Tranquility Denied

by A. C. Frieden

  She answered the call, sounding trite. “Da, da,” she said repeatedly, giving the caller intense attention. She then tossed the gun back in her purse, which brought Jonathan a welcome sense of relief. She said a few more words and hung up, her merciless facade transforming into a rather dispassionate shell. “I have some new information. It’s complicated. I will...I will know more very soon. We must leave right now.” Seeming embarrassed, she quickly buttoned her blouse and tucked it back into her skirt.

  Jonathan approached her. “Thank you for not—”

  “Don’t say it...just don’t,” she said, raising her hand. The fierceness in her eyes dissipated. “Let’s forget this happened.”

  23

  Alexandre was at his dacha when Jonathan arrived later that night, escorted by Mariya’s henchmen. They had dropped her off first, at a tall glass office building in the Arbat area, close to the river.

  “You’re alive and you’re not in jail,” Alexandre said, opening the door with a stunned look about him.

  “Is there any doubt now about my resourcefulness?” Jonathan said playfully. “Or my ability to cheat death and dismemberment?”

  Alexandre laughed. “No, no more doubts. You are like a cat.”

  “Perhaps, but I think I’m now on my ninth life.”

  “Let me get you some chai. I want to hear what happened.”

  Jonathan huddled comfortably in the plush leather sofa of the quaint, rustic living room. They chatted for a while. Alexandre had fixed up the place with an eclectic assortment of collectibles, from American Indian ceramics, to Asian rugs, to Spanish and French porcelain figurines, to contemporary paintings, mostly acrylic.

  “You like that one?” Alexandre asked, noticing Jonathan’s curiosity over a large watercolor of a woman, her face painted pale yellow, her hair green and blue.

  “Striking.”

  “It’s by Anatoly Zverev, a Russian painter from the ’50s and ’60s. He was a controversial figure in Soviet days.”

  Alexandre’s cell phone rang, startling them both.

  “Allo,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Da, da.” He handed to phone to Jonathan. “It’s for you—your girlfriend.”

  Jonathan smirked, taking the phone and knowing exactly who Alexandre meant. “Mariya?”

  “Get out of there,” she exclaimed. “Right now.”

  “What?”

  “The police are on their way with an arrest warrant. Apparently C.J. Raynes knows some powerful people in the Ministry of Justice that I do not. Get out now, or you will be arrested!”

  A chill ran through Jonathan’s body as he looked over at Alexandre, who had walked to the windows. “What is it?” Jonathan asked Alexandre.

  “I see blue lights,” Alexandre said rapidly. “Several cars heading through the trail.”

  “We need to leave,” Jonathan told him. He then said to Mariya, “They’re already close; I’m heading out the back, through the woods.”

  “Good,” Mariya said. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m a few kilometers from there, coming your way.”

  Jonathan hung up, darting to the back door of the country home, and shouted, “Are you coming? Hurry!”

  Alexandre turned into the hallway. “No, you go. I’ll stall them. They’re not after me.” He tossed Jonathan his cell phone. “Good luck.”

  Jonathan gave him a strong hug. “Thanks for everything. I mean it. And send me your bill—”

  Alexandre chuckled. “Don’t worry, I will, and it will be a big number. Hurry through those woods straight ahead, and you’ll find a trail. Follow it for about a hundred meters, until you see a stream. Cross it and keep going until you find the main road, about one kilometer away. When you get there, look up Dom—my home number in the contacts list—and call me, but realize that the police may be here, and I may not answer.”

  “I’ll try,” Jonathan said, holding the door open. “Mariya’s on her way.”

  Alexandre shook his head. “I’m not sure she’s there to rescue you, but if you have no other choice...”

  Jonathan rushed through the snow-covered back yard and entered the woods, his dress shoes quickly becoming soaked. He heard the sound of cars pulling up to the front of the house. The fear that bolted through him made him run even faster. Then he heard something bad, real bad: barking dogs, followed by the loud voices of their masters. The tough predicament hit him hard. It was one thing to outrun humans; quite another to escape from police canines.

