The Moscow Club

by Finder, Joseph

  But now there was a police vehicle following. Stone saw it in the bike’s right rearview mirror, coming up rue de Seine, gaining on him, its blue light flashing, the siren wailing.

  The little Peugeot accelerated remarkably well. Stone shifted into second, toward the river, to the Quai Malaquais, and pulled into traffic. The wrong way! He barely missed a Renault, and veered out of the road into the circular lot in front of a French Renaissance building with a columned portico, the Institut de France, and then up on the sidewalk. He had lost them!

  At the Quai des Grands Augustins, he crossed the Seine over the Pont Neuf, and went into the He de la Cite. Behind him, though at quite a distance, he could just make out police sirens. Had he lost them? He turned right onto the Quai des Orfevres, toward the Palais de Justice. My God! he thought. The goddamned place is full of gendarmes. The sirens were closer now, he realized. A second police car—which must have been radioed by the first—suddenly pulled away from the curb, heading toward him.

  Stone turned the accelerator on the handgrip and made a right turn at the Pont au Ghange, the wrong way up the Quai de la Gorse. Thank God, several cars were coming. He heard the squeal of brakes as the oncoming cars sought to avoid hitting the police car, which was then forced to pull over momentarily. He heard a crash and saw that one of the police cars had collided with an oncoming Volvo.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 377

  He had not lost them; one pohce motorcychst was especially adept, and he was closing in.

  Across the street, he maneuvered the Peugeot onto the narrow rue des Archives, up a slight hill, then swung around the block. He had lost his pursuer—for the time being, at least. Then he took a hard right at a brasserie called La Comete, onto rue de la Verrerie. There, on the right, was a parking garage, its vertical lettering in English. He pulled in, shut off the motor, and shoved the bike against the wall.

  In a booth at the front of the garage sat a night watchman, a pudgy middle-aged man in worker’s clothes.

  There was no time to lose. It could be a matter of seconds. Stone pulled two hundred-franc notes from his wallets and waved them at the man. “Get me out of here,” Stone told the man in French, “and there’s another two hundred in it for you.”

  The trunk of the car was filthy, overwhelmingly redolent of some kind of animal manure, and coated with a sludgelike grease. The watchman had grumbled, but when Stone had added another two hundred francs to the up-front price, he had acceded. Stone gave him the address, and the watchman opened the trunk of an old Renault and pointed; Stone got in. The watchman closed it after him. Crouched in the darkness, Stone heard and felt the engine start. They were moving.

  But the sirens … !

  The wail of police sirens was suddenly loud, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the old car’s motor. It had to be only feet away. He felt the car grind to a halt.

  The car was idling now, and there were voices.

  The wait was too long. Had the police stopped the car, realizing that Stone might be inside?

  With enormous relief. Stone felt the car move again, bumping over the uneven asphalt.

  A few minutes later, the engine was turned off. Then there was a knock on the metal of the trunk, a few inches from his ear.

  “You want out,” came the watchman’s gruff voice, “you give me another five hundred.”

  “All right,” Stone said. “You’ve got the fucking five hundred. Just get me out of here before I pass out.”

  The trunk was opened, and Stone saw that he was in the courtv’ard of a building. He squirmed around to extricate himself but was stopped by the watchman’s hand.

  “Jesus Christ!” Stone said. He pulled out his wallet and fished out five hundred francs. Thank God I changed a lot of money, he thought. After handing it to the worker, he lifted himself out of the trunk and jumped to the ground. As the watchman started up the car again and pulled out of the courtyard, Stone found the stairway and walked to the third floor. To the right of the stairs, in the dim corridor, he found the apartment door he was looking for.

  He pushed the doorbell, but there was no answer.

  “Shit,” he said aloud. It was past midnight. Would anyone be home? He glanced at the address, checking it again: 15, rue Malher. The right address; the right apartment. And what if … ?

  He pushed the bell again, and held it in for several seconds.

