by John Lutz
Taking deep breaths, he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. It would take his pursuers a while to get the truck’s description and license number from the driver and circulate it.
Enough time for him to drive miles away before he abandoned the truck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Porfiry paused in the doorway of the Port Authority. His head reared back. Apparently, in his windowless, warm office, he hadn’t realized that it’d been snowing all afternoon. He settled his astrakhan hat a bit lower on his ears before plunging into the swirling snow.
On the opposite side of the street, Laker followed him. It was quitting time and the sidewalks were full of people. He could move closer. He crossed the street and quickened his pace until he had a clear view over bobbing heads and shoulders of the astrakhan hat.
Two policemen armed with an automatic rifles walked by. The police were back on the hunt. The FSB must’ve admitted they needed help, after this afternoon’s screwup. Though there’d been no choice, Laker felt bad about the man he’d shot dead at the Eagle’s Nest. Felt worse about Yuri. No use hoping he was still alive. The FSB didn’t care for trials. His usefulness over, he’d gotten a bullet in the back of the head.
They reached the ferry dock. A small, round-bowed vessel was waiting. Porfiry showed his pass and went over the gangplank. Laker paid his money and followed. Porify went into the warm, bright cabin and sat down on a bench. Took out his reading glasses and perched them on the edge of his nose. Opened his Lord of the East Times.
Laker waited on deck as the lines were cast off, the gangplank retracted. The engine noise picked up as the ferry got underway. Then he opened the door of the cabin and went in.
He was only a step away when Profiry looked up. He flinched so violently that his glasses fell off. Uncrossed his legs to get up. But Laker was already looming over him.
“Let’s step out on deck, Porifry.”
“No. I won’t talk to you. Go away.”
“Fine,” said Laker loudly, in English. “We’ll talk here.”
Porfiry’s cheeks turned as gray as his sideburns. He followed Laker out on deck.
No one else was braving the cold. Snowflakes dropped steadily into the black waters of the bay. Porfiry faced him. “That trouble in the city center this afternoon. That was you?”
“Yes.”
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
Porfiry turned away. He didn’t seem to grasp that there was no way of getting away from Laker. He moved slowly toward the bow, his hands feeling his way in front of him, like a sleepwalker in a nightmare.
Laker grabbed him, spun him around, pushed him against the rail, got in his face. He pointed toward the bridge that marked the passage into the Pacific. Its silver cables and A-frames were glittering in floodlight, the red lights atop the tall A-frames blinking. “The ship is out there somewhere. I have to know where it’s bound and what it’s carrying.”
“I have nothing for you. Go away.”
“I’m running out of time, and you’re all I’ve got.”
“Why did you have to choose me?” Porfiry whined.
“You chose me, remember? You were . . . intrigued by the possibility you might help me. It was interesting to muse about. Sorry, my friend. You’re going to have to deliver on your promises.”
“I’ve done too much for you already.”
“I don’t agree,” Laker said. “But the FSB will, if they should happen to catch us together.”
Porfiry threw a panicky look over the side. Maybe he was thinking of jumping.
“We’re going back to the Port Authority,” Laker told him. “You’re going to look for those bills of lading you told me about.”
“It’s no use.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.”
“I’ve already tried!” Porfiry wailed. “All the information about Comercio Marinero has been deleted from the computer system. The hard copies have been taken from the files. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Very powerful people want that ship’s cargo and destination kept secret. Since I realized that, I’ve been so afraid. I can’t take anymore! Get away from me!”
“No. Because you know something else.”
“I can’t help you.”
“There’s something you decided not to tell me. I saw it in your eyes.”
“Go away!”
“I’m sticking by your side. There will be police on the pier. You’re not going home tonight, Porfiry.”
The Russian’s eyes were closed and his head was lolling, as if he had a fever. Laker didn’t enjoy terrorizing a timid old man, but there was no other way.
“All right,” Porfiry said at last. “There was one item of information they could not delete, because it is in my head. The shipping agent who handles all vessels of the CENI line is Arkady Resnikov. His office is in the Bakunin Building. He’ll have copies of the Comercio ’s bills of lading.”
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Because I’m too scared to lie. Please let me go.”
Laker released his fistfuls of Porfiry’s overcoat. The Russian sagged against the rail, panting puffs of steam into the frigid air. The best thing Laker could do for him was walk away. He did, without bothering to warn him not to tip off the police anonymously. All Porfiry wanted now was to crawl back into his safe, dull life and stay there till he died.
* * *
The cab dropped him on a handsome street with a canal running down the middle. It was lined with old, well-kept office buildings. The Bakunin Building had elaborate carved stonework, with a round-arched portal leading to its front door. Laker hadn’t heard of the occupation of ship’s agent before. It seemed to pay pretty well. The snow had tailed off, with only a few flakes drifting under the street lamps. It was lying deep enough on the sidewalk to make him wish he had boots. He was going to have wet socks on the plane.
Or the interrogation room, or wherever he ended up spending the rest of the night.
The lights were on in the lobby, and the front door was open. A man sitting at the front desk looked up as Laker entered. Laker ignored him as he headed for the elevators, hoping the building was big enough that the man didn’t know all the tenants’ faces.
