Dead End

by R. J. Patterson

  Sergei had long since left religion, but he considered Pavlov’s house to be his sanctuary. Whenever he needed inspiration—or determination that eluded him in the moment—he made a special trip to visit the apartment complex. He required both at the moment. He stared at the building for a few minutes before taking a seat on a nearby bench. Closing his eyes, he imagined the German tanks rolling down the street and being met with a barrage of artillery fire. He could even picture Sergeant Pavlov urging his men to keep fighting, imploring them to stand fast and deny the Germans from invading their homeland.

  With recent reports of lost business, Sergei felt like he could relate to Sergeant Pavlov. There was no country to defend, but there was territory—and weapons. As one of the largest arms dealers in Eastern Europe, Africa, and Asia, Sergei had begun to experience a slow decline in sales. However, conflicts were up, even escalating in some regions. That should have meant brisk sales, but it didn’t. His faltering business meant he needed to reassert himself as the dominant weapons dealer among his clientele. He would play second fiddle to no one.

  He’d struggled to concoct a plan that would enable him to seize control back over his arms empire. But that changed after a discussion with his son, Niko, over a bottle of vodka one evening. Niko reminded his father to look for opportunities to strike, the kind no one would expect. The element of surprise may have been a trite one, Niko had said, but it could never be underestimated. Sergei saw the wisdom in his son’s comments and began to plan accordingly. But a wrench had fallen into the plan—more like a covey of wrenches. However, they weren’t enough to make Sergei quit. He simply needed to find the strength to soldier on, the kind of strength Sergeant Pavlov had.

  Later that evening, Sergei surveyed his present company dining on the veranda overlooking Volgograd. The city lights winked in the distance; the gentle rhythm of the water lapping against the banks of the Volga River provided a calming background track. But none of the accouterments of Sergei’s garish summer home garnered the attention of his guests. Instead, Niko had a rapt audience listening to the tale of how he wooed Nyusha after one of her concerts. Just as Niko began to delve into the tawdry details, Sergei put an end to the story.

  “We are not here to be regaled by stories of how you make love,” Sergei interrupted. “We are here to discuss how we will help people make war.”

  “A noble purpose, of course, Papa,” Niko said, as he nodded respectfully and yielded the floor.

  The room fell silent as Sergei hoisted an attaché onto the table and inserted his thumb onto the scanner. With a simple click, the lock released and Sergei opened the latches. He pulled out a file folder and set it on the table. After licking the edge of his thumb, he flipped open to the first page of his documents. He drained the last of his drink and then took a deep breath before speaking.

  “In any lucrative business such as ours, we can’t expect to operate devoid of challenges from time to time as well as fierce competition from others trying to steal away our clients. But lately, it seems we have run headlong into a perfect storm attacking us from every front. If we don’t get a handle on this, we may pay a heavy and dear price, one I am not fond of. Before we begin deal with each of these issues, I want to make sure we all know what we’re doing and how we’re going to handle each problem. That is the purpose of this meeting. Is that clear?”

  Around the table, heads bobbed in agreement, all eyes locked on Sergei.

  “Good. Now that you all understand, I have a list of questions that need to be answered, starting first with the journalist. What happened to him, and are we sure he’s out of the way?”

  Alexander Negovsky leaned forward and prepared to speak. “We took care of him.”

  “Took care of him how?” Sergei asked. “Permanently? Or some other way?”

  “He won’t cause any problems from the grave.”

  A faint smile appeared on Sergei’s lips. He looked at Niko. “See, Son, that is how you take care of a problem, once and forever.”

  Niko shifted in his chair and glanced around the table at all the men who’d now turned their attention to him. “Duly noted.”

  “Let’s continue,” Sergei said.

  The meeting labored on for more than two hours with Sergei meticulously going over each detail. When he was finished, he stood and headed toward a corner of the veranda. He lit a cigar and admired the cityscape view again. He smoked alone for several minutes until Zoya Haidan joined him.

  Zoya tucked her full dark locks behind her ears before leaning gently against Sergei. She placed her hand on his shoulder and studied him. Sergei remained stoic, staring out across the city.

  “Don’t be so uptight, Sergei,” she said. “These challenges don’t last forever. Better days are ahead.”

  “Better days don’t just happen.” He paused and looked her up and down. “But how could I expect you to know that. You were born into a world where there was no iron curtain.”

  “Then help me understand because all I see is a man who sees the negative in everything. You have no reason to fear. You are still the leader in your profession.”

  He leaned on the ledge surrounding the veranda and watched the bustling city in the distance. “I didn’t become the leader by passively letting others encroach on my space.”

  She wrested the cigar from his fingers and puffed on it before handing it back. “I don’t know, Sergei. It feels different this time. You are different this time. Usually it’s just business, but now . . .”

  “What?” he asked, impatiently awaiting her to finish the thought she’d left hanging. “Now it’s personal? Is that what you’re wondering?”

  She nodded. “It certainly seems that way.”

  Remaining quiet for a moment, he released a ring of smoke and watched it rise into the night air. “Have I ever told you the story about my brother?”

  “Brother? You’ve never even mentioned you had one.”

