The Moscow Club

by Finder, Joseph

  Probably just a jet trail, he thought, and he looked around through the Plexiglas window. No, no jet trail. He saw no smoke at all. He banked the plane up and down to look for a smoke trail. Yes: there was a blackish-blue vapor trail behind him.

  The engine temperature had started to climb. Why? He’d kept a steady altitude for the last several minutes. He brought the plane down to a lower altitude, down to four thousand feet, and instantly saw the engine temperature begin to shoot up. He examined the oil gauge and noted with horror that the level had dropped from full to half.

  Was there an oil leak? He tried to enrich the mixture, throttle the engine back, reduce the speed from 160 miles per hour to 125. Please, Lord, he thought, don’t screw the pooch. Don’t let me fuck up.

  He had to get to Bidwell, had to get to Bidwell’s files. He picked up his radio handset and called an operator, giving his QM number, the number of his telephone account. Thank God you could make phone calls from this craft.

  “Operator,” came the woman’s voice reassuringly over the radio.

  “Operator, I need you to place a third-party call for me,” Pogue began.

  Harold Bidwell’s estate, outside of Indianapolis, was generally considered the finest in the area, a handsome Georgian house set back a good distance from the main road. At precisely eleven o’clock in the morning, the front-door bell rang.

  The uniformed butler opened the door and saw that the person who had rung the doorbell was a postman.

  “Harold Bidwell?” the postman asked.

  292 ■ JOSEPH FINDER

  “This is his residence,” the butler said. He was a balding, bespectacled, portly man in his fifties whose mustache was flecked with

  gray.

  “Certified letter,” said the postman.

  “I can sign for that, thank you,” the butler said. The mailman, a young man with dark hair, stepped into the foyer and handed the butler the envelope on a clipboard.

  The butler took it, leaning over to write. “I don’t see,” he muttered, “where I’m supposed—”

  But he did not finish the sentence.

  He gagged on the wire that the postman had slipped around his neck and had swiftly tightened. The butler’s tongue lolled out, his eyes bulged in an expression of sheerest terror, his face a beet red, his entire face contorted in a scream that would never come. His glasses clattered on the marble floor.

  The postman closed the front door behind him and dropped the corpse on the floor as he entered the house.

  Upstairs, Harold Bidwell was sitting in an armchair, where he had been sitting for a very long time in his silk dressing gown, terrified. It had been over half an hour since Warren Pogue had called, and he had been unable to stop trembling.

  The channel was corrupted. How could it be?

  Now the phone was ringing, and Bidwell reached over to get it, but then he heard a noise from the hallway, a rustling of some kind.

  “Rico,” Bidwell called out.

  It was not Rico. It was a man with dark hair wearing navy-blue pants and a light-blue shirt—a U.S. mailman. What was he doing in the house?

  “What the—” Bidwell began.

  The mailman had a revolver and was pointing it at him. “Don’t move,” the intruder said. He had a foreign accent that Bidwell couldn’t identify. “Please stay right where you are and you won’t get hurt.”

  “What do you want?” Bidwell asked desperately. “Take whatever you want. Just take it—please don’t shoot me.”

  “I want you to take these pills,” the mailman said, coming nearer.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 293

  The hand that wasn’t holding a gun was extended, two tablets in the flat of his palm.

  “Nor

  “Don’t worry,” the young man said. “These are just Demerol. Just a nice tranquilizer. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

  Bidwell was shaking his head violently. “Don’t. Please. Don’t.”

  The gun was now at his head. “Swallow these,” the man said quiedy. “I want you to be very calm. Open your mouth.”

  Bidwell did as he was told. The man placed the two tablets on his tongue. “It’s poison,” Bidwell managed to say as he swallowed. “Where’s Rico?”

