“Ms. Michelet,” one of the men stepped forward, the second facing the other way, toward the Mercedes. “I’m Jonathan Miles.”
“I assume you work for my father,” Ariana said.
Miles nodded. “We were alerted you were inbound.” He indicated the other man. “Jim Getty.” Getty didn’t turn, keeping his eyes scanning his sector of responsibility. Arian noted that behind his sunglasses, Miles was looking past her most of the time.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“That’s not my business,” Miles said. “My job is to keep you secure. Moscow is not a safe place.”
Ariana pulled out the piece of paper that Atkins had given her. “I need to meet with this man.”
Miles glanced at it, and a frown crossed his face.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
“I know of him,” Miles said. “He’s a black marketer associated with one of the many crime families here.”
“Can you arrange a meeting?”
“How soon?”
“Immediately.”
The frown was back, and Ariana figured that was the way Mile’s face was most of the time as befitted a security man responsible for others’ well-being.
“An immediate meeting might be hard to arrange and worse, difficult to set up in a secure place.”
“I’ll take the chance,” Ariana said.
“Well…” Miles hesitated.
“I know you work for my father,” Ariana said, “but this involves the gates that have been causing all the trouble around the world. This is more important than my father’s concerns.”
“Why do you want to meet with Roskov?”
“I need to purchase something from him.”
“What?”
“A crystal skull. He offered it to the British Museum.”
Miles didn’t seem surprised at the strangeness of the item. “It is important enough to risk your life for?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Let me make some calls while we drive.” He indicated for her to go to the Mercedes.
Ariana was flanked by the two men as she made her way over. She noted the thick glass and the solid thud when the door shut behind her and knew the car was armored. They sped off the tarmac and onto a road. Miles was in the forward passenger seat, talking on a cell phone while Getty drove.
Miles turned around. “One hour. Roskov says have the money with you.”
“How much?”
“One hundred thousand American.”
Ariana knew he had asked the museum for fifty thousand. “You have cash for your kidnap fund, right?”
Miles nodded.
“Do you have one hundred thousand?”
Mile’s nod was more reluctant this time, Ariana knew her father had these security men all over the world, and each little station had a large amount of cash to buy back employees of any of his many subsidiaries who might get kidnapped. In many areas of the world, particularly South America and Russia, kidnapping was a profitable business, and there were brokers who made their living negotiating between the parties and taking a percentage of the ransom.
“Let’s get it, then?”
Miles pointed past her. “We have a quarter million in the trunk.”
“Good.”
“I have to check with your father to disburse the fund,” Miles said.
“He’ll approve it,” Ariana said. Her father would spend one hundred thousand on a piece of art without blinking an eye.
Regardless, Miles turned back to the front and pulled out his cell phone once more. Ariana stared out the thick windows at the grimy streets of Moscow as they raced toward the center of town. She had never liked the city; it always seemed dirty, and a sense of oppression still lingered over it with a palpable air. It was just at dawn, the first rays of the sun cutting at a sharp angle across the buildings and streets.
Getty cut the wheel hard, and they entered a narrow alley, then came to a halt. There was barely enough room to open the doors on the passenger side.
“Wait inside while I break out the money,” Miles said, his only indication that her father had approved the payment. Ariana knew her father would, given all the years he had worked in concert with Foreman; besides, he would probably get Foreman to reimburse him. She had recently accepted that her father cared more about his business empire than he did about her. The only reason he had been allied with Foreman was to get government contracts; she knew the main reason he was still working with the CIA man was that the Shadow, as a threat to the world, was a threat to his holdings. It was how her father had managed to become so successful: by viewing everything totally through the perspective of its effect on him.
Miles reentered the car, a metal suitcase in one hand; a long, plastic case in the other. He handed the metal one back to Ariana. “One hundred thousand. Roskov has a reputation as a legitimate dealer, which means he shouldn’t try to rip us off. Not good for the business he is in, but it’s not out of the realm of possibilities. I’ll go forward with you to make the meet. Jim” — he indicated the driver — “will cover us with a sniper rifle. I’ve also got some friends in the Omon, the Moscow special police, who will be nearby.”
“How much will that coverage cost?” Ariana wondered.
“Ten thousand.”
“Where is the meeting?”
‘Underneath the Moskvoretsky Bridge near the Kremlin. It’s pretty empty this time of day.”
“Let’s go.”
They pulled out of the alley and continued. The Kremlin appeared on the left as they drove down Alexandrovky Boulevard, then reached the Moscow River and followed the walls as they jagged left. Ariana could see the bridge ahead and the dark section of the road as it passed underneath the iron girders. A pair of headlights flashed out of that shadow.
The Mercedes stopped. Miles opened the plastic case and passed a sniper rifle to Getty. He then pulled out an MP-5 submachine gun, made sure a round was in the chamber, slid two extra magazines into his coat pockets, then looked back at Ariana. “Ready?”
“Do you have a weapon for me?”
The frown was back on his face.
“My being armed isn’t going to change anything except help our situation if we run into trouble,” Ariana pointed out.
