“I know he is a goddamn bastard,” Masha said with bitterness. “And that all the girls are afraid of him. But when he calls, we cannot refuse. At least the money is good.”
“He does this to all of them?” Alex asked.
Masha nodded. “We all know it. Go to see Suvorov, and you will not work again for two weeks until the bruises fade enough to cover up with makeup. It upsets the other clients, see.” The waitress set down the pints of beer on the table and she downed half of it in the time it took Alex to take one sip.
“He likes us young and meek,” Masha said. “His sick little games are more fun for him that way.”
An idea was forming in Alex’s mind. “Masha,” she said, “do you think I could replace the next girl Suvorov calls?”
Chapter Twenty-one
The guard Filipov gave Morgan food whenever possible, and would sit outside his cell and talk to him whenever he was keeping watch by himself. It was Morgan’s way of keeping time, his conversations with Filipov over rich, flavorful food, in between the long stretches of black nothingness, during which time he exercised as much as he could in the cramped cell to keep up his strength.
Filipov asked about American culture. He loved classic rock and Van Halen, Mad Max, and Die Hard. They even sang Elvis songs together quietly, Filipov with his heavy Russian accent.
By his reckoning, Morgan was in there for two weeks before he was jogged awake by harsh light cast on his face. He squinted, unaccustomed to the brightness.
A guard was standing at the door. “American. Out.”
Morgan picked himself up off the floor. Thanks to the extra food and exercise, he felt better coming out that going in, but he made a show of bracing against the wall and of getting up on shaky legs.
The guard grunted with impatience. “Quickly.”
Morgan emerged outside, feeling the harsh cold wind on his skin for the first time in weeks. The men were lining up for the evening count. Morgan found Grushin and stood next to him.
“So he emerges. Badri and I were beginning to think you were dead.”
“Not dead. Just buried.”
“What was it, two weeks?”
“You know better than I do,” said Morgan.
“I was thrown in solitary once. I was talking to my toes on the second day.” He looked Morgan up and down. “But you look hale and hearty, smell aside.”
“It was all right. A little boring.”
Morgan picked out the men who had attacked him in line. They were giving him stares that could melt steel.
“They are suspicious of you,” said Grushin. “Because you have Nevsky’s support. And people don’t like that.”
Morgan figured as much. Nevsky had bought him temporary safety, at the expense of putting him in greater danger in the long term.
“Badri and I have been talking. Working out the details of the plan. I think this is going to work.”
“We need to put this plan in motion soon,” said Morgan. “We can’t wait any longer.”
The chill set in as the count went on. Afterward, Grushin said, “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
They walked together into the prisoners’ barracks.
It was a grate that looked solidly in place but came loose after Grushin worked it for a few seconds.
“Through here, we can easily get outside,” he said. “I have left the barracks several times in the night to test it. Nobody knows about it. Nobody is watching. We need to get Badri in Nevsky’s office. We can get outside, but I have no idea how to get into the building.”
“I have an idea,” Morgan said.
Chapter Twenty-two
Morgan lay in bed and waited for Grushin’s signal, three taps on the bar to the outer doors. He got out of bed, careful not to wake anyone. Not that it would compromise the mission if he did—men got up to use the head in the middle of the night all the time.
He found Badri and Grushin already waiting for him at their arranged meeting spot. Grushin led the way to their secret passage out. They snuck under the grate, Morgan taking the lead and Grushin bringing up the rear.
Once they were outside, the wind chilled them to the bone. Morgan looked at the four guard towers, each housing a sniper and a spotlight that they shone over the camp in periodic cycles. The cover of the buildings meant that they never had to be in the line of sight of more than two towers, and often not more than one or none, so avoiding them was just a matter of watching out for the lights. Unless they were discovered, in which case it was a matter of luck whether they would survive the night. Then he searched for the dogs that patrolled the perimeter. Their attention wouldn’t necessarily be called by their presence out in the yard, but if they caught their scent and decided to raise the alarm, it was all over.
They ran along the wall to the prisoners’ barracks, keeping to the shadow. This was simple enough, with the light that would normally illuminate this spot burned-out. Once they reached the end, they crossed the short distance to the building that housed the kitchen and laundry.
They heard footsteps coming from around the corner of the laundry building. Morgan held up his hand, then motioned for them to move backward.
They stood, backs glued to the building, as the guards walked past, chatting in Russian and laughing. They weren’t expecting anyone out here. The patrol was a duty and nothing more.
They did not turn their heads, and didn’t see them.
Morgan held his hand up as he waited for them to move away far enough, watching the lights from the towers as he did. Finding an opening, he motioned for Grushin and Badri to follow.
They ran across the gap at the far end of the laundry building. One more gap to cross to reach the door to the administration building, where Nevsky’s office was located.
Behind them at the perimeter fence, a dog started barking.
Morgan had a choice to make. They could retreat to the prisoner barracks, where they could return with relative safety. Or they could press on, trying their luck at the risk of getting caught
Morgan opted to move forward. He took the lead, running full tilt toward their goal, the door two hundred feet away. He felt the two other men close behind him.