  The door opened. Standing in front of him, in a blue dressing gown, was Dunayev’s friend the prostitute. He was surprised to see that even at night, even in bed, she wore makeup.

  “Hello,” Stone said.

  Moscow

  Shortly after midnight, Charlotte Harper was in the editing room, trying to select a “sound bite” from a lengthy interview with a soporific Soviet official on the significance of the U.S.-Soviet summit meeting in an era of such rapid changes, when the phone rang.

  She was startled, because the phone rarely rang so late at night at the office. When she picked it up, she realized at once, from the static on the line, that it was long distance. Rapidly she calculated that in New York it was four o’clock in the afternoon; probably it was her editor.

  “Is this Charlotte?” The hoarse female voice was immediately familiar.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Charlotte, Jesus, I can’t believe you’re there so late at night. What is it, like midnight or something?”

  Sometimes you can hear the voice of an old friend even after years, and it takes but an instant to recognize it. “Paula?”

  “Yeah. God, I thought I’d try to reach you there. I can’t believe it.”

  “How’re you doing? I can’t believe it, either. Long time.”

  “Charlotte, listen, I can’t really talk. This is kind of complicated. I mean, it’s scary.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s about—well, you know who I mean if I say it’s about a good friend of yours.”

  “I don’t think I …” Could she mean Charlie? But what the hell would Paula know about that?

  “Look, it’s kind of a long story, but I don’t have any way to reach this—close friend of yours. I mean, I’m guessing he might try to contact you. And if he does, I need you to give him a message.”

  “Paula, I don’t think—” / don’t think you should be talking on the phone! she wanted to shout. Charlotte’s mind reeled, not knowing how to react, whether to listen or to keep her from talking.

  “If he talks to you, can you tell him something? Can you write this down?”

  “Of course—”

  At her end of the line, Paula was nearly frantic. How much could she say over the phone? “Write down—that I ran a trace.”

  “A trace.”

  How much was too much? How to indicate that she’d traced the phone number on the ID card Stone gave her to an organization called the American Flag Foundation in Washington?

  “Tell him—oh, Christ, Charlotte, I’m really scared for the guy.”

  “Paula, please be careful what you say,” Charlotte whispered urgently.

  “Charlotte, look, tell him that the guy who attacked him is connected to this group in Washington that— Well, when I ran a check on them, it turned up that it’s a sort of a cat’s paw for … an American intelligence consortium.” Oh, God, Paula thought. Was that clear? Will Charlie understand? Did I say too much?

  Charlotte felt short of breath. “Paula, I’m going to have to hang up. Yes, I’ll tell him if I can. But we can’t talk anymore. I’m sorry.”

  And she hung up, and for a long time she stared at the blank video screen, feeling leaden with fear, listening to the faint ticking night sounds of the empty office.

  56

  Moscow

  Andrei Pavlichenko’s black Zil limousine entered the main gate at the side of the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the KGB in Dzerzhinsky Square. The gate was opened by two soldiers in the gray-and-blue uniforms of the KGB internal-security troops. Another glanced into the limousine, confirmed that
it was indeed the chairman, and saluted.

  This evening’s work was to be done not in his third-floor office but at another, far more secret location, deep within the bowels of the Lubyanka.

  The forensics scientist who was now solely in charge of the investigation into the terrorist bombings in Moscow had asked to meet with Pavlichenko urgently. Evidently he had found something of great importance.

  Pavlichenko was met at the side entrance by his aide-de-camp, who nodded and then wordlessly accompanied him to a newly installed German elevator a few hundred feet away. In front of the elevator stood a guard.

  When the elevator closed, the assistant spoke. “He says it’s a very serious matter.”

  Pavlichenko nodded and leaned against the elevator wall. The strain of the past few weeks was beginning to tell on him.

  The elevator had descended several flights, and it opened onto a windowless corridor whose concrete walls had been freshly painted white. The floor was of white stone. The aide led the way, opening the second door he came to.