Miles reached into the plastic case and retrieved a pistol. “Browning nine millimeter. Do you know how to work it?”
“Yes.” She pulled back slightly on the slide and noted there was already a round in the chamber. She stuck it in her belt, underneath her jacket. He handed her a couple of extra clips, which she stuck in her coat pocket.
“All right. Are you ready now?”
In reply, she opened her door and got out. She could see a car parked on the side of the road a hundred meters ahead. It was still early in the morning, and traffic above on the bridge was light, to judge by the sound. There was no one else on this road, and she wondered if that was because of the early hour or the Russian police or a combination.
Miles joined her, the submachine gun tucked under his coat, hanging from his shoulder on a sling. They began walking forward, and someone got out of the car they were headed toward. It was a BMW, also riding low on its tires, probably as well armored as their Mercedes. A tall man with a shaved head, wearing a long leather coat, walked around and put the car between them and him.
“Is that Roskov?” Ariana asked as they got closer.
“I have no idea,” Miles said. “I would assume so.”
Ariana halted ten feet from the car. “Are you Roskov?” she asked, not sure if he spoke English. Miles repeated the question in fluent Russian.
The man nodded and answered in English. “Yes.”
“Do you have the skull?” Ariana asked.
“Yes, I have it.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
Ariana was losing patience with people. “I’m not here to play games.”
“Why are the Omon surrounding this place?” Roskov asked.
“If you have the money to pay off the Omon to guard this meeting,” Roskov said, “then my asking price is much too low.”
“We agreed on the price,” Miles said.
“That was then; this is now” Roskov smiled.
“How much?” Ariana asked.
“Half a million.”
Ariana knew they didn’t have time to get that much money. “I’ll double the agreed price. Two hundred thousand.”
“Half a million,” Roskov repeated.
She turned to Miles. “Kill him.”
It was hard to tell who was more surprised, Miles or Roskov.
Roskov held up his hands. “Let’s not be hasty.”
“I don’t have time to play games with you. Your asking price with the British Museum was fifty thousand. We doubled it, and I just doubled it again. Take it or die.”
“You are not a good negotiator,” Roskov said. “I did not come here alone.” He nodded his head up in the darkness of the girders.
Looking up, Ariana could make out a pair of men with rifles perched on a couple of girders, aiming down at her.
“You aren’t a good businessman,” Ariana said. “Two hundred thousand.”
Roskov smiled once more. “You may have the Omon, but I have the Mafia. They now surround your policemen and are better armed. I made some calls while I was waiting for you. You have Van Liten’s skulls and one from the American Museum of Natural History and the British. They must be very important. More than just a curiosity.”
Ariana looked at Miles. She realized they could stand here forever playing games. She didn’t have the money here that Roskov was asking for, and she knew that leaving, getting the money, and arranging another meeting would take too much time. She smiled at Miles and the frown was there, larger than before.
“All right,” Ariana said. She put the briefcase on the trunk of the car. “That’s your first hundred thousand. Is that enough for me to see the skull and make sure it’s what I want?”
Roskov’s shoulders went down slightly in relief. “Certainly.” He used a remote control to unlock the trunk. He picked up the suitcase and opened the lid. He placed the briefcase next to an item wrapped in a blanket inside a cardboard box. He opened the briefcase and checked the money, then nodded at the box.
Ariana reached in. The weight felt right as she lifted the object out. Carefully, she unwrapped it, knowing before she saw it, that it was a pure ancient from the aura. The skull glittered, even in the shadow of the bridge. She wrapped it back up and placed it back in the box.
“We have the rest of the money in our car,” Ariana said.
“There is another issue,” Roskov said.
“And that is?”
“You are the daughter of Paul Michelet. There are those who think that is worth much more than the skull. So I am to tell you the price is a half million for the skull and one hundred million for you. An insignificant sum for someone like your father.”
Ariana didn’t hesitate. She had her pistol out and shoved the muzzle into Roskov’s side. Miles whipped out the MP-5 and braced it on the top of the trunk, aiming up at the two snipers, the metal lid between the two groups.
“You have one hundred thousand,” Ariana said. “I meant what I said. Take it or you die now.”
“You’ll never get out of here alive,” Roskov hissed. “This is not my idea.” He nodded at the metal briefcase. “That is all I get. There is nothing more I can do. They do not care if you kill me.”
“Too bad for you,” Ariana said. “Where are the keys for the car?”
“In the ignition.”
A pair of cars came down the street from the right and stopped twenty meters away.
“They got through the Omon or gave them a bigger bribe,” Miles said, the submachine gun still steady on the top of the trunk aimed at the two snipers.
“My boss owns the city,” Roskov said. “There is no way you will get out of here.”
Looking the other way, Ariana could see that Getty was behind the door of the Mercedes, the sniper rifle resting on the top of the frame.
“There’s only one way out of here,” Ariana said.
“And that is?” Miles asked.
‘Through there,” Ariana pointed at the trunk.
“Go,” Miles said.
Ariana shoved Roskov out of the security of the heavy trunk lid and dove into the trunk, Miles right behind her. She heard shots fired, and as Miles pulled the lid down on top of them, saw Roskov staggering back as bullets slammed into his chest. Then they were in darkness as the trunk locked shut.