  “It’s not poison,” the man said reassuringly. “I just want you to be very quiet. A pleasant narcotic. Now, please open your mouth. I want to make sure you’ve swallowed them.” He inserted several fingers into Bidwell’s mouth, moved them around, and was satisfied. “These will take effect quite soon. Now I want you to open your safe. While you’re still alert.”

  “I don’t have a safe,” Bidwell protested.

  “Come with me, please,” the intruder said, his gun still at Bid-well’s temple. Bidwell got to his feet. The man slowly walked the judge over to the one of the built-in bookcases behind the desk and pulled at a row of books, which came open in one segment, exposing the dial of a safe. “Please don’t lie to me. I also know what’s inside, and if need be I can open it myself. Please. Save me the bother.”

  Bidwell spun the dial, his fingers trembling. His first attempt failed; the safe remained locked.

  “Don’t make another mistake,” the young man cautioned. “I’m perfectly aware that if three attempts fail the safe’s lock is electronically frozen for an hour. Please, get it right.”

  Bidwell spun the dial once again, this time opening it.

  “Thank you,” the man said. He reached into the small safe, past the jewelry, and extracted a large, bulging manila envelope. “The gold and diamonds I leave to your heirs,” he said. “This is all I want.”

  Bidwell now knew. “You!” His lips formed the words slowly now. “You’re … one …“A thought occurred to him suddenly, and he narrowed his eyes. “My heirs?”

  294 ■ JOSEPH FINDER

  “I think it’s time for a bath. Judge Bidvvell.”

  Bidweli could only shake his head slowly, his eyes wide with terror.

  The young man escorted the judge out of the room and into the hall, the gun always at the old man’s temple. The bathroom was directly ahead.

  Bidweli suddenly reached out a hand and pressed the oak door frame of the bedroom as they passed.

  The young man smiled and did nothing. “I’ve disabled the burglar alarm,” he said. “That won’t work.”

  They had reached the bathroom, which seemed terribly bright to Bidweli now, its overhead light shining glaringly on the white-and-black tiles. The young man guided Bidweli over to the toilet seat and sat him down on the closed lid. Bidwell’s eyes began to droop.

  Then the man in the mailman’s uniform went over to the marble bathtub with its gold-plated fixtures and turned on both taps to full force. The water gushed out, splashing into the tub, filling it quickly.

  Bidwell’s eyes were now almost closed. “What do you want with me?” he moaned, his voice almost inaudible under the roar of the water. “I’ve kept the secret. I’ve never said a word. You’re all madmen. I never said a word.”

  The bath was now half full, and the young man began removing Bidwell’s clothes, starting with his silk dressing gown, unknotting the tie. In a short time, Bidweli was naked.

  “Into the tub,” the young man said.

  Bidweli slowly, slowly climbed into the tub. He whimpered softly. “The water’s coldl” he rasped.

  “Now lie down.”

  Bidweli lay down in the tub. His eyes were devoid of expression.

  The young man rolled up his sleeves, took a large natural sponge from the bathroom vanit', and placed it over the old man’s face, depressing until Bidwell’s head was fully submerged, and the last bubbles of breath stopped.

  “It’s so easy to fall asleep in the bath,” he said aloud.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 295

  As the phone rang, its reassuring tone crackling over the speaker, Pogue frantically increased the pitch on the propeller, downshifting to increase power at fewer engine revolutions. No luck. The plane was overheating.

&nb
sp; Now the engine was slowing, and now, with a silence that terrified him, it stopped. Absolute, horrible silence. The plane began to sink. He tried the starter, but it would not fire up.

  The phone was ringing. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Pick it up, you son of a bitch. Pick it up.

  He began to talk aloud, to the unhearing handset. “Please, God,” he repeated several times. His limbs were frozen in fear. “Please, God.”

  The phone continued to ring blandly. Where was Bidwell?

  There was a wooded area below him. He thanked God for that; he could be over a city instead, and that would be that. The plane began to glide. Below him he saw a highway, where he could attempt an emergency landing.