  The room was bare except for a copper-topped bar against one wall and a white metal conference table around which were four comfortable-looking chairs. The forensic technician, Abramov, was already seated in one of them, looking extremely worried. Pavlichenko noticed that the pudgy little man was wearing a cheap gray suit that was too short at the arms and legs.

  “Tovarishch,” Pavlichenko said, walking over to him and shaking Abramov’s plump hand. “What is it?” His assistant hovered close behind.

  “I need to see you alone, sir.”

  “Certainly.” He turned and said, “Thank you, Alyosha. I’ll call you when we’re done talking.”

  When they were alone, Abramov spoke. “Comrade Chairman, I’m becoming extremely concerned about what my investigation is turning up. Things are becoming more complex. More—disturbing.”

  Pavlichenko was alert. “Yes?”

  “I had a chance to do a thorough analysis of each of the last several bombs, sir. Really did a complete run-through of the data. And I kept coming up with the same thing: the explosives are CIA-supplied, whether plastique or dynamite.”

  “Yes, yes, we know that,” Pavlichenko said impatiently.

  “But then I began to examine the other fragments from the bombs, especially the detonators, the blasting caps, the chemical pencils, and so on. And, sir—I’m sorry to say this, but the equipment is entirely of KGB manufacture.”

  “What do you mean to say?”

  “That the bombs, sir, may have been constructed by someone within our organization. Using American explosives.”

  “Who else knows of this?”

  “No one, sir. As you asked, I was careful to be the sole authority. Because it may turn out to be the work of one of our own. I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Pavlichenko stood up abruptly. “I want my assistant to debrief you fully. We need to compile a thorough file of names, of possible suspects.” He pressed a button on the underside of the table. “I’m grateful,” he told Abramov.

  The door opened, and Pavlichenko’s assistant came in. “Please

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 383

  come with me,” the colonel said. Abramov got to his feet awkwardly and walked with the chairman’s man through the door.

  Pavlichenko sat alone in the room, waiting. As he went to the bar to fix himself a Laphroaig straight up, his favorite single-malt Scotch whiskey, he reflected that it had been wise to encourage and isolate this man, the only one in the KGB who had an inkling. Only in such a way could Pavlichenko be sure that rumors did not spread, that he learned who else had ideas, that no one else could get on to this. He could hear the gunshot, muffled, through the concrete wall of the adjoining room. He felt a pang of genuine remorse, hating what he felt compelled to do, what justice in fact required, and, grimacing slightly, he poured two fingers of whiskey.

  57

  Paris

  The building in which Stone had found sanctuar' was located in the Marais district of Paris, the old, heavily ethnic area that had recendy, during the wave of renovations of the 1980s, become a highly desirable place to live. It was five stories high, a small, free-standing triangular structure, an old beige stone island surrounded on three sides by narrow streets: rue Pavee, rue Malher, and rue des Rosiers. In addition to the three entrances to the building’s apartments, there were several commercial enterprises located on the ground floor, including a funeral-memorial store, an Italian restaurant, a small antique-store, a cafe-bar, a boulangerie-patisserie, and a Felix Potin convenience store, the French equivalent of 7-Eleven.

  But Chief Commissioner Christian Lamoreaux of the Paris police did not know that this was the building. He knew only that the American had disappeared in the immediate neighborhood, an area heavily populated by orthodox Jews. And so the search had begun.

  Lamoreaux had been contacted by his superior, Rene Melet, the chief of police, who had in turn been contacted by American intelligence—the very top of the Central Intelligence Agency, Lamoreaux was led to believe—who were urgently interested in apprehending this American, who was, they learned, a rogue agent. Melet had placed Lamoreaux in charge of the investigation, urging him to use all assets at his disposal. With that sort of mandate, the assets could be considerable.

  But the American bastard had eluded them, taking off down the streets of Paris like a maniacal daredevil. It would not be long, though, before they found him. The American had made the mistake of trying to disappear in the Marais.

