm, and Jonathan saw the silhouette of the gun in his hand. A shot rang out just as Jonathan aimed his crossbow, trained instincts from his sporting days reawakening, and pulled the trigger. The man had missed, but Jonathan hadn’t. The killer at the other end of the hall slumped forward on his knees, cried out briefly and collapsed face first.
Jonathan then heard the killer’s partner shouting from the depths of the shaft, followed by what sounded like the man climbing his way to the top. Jonathan dove to where the killer lay dead or dying. He grabbed the man’s gun, aimed it down the shaft and fired twice. A loud tumbling sound reverberated up the shaft.
He had outfoxed both his attackers, but he had no time to celebrate. The wailing sirens ensured he had only seconds before a brigade of presidential guards arrived. Jonathan raced up the marble steps, to the next floor. There, he found a room with no windows and another stairwell at the far end leading up.
He picked a direction at random and ran, not knowing where he was headed. He raced through two more galleries before finding what looked like an emergency exit, which he barged through. Ahead of him were more stairs leading up to a narrow corridor. As he reached the top, the faint sound of voices filtered through the blaring sirens. At the end of the corridor, he turned and immediately realized he was once more in a confined space, but now there was no turning back. He spotted a tight stairwell and hastily headed up. When he reached the next floor, Jonathan found a window, glanced out and quickly discerned his location. He was in one of the Kremlin towers, near the top of the walls’ steep facade—an ominous sight, as it offered little chance of escape. The voices and footsteps of a dozen humans sounded more like a herd of rhinos. The guards were getting closer. In desperation, Jonathan yanked the window latch open, placed his right knee on the window sill and crawled out, quickly taking hold of the outside ledge with both hands. He carefully maneuvered laterally, taking only a glimpse of the precipice. The lower half of the wall appeared to have a slight incline. It might soften the fall, he thought, though he didn’t want to try. So will the snow on the ground below. Jonathan now remembered his days at the Milneburg lighthouse, when he and Matt fearlessly jumped from its summit. But that was twenty years ago, he told himself. And probably half the height of this tower.
He slid farther along the wall, his feet clinging to a narrow indentation between the bricks. He lost his footing, but managed to clutch a drainage pipe as he slid. He held on tightly, now trying to make his way down.
A man shouted from the window Jonathan had just escaped out of. It was a guard, with a green army uniform and large hat, leaning over the ledge with a handgun pointed in Jonathan’s direction.
Jonathan jumped. The thirty-foot freefall lasted two whole seconds, and the impact was hard, knocking the breath out of him, even though he did his best to roll his body to minimize the shock. He hadn’t landed too well. In addition to the bullet wound in his shoulder, his feet and legs ached as if they had been ripped off of him.
“Stoi!” the
guard yelled, but he didn’t fire a shot.
Jonathan took a deep breath and quickly hobbled across the snow-covered grounds of the Alexandrovski Gardens, toward the busy avenue directly ahead. He did his best to straighten his back and walk normally, as he didn’t want to attract any more attention than he already had. He scanned the traffic. There were plenty of taxis, and by the time he’d reached the curb, one had pulled up.
He jumped in, took a deep breath, and with a superhuman effort to sound calm, he said, “Hotel Metropol, pozhaluysta.”
Despite his aching shoulder, he harnessed a strange feeling of satisfaction. With extraordinary luck, he had managed to extricate himself from the bowels of the impenetrable Kremlin, kill the assassins who wanted him dead and obtain valuable leads. His pride seemed to anesthetize his gunshot wound, albeit for only a few more seconds. He glanced through the rear windshield at the fortress walls that gradually diminished in size and danger as the cab headed east to his hotel.
19
The lobby of the Metropol was bustling with guests checking in and departing, with an army of staff who moved about like drones. This was no place to wander around after being shot, without being spotted. But Jonathan had no choice. He kept his hands in his pockets, hiding the stream running down his right arm. He could feel the warm, blood-soaked lining of his coat below his shoulder. He walked briskly, hoping he wasn’t leaving a trail along the marble floor, but he was too nervous to look down.
He strolled through the lobby and toward the elevators, ignoring the pain and keeping his head down the whole way. He waited, his impatience rocketing out of control. The elevators were slowly making their way down. Suddenly, Alexandre appeared out of nowhere.
“Where the hell have you been?” Alexandre asked in an aggressive whisper. “I waited for you until the library closed.”
Jonathan was in so much pain he simply looked at Alexandre and ground his teeth.
“Well, tell me wha—” Alexandre said, interrupting himself the moment his eyes glanced down.
They both looked at Jonathan’s feet. Blood had dripped onto his black dress shoes, blending poorly with the dirt and asphalt caked on during his frantic dash across Alexandrovski Gardens.
“Where are you hurt?”
“My shoulder,” Jonathan said, toning down his voice as he spotted several hotel guests approaching the elevators. “I don’t think it’s too bad.”
“I can take you to a hospital right now.”
“No,” he whispered forcefully. “It’s too risky.”
The elevator doors opened, and they all went in. As soon as the other guests exited on the second floor, Alexandre threw question after question at him and Jonathan explained everything from the point Nikolai had finished showing him confidential files, culminating in the cab ride back to the hotel. Alexandre’s shock was evident from his blank stare. Jonathan couldn’t quite tell if he was angry, sad or both. His friend, Nikolai, was dead for sure. No one could have survived that shot to the head, Jonathan thought. No way.
“Get the key from my back pocket,” Jonathan said, the sharp pain preventing him from doing it himself.