  The bright glow of the moon filtered through the tall trees above, lighting the path ahead. He scurried across the wet ground, stepping over branches, shrubbery and other natural obstacles that canvassed the forest.

  He ran, weaving through the trees, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, until he found the trail Alexandre had mentioned. The barking grew more intense. He guessed that there were at least two dogs. His lead was at least a couple hundred yards but the animals would cover that in no time.

  Jonathan squinted, trying desperately to find the stream nearby. He left the trail and ran into a denser part of the forest, the darkness hampering his search. He stopped and listened. Despite the nearing sounds of dogs barking, he heard the faint sloshing of water, and he ran toward it. It was only about a foot deep, with rocks at its bottom, but the water was painfully cold, nearly frozen. His shoes, socks and lower pant legs were soaked, his skin chilled and approaching complete numbness. He gripped a tree root to pull himself out of the rocky edge of the stream on the other side.

  “Stoi, strelyat budu!” Jonathan heard a man shout from far behind him.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a heavily-built, dark figure in white and green fatigues jumped in his path, aiming a rifle from his hip at Jonathan, who skidded to a halt. Another man lurched from behind the tree next to him. Before Jonathan could backtrack, another three men popped up from the snowy ground, their combat uniforms blending perfectly with the surroundings. They carried assault rifles, two of them pointed at Jonathan’s head.

  They’re not cops. Jonathan was confused and terrified. Soldiers? He studied them.

  A barking dog was closing in—fifty yards, maybe—and there were more loud voices coming from the same directions.

  The man standing directly in front of Jonathan raised his rifle to eye level, aimed the long barrel and leaned his head into the night-vision scope on top of the weapon. Jonathan dove sideways onto a bush, just as someone grabbed his ankle.

  Two muffled shots rang out, the sound no louder than a BB-gun. A silencer, Jonathan thought, now wondering why he was still alive. The barking behind him suddenly turned to moaning. He swung around. The dog was down, right in the middle of the stream. It twisted its injured body in a circle, water splashing everywhere. Another round from the silencer quieted the moaning for good.

  The soldier lowered his weapon and motioned to his comrades, who instantly swarmed over Jonathan.

  I’m dead now.

  He swung at the men, but outnumbered and overpowered, he didn’t stand a chance.

  The troops grabbed him by his arms and lifted him off the ground. The pain from his gunshot wound bolted through him again. The men whisked him forward, away from the stream he’d just crossed. His feet barely touched the ground, the strength of his captives surprising him.

  The sound of the other barking dog grew louder, but a few more muffled shots echoed behind him and the animal went quiet.

  “Where are you taking me?” Jonathan asked, feeling the gauze and tape covering his wound tear open.

  “Shh,” replied the soldier controlling the right side of his body, motioning for Jonathan to stay quiet.

  Through thick shrubs, Jonathan could see the momentary signaling of headlights. A car idled just ahead, perhaps at fifty yards’ distance. Parked behind it was a military truck. Jonathan emerged from the forest with the men tightly clustered around him, his body shaking from the glacial air. They finally reached pavement and hurried across the road to the waiting car.

  Mariy
a got out of the vehicle and greeted Jonathan with a half-lit cigarette dangling from her grinning mouth, her shoulders wrapped in a lacy, red shawl. She took the cigarette from her lips and exhaled a plume of smoke. “Looks like you could use some help.”

  Jonathan frowned. The soldiers set him on his feet and backed off and after Mariya’s quick wave of the hand, two melted back into the forest while the others got in the truck and left.

  “Get in,” she demanded, and Jonathan did so quickly.

  The car tore away and descended the rural road at a high rate of speed. Jonathan was freezing, especially his feet and hands.

  Mariya took her cell phone in hand. “I have something to ask you. It may be difficult.”

  Jonathan tilted his head and wondered what this woman could possibly throw his way next, but his aggression toward her had been softened by appreciation for saving him from the cops.”

  “Did your brother have a tattoo on his left arm?”

  Jonathan’s face sagged, and he needed a few seconds to grasp the intensity of the question. “Yes—a small dagger on his biceps.” That’s when images of Matt crossed his mind, especially the first time his brother had come home on leave from West Germany. He’d proudly shown Jonathan his tattoo, along with a picture of a well-endowed Bavarian girlfriend.