There was that thud of rounds hitting the metal all around, but nothing came through the armor. A thin beam of light punctured the darkness; Miles had a small flashlight clenched between his teeth.
“Excuse me,” he said, as he slithered on top of Ariana and pointed the muzzle of the sub at the seat back visible between the metal frame. He fired a quick burst, ripping through the material, then another and another and finally a fourth, stitching out a square pattern about two feet on each side. He pivoted, his hip digging into the small of Ariana’s back, and brought both feet to beat at the center of the square. He kicked with no result, then kicked again, and the leather and springs gave way and sunlight flooded the trunk through the small opening.
Miles crawled through, Ariana following, cursing as a spring dug a gouge out of her shoulder. By the time she was in the backseat, Miles was already in the driver’s seat and had the engine started. Bullets were smacking into the heavy glass on all sides and ricocheting off. Ariana climbed into the passenger seat as Miles threw the BMW into gear.
Ariana took a quick look around. Getty was firing while the Mercedes was also taking incoming bullets. There were men spread all across the street from the two cars that had just arrived, all with automatic weapons. The two snipers under the bridge were also firing. She could see more cars coming from both directions as Getty jumped into the temporary security of the armored Mercedes and started its engine.
Miles raced by the Mercedes only to face four white vans coming toward them. He slammed on the brakes and expertly skidded the car in a one-eighty turn. He accelerated in the other direction, Getty following. The men who had gotten out of the cars fired, bullets smacking off the bulletproof glass, leaving cracks in places. They drove out of the way as Miles continued to push down on the gas.
“Oh damn,” Miles muttered. There were four more vans blocking the way under the bridge. “Better buckle up,” he said as he threw the wheel counterclockwise, and the heavy car lifted slightly on two wheel before settling back down as they headed toward the up ramp for the bridge, between it and the Kremlin.
A bullet hit the glass right next to Ariana’s head, and she ducked as a spider web of cracks appeared. She had just managed to buckle her seat belt when the car came to an abrupt halt and she was slammed forward, the belt keeping her from bashing her brains out on the dash. She looked up. Fifty meters in front of them, the ramp was blocked by two vans parked in a V. Behind the vans, a half-dozen men with automatic weapons and one man with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher waited. The eighty-eight millimeter wide round stuck out of the forty-millimeter tube, filled with explosives and waiting to be fired. The high-explosive warhead could penetrate over a foot of tank armor, which meant the cars were vulnerable to it.
Miles’s hands were tight on the wheel, his foot on the brake. Getty pulled the Mercedes up next to them, Miles looked to the left and Getty nodded.
“What is he doing?” Ariana asked as the Mercedes began moving.
“His job,” Miles said.
She watched in horror as the Mercedes raced toward the two vans, picking up speed. The men began firing, bullets bouncing off the car. Miles switched from brake to gas, and fell in twenty meters behind the Mercedes. The man with the RPG took careful aim and pulled the trigger. Getty swerved, but the distance was too close to make him miss but not as
close as Getty had hoped. The rocket grenade needed ten meters of flight to arm. He almost made it, but impact came at twelve meters. The round hit the Mercedes just below the right headlight, punched into the engine, and exploded.
Ariana ducked as the heavy engine hood of the Mercedes came flying over the burning car and smashed into the roof and the BMW, denting it. The Mercedes was still moving, four tones of momentum smashing into the point of the V, shoving both lighter vans back and clearing the way, before the car came to a halt, fire engulfing the engine.
Miles darted them through the gap, then swerved to the driver’s side of the Mercedes. “Covering fire!” he yelled at Ariana as he kicked his door open and sprayed the dazed gunmen with the MP-5.
She opened her door and fired as fast as she could pull the trigger, emptying a fifteen-round clip in four seconds. Then she looked at the driver of the Mercedes, Getty was held in place by the seat belt, but his head drooped. He was either dead or unconscious.
“Cover me,” she yelled across the top of the BMW to Miles as she abandoned the safety of the door and pulled at the driver’s door. It was locked. She looked over her shoulder, but Miles had already seen the problem and had his remote opener in hand. He pushed a button, and the lock clicked. She pulled the door open.
One of Getty’s legs was gone from the knee down, blood pulsing out. But she took the sign of the blood flowing as a positive; it meant he was still alive. She tucked her pistol in her belt and then grabbed his arms. She turned her back to him, his arms tight over her shoulders, and dragged him.
A string of bullets whizzed by her head. “Sorry,” Miles yelled as he fired another burst that narrowly missed her, giving her covering fire at whoever was behind her.
She shoved Getty into the passenger seat, then sat on top of him, pulling the door shut. Miles slid into his seat, and they were on their way. Bullets thumped on the back window as he pulled away.
As Miles raced through the streets of Moscow, darting through narrow alleys, Ariana pulled her belt off. She slid it under the stump of Getty’s right leg, then pulled it as tight as she could. Then she stuck the muzzle of the Browning under the belt and twisted, tightening down the makeshift tourniquet.
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