They crossed the distance to the sound of the barking dog. The spotlight from the nearest tower missed Badri’s foot by inches, but left them shrouded in darkness. Morgan tried the handle and found the door to the administration building unlocked, as Filipov had promised.
They closed the door and heard the sound of boots outside. Guards. This was the moment of truth. Had they been seen? Would the guards come in after them? Morgan held his breath, listening intently.
They passed, oblivious to the possibility that the two had gone inside. Morgan exhaled in relief.
He heard them talking, and Morgan caught the work krolik. Rabbit. Got the dogs barking wildly sometimes.
Morgan took the lead upstairs. He alone among them knew this building. He led them to the door to Nevsky’s office—locked, as they had anticipated. He took out the improvised lock pick he’d taken from the garage and set to work opening the lock to Nevsky’s door.
Within a couple of seconds, he turned it, hearing the click of the lock. Removing the pick and pulling the knob, he pushed the door open.
“After you.”
The first thing Morgan did was to check that the curtains were closed, so that no one could see them from outside. Badri knelt and turned on the computer. Morgan looked through a crack in the curtains as the machine booted up. Everything outside was as quiet as they had left it.
“There is a password,” said Badri.
Shit. How had Morgan not thought of this?
But someone else had. “I can do this,” said Grushin. “You know those young Russian hackers you keep hearing about? Well, I was one of them when I was a teenager.”
He sat in Nevsky’s chair. “Oh my God, I have not sat in anything so comfortable in months. Seriously, you guys have to try this.”
“Focus,” Mor
gan said through gritted teeth.
“Cool your horses,” Grushin said, and began typing. “This is going to be a breeze.”
Morgan kept watch outside the door as Grushin did his thing. “Got it.” He asked Badri, “How do you send your messages?”
Badri just shook his head and prodded Grushin off the chair. “I do this part.” Badri typed at the computer, writing the message to his confederates for about two minutes. “Okay,” he whispered. “It’s done.”
“Let me just wipe all records of us being here,” said Grushin.
“Are you sure your people will come?” Morgan asked Badri as the Russian typed.
“They will come. It is only a matter of us being there to meet them.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The call came two days later, when Alex was cooped up in Dobrynin’s dark little kitchen, cramming Russian vocabulary.
“There is a girl,” Masha told her over the phone. “Klara. She was called to Suvorov’s house tonight. He has not met her before.”
Alex checked her watch. It was still just after 3:00 P.M. “Then that’s our opening.”
“She still wants the money,” Masha said. “But she is happy for you to take her place. She is black-haired. But we can resolve that. I will bring some hair dye.”
“Oh, great.” Alex ran her hand through her hair. Black was not going to suit her.
“And you need to be sexy.”
“I can be sexy.”
Masha giggled. Alex couldn’t help feeling offended. “I will be around in a couple of hours,” said Masha. “I will bring the dye and some clothes for you, and I will teach you. Crash course. Oh, and Klara says thank you.”
Alex hung up and went into the refrigerated room to tell Dobrynin the news
“So you are doing this?” he said as he chopped up a hunk of meat with a cleaver.
“I have to,” she said. “It’s my only chance at this.”
“Do not get caught,” he said. “Do not let him know who you are. Get what information you can in his house—anything to trade for your father. That is your only chance. If you are found out, you will not come out of there alive.”
“I know, we’ve been over this,” she said with impatience.
“Insufferable girl. You want my help? This is my help.” He brought the cleaver down hard against the cutting board, splitting a piece of pork loin into three parts. “Do not get yourself killed, okay?”
* * *
Alex knocked at the service entrance where she had first seen Masha days before.
Her hair was black, the smell of the dye still lingering despite her best efforts at washing it. She hoped no one would notice, but then again, Suvorov had not been promised natural hair.
She was wearing more makeup than she’d ever worn in her life, and her skin was exposed in all the wrong places. She liked slight outfits, shorts and tank tops, that gave her freedom of movement, which the dress Masha had lent her did not—not unless she wanted to flash the entire street.
A security guard opened the door and ordered her inside.
Alex had made great strides with her immersion in the language and Dobrynin’s muttering instruction, and she made a particular effort to mimic the accent. She understood the basic orders relayed to her—come, stay, follow me—while keeping quiet and looking down took care of the rest.
She was searched and then moved out of the servants’ area, and Alex realized she was in the most luxurious house she’d ever seen. Everything was marble and carved wood, walls hung with classical paintings with elaborate frames, thick oriental carpets on the floor.
She was shown to a room that wasn’t a bedroom, but rather some kind of parlor appointed with several chaise longues and divans. There she was told to sit and wait.
She examined the room. The paintings on the wall Alex recognized as being nineteenth century by their style. On a side table was a statue of a faun, half man, half goat, made of bronze, and against an opposite wall was another of an angel, wings swept upward.
A set of double doors opened and a man walked in, wearing a suit. Suvorov. He was old, near sixty, although he was still strong and fit. He looked rather like a fish, with shallow eyes and a nose that jutted forward in his face. Alex felt a shiver of revulsion.
