The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8)

by John Ellsworth

  Thankfully, it lasted but five seconds this time.

  "Now. That is the first rule. Each time you ask me to stop, it will happen again. As I said, we are not negotiating. The time for that has passed."

  A brawny militiaman stepped to the head of the table. He wore the gray uniform of the Russian militia—the police authority in Russia, responsible for investigating crime and keeping the peace. His role today was to support the GRU and to supply certain items they would need. His name was Iganamov or "Moffi."

  Moffi reached down and swept his hand across Christine's breasts. He said something in Russian and looked at Karli with a smile.

  Karli barked something back at the man, and the hand was instantly removed. Moffi hung his head, looking childishly contrite. With thumb and forefinger, he wiped spittle from the corners of his mouth. Then he wiped his fingers on his tunic.

  "I apologize for my friend, Ms. Susmann. He is rushing to the end of where we're going. We have much to do before we give you to the militia."

  "UH UH UH," she moaned. She flexed her thigh, attempting to shake loose the darts. They remained in place, as designed.

  "We are going to take pictures of you today. You are going to do exactly as I order. Now, we will begin by dressing you. Moffi!"

  Moffi went out to the Volga and returned within minutes, a bundle of clothes wrapped in his arms.

  "Ms. Susmann, I am going to release you now."

  Karli stepped on a floor pedal and the wooden table inclined to ninety degrees, fully upright. The third man, a tired-looking militia private with white hands, neck and face jutting at odd angles from his uniform, unbuckled the restraints. He slid his hand under Christine's lower back and helped her stand away from the table. Unsteadily at first, then feeling her footing, she was standing upright.

  Moffi extended a pair of gray militia pants to her. He indicated she should wear them.

  Christine dangled the pants at arm's length.

  "What? I'm to put these on?"

  "Please," said Karli. He recoiled the Taser wires into the gun, dislodging and retracting the two silver darts. Christine lurched against the pain but said nothing. Her leg was burning, but that was the least of her troubles just then, her mind told her.

  She stepped first one leg, then the other into the trousers. She pulled them up and zipped the zipper. A good four inches of extra material bulged forward at the waist.

  Karli looked at Moffi. Moffi again went out to the Volga, returning quickly with a belt and shoulder strap. Christine took the belt and worked it through the pant loops. Then she fastened the shoulder strap to the front and back of the belt, but left it hanging to the side, much as one would do with suspenders before putting on a shirt. Which came next, the white shirt. She slipped it on, buttoned up, and then received the militia tunic. At that point, Moffi placed the shoulder strap properly and clipped a holster to her utility belt. The holster contained an MP-443 Grach standard-issue militia semiautomatic pistol. She had no doubt it was unloaded and didn't bother to check. Her military and police training would have dictated she eject the magazine and work the action on any sidearm handed to her, but at this point she knew already. It would contain no bullets.

  They produced ankle boots that she slipped on even though they were several sizes too large. She had the feeling that perfect fit and presentation was not going to be the issue. No, they were moving in some other direction, something she didn't yet fully understand. Was she going to be killed wearing the uniform? Brutalized? She had no idea; except she knew her life was totally out of her control. She was their plaything, and she determined that she'd best come to grips with that and begin to plan how this all should end.

  She trusted herself enough to know she would eventually take the initiative and eventually achieve the upper hand. She just didn't know how.

  At least not yet.

  23

  The U.S. Embassy in Moscow was housed within nine stories with two walls of glass and two of concrete. Anti-eavesdropping circuitry was built into the building's bones, as the construction of the embassy was performed by Goudanov Brothers Construction out of Queens, New York. The Goudanovs were experts in premises security and, just coincidentally, close relatives to the chair of the House Ways and Means Committee from around the time the bid was let by the government.

  The address was Bolshoy Devyatinskiy Pereulok 8, centrally located in the Presnensky District in the city center of Moscow. This was a noisy, smoggy area, full of panhandlers and street vendors selling everything from bronze castings of the Kremlin to maps leading to the president's home. Other embassies were located within a two-block area as well, including British, Swedish, and the Republic of South Africa.

