He kicked the beleaguered leg, and the animal's mouth rose and fell with the effort. And what was this with the bricks? He tried separating himself from the wall. Lying on his left side, on cement, damp, pushing hard against the wall to get separation. Then his back squeezed up against something hard. He turned his head. If his eyes were working properly—and he could only hope they were—his back was wedged against a dumpster.
That was it. He had come to between a dumpster and a brick wall, lying on cement, a dog biting his ankle. He kicked at the dog's head and connected. The dog yelped and backed off. Now growling, now closing on his leg again. Jacques kicked, harder this time, and the dog backed off.
Jacques placed his palms and knees against the brick wall and pushed away with tremendous effort. There. The dumpster rolled back on its little wheels. Who would have put such tiny wheels on such a big box? He shook his head. What did it matter, the wheels?
He pushed again and was able to turn over onto his back. The sky looked down at him, obscenely gray and overcast. It was a hopeless sky to a man coming to, hungover, mouth filled with foul-tasting bits of vomitus, side of face streaked with same; a hopeless sky bereft of sunshine and blue. Gray, like his soul.
Then, a memory. Those sons of bitches got me drunk! He said to himself. They forced alcohol down my throat. Tried to kill me. Damn near killed me. Kicked me out in this alley to die.
Placing his hands on the cement alleyway, he drew up his knees and forced himself upright onto his feet. There, I survived.
He felt his pockets. Wallet missing. Wedding ring missing, watch gone too. Stripped of all ID, all money, no idea where he was.
Moscow. He was in Moscow and he had to get to the U.S. Embassy before the Russians discovered he had survived. Because he knew them. Knew them and knew they wouldn't fail if they had another chance to kill him.
He walked a hundred meters to the near end of the alley and peered out. Sidewalk traffic, heavy vehicle traffic flow. All street signs were in Russian. He slumped against the brick wall. He had no idea where he was and no way to ask for help. You didn't just walk up to a stranger on a Russian street and ask for directions to the CIA. That wouldn't play. And certainly the cab drivers wouldn't know.
Hold that thought. If he could flag a cab and communicate “U.S. Embassy.” He didn't know Russian for "U.S. Embassy," so he could only hope that the destination was a common enough one that the cabby would recognize the words.
No time like the present to find out.
He crossed the sidewalk and stepped between two parked cars. Looking left, surveying the oncoming traffic.
Finally, a cab trundled up and closed the distance.
Could it be?
Yes! He was actually pulling to the side in order to transport Jacques.
He opened the back door and clambered inside. The driver immediately wheeled into traffic and spoke Russian into the rearview mirror.
"I speak English and French," said Jacques in English. He repeated it in French.
The cabby shrugged at him.
"United States Embassy," said Jacques. He repeated it in French.
"Oui, monsieur," said the cabby.
Jacques flopped back against the seat. His head rolled to the side. He felt carsick, but resisted the urge to vomit. That would be the end of his ride; so he swallowed hard, keeping it down. He tried to focus on the driver's photograph affixed to the back of the seat with his name and registration number below—all in Russian, of course. It didn't matter who or what or where—he could've kissed the guy.
“Wait here,” he told the cabby at the Embassy.
He ran inside and returned with cab fare plus tip.
And just like that, his life was spared.
29
Volga Gaz 21—the Russian president's favorite car. He had plenty to choose from, but the Volga was the Mercedes of Moscow.
The video was shot. It showed the Russian president Piotor Irunyaev coming out of his residence on Rubiyovo-Uspenskove highway. He was dressed for winter weather in stout lace-up brogans, a smart brown suit, heavy topcoat, gloves, and Russian ushanka winter hat, ear flaps up. He was smoking a thin cigarette and exhaled a mighty presidential plume of tobacco smoke and steam.
He approached the rear passenger seat of the Volga, an aide waiting to open the door, when suddenly, from stage right, appeared a running figure.