  For the first time since Jonathan had met her, Mariya looked sad. She seemed to hesitate.

  “A man in his mid-twenties was photographed at an airfield in Voronezh in early April, 1989,” she said. That was his tattoo. I have not seen the photograph, but I am waiting for information from an old contact. He may call later today. In the meantime, you will stay with my driver. And don’t try to put a sock in his mouth. Unlike Yuri, this man has no restraint. He’ll break your neck before you can flinch.”

  Jonathan glanced at the back of the driver’s big head and broad shoulders. He looked like a piece of Russian farm equipment.

  Mariya refused to answer any of Jonathan’s questions. She repeated that she would know more in the morning. The ride back into the city was uneventful, a perfect moment for Jonathan to unwind from the close call earlier at Alexandre’s dacha. Before Mariya confiscated his cell phone, she had allowed him to call Alexandre’s home, but there was no answer. He only hoped Alexandre had not been arrested, but Jonathan feared that was entirely possible.

  The driver dropped Mariya off at the Kempinski and then headed out of downtown. They ended up in a run-down industrial area, where the driver escorted Jonathan at gunpoint into a warehouse and into a small storage room in the back that reeked of paint and thinner. There, Jonathan stayed the night. He remained locked-in throughout the morning as well. The driver had led him out to the bathroom only once. The silence, the unanswered questions, the recurring worries over Matt and Linda were driving Jonathan berserk.

  It wasn’t until four-thirty in the afternoon that Mariya’s driver opened the door of Jonathan’s small room and signaled that it was time to go. Jonathan gazed out the car’s window, at the buildings and monuments along the way that gave Moscow its striking beauty and grandeur. When the driver crossed the river near the Ukraina Hotel, Jonathan realized he was headed back into the heart of the city, toward the Kremlin, toward trouble. His heart began to race.

  24

  The five-pointed red star radiated in the dusky sky. Its webbed, crystallized texture contrasted with its stunning fluorescence at the top of Spasskaya Tower. Jonathan eyed its crimson facade, the large gold-leafed clock and the elegant white stone accents, understanding the power and history that lay below it in the Kremlin, the seat of Russia’s government and a place he’d seen from the inside at nearly the cost of his life. The fact that he’d roamed its cavernous underbelly, killed two men in the Armory Museum, escaped from the Komendantskaya Tower and lived to come back and stand at its gates gave him a huge boost of confidence. Two guards in uniform roamed the entrance to the tower, each smoking a cigarette, ignoring Jonathan some thirty feet away.

  He glanced through the cracked glass of his wristwatch. 6:30 P.M., Mariya had told him. He was on time; she was not. Red Square was desolate. The strong, cold, sustained breeze sweeping from the south was not the kind of weather that would draw many tourists. Not in November.

  The shadow cast by the Kremlin walls over the cobbled ground slowly merged with the base of St. Basil’s Cathedral. Jonathan lowered his hat to cover more of his forehead, as the temperature continued to dip. It was nearly seven and Mariya had still not shown up. He feared that something had gone wrong, but he’d sensed that before, nearly every moment he’d been in the Russian capital. If something were going right, he thought, that’s when I should really worry.

  Suddenly he heard the screeching of tires behind him. A long, black limousine, a Russian-made ZIL like the ones Alexandre had pointed out when they had driven past the Russian Duma, whipped around from the riverfront road and headed toward Jonathan. It flashed its lights and then slowed to a crawl and parked next to him. Jonathan leaned down, trying to take a look inside, when the back door opened and Mariya emerged wearing a thick fur coat, unbottoned, revealing her cleavage and trademark short leather skirt, high heels.

  “I am late,” she declared, stating the obvious without an apology.

  Jonathan nodded. He’d given up trying to predict her moves. “So, what are we doing here?”

  “Just wait,” she said, lighting a cigarette and fanning her hair back. “Whatever happens, please don’t say a word. I mean it. Not one word. That’s the only way my plan will work.”