  “There’s a reason for that. It’s a painful memory. Ruslan was only eighteen months older than me, and we were very close. We did everything together growing up, whether it was breaking into houses and stealing valuable jewelry or skipping school to go swimming. We even dated the same girls sometimes,” Sergei said with a soft chuckle.

  He took another puff on his cigar and continued. “We weren’t without our differences, but we always managed to find a way to get along. Even when I started this business of meeting a great demand in the market, we did it together.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “On our second deal, one night we were in Somalia for an exchange when a rival outfit ambushed us. It was bloody. All three men with me died in a gunfight. I somehow managed to escape, and for a long time I wished I could’ve joined them. The guilt never seemed to go away.”

  “You don’t appear to carry around such guilt now.”

  “I got over it. And now, I’m going to get revenge.”

  Chapter 5

  Saint Petersburg, Russia

  CAL SETTLED INTO HIS SEAT on press row at the new St. Petersburg Stadium. Like many public construction projects in Russia, the facility was barely finished in time, millions of dollars over budget, and paid for by the common taxpayer, most of whom could never afford a ticket for any event inside the gates. Against the skyline, the arena shown as a jewel, but on the financial books, it was an eyesore.

  Good to know fleecing the public for new stadiums isn’t uniquely American.

  He pored over pre-game notes for the opening match between the U.S. and the Netherlands. Peering through his binoculars, he watched the teams warming up and noted any players who were conspicuously missing. The U.S. appeared at full strength while one of the Netherlands’s star players was missing. Cal noted the player’s absence through a benign tweet that set the Twitter sports world afire with speculation over whether bettors needed to hedge on the match.

  Just before kickoff, Cal finished compiling his own game notes in time to hear a strong contingent of Sam’s Army
, the U.S. national team’s unofficial supporter’s group. Given the recent rocky political relations between the U.S. and Russia, he was surprised to see an estimated five thousand strong had made the trip and were leading chants in the stadium. The Netherlands’s fans fought back with their own cheers, resulting in a cacophony of voices from anxious onlookers ready to watch their country’s team.

  The U.S. scored a late first half goal to take a 1-0 lead and appeared as if it would seize control on an apparent score midway through the second half. But the goal was called back on what the U.S. press corps agreed was a phantom offsides call. The Netherlands mounted a fierce attack but struggled to find the net and looked as if it were headed for an opening game loss. But in the 88th minute, the Netherlands was awarded a penalty kick, which its star striker converted to tie the game. After injury time concluded, the head referee blew his whistle to signify the conclusion of the match, ending in a 1-1 draw.

  In the locker room after the game, several U.S. defensemen were still stewing about the call that led to the penalty kick and tying score. Among those angry players was Seattle Sounders’s fullback Quinton Pullman.

  “I don’t know if you can print how I really feel about this,” Pullman told Cal. “Just look and see what country the head referee was from. He’s the one who made that terrible call and kept us from taking a two-goal lead. It’s a disgrace, but whatever. That’s soccer. The best team doesn’t always win.”

  Cal didn’t need to look up the country of origin for the lead official. He’d already seen it and mentioned it in his notebook. He was Algerian. Cal could only conclude that Pullman believed the poor officiating was a way of getting revenge for Algeria, which the U.S. eliminated in the 2010 World Cup with a last-minute goal. But Cal quickly dismissed Pullman’s conspiracy theory. Less than stellar officiating was part of every competition, even if it appeared to heavily favor the Netherlands.

  After Cal returned to the press box and finished writing his story, he walked along the corridor that went by a number of suites. Nosily, he turned his head to look inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the type of people enjoying such gaudy digs in Russia. When he reached the last luxury box, he noticed a familiar face.

  “Cal Murphy?” the man in the doorway asked.

  Cal stopped and approached the suite entrance. “Senator Daniels, you made it.”

  Daniels held his hands out wide. “Indeed, I did. Great game today, don’t you think?”

  “It wasn’t a bad start.”

  “Wasn’t a bad start? We earned a draw with the Netherlands. I’d say that’s a fantastic start.”

  Cal shrugged. “Could’ve been more, but that’s how it goes.”

  Daniels offered Cal a drink, which he readily accepted.

  “My work is done for the day.”

  Daniels retreated to the self-serve bar and poured Cal a glass of whiskey. “And you’ve got a few more days before another game.”

  “Actually, I’m heading to Samara for another game. Ukraine is playing Turkey. Seattle has a player who made the Ukrainian national team, and Buckman wants a few stories on him.”

  “Good ole Buckman. The guy puts together one of the best sports sections in America, if you ask me. And I read papers everywhere I go.”

  Cal nodded in agreement. “I’m biased, but I won’t argue with that.”

  The two men took long pulls on their drinks before Cal continued.

  “Got any exciting bureaucratic meetings while you’re over here?”

  “A few, but I’m just using this trip as an excuse to see my son at the embassy. One of the perks of the job.”

  “Well, good luck,” Cal said. “And thanks for the drink.”

  “Be safe, Cal. And stay out of trouble,” Daniels said as he raised his glass.