  Angelina told the cabbie where to pull over; and, in the high-speed traffic flow, exited the cab on the sidewalk side. Thaddeus followed out the same door. They were both carrying small bags, and Thaddeus hadn't shaved in over a day. Both travelers looked grim, and both looked exhausted.

  The past twenty-four hours had been more than anyone could have anticipated. In addition, Angelina had adopted the unnerving habit of constantly speaking notes into her phone and providing a narrative of every move Thaddeus made. "He entered the cab at the Holiday Inn, looking unshaven and haggard...."

  They pushed through the rotating door. The lower seven floors were all official U.S. State Department offices and trade and governmental representatives. The upper two floors were intelligence and security services. Thaddeus guessed the top floor was ruled over by the CIA. This was pure guesswork; there was no indication of a CIA presence and the lobby listings mentioned nothing. Still, from all he had heard and read, and from the many movies he had watched, Thaddeus was of the opinion that he would find the CIA in the building.

  "This is Spycraft 101," Thaddeus told Angelina as they looked over the building directory. "I can smell CIA from down here in the lobby."

  "Is that what that is? I thought it was the smell of bureaucrats."

  "Well, that too, I guess."

  They entered double glass doors and found themselves inside a large reception area. It was laid out in a U-shape, with courtesy windows along both legs and a windowless office at the base. A row of American flags stood at attention around the room. Windows were marked "Immigrant Visas," "Non-Immigrant Visas," "U.S. Citizen Services," and "Administrative," plus other, apparently lesser services.

  Thaddeus and Angelina automatically stepped up to the Citizen Services window and waited for the svelte young woman on the other side to hang up her phone. She gave them a broad smile and held up a finger. Strangers in a strange land. Thaddeus immediately felt welcome and smiled back at her. She put the phone down and greeted them.

  "Welcome to the Embassy of the United States of America. Are you citizens?"

  "I'm Thaddeus Murfee, and this is Angelina Sosa," he said. "We're Americans."

  "I hear you are," the young woman smiled. She held out her hand. "I’m Sandy Gillette, Sacramento, California. How can we help you today?"

  "We were passengers on the Swissair that was hijacked. We're here involuntarily," Angelina said.

  "Oh, my, you should be back at the airport. That flight has been cleared to leave Russia at—"she checked her computer screen"--one p.m. today."

  "We're not leaving," said Thaddeus. "There's a third member of our group and she has been kidnapped."

  Sandy Gillette's smile relaxed. "Oh? How did this happen?"

  "She was whisked off the plane by two men. They stormed the plane and made off with her. She was the only one taken. We followed her to see if we could help."

  "Uh, how did you enter Russia without visas?"

  Thaddeus pulled the yellow carbon page of the visa issued the night before.

  "We were both given one of these."

  "These are emergency visas," said Sandy, scanning the receipt. She looked over Angelina's copy as well. "You'll be in the country illegally if you stay past ten o'clock tonight. They're only good for twenty-four hours."<
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  "I think we knew that," Thaddeus said.

  Angelina stopped dictating notes long enough to agree.

  She said, "We knew that."

  "Okay, how can we help you?"

  Thaddeus leaned into the window opening. He spoke confidentially.

  "I was on this flight because my friend, Christine, was traveling under CIA orders. I was along just to provide cover for the first leg of the trip."

  "How does that work?"

  "I'm a lawyer. Christine is my paralegal."

  "So you're here because—"

  "I need to speak with the CIA. I know they're in this building. Please set that up for me. Us," he said, nodding at Angelina.

  "Let me step away and speak to my supervisor. She'll know how we can help you—if even we can."

  "All right."

  Thaddeus turned and placed his back to the service window. He watched as Angelina thumbed her tablet's keyboard.

  "What are you writing down?"

  The young woman didn't look up. "Just getting down the conversation. And the look of this place. And the smell—god-awful."