  There were a limited number of doorbells to ring, apartments to search. With the men out in full force, they would have him in a matter of hours.

  “What did you do?” the prostitute asked suspiciously. “You are on the run from something. I hear the sirens.”

  “What is it. Mother?” A gawky teenage boy, wearing a soiled T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants, came out from behind a curtained-off room. “Who are you?” He approached Stone menacingly.

  “No, Jacky,” she said to the teenager. “This is a friend.” She turned to Stone again. “What did you do?”

  “I’m being accused of a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “In Paris?”

  “In America. It’s complicated. Dunayev thought you could shelter me for the night,” he said, and briefly explained what had happened.

  “Why don’t you turn yourself in?” asked the son, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to grow a beard. “If you’re really innocent, you should have nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Jacky,” the prostitute said warningly.

  “It isn’t that simple,” Stone said. “May I please come in?”

  More than seventy-five police officers, reassigned for the night from the forces of the twenty arrondissements, were combing the neighborhood, searching the alleys and storefronts, the trash dumpsters and parks and garages. Each had been ordered to let no one pass without questioning. Two-thirds of the gendarmes had been instructed to visit apartments, conducting searches if there was even a slightly reasonable suspicion.

  “I would do anything Fyodor asked me to do,” the woman said, pouring Stone a cup of strong black coffee. “But this building is tiny. Eventually they’ll get to us, and then they’ll find you right away.”

  The telephone rang, its abrupt, piercing bell making all three jump. The woman got up to answer it.

  She spoke rapidly for a minute, arching her plucked brows, and then hung up. “It’s my neighbor across the street,” she explained. “She says the police are searching her building for a fugitive. They’ve searched her apartment!”

  “I need somewhere to hide,” Stone said.

  She drew aside the diaphanous curtains at the nearest window and peered down into the street. “She said our building is surrounded, too. I see she’s right.”

  “What about the roof?” Stone asked, directing his question at the boy, who seemed incongruously young to be her son.

  “No,” the son replied, “there’s no access to any other roof. Bad lu
ck for you—the building isn’t next to any other.”

  “You can’t think of any other way?” Stone prompted. “There must be tunnels, passages—”

  The son’s face suddenly broke into a wide grin. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s take the back stairs.”

  Stone, carrying his things, followed the teenager down a dark, narrow set of stairs and back into the enclosed court>‘ard. They ran as quietly as they could, knowing that any commotion could attract immediate attention now. Within a minute, they had reached the ground level.

  “We have something that the nicer buildings don’t have,” the son explained, walking into the center of the courtyard.

  “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  Stone looked at the ground and saw a large round disc of concrete, set tightly in a round frame of steel, within a large square. It was a manhole cover.

  “My friends and I sometimes go down there.”

  “The sewer?”

  “I don’t think you have much choice.”

  “No, I don’t,” Stone agreed. “But what’s down there? Does it lead anywhere?”

  “Didn’t you ever read Victor Hugo? Les Miserables? Jean Valjean making his great escape, after stealing a loaf of bread, through the sewers of Paris?”

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 387

  “No,” Stone admitted. “I couldn’t even get tickets to the musical.”

  The boy walked over to a door off the courtyard and opened it. It was a storage closet of some sort. He pulled a large iron hook from the floor and carried it over to the manhole cover, then inserted the hook into the hole at the lid’s side. “Give me a hand, will you?”

  Stone helped him pull back on the heavy concrete lid, which, after considerable effort, finally popped open. The two of them shoved the lid aside. A foul odor wafted from the dark opening. Stone could make out a metal ladder—actually, he realized, a row of steel handgrips that led straight downward.

  “The only problem is, we can’t close it after us. You can only do it from outside. We can pull it closed, but not all the way. Maybe the police will just figure it was hooligans, like me and my friends. Can you deal with the smell?” the teenager asked, a trace of defiance in his voice.