Alexandre retrieved the key card, slid it into the reader and opened the door for his wounded companion.
“Pridurok! You may have been followed.” Alexandre spread his hands. “You realize this, right? The Militsiya may find you. And I can’t help you if you get caught.”
Jonathan watched as melancholy gripped Alexandre, who was paler than the white of the Russian flag, his silence possibly coming from the realization that Nikolai was dead. Eliminated. Gone. Jonathan felt a strange sadness at the absence of Alexandre’s usual boisterousness.
“I feel terrible about what happened to Nikolai,” Jonathan said quietly.
“It’s too late to worry about that. We have to make sure the police don’t find you.”
Jonathan mentally retraced his escape from the Kremlin. “I don’t think I was followed.”
Alexandre paced the room as the wounded American slowly began removing his jacket. “Ah, dammit. It hurts real bad.”
“Let me see,” said Alexandre as he held Jonathan’s jacket.
Jonathan removed his blood-soaked shirt and undershirt. “I think the bullet grazed my shoulder.”
Alexandre leaned his head over the wound without touching Jonathan. “You’re right, but there’s a lot of open tissue and bleeding. It must hurt.” He then went into the bathroom and brought back a wet washcloth and a roll of toilet paper. “Let’s stop the bleeding first.”
Jonathan again twisted his head to see the wound. The bullet had exited right above the collar bone. “A lucky shot,” he said, shaking his head. “A little higher, and the round would have missed me completely.”
Alexandre huffed. “A little bit lower and you would be in a Moscow morgue.”
Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to make any movements that would worsen the pain or the bleeding.
As Alexandre sat down next to his wounded pal, he accidentally pushed Jonathan’s jacket off the comforter, causing a loud thud that shook the floor. Alexandre looked into Jonathan’s eyes as if he knew damn well what made the heavy sound, but he asked anyway. “What was that?”
“I took the man’s gun.”
“As a trophy?” Alexandre asked with a semblance of a smile peering through his angry expression.
“I know I’d never get one from you.”
Alexandre shook his head and stood up. “I’ll call a doctor. Don’t worry, he’s a good friend. I trust he can keep a secret—he owes me a favor, anyhow.”
As Alexandre moved to the telephone, Jonathan, now that his adrenaline rush was dissipating, began to come to grips with the possibility that Moscow police would somehow track him down. There was no telling if he’d passed in front of a security camera or if the cab driver or the hotel staff might have found him suspicious. The pain in his shoulder diminished as his anxiety over being caught grew.
After Alexandre dialed his friend, he returned to Jonathan’s side. “Okay, he’ll be here in about twelve hours.”
Jonathan was flabbergasted. “What?”
Alexandre kept a serious face, but said, “I’m just pulling your goat.”
Jonathan laughed aloud, ignoring the pain for a few seconds.
“What?”
“That’s not exactly what you say in English,” Jonathan said, enjoying the humorous distraction. “You either say pull your leg or get your goat.”
“Oh.” Alexandre got up and helped himself to a small bottle of vodka in the minibar. Straight up, no ice.
“I guess I’m not the ideal American tourist,” Jonathan said with a smile.
Alexandre’s brief moment of humor seemed long gone. He looked at Jonathan sternly. “Keep pressure on the wound and relax; my doctor will be here in about thirty minutes.”
* * *
Russian medicine has often been called the rudest of names, and judging from how the doctor clumsily prodded the wound and then haphazardly placed a hefty amount of gauze and bandages over it, Jonathan couldn’t help but add a few more insults to the lexicon, like shoddy, unlicensed, reckless and medieval. He wondered if this man claiming to have a medical degree had practiced on anything other than animals or cadavers.
As archaic as his treatment may have been, the doctor had stopped the bleeding and handed Jonathan a welcome treat: a shot of morphine and oral painkillers, powerful enough, he’d said, to knock out a horse. He’d also offered his American patient a sling, but Jonathan refused to wear it.
Jonathan got up, thanked the doctor and walked to the armoire as Alexandre escorted the doctor out of the room.
Seconds later, Alexandre returned, and he wasn’t happy about what he saw: Jonathan checking his wallet and putting his watch back on. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To find Mariya.”
Alexandre walked briskly to face Jonathan as if he were on fire, spitting out a few angry words in Russian.
“No, you’re staying right here. You’ve done enough damage for one day. You also need to rest; your injury is not a minor cut.”
“I must find her.” Jonathan turned to Alexandre, his soul begging his Russian friend to understand. “She knows the truth. Everything about the flight my brother was on. About Yakovlev. The farm. The reasons behind the operation. Everything.”
Alexandre was livid. He grabbed the armoire door and slammed it shut. “They will kill you. If the police have your description, they will find you and kill you. Don’t you realize at this very moment you are less than one kilometer from the Kremlin? Don’t be a fool!”
Jonathan stood silently, his mind made up. Only a round of bullets would stop him from tracking down Mariya.
Alexandre turned abruptly and slammed the back of his fist against the wall, cursing in Russian. After a long pause, he looked at Jonathan and said, “Very well, but I’m no longer responsible for you. Don’t count on my help anymore.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done, but this woman is probably my best and last chance to know what happened to my brother.”
Alexandre shook his head and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Jonathan finished getting dressed and, with the photo of Mariya that Nikolai had shown him engraved in his mind, he left by cab for the Baltschug Kempinski Hotel.
I just want the truth, he thought just as he sensed the initial effects of the painkillers. His arms and chest began tingling, and his head felt lighter. The pains in his shoulder and leg were slowly subsiding.
Tranquility Denied Page 23