  "Sir?" he heard from behind. He turned and found himself facing Sandy, and an older, huskier woman with thin black hair combed severely back on the top and sides. She was wearing redder-than-red lipstick and small diamond earrings. She gave him a cold once-over and nodded. "I've got this," she said to Sandy, who stepped aside.

  "Sir, you can't expect just to come in here and ask to speak to the CIA and have doors open up. That's not how it works."

  Thaddeus winced. "Then tell me how it works."

  "You need to give us your name and your local number. Information will be relayed, and contacts made if appropriate. Please just give Sandy your contact info and someone will get back to you."

  Thaddeus shook his head violently. "Sorry, but that's not good enough. Our plane is leaving in three hours. In eleven hours, we're here illegally. We need to speed this up."

  "Can I suggest going to the Russian visa office and seeking a visitor's fourteen-day visa? Would that be something you'd be interested in doing? We have addresses and directions we can give you. We've made a small map."

  "I need to see the CIA now! Maybe I haven't been clear. The person we're here about was kidnapped last night by Russian agents of some sort. She was taken away by GRU officers this morning at GRU headquarters. We need help now, and we're not leaving until someone sees us!"

  "Again, I'm afraid it doesn't work—"

  "Look. You can either help me right now, or I'm going straight to the AP and CNN and I'm going to tell them how the CIA has abandoned one of its agents here in Moscow. Is that what I'm going to have to do in order to cut the red tape?"

  "One moment, please," said the supervisor. She ducked back inside her windowed office. Sandy remained at her post, idly writing on an intake sheet of some sort while they waited. Thaddeus looked at Angelina and rolled his eyes. She gave him a thumbs-up and whispered, "Don't forget, you have a representative of the press right here at your service."

  Which was when it came clear in his mind. She was right. Angelina had immediate entrée into those news services, thanks to her role at the Chicago Tribune. For the first time, he was glad she was along. Maybe this could be worked to their advantage. To Christine's advantage.

  Five minutes dragged by. Sandy offered them each an eight-ounce bottle of water. They quickly accepted. They hadn't eaten that morning and had missed their customary coffee and liquids. She offered two more bottles after the first were all but inhaled.

  Finally, the supervisor returned. She was holding two red visitor badges. She handed them to Thaddeus.

  "Keep these with you. Sandy will key the elevator. You'll be taken to the top floor. Good luck."

  "Wait, is the top floor CIA?"

  The woman, walking away, turned and looked at Thaddeus. She nodded, and her ruby lips glowed.

  "CIA."

  24

  Against his will, Jacques was dragged from Russian customs into a small, windowless office the same night Christine was abducted. Four agents assisted him into a chair when he refused to sit and made it clear he wasn't going to be answering questions.

  The largest agent, dressed in a rumpled gray suit and white shirt with collar flapped up on one side and spattered navy tie, came around behind and forced the Frenchman's chair up to the table. Jacques drew a deep breath and looked around. He knew far better than to struggle with these hoodlums from the GRU.

  The room was mustard yellow with white ceiling, two fans overhead, and a sullen picture of the president on the wall. The four Russian agents sat one on either side of him and two across from him. He inhaled the strong odor of garlic and fish and knew they had been eating the Russian cafeteria standby of white fish in white garlic sauce with beets and hard rolls on the side. The fragrance lasted beyond even the next meal.

  The largest agent reached from behind Jacques and placed a bottle of vodka on the table inches from his hands.

  "Drink," said the agent. He added a drinking glass and reached and began pouring. Two ounces, four, eight—Jacques quit counting.

  "I can't drink all that. It will kill me."

  "What do you think our plans are for you? Do you think you're going to walk out of here and go running back to your CIA? Is that it?"