  In about sixty seconds, he would be on the ground, and he prayed to God that the landing worked.

  He let the handset drop to the floor.

  The operator’s voice came over the box: “Sir, I’m sorry. Your party doesn’t seem to be answering.”

  His thoughts raced. What had happened? He had been thorough in his preflight check. It was impossible.

  There was the highway, perhaps two hundred feet below. It would happen. He was safe.

  He did not count on a crosswind.

  He gasped, and then let out a long, shrill scream of terror.

  The wind, without warning, carried the plane to the right, directly into the path of a bridge over the highway, into the concrete abutment, where it exploded into a ball of fire.

  In the instant before he was killed, he suddenly understood why, why this had to happen now.

  41

  Chicago

  The fog had gotten so dense that Stone could not see even twenty feet ahead. His body weak, his Hmbs trembhng from fear, he ran without once stopping. He could not blot out the horrifying image of his attacker’s body, sprawled in the alley a few blocks from Warren Pogue’s house.

  He took a circuitous route to Paula’s apartment to make sure he was not followed. But visibility was so poor that anyone who might have been trying to follow Stone would have lost him in a second anyway.

  It was a Saturday, which meant that Paula only had to work a half-day. She was home when Stone arrived, and she immediately took in his torn clothes.

  “Oh, Christ, Charlie. What the hell happened?”

  Stone told her.

  “Oh, my God. You goddamn killed a man.”

  “Everything came to the surface, Paula,” Stone whispered. “My father—everything—”

  “We gotta get you out of here, out of Chicago.”

  “We.^ No, Paula. I don’t want you to get involved any further.”

  “I’m not involved.”

  “Bullshit, Paula!” Stone exploded. “I should never have put you in danger in the first place.”

  “Charlie—”

  “I was extremely careful to make sure no one saw me arrive.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 297

  yesterday or today. No one knows I’m here. No one can connect you to me. As long as we keep it that way, you’re safe. Now, I’m going to get a plane out of here—I’ve got to get to a guy in Paris. He may be the only one who can help me. You know I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, and—”

  “Stone,” Paula said, her voice rising with anger. “You’re not flying anywhere tonight,” Paula said. “The airports are closed. Fogged in.”

  “Jesus Christ. I can’t stay in the city! They’re sure to find—”

  “My parents live in Toronto. We can drive there and you can fly out. Shit, it’s an okay drive. Anyway, from Canada it’s probably safer, don’t you think?”

  Stone spoke slowly, thinking aloud. “It’s common knowledge that the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service has some sort of computer to check on people leaving and entering. People have been nabbed on the spot, at gunpoint. But most people don’t know that Canada’s not on our computer. …”

  “There you go.” She gave a slight smile. “Anyway, don’t forget, they’re not after me. “

  “Paula,” Stone said, “as long as you’re seen with me, you’re in real danger.” He shook his head, then bit his lower lip. “I won’t take that chance. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Don’t condescend to me, damn it,” Paula snapped. “I’m fully capable of making my own decisions, you get it? You fucking show up on my doorstep, now you’re stuck with me.” She slipped an arm around his waist and continued, sweefly, “Anyway, Stone, I know how to take care of myself. I don’t plan to die. I’ve got too big a caseload.”

  “Paula—”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. I can take a personal day on Monday, if I have to. If we leave now, we can be in Toronto by late tonight.”

  Stone grinned at her enthusiasm, in spite of himself. “Now, I need to take a look at a map.”

  “You got it.”

  “Hey, you know something, Singer? Underneath that fagade of grim professionalism there’s a real live human being.”

  298 ■ JOSEPH FINDER

  “Thanks,” Paula said sarcastically, poking him in one buttock with her fist. “Fuck you very much.”

  They drove in Paula’s white Audi Fox along 1-94 and then north on 1-96 along the great expanse of Lake Michigan. Bruised and wounded from the fight in the alley, he found driving tiring and painful, so she drove, and soon he was fast asleep.

