“Why so tense?” she whispered, her arm sliding inside his jacket and running over his chest as she pressed herself against him and placed her warm, soft lips on his. She tasted like licorice.
“Look … I really think I should be going,” he said, pulling back.
“Just relax,” she purred as Charlie glanced across toward the other sofa and noticed Mercer’s hand planted firmly on one of Svetlana’s breasts.
“Hey Shawn,” he said, leaning over a protesting Elena. “Shawn?”
“Mmmh?”
“It’s almost four. I’ve got to go.”
“Wha …?” Mercer poked his head out from Svetlana’s blond tresses. “You serious?”
“Yeah. I’m outta here. You can stay if you want.” Charlie had pushed himself upright, gently forcing Elena off him as her hand slid away from his chest. She wore a resigned sulk now, and he was eager to be gone. Mercer seemed to give in to Svetlana’s urgent kissing for a moment, but he broke away when he noticed that Charlie was standing.
“All right, all right. Just gimme a second.…”
“Thanks for the dance,” Charlie said to Elena as he waited for Mercer to extricate himself from Svetlana’s grasp and clamber unsteadily to his feet, knocking over a couple of bottles on the glass table in the process.
“Wh-whash the rush anyway?” Mercer griped as they stood outside the club on the deserted street. He was swaying, as though on the deck of a tall ship rounding Cape Horn in gale-force winds.
“It’s four in the morning,” Charlie said, though he could tell by Mercer’s expression that the time was irrelevant. “Besides, I don’t know about those girls. I think they might have been pros.”
“Who gives a shit … didja see the rack on Svetlana?” Mercer protested, as Charlie started off down Tverskaya. “We’re walkin’?”
“It’s only ten minutes to your hotel. Besides, it’s safer than taking a cab at this hour,” Charlie added, just as a yell and the sound of breaking glass pierced the night air from somewhere across the wide street.
“I still think we shoulda s-s-stayed,” Mercer muttered, his teeth chattering as he stumbled along. They had gone about thirty feet when a police car raced by, its siren wailing. “We coulda all gone back to the hotel, or maybe to their p-p-place,” he continued in his drunken stutter.
Charlie imagined them going back to Svetlana’s apartment in some high-rise in the middle of nowhere, only to be robbed at gunpoint. He was shaking his head at the thought when he saw two men in uniform coming toward them on the sidewalk.
“Hey, it’s the boys in b-b-blue,” Mercer said as they came within earshot.
“Shut up,” Charlie hissed before acknowledging the men with a nod.
The two cops seemed content to let them continue on to their hotel — until Mercer jerked up his arm in a mock salute, almost tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, and yelled, “Evenin’ c-c-comrades!”
The cops made an abrupt U-turn and the older of the two approached Mercer and barked a command in Russian.
“Wha’d he say?” Mercer looked bemused.
“He wants to see our passports,” Charlie said, alarmed at the darkening expression on the policeman’s face and hoping passports were all he wanted. His own irritation at Mercer turned to puzzlement, then fear, as his search of his jacket pockets came up empty.
“Say, Ch-Charlie,” Mercer said, as he fumbled in his own pockets and hiccupped. “You’re gonna love this. My p-pashport’s gone.”
Chapter 3
Charlie was doing his best to object in Russian as the guard shoved him into the holding cell behind Mercer and slammed the metal door shut with a clang.
“This is bullshit,” Mercer said for the hundredth time since the two had been bundled into the back of a van for the short ride from Tverskaya to wherever they were now. The experience of detention by the Russian police seemed to have sobered him up, at least to the point that his speech was no longer slurred.
“Do they know you’re a fucking diplomat?” he ranted as Charlie looked around the twenty-by-forty-foot cell, suddenly aware that they were far from alone. Mercer’s further protestations were abruptly halted as he came to the same realization. As a giant in a dishevelled parka growled something unintelligible at them in Russian from the corner, they backpedalled toward a bench at the opposite end of the cell.
“Seriously,” Mercer whispered, “are they going to let us the fuck out of here, or what?”
“I told them I was with the embassy,” Charlie said. “I’m sure we won’t be here for long. Just relax.”
“Hard to relax with that Siberian sasquatch over there sizing us up like we’re dinner,” Mercer replied in a hoarse whisper. “What about our phone call? Aren’t we supposed to get a phone call?”
“This is Moscow, Shawn, not Calgary, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up for a phone call.” It occurred to Charlie that he was the backup emergency consular contact for the next couple of hours, but decided not to mention that to Mercer. In the unlikely event that they did get to make a call, it would go to Charlie’s stolen BlackBerry if whoever was first on the call list was unavailable.
“All right, all right. You don’t have to get pissy.”