  Oh, no, she has a plan, Jonathan said silently, shaking his head. Someone is bound to get shot, proving yet again that there is nothing mundane about life in Moscow.

  “There he is,” Mariya said, raising her head in the direction of the Moskva River.

  A black Chevy Suburban, followed by a dark gray Ford Explorer, all their windows tinted, snaked through traffic past the huge Russiya Hotel along the embankment.

  “Who?” asked Jonathan, his eyes trained on the convoy that whipped left and headed toward them.

  “Your buddy, C.J. Raynes. And if you say anything that might cause him to guess who I am, I’ll have to kill you on the spot. I don’t want to have to do that, as I’ve grown rather fond of you. So keep your mouth shut.”

  The SUVs pulled up beside Mariya’s limo. A tall, hawk-nosed man stepped out, callousness glazing his face. Another man stepped out behind him, his jacket distended by what was surely a weapon. He marched to Mariya. “What’s he doing here?”

  Jonathan said nothing, just as he was told. He stood close to Mariya who met the American diplomat’s stern gaze. “I wanted to make sure we were talking about the same guy,” she answered with a sneer.

  C.J.’s face sagged. “It’s not what we agreed. You told me he would be on the next plane out of Russia. This is completely unacceptable. I will inform my ambassador about this.”

  “Save your bravado for someone who cares. This man has done nothing to you. And you are welcome to tell your ambassador, because I’m sure he is unaware of Operation Tranquility, of the extraordinary measures you went to weaken my country, of all your manipulations—which, mind you, are not compatible with your diplomatic status.”

  C.J. turned to the armed man behind him. “Get back in the car.” C.J. tilted his head and glanced at Jonathan.

  “Yep, I told her everything,” Jonathan couldn’t resist saying.

  Mariya scowled at Jonathan and then returned to her duel with C.J. “Mr. Brooks will be escorted to the airport in a few minutes, as we agreed. But I’m offering you the chance right now to do two things: apologize to this man and tell him why his brother was sacrificed.”

  C.J. scoffed, his long arms crossing over his chest. “I’ve already spoken to this jerk.” He then laughed. Not a light laugh, but a throaty, mocking bark.

  Jonathan fantasized slashing the man’s jugular with one of the swords from the Armory Museum.

  “Apparently,” Mariya said, “your conversation was rather.
..violent, shall we say?”

  C.J. looked away for a moment. Jonathan knew that C.J. was in a difficult situation, even more so if his superiors hadn’t authorized his actions with Scarborough. Jonathan understood his predicament, but he felt no pity.

  C.J. stepped forward and drew his pointy face to within inches of Jonathan’s. “Your brother was killed in an accident far, far away from this hellhole,” he whispered harshly, his hands nearly touching Jonathan. He was a patriot, like everyone else who died on that plane. That’s all there is to it.”

  Jonathan gazed at C.J. in disgust. “With what I’ve learned, you and your cohorts are going down.”

  C.J.’s face turned red, his eyes filled with fury. “All you’re doing is fucking with people who’ve dedicated their lives to making your little world safe back home—so you can walk the streets of New Orleans not thinking about nuclear, chemical or biological weapons detonating in your backyard; so cocksucking lawyers like you can continue to whine about the pettiest of disputes, while the real war rages on this end of the globe, where the true heroes battle for victories you couldn’t even fathom.”

  Mariya grabbed Jonathan’s arm. “You, get in the car,” she said, pulling the door open. “Now!”

  Jonathan wanted to hit C.J. across the face—one good punch to crack his jaw. But he didn’t. He had already won. He knew his brother had at least survived the plane crash. He had uncovered the plot. And as a litigator, he preferred to define victory without bloodshed, without violence, even if in these egregious circumstances, a physical revenge would have been very satisfying. He got in the car, glancing into his enemy’s eyes one last time.

  Mariya remained outside, and all Jonathan witnessed were the gestures and the facial expressions until finally, she joined him in the backseat.

  “Are you really kicking me out?” Jonathan demanded.

  “Yes,” Mariya said contritely. “But in seventy-two hours. Until then, you will go through the motions.”

  “You promised me that—”