  After a few hours, Paula woke him up.

  “Where are we?” he mumbled.

  “You asked me to wake you when we got into Michigan. You’re a barrel of fun as a traveling companion. I’m almost falling asleep at the wheel here, and I can’t put the radio on for fear of waking the wounded. We’re just north of a place called—what the hell is it?— Millburg. State of Michigan.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Four-thirt)’. Afternoon, not morning.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why’d >‘ou want to get up now, anyway?”

  Stone pulled a map from the map holder and examined it for a moment. “We need to make a detour.”

  “What for?”

  “Let’s stay on 96 for a while. Don’t make the turnoff here.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m a smart woman. Stone. I can deal with complicated situations.”

  Stone was silent, studying the map. “I’ll explain later. I promise. Just keep going north. Fift>’ or sixt)’ more miles. Okay?”

  “This isn’t the way to Toronto. “

  “I know.”

  “You’re wide awake enough to talk?”

  “Yeah. Just barely,” Stone said.

  She paused, then said: “Let’s hear it. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” was all Stone allowed himself to sav.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 299

  A little over an hour later, they came to Haskell, a small town on the shores of Lake Michigan, just over the line that divides Van Buren County from Allegan County. On the outskirts of town was a small general store appended to an old-fashioned Good Gulf filling station.

  “Pull over here, please,” Stone said. “I need to get a few things.”

  Paula looked at him quickly, shrugged, and steered the car into the station.

  A few minutes later, he returned to the car with a pack of Merit cigarettes, a box of Ohio Blue Tip strike-anywhere matches, and a roll of toilet paper. “I forget, do you smoke?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “No,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “I didn’t know you did.”

  “I used to, and I do now.”

  “Toilet paper?”

  Stone smiled cryptically, went around to the trunk, and pulled out a small, cheap suitcase he had picked up in Chicago that morning, which contained a few items of clothing and a backpack. He took off one of his shoes and pulled a concealed wad of bills from its lining. Then he returned to the front seat and pointed to a spot on the map. “This is about five miles north of here,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in, let’s
say, two hours.”

  “What the hell is this, Charlie?”

  “Stop off somewhere for dinner. Take your time. Read. I’ll meet you in two hours.”

  “How are you going to get there? On foot?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there. Be patient if I’m a little late.”

  Haskell was a minuscule town on the shore of Lake Michigan whose livelihood seemed to come from fishing and related industries all having to do with the lake. There was hardly any “downtown,” except a White Castle burger joint, a bar, a bank, and a couple of buildings that seemed to hold offices of various kinds. Directly down the hill from the main drag. Stone could see a timber jetty.

  He stopped a passerby and asked about accommodations in the town. He was directed to a small, comfortable-looking clapboard inn called, unsurprisingly, the Haskell Inn. Stone introduced himself by

  300 ■ JOSEPH FINDER

  his real name and shook the proprietor’s hand. He registered as Charles Stone, using his credit card. Most of the rooms were vacant, the innkeeper said; he could have his choice.

  Drawing on a cigarette, Stone said, ”Whatever’s comfortable. I’m a smoker, obviously, so if you’ve got a smoker’s room or something …”

  “Nothing like that,” the innkeeper, a small balding man, said. “You’ve got your pick, just about. Just don’t smoke in bed. That’s our one hard-and-fast rule.”

  “Don’t worry,” Stone assured him. He looked around the inn, taking in the worn Oriental rugs and the cherry paneling. “The place looks great.”

  “Thanks,” the innkeeper said, genuinely pleased. “You in town on business, Mr. Stone?” It was clear from the way he asked it that the possibility of such a thing was remote.

  “No. Pleasure. Getaway, really. I’ve been going through some rough times these past few weeks.”

  “Here to escape,” the balding man said, nodding.

  “Basically. When I was a boy, my father and I used to go fishing around here. Is there a place in town that rents fishing boats?”