“Good evening,” he said in Russian. Alex mumbled a response.
He crossed the room, closing the distance between them. “Speak louder.”
She was afraid to. She was afraid he’d catch her accent, and that’d be the end of it. Masha had told her he liked them shy. So she’d be shy. She mumbled a “Good evening.”
“Look at me. What is your name? Speak up.”
She looked up at him and said, still mumbling, in her best Russian accent, “Alexandra.”
“I said speak—” His open hand flew at her face. On instinct, she raised hers and stopped the blow.
Too fast. Too well-trained. She saw by the way that he was looking at her that she’d given herself away.
Suvorov moved to pin her down against the divan, and she rolled out of the way, onto her feet on the carpet. She brought both elbows down hard on Suvorov’s back and twisted his arm, pulling it upward.
“Dan Morgan,” she said. “Where is he?”
His eyes went wide with surprise. Yeah, weren’t expecting that, were you, asshole?
“What is he to you?”
“Answer me. Where is he?”
“Far beyond your reach, you whore.”
She pulled his arm harder, and he grunted in pain. “Tell me.”
Suvorov whipped his head back, catching her nose. Blood began to flow out. He freed his arm from her grip and he swung, his palm snapping against her cheek so hard it knocked her to her feet.
Stupid. You know how to take a blow better than that.
“Your interest in Morgan . . . I see a resemblance,” he said, standing over her. He stepped on her hand and she cried out in pain. “Maybe it is the blood. What are you? His daughter?”
She gritted her teeth and fumed at him. From her vantage point, his face was wreathed with the clouds painted on the ceiling.
“He came here, you know,” said Suvorov. “Called himself Bevelacqua. Said he wanted to buy guns from me. Got inside my house and tried to steal from me. Maybe deceit runs in the family.” He ground his heel into her hand, and she yelled out in pain.
“What did you do with him?”
“We caught him, you know. When he broke in. He shot two of my security guards, broke the bones of three more. But we cornered him in the basement, finally.” He leaned down and pushed a lock of black hair out of her eyes. “So pretty, too. And now mine. I’m going to have my fun with you, girl.”
“Sorry, General, but I don’t think fun is in the cards.”
With her free hand, she punched him hard in the groin. He bent double in pain, and she pushed him off sideways. She stood and made a run for the door, but he ran after her. She ran for the far side of the room, then turned to face him. He was moving fast, bringing his superior weight to bear against her.
And she was going to use that.
She body checked him, which sent her flying backward, but was just enough to knock his path to the right—into the angel statue with the upswept wings, which were just sharp enough to pierce his belly.
Suvorov hollered in pain.
That was going to attract the guards.
The statue didn’t do much damage, but it was enough for Alex to get back to her feet and run through the double doors he’d come from, into his private chambers—an office, and a bedroom beyond.
She heard the heavy footsteps of Suvorov’s bodyguards, half a dozen at least, approaching from below. They were going to cut off all exits downstairs, so she had to do something they wouldn’t expect.
She went up. She found a narrow staircase that led upstairs, to a long hallway of bedrooms, where the ceiling had the slant of the roof outside. She chose one two thirds down. The window would not open, so she grabbed a heavy brass lamp
from the bedside table and shattered the glass, breaking the frames wide enough for her to pass.
Alex walked out onto the roof, bracing against the window frame. She was barefoot, and her dress wafted in a cool breeze, not exactly ideal gear for the situation. But being barefoot was a hidden blessing on the rounded tiles. She walked over the ridge of the roof to the other side.
No one outside seemed to be looking for her yet—they still thought she was inside. She looked over the edge, studying the pattern of the bricks. Yes, she could do it, even in a slutty dress. She sat on the eaves, hidden by darkness from anyone who might see her, and reached for a handhold, easing her way off to hang from the wall.
She climbed down the western wall, which was shrouded in darkness. She waited for the vehicle patrol to pass and jumped over the fence, dashing across the street and out into the night, as far away from Suvorov’s house as her legs could take her.
Chapter Twenty-four
Morning count. Morgan, Grushin, and Badri got together to talk things over for a few minutes before the guards forced them into the line.
“I asked them to signal from the west using lights blinking Morse code,” said Badri. “That’s how we’ll know that they’re there, and where they are.”
“They’ll get us away from here?” said Grushin. “Are you sure?”
“They are loyal, and they have the resources inside Russia. They will be there. They will get all three of us out.”
“If they actually manage to get here,” said Grushin.
“We look to the west,” he said.
“Because if they don’t, then we are liable to be eaten by—”
A siren sounded, the sign for them to line up for the count. They prisoners shuffled into position, making a wide semicircle in the yard. A murmur of activity propagated from one end. Someone was approaching, and the prisoners were turning to look. It was Nevsky, walking down the line.
Morgan’s gut sank. Did he know? Was he coming to kill them?
He stopped in front of him.
“Prisoner Morgan,” he said. “I am surprised at the people you have chosen to be your friends here. But you have my congratulations for managing to stay alive this long.”
For Duty and Honor Page 7