“I’m not getting pissy,” Charlie snapped, his anger blooming. They would both be safe in their beds if Mercer hadn’t opened his big yap or insisted on cozying up to a pair of grifter prostitutes in the first place. He sighed and decided to try another tack. “Look, everything will be fine. I gave them my name and told them I’m with the embassy. I’m sure they’ll be back as soon as they confirm my credentials, and then we’ll be out of here.” He heard himself saying the words, and they sounded almost reassuring, but he was not at all convinced it was going to be that easy. Charlie didn’t know the home numbers of any of the other embassy staff, other than as contacts in his BlackBerry, which Svetlana and Elena were probably using right now to text their order for all the cocaine they were going to buy when they flogged the passports.
“Jesus, it stinks in here,” Mercer muttered as Charlie’s mind wandered, his chest filling with dread at the thought of his rapidly approaching Monday morning. That was when he would have to report his detention, not to mention the theft of both his diplomatic passport and government-issued BlackBerry … by a pair of hookers. If he didn’t get fired, he would be the laughingstock of the entire mission. He rubbed his temples with increasing vigour, as though the friction might somehow transport him out of his current predicament.
“Charlie.”
His eyes remained closed as he grasped for a plausible explanation that would leave him a shred of credibility, or at least employed.
“Uh, Charlie?”
“What?” He opened his eyes and rounded on Mercer, who had begun tugging on his sleeve as he pointed across the cell. Charlie followed his outstretched finger and noticed the parka-clad bear lumbering toward them, brushing a greasy strand of hair from his bloodshot eyes as he approached, barking something at them as spittle flew from his cracked lips.
“What the fuck’s he saying?” Mercer whispered as they cowered on the bench, tensing for an attack.
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t you tell him to go back over to his side or some —”
Mercer jumped as the ogre hurled a round of foreign expletives at them. They both turned in response to a shout from the other end of the bench and watched as a young man stood and walked over to the wild-eyed behemoth, yelling at him until he retreated and slunk back to his corner. Charlie and Mercer were rapt as the man turned to them and smiled.
“You American?”
“Uh … Canadian,” Charlie said, surprised to hear unaccented English.
“No shit? Did I hear him say you’re a diplomat?” He gestured to Mercer, who was making sure the sasquatch resumed his seat safely on the other side of the holding cell.
Charlie nodded. “I’m with the Canadian Embassy, but we had our passports stolen, so I guess we’re stuck here for a while.”
“Welcome to Moscow.” The man let out a grim chuckle and took a seat on the bench next to Charlie, offering his hand. “I’m Steve Liepa, by the way. From Toronto.”
“You’re kidding,” Charlie said as he and Mercer shook hands with their saviour. “Thanks.”
“No biggie.” Liepa gave a wave of his hand.
“What did you say to that nut-job, anyway?” Mercer asked.
“Ah, he’s harmless. Does the same to everyone when they first come in. You just have to yell at him and he’ll back off. So what do you do with the embassy, Charlie?”
“I’m, uh … I’m a consul.” He glanced at the floor as he heard himself utter the words, wishing for a sinkhole large enough to swallow him whole.
“Isn’t that, like, the guy you’re supposed to call when you’re in jail?”
“Among other things.” Charlie felt himself squirming on the bench.
“This is gonna be kind of embarrassing then, eh?” Liepa grinned.
“What about you? How long have you been here?” Charlie asked in an awkward segue.
“Twenty-four hours, give or take,” Liepa replied as Mercer blanched. “I told these pricks I wanted to call the embassy, but they wouldn’t let me. I’m a Canadian citizen, and they’re keeping me in this shithole for no reason.” He sighed and the grin was back. “Lucky for me I bumped into you. Now you can help me get out of here.”
Charlie looked at Liepa and guessed he was in his mid-thirties. In his cargo pants and fleece zip-up, he looked more like a backpacker than a hardened criminal. Something about Liepa’s earnest expression was even harder to reconcile with their present surroundings. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“That’s a very good question,” Liepa said. “They tell me I’m part of a drug ring, though that’s news to me. I’m a writer by trade.”
“What sort of writing?”
“Technical manuals, mostly. It’s more translation than writing, really, but my real interest lies elsewhere.”
“You obviously speak good Russian,” Charlie commented, referring to Liepa’s verbal counter-assault.
“That was Lithuanian, actually. I grew up in Toronto but I spoke it at home a bit with my parents. I read and write in Russian, but speaking it is another thing.”
“And you’re in here on a drug-related charge?”
Liepa snorted. “That’s a joke. All I did was go to a party that got crashed by the cops. There was some weed, but that’s it. I’ve never sold so much as a joint in my life.” He stopped as the door to the holding cell swung open and the older of the two cops who had brought in Charlie and Mercer appeared. “Looks like your get-out-of-jail card’s here.”