“Wait!”
He stopped. The man, who had a block of chin embedded in a fatty neck, tapped an open book on the desk in front of him.
“Sign in.”
Laker scrawled in Cyrillic and walked on.
“Wait!”
Laker ignored him. Footfalls behind him echoed off the lobby’s marble walls. The clerk got in front of him. His head came up to Laker’s sternum.
“Your pass.”
“Look, I’ll be back down in a minute. I left my briefcase in my office.”
“I must check your pass against your signature.”
“Oh. Okay, then,” Laker said.
He hit the man on his protruding chin. Harder than he intended. The man’s head flew back. His body went limp and crumpled. Laker caught him and dragged him back behind the desk, where he couldn’t be seen from the street.
The directory said that Arkady Resnikov’s office was 612. The top floor. The elevator went all the way up without a stop. Its doors slid open on a corridor lined with wooden doors that had frosted-glass windows. No lights were showing in the ones he passed.
Nor in the window with painted on it. Laker broke it with his shoe. That made a lot of noise. Couldn’t be helped. He put his wet shoe back on, reached in and unlocked the door.
He crossed a small anteroom with a secretary’s desk. The inner office door was open. He entered and flicked the light switch. There was a computer on the desk, its screen black. It was bound to be password protected, so he was relieved to see a gray-green metal filing cabinet against the wall. Resnikov, like Porfiry, believed in hard-copy backup. He pulled the handle of the top drawer: locked.
Not an insurmountable problem. He pulled a chair over, tipped the cabinet forward to lean agai
nst it. Bent to reach under the cabinet and grasp the tip of the barlock. He pulled this down, releasing the drawers.
While he was working, a siren was drawing steadily closer. Maybe a coincidence. Or maybe someone had entered the lobby and found the unconscious man.
He tried Comercio Marinero first and came up blank. But CENA, SA was on the label of a hanging file, and one manila folder was dedicated to the ship he was after.
It was promisingly thick. He pulled it.
No time to go through it here. The siren was approaching. It cut off as he crossed the anteroom. He ran to the window at the end of the corridor. Six stories below, a police car with flashing lights was stopping in front of the building. Across the street, an army truck pulled up. Soldiers clambered out of the back. Laker considered: they didn’t know where he was, and it was a big building. He ran back along the corridor, found the door to the stairs.
He descended quickly, noiselessly in his soft-soled shoes, passing the fifth, fourth, third floors. No noise from below. With luck he could make it all the way to the lobby and find a back door.
No. Luck wasn’t with him. From below came a racket of footsteps and shouts. They were on the way up. He opened the second floor door and ran down the corridor to the window at the end. Unlocking it, he hauled up the sash. It looked a long way down to the sidewalk. He’d forgotten that Russians didn’t count the ground floor. He’d have to hope the snow would cushion his fall.
He swung one foot and then the other through. Sat on the window ledge to stuff the folder in his waistband. Put both hands down and pushed off. He made a good landing, flexing his legs and rolling as he hit. His knees and ankles hurt, but when he got on his feet, they could take the weight.
But the folder had gotten dislodged. Papers were fluttering all around him. He grabbed the folder and began snatching papers from the air and the sidewalk.
Light hit him from above. He looked up through flashlight beams at figures leaning out the window he’d jumped from. He ran. Heard shots. One was close enough to kick up a fountain of snow to his left. Then he was around the corner and away.
* * *
Traffic on the highway to the airport was moving slowly. In the back of the taxi, Laker peered at the papers he’d managed to salvage. Most were limp with moisture, their ink blurred. They were headed with dates from other years and pertained to earlier journeys of the Comercio Marinero. The container ship had been plying the routes between Vladivostok and Latin American ports for a long time. Finally he came up with a current bill of lading. A single form with boxes neatly filled out, laying out the information just as Porfiry had promised. At Vladivostok, the ship had taken on eight containers of generators and associated electrical equipment, bound for Puerto Chiapas, Mexico. Laker would easily beat the ship there.
If there had ever been a bill of lading for the cargo taken on at Magadan, he didn’t have it.
At the airport, he discarded the papers and checked the departure board. The next international flight was leaving in an hour, for Tokyo. He bought a ticket and headed for the gate.
Before joining the line of passengers waiting to have their passports stamped, he went into the men’s room and shaved off his beard. The picture in the Edward McLean passport showed him without a beard. He could only hope the Russians hadn’t penetrated that alias yet.
When he was second in line, he could see over the edge of the passport control officer’s counter. There was a picture taped to his desk. Even from five feet away and upside down, Laker could see it was the shot of him in his football jersey. He was clean-shaven in that picture, too.
He glanced around. Two sets of soldiers with automatic rifles were within sight. He’d seen plenty more in the terminal. He’d discarded his pistol hours ago.
The woman at the counter picked up her bag and walked away. The officer beckoned Laker.
His heart pounding, he stepped up and handed over his passport. The official opened it to the photo of Edward McLean. Glanced at it, then up at Laker. No sign of interest. So far so good. Laker willed him not to look at the photo taped to the desk.