The figure was wearing the uniform of the Russian Militia.
The figure was brandishing a Grach semi-automatic pistol in her right hand. Just as she reached the president and leveled the gun at his chest, the president ducked and lunged for her.
The camera panned back ten feet so the entire scene was captured. He wrestled the assailant to the ground, wrested the gun from her hand, and triumphantly placed a knee against the back of her head, pinning her to the circular driveway of Novo-Ogaryonov.
Militiamen dashed in from either side and the assailant was dragged to her feet. The camera panned in for a close-up of her face. Footage was submitted; and newscasters on Russian state TV identified her that night as Christine Susmann, a CIA operative from America.
"Why does she appear to stagger?" said the president after Take One.
Karli shook his head. "Cooperation training, Mr. President. She was unwilling at first."
"So is she drugged?"
"See the purple bruising on the left side of the face? Beneath the face powder?"
The president waved for her to be brought to him. She was half-dragged before him, where she wobbled and her eyes glassed over.
"Can you hear me?" the president asked in perfect English.
Christine fought to focus her eyes. "Can I have—coffee?"
"Darling girl," said the president, "you need something much stronger than coffee. Karli, walk her around the drive once or twice. Deep breaths. I want her looking like she's really charging me, not stumbling at me."
The cameraman piped up. "That was a giveaway, I thought. She looks punch drunk."
The president nodded. "Indeed. Karli, here's a better idea. Take my phone and ring the house physician. He's listed on the speed dial. Get something brought out here for her."
Karli did as he was told. Within minutes the physician appeared carrying a bag, his coat unbuttoned to the wind.
"She's unsteady, Dimitri," President Irunyaev said to his personal physician. "Fix her."
The physician examined Christine's head. "No wonder. She's been brutally assaulted. Her ear is bleeding internally. And her nose is probably broken."
The president gave Karli a sour look. The pugnacious Russian GRU man shook his head. "She was very uncooperative," he said. "Sometimes easy, sometimes not so easy. She was not-so."
"I have something for her," said the physician. He held a finger between Christine's eyes and moved it right and left, attempting the horizontal gaze nystagmus test. Her eyes broke off tracking much before forty-five degrees and the physician sadly shook his head. "Damage to the optic nerve or worse. Brain damage, perhaps. She needs medical treatment."
"Nonsense," said the president. "She has assaulted me. She needs to be taken to prison."
The doctor backed away. "You have my opinion, Mr. President. Would you like me to medicate her?"
"Certainly."
The physician selected a small bottle from his bag and inserted a syringe through the rubber opening. He half-filled the syringe and again approached Christine. "Arm," he said, and Karli pulled up the sleeve of her militia tunic. The doctor turned her forearm upright and inserted the needle into a vein. The plunger was quick to deliver the medication and Christine gasped as the amphetamine worked its magic. In less than a minute, she felt euphoric, her pain cut in half. Fully alert, she listened as Karli explained her role in the scene again. She nodded, ready to do what she was told. She understood that these same men would attack her again if she failed to cooperate. She had no intention of anything other than complete cooperation.
They ran the scene again. This time the presid
ent clubbed her with his fist and knocked her to the cement driveway. She rolled on her side and vomited before he could press his knee against the side of her head. He stood up and spread his arms. "What?" he said to the physician. "What happened?"
The physician responded, "Too hard. The slightest concussion and she is gone. This time pull your punch, as they say."
Karli said, "What about if you step aside as she lunges and she goes sprawling? Then you can overpower her."
They ran it as Karli suggested and this time it was a perfect take. Christine lunged for the president, who spun away like he had seen American football players spin, and followed up with a knee to the head. This time there was no struggle. His quarry was unusually still, unresisting.
"Stop," the president told the cameraman. 'I think I've killed her."
"Probably," said the physician. "Her head struck the concrete and at the very least concussed her again. She'll likely be unconscious the rest of the day. Maybe longer. I recommend hospitalization."