Mercer was up off the bench in a flash, in response to the cop’s glance in their direction. “Come on, Charlie, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Charlie looked to Liepa, who smiled. “Go, before he changes his mind. Just don’t forget about me in here.”
“Thanks for your help,” Charlie said, offering his hand. “I promise to look into your case right away,” he added as they shook on it. He saw the cop glare at Liepa, then mutter something in Russian. When at last they were directed through the door, Charlie turned back just as it was closing behind them and saw the smile fade from Liepa’s face. It soured the relief he felt as the metallic slam echoed in his ears and he and Mercer began the short walk to freedom.
Chapter 4
Charlie fidgeted on the chair outside the ambassador’s office, going over his version of events one last time. He had decided to keep things general — he had been out for the evening with an old drinking buddy … No, make that just an old friend. His version didn’t include the name of the club where they had ended up, the time that they had been detained, or the fact that they had spent the thirty minutes immediately prior to realizing their passports and phones had been lifted in the company of two prostitutes.
“You can go in now, Mr. Hillier.”
Charlie looked up, straightened his tie, and tried without success to smile with facial muscles tense with stress. He made his way to the office and got his first look at his new boss waiting just inside the doorway.
“Good morning, Charlie.”
Ambassador Brigitte Martineau was tall and elegant, with an engaging smile and grey hair complemented by the silver trim of her blue dress.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Charlie began, having promised himself not to say how much her reputation as a rising star preceded her for fear of starting her off on the same line of thought. “And welcome to Moscow. I hope you had an uneventful trip.”
“Thank you.” She gestured for him to take a seat as she perched on an opposing chair. “Yes, it was uneventful,” she said, smoothing her dress, “though I understand your weekend wasn’t.”
Charlie’s breath caught in his chest as he tried to read her, the same smile lingering on her inscrutable face. “Well, yes.… It was really unfortunate. I —”
She held up a hand, halting his babbling. He noticed that her smile had faded, along with what remained of his hope. “I’m coming fresh off a pair of briefings from Security and Finance,” she said. “Let’s just say that the loss of a diplomatic passport and a BlackBerry is a bit of a double-whammy in this environment.”
“I really can expla —”
Her hand was back up, but a ghost of her smile had reappeared, too. “Are you a golfer, Charlie?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he said, thinking that golf as a metaphor for termination an interesting choice.
You’re in the rough, Hillier. The deep rough….
You’re so far in the woods, you need a map to get out.…
You’re on the eighteenth fairway, and you’re out of balls.…
“Then let’s just say you’ve had your mulligan and leave it at that, shall we?”
As the words registered, he searched her face for a sign that it was a cruel joke, but her expression was sincere. He tried to conceal his disbelief and decided he should probably say something.
“There is a silver lining,” he began, his conservative inner voice screaming at him to shut up, thank her, and leave before she changed her mind. But there was a sparkle of interest in Martineau’s hazel eyes, so he carried on. “I met a Canadian in the holding cell. He’d been refused consular access, from what I could gather. I’ve started to look into his case.”
“Well, that’s one way to offer consular services, Charlie, but I wouldn’t recommend you make a practice of it.”
“No, I suppose not.” With his job no longer in imminent danger, he allowed himself a genuine grin.
Martineau leaned back in her chair. “I had an interesting lunch with Mike Stewart when I was in Ottawa.”
Charlie’s spine stiffened at the mention of his former boss, wondering what he might have shared with Martineau about Charlie’s time in Havana. He could only hope for a high-level, positive version — Despite some initial turbulence, Charlie was an asset to the embassy and solidified Canadian-Cuban relations in his own unique way. The less charitable version might cast him as a loose cannon who’d concealed the discovery and destruction of narcotics, endangered the life of a visiting Department of Justice lawyer, and possibly poisoned the official dog.
“He had only good things to say about you, Charlie,” she went on, allowing him to inch back from the edge of his seat. “Although he warned me your methods might be a little … unorthodox.”
“Consular work can be challenging,” he said, as though that explained everything.
“Indeed, but I expect you to operate within the rules of engagement here in Moscow.” The smile was still there, but it had chilled a couple of degrees.
“Point taken.”
“Good,” she said, then mo
ved on to her objectives for her posting and her expectations for her staff. Charlie was relieved to hear that although he would have some involvement in property matters, his primary responsibility would be consular. The administrative work, which he had come to loathe on his first posting, would continue to be handled by a full-time administrator who had been doing the job for eighteen months and would remain at post for another year at least. They discussed the consular program in Russia for a while, and he was pleased to hear that