  Cal left the suite and took an elevator down to the exit. After he strode through the stadium gates, he noticed the once bustling streets were nearly vacant less than two hours after the conclusion of the match. Some stray paper rolled along the sidewalk in front of him, random horns beeping in the distance.

  And I thought Statenville buttoned up tight after sporting events . . . .

  It had been a while since Cal thought about his first job at a weekly newspaper in small town Idaho. It was an experience mostly drenched in tedious and boring work, but he could never forget how his editor there, Guy Thompson, equipped him with the tools necessary to unravel a story. But this wasn’t one of those times. Cal was enjoying the respite from the demands of sifting through evidence to suss out the truth.

  Cal’s trip down memory lane was rudely interrupted when he ran into a man walking down the sidewalk. The man appeared homeless, stumbling along with a tattered coat and ragged hat. When Cal looked back at the man, he was glaring over his shoulder.

  For a moment, Cal thought it was strange. But the thought was short-lived. His phone buzzed with a call from Kelly. He answered it and kept walking toward his car.

  Chapter 6

  NATALYA LISTYEV CLOSED HER EYES as she sank into her seat on the train. Despite her best efforts, she found shaking the image of her bloody and dying father an impossible task. She tried to let her mind wander into listless places, the kind reserved for staring absently into space. What would she look like as a blond? Did the man across the aisle from her have a tattoo on his neck? Why did her foot itch so much in these shoes? But they were all fleeting, turning quickly into dead ends instead of an endless map of barely connected thoughts that could keep her mind occupied for hours. And every time she reached a dead end, she saw her father’s face.

  Get the device to Cal Murphy when he arrives next week.

  If it was that important to her father, important enough that the thoughtful old man was dwelling on this task as he bled out, it must have been vital. She smoothed her hair as it fell in front of her shoulders, using the action as a cover to discreetly check the flash drive she’d tucked away in her bra.

  Still there.

  She exhaled and opened her eyes to inspect the trainload of passengers who’d be traveling with her. Nobody looked overly suspicious. But it was Russia. There were snitches on every corner, people waiting to trade information for extra rubles. She doubted anyone would be following her. Sadly, who would suspect someone as pathetic as herself. She wouldn’t even draw a second glance, even from a desperate person attempting to gain favor with local authorities?

  Natalya recognized her life was a mess. She had a father who was a famous journalist and a mother who was a well-known professor. But Natalya had failed to capitalize on the advantage given to her by such upwardly mobile parents. Instead, she was had done nothing more than become a server for a local catering company. At least, that what’s her father believed. She wanted to tell him the truth, that she wasn’t a nobody who blended into the background at parties while holding out silver platters loaded with champagne. Her father may have been one of the best investigative journalists in Russia, but he refrained from digging into her life—or at least, if he did, he never said a word about it to her.

  As the train lurched forward and gained speed, Natalya gazed absently out the window. The cityscape turned into a blur and soon vanished from her view, a slight glow on the horizon the only indication there was life nearby.

  She dabbed at the corner of her eye with her index finger. She pulled out her compact and studied her face in the mirror, satisfied she’d prevented her mascara from streaking down her cheek by tears. When she was a little girl, her father always told her crying was a sign of weakness. But she didn’t care now. He’d never scoff at her displays of emotion again, though she would give anything to have him scowl at her once more.

  With time to reflect on her father’s death, Natalya was somewhat surprised at her tears. That she felt sorrow over losing her beloved father was to be expected. But, in a way, so was his death—this kind of death. He’d told her it was his destiny many times, yet she started doubting him as he survived threat after threat. But not this time. Whatever was
on that flash drive was enough to get him killed. And Natalya wasn’t about to let her father down, tears or no tears.

  ONCE NATALYA ARRIVED in Moscow sixteen hours later, she headed straight for the Hotel Ukraina, where she’d learned the American journalist Cal Murphy was staying along with the rest of the U.S. media contingent. Hotel Ukraina was a gem of a relic from the Stalin era, one of seven skyscrapers he commissioned to be built. For years, it was the tallest hotel in the world. Situated on the banks of the Moscow River, its neoclassical architecture surrounding its expansive size resulted in a striking appearance. Most important for American journalists, the price was surprisingly affordable.

  She went to the concierge’s desk and slipped him some money in exchange for Cal Murphy’s room number. The concierge declined at first, an old trick designed to bilk more money from the person requesting the information. But past experience in such matters taught her to lead with a small amount and sometimes she’d end up getting what she wanted for far less. The man tapped out at a thousand Rubles, much to Natalya’s pleasure. She forked over the money, and he wrote down the number on the back of a business card.

  With at least an hour before dinnert, she decided to kill some time in the hotel bar. She settled onto a stool a few feet away from two Russian businessmen who looked as if they’d been drinking for the better part of the day. Both dressed in cheap suits, one of the men was nearly bald, while the other man acted as if his poor attempt at a comb over would fool the ladies. Both of them slurred their words when they tried to engage Natalya in a conversation. She rebuffed them with a soft snort through her nose, looking in the other direction. But that didn’t stop them from speaking loudly in a desperate attempt to draw her attention.