"Nyet," spat the president. "Prison for this one."
By nightfall, she had been charged with trespassing, assault, attempted murder, and violent aggression. She was taken to Moscow’s maximum-security prison, Matrosskaya Tishina, where it was said she awaited trial.
* * *
An unidentified caller brought that night’s News at Seven report to Thaddeus’ attention.
"Have you seen her?" asked the female voice.
Thaddeus alerted. The voice was familiar. But why?
"Seen what?" he said.
"Watch the ten o'clock news. Your friend has been found. We will call you tomorrow."
The phone clicked off.
Thaddeus and Angelina had moved their belongings back into the original Holiday Inn. They had opted for two bedrooms, and she was in the shower "washing off the day" when the phone had beeped.
Thaddeus immediately dialed the front desk. He asked if they could give him the calling number of his latest incoming call. The desk clerk said they could not. Russian phones do not have that feature, he was told.
When the shower stopped, he knocked on the bathroom door.
"You're going to want to see this," he shouted at the door.
"What have we got?"
"Ten o'clock news. Christine has been found."
"OMG!"
30
"It wasn't even like her," Thaddeus said to Nancy Empress. "It was her body, but she was heavily medicated. Her face looked swollen. Her nose was clearly broken. What in the hell are you going to do!"
The woman from the CIA slowly shook her head. "We cannot get involved with this, Mr. Murfee."
"They're killing her!"
"She knew the risk going in. She knew she might not be coming home."
"That was a totally different thing. That was the Middle East. She didn't sign up for Russia. She knows nothing about Russia. She's never been here before. She doesn't know the language and knows nothing about surviving here. They're going to kill her. Now what are you going to do to help her?"
This time the woman's back stiffened. She gave him a hard, cold look. "We can offer nothing. Everyone in Russia believes that phony video is real. We can't have the CIA dragged in the mud by making that connection between the Agency and your friend. I cannot allow that."
"Then we're going to come to blows. I won't let this go."
"No, and you shouldn't. You're a smart man. File a lawsuit. You'll think of it. Maybe one of the humanitarian agencies can step in. Sometimes they're very useful in negotiating releases on humanitarian grounds. The Russians sometimes go for that as it makes them look honorable and sincere about human rights. Good PR."
Thaddeus scowled and shook his head. "I don't think we have that long. She's injured. Maybe mortally. The woman they showed wasn't the Christine I know."
Something stirred behind him and Thaddeus turned in his chair.
"This is someone we think you should meet, Mr. Murfee. His name is Jacques Lemoneux. Jacques, meet Thaddeus Murfee."
Jacques had been summoned into the meeting room.
Present now were Thaddeus, Nancy Empress, and Angelina, whom Thaddeus had insisted on bringing in because she was team translator back out in the world. And now Jacques Lemoneux was standing across the table from Thaddeus, his hand extended to shake.
Angelina beat Thaddeus to it, taking the man's hand and shaking violently. "I'm Angelina Sosa, Chicago Tribune. I'm doing a story on the kidnapping of Christine Susmann and hijacking of the Swissair flight."
"I was on that flight," said Jacques.
Thaddeus shook hands and everyone took a seat.
"Now," said Nancy Empress. "Mr. Murfee requested this second meeting following the television news story about Christine Susmann."
"And you asked me here why?" asked Jacques.
"The Agency cannot be involved officially. However, given your recent imbroglio with these people, I thought you might be able to offer insights."
"Unreasonable. Mean, hard people who live by the lie. If they can figure out how to use her to hurt the U.S., they will. And they won't give a damn what it does to her."
"How do I get past them to Christine?" Thaddeus asked. He was leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, looking to all the world like he was ready to go ten rounds.
"I don't know that you can get past them. This is their turf, their jails, their legal processes."
"Do they have anything like habeas corpus here?"