  To the right of Jacques sat an agent with the largest forehead Jacques had ever seen. He immediately named him Cro-Magnon Man. The man behind him—someone called him Ivan, so he became Ivan the terrible. To his left was a man who looked more Asian than Caucasoid so Jacques named him The Mongol. And the fourth agent, across from him, was a fortyish woman wearing jungle fatigues bloused into combat boots. A small hat covered most of her head, but Jacques could see she was starting to show a gray stripe above either ear. She was smoking and exhaling huge clouds of smoke directly at him. She became known as Smoky. Now he had them all: Ivan, Cro, Mongol, and Smoky. He played this little naming game because his colleagues at the Agency would want full descriptions of his captors and he didn't want to leave out any details.

  Ivan pushed his back. "Drink. Drink the glass."

  Jacques shook his head. "No. I don't drink alcohol."

  "Nonsense! The French drink wine in the crib. Drink!"

  He pushed again at Jacques' back, this time harder, more insistent.

  Jacques relented. He picked up the glass and sipped a half-inch of the liquid. It burned his mouth and throat going down. "Merde!"

  "What is shit? What of it?"

  Jacques replaced the glass on the table and pointed at it as if warning of snakes.

  "But do you have any hairs left on your balls?" Ivan laughed. "That is the true test of Russian vodka. Maybe we should look."

  "It will do."

  "Drink down the glass. Or else we shall have to look at those balls and I promise you that won't be pleasant."

  "No. No more."

  "Shall we?" Ivan said to Mongol and Cro and they turned in their chairs and seized his arms while Ivan, from behind, jerked from under his chin, pulling his head back so he was staring at the ceiling. The two fans lazily lopped the air, creating a downdraft. With his other hand, Ivan brought the vodka bottle to Jacques' mouth and inserted the neck halfway inside. He lifted the bottle and poured.

  Jacques choked and sputtered and vodka flew out of his mouth though a good inch or two made its way down his throat.

  "There's no need for that! I'm not going to discuss anything with you. You know that."

  "Who is this Ama Gloq? Mr. Lemoneux, we know about your employer. We know you were both working for the same employer. See how easy it is? There's nothing to hide. There's nothing we don't already know about you. So help us with her. Why did she come to Russia?”

  "Now there's a stupid question, or did you fail to see the hijackers when you rushed the plane?"

  "Again!" Ivan commanded and again he seized and poured. This time a good two fingers of the glass entered Jacques' throat, emptying the glass. Smoky reached
across the table and refilled it. Jacques shook his head violently.

  "No more. If you make me drink more I'll be useless. My tolerance is very low."

  Ivan grimaced and made a fist of his huge right hand and slammed it with all his power against the back of Jacques’ head. The Frenchman's head flew forward and slammed against the table, spilling the vodka and opening a split in the skin. "Vas te faire encule!" cursed Jacques; and the Russians, fluent in many languages, seized his head and again slammed it against the table. This time blood spattered and Jacques' blow-dried hair flew forward and matted in the wound. With his hand, he drew the hair aside. He held up the same bloody hand. "Enough. I'm not a field agent. I haven't been trained to resist."

  "What do you do for the CIA?"

  "I bug rooms. Sometimes I follow people, but only once before."

  "Did you follow Ama Gloq?"

  "Briefly."

  "And her real name is Christine Susmann?"

  "I don't—yes."

  "Why did Christine Susmann come to Russia? Was the hijack a ploy to bring her here? To embarrass the president? To establish her martyrdom in some fashion? What do you say?"

  "The hijacking was real. We were supposed to fly to Zurich. I was to leave off there."

  "Where was she supposed to go?"

  "I don't know. Pakistan, maybe."

  "For what purpose?"

  "I honestly don't know. With them, it's all need-to-know."

  Ivan reached around and poured another glass of vodka.

  "Drink it down," he commanded.

  This time, Jacques did not resist. He drank the entire eight ounces. Eight shots of vodka.

  In minutes, he could feel his breathing rate slow and the room begin to spin. Alcohol is a central nervous system depressant, he told himself. Don't lose consciousness. Stay awake!

  Again Ivan poured. Again Jacques drank. He held up a hand. "No more."

  "I will decide that."

  "I can't take anymore. I will pass out."