He looked at it. Then back at Laker. Their eyes met and held. The official’s were as blank as Laker’s. He stamped the passport and handed it back.
Laker was literally sick with relief. He hurried to the nearest men’s room and into a cubicle, where he lost his lunch. Then he went to the mirror. It showed him the face of a man who in the last few hours had browbeaten a frightened old clerk. Enticed an eager young journalist to his death. Killed an enemy agent. A man who had been disowned by his own country and knew the long odds against him on his solitary mission. Knew also that he’d probably never see the woman he loved again.
The man in the photo the passport control officer’d looked at had just made the key interception and been cheered by thousands as he’d run it back for a touchdown. He was looking forward to a shower, a beer, and a date with a pretty cheerleader. Beyond that, to years of playing a game he loved and becoming rich and famous.
No wonder the officer hadn’t made the match. The features were the same, but it wasn’t the same man.
Laker dashed cold water on his face and walked down the corridor to his plane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Behind Tilda North’s house in South Miami Beach, there was just enough room for a small pool and a narrow strip of patio. In late afternoon, Tilda was lying on a beach towel, sunbathing topless. Ava was sitting in the shade in a caftan, listening to the radio.
“You know, coz?” Tilda said. “In my entire life, I’d never listened to as much NPR as I have since you came to stay with me.”
Ava switched off the radio. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind. I understand that you have the usual North addiction to news. But I do have one question.”
“What’s that?’
“Why do you freeze like a deer in the headlights whenever the name Thomas Laker is mentioned?”
When Ava didn’t reply, Tilda propped herself on an elbow and slid her sunglasses down to give her cousin an inquisitive look.
“Do you know Mr. Laker?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“We’ve been dating for a while.”
“Really? What sort of man is he?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, is he the sort to let a terrorist get away and kill six people, then scarper?”
“That’s all bullshit.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me.”
Tilda laughed. “You mean, you trust him? Most of the guys I’m dating, I wouldn’t trust them to feed the cat.”
Ava was annoyed to see tears falling into the lap of her caftan. She turned away and covered her face.
When she looked up, Tilda was sitting beside her. She’d taken off her sunglasses and put on her bra. “Ava, I’m sorry. I had no idea. Please forgive your frivolous cousin. You’re in love with Thomas Laker?”
“Yes.” Ava fought down her sobs and wiped her eyes.
“What was this latest report? I didn’t quite hear.”
“There are rumors in Moscow that Laker has popped up somewhere in the Russian hinterland. That he murdered a heroic officer of the law, then disappeared again. The Kremlin denies it all.”
“What do you think? Is that all bullshit, too?”
“Last thing he told me was, the Russians were up to something big, and he was trying to find out what. But that was a long time ago. I hope the rumors are true. Because then at least he’s alive.”
The tears were starting again. She felt her cousin’s arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Ava. Have a good cry. I’ll leave you to it. I know Norths hate having witnesses to their weaker moments. Then shower and change. I’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen with G and Ts.”
An hour later, Ava was on her second G and T and feeling better. They were in the kitchen, where Ava was making salad at the counter and Tilda was grilling tilapia at the is
land. They were discussing a story in the business section of today’s Miami Herald, which quoted people in the real-estate development and travel industries saying that Rodrigo Morales, while promoting his Yemayá Resort heavily, was being suspiciously vague about how construction at the site was going.
The phone on the wall rang, once. Without looking up from the grill, Tilda said, “Go ahead. I can wait.”
“What?”
“This is the person who calls you every couple of days. Hangs up after one ring. And you go call him back on that cheap cell phone you bought with cash at Walgreen’s.”
“Sorry, coz. It’s someone at the NSA who’s helping me.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Ava went to the living room, whose walls were striped with orange light from the sunset through the Venetian blinds. She took her untraceable burner out of her purse and keyed in the number of Stan Rahmberg’s cell. She wasn’t feeling hopeful. So far he’d had nothing to report, except that Ken Brydon had done a brilliant job of covering his tracks.
This time, though, he said hello in a voice breathless with excitement.
“You’re getting somewhere?” she asked.
“Yes. The trick he pulled to get the info out of here was incredibly slick. What he did was—”
“It’s all right, you don’t have to explain.” She was too impatient to sit through five minutes of geek talk. “Just as long as you’re sure that this is it.”
“Oh, I’m sure. But I can’t figure out why it’s significant. Why he thought Morales would pay big money for it.”
“What is it?”
“A thread from a discussion group called The Bubbler. The members are dive shop owners and dive boat skippers around the Caribbean. The thread starts with a guy called Mike Nelson saying, don’t go to Rainbow Reef anymore. It’s not worth the trouble. Other people respond, asking him why. Apparently it’s a coral reef, a popular place to take divers. Mike Nelson says it’s degraded. Then somebody else says it’s the rise in sea temperature that’s degrading reefs the world over, and another guy says that’s caused by global warming, and still another guy says global warming is a hoax, and soon everybody’s flaming each other. Nobody mentions Rainbow Reef again. You know how online discussions go.”