Nancy Empress shook her head. "In a prior life I was a lawyer, so I know a little about Russian law. There is no habeas corpus here, no right to have her brought before the court to decide whether she should be held."
"What about a civil action? Is there any leverage to be gained by filing some kind of civil action against them? I'm aware they don't have civil rights laws like we do, but something else?"
She looked down. "Not that I know of. You might want to go talk to a Moscow lawyer and see what a member of the Russian bar might come up with."
"I like that," said Angelina. "I'll make some calls when we get back to the hotel."
"All right," said Thaddeus. "Now let me get down to the real deal. Tell me about this jail where she's being held."
Nancy responded. "We have confirmed that she's been taken to a maximum-security prison known as Matrosskaya Tishina."
"Located where?"
"Right here. Moscow."
"Has anyone ever escaped there?"
"Not since I've been in Moscow. We know nothing about its layout, security issues, or anything else."
Thaddeus looked exasperated. This was going nowhere fast.
"All right," he said, "I'm going to ask you for the name of a guard inside the prison. Someone who might be willing to work with me."
"That we can do," said Nancy. "I'll call you later today with that. Holiday Inn?"
"Perfect. We'll be back there in an hour or two."
"How can I help?" said Jacques.
"Do you speak Russian?"
"I don't."
"Then let me put you on hold," Thaddeus said. "But I'm sure something will come up."
"Hold that thought," said Nancy. "Jacques is one of us. We can't allow him to work this case with you."
"But I want to help," said Jacques. "I followed Christine. I feel like I owe her. And I owe those bastards big time for myself!”
"Appreciate that," said Thaddeus. "I believe you owe as well."
"That may be, but the answer is still no. He doesn't get involved," said Nancy. She wasn't angry, she wasn't unfriendly. But she was firm and cleared up any remaining doubt.
"I need a gun," Thaddeus then said. "Will you help me?"
"You can help yourself. Russian law allows foreigners to acquire guns on Russian territory. The grace period for foreigners awaiting a license from the Interior Ministry for firearms has been increased from five to ten days."
Thaddeus only stared blankly at her. "That's nice information for the record—I assume we're
being recorded in here. But you know and I know that wasn't what I was asking. I wasn't planning on going through channels to obtain a gun."
"What do you need a gun for anyway?"
Thaddeus uncrossed his arms. "Let's just say I'm going to pay a call on a certain GRU agent. I think he might have had something to do with Christine's medical condition."
"Don't tell me anymore."
"I'll try to help with that," said Jacques. He stared Nancy down, almost daring her to interfere. But she didn't. Evidently her unofficial feelings favored Christine, too.
Nancy called an end to the meeting and thanked them for coming. Jacques walked Thaddeus and Angelina to the elevator. At the elevator door he leaned up to Thaddeus and whispered, "You'll have your gun by tonight. I'll drop by the hotel."
Thaddeus shook his hand and didn't otherwise respond.
There were just too many ears and too many eyes to do any real business there.
He followed Angelina into the elevator, glad to be done with the place.
A plan was coming into focus in his head. He would need the gun, yes. And he would need a certain address as well.
It was time to put on some dark clothes and find out about late-night Moscow.
31
After eight hours of waiting, begging, and making useless threats, Thaddeus and Angelina finally hit on the correct combination to make the system cough up two ninety-day visas. Money was the answer. What amounted to two thousand USD was the winning ticket number. Thaddeus delivered the bribe in a plain envelope stuffed with twenty American hundred dollar bills. Forty-five minutes later they had their visas and walked out of the official office of the Russian State Administrative Secretary.
"That wasn't so bad," Thaddeus said to Angelina with a smile.
"They didn't even want to see my U.S. passport," she replied. "Jeez."
"I know. Once they had the two grand, our bloodlines ran straight down from the Tsars. We were money."
"Hear that. I'm making my notes for the book. Problem is, nobody's gonna believe it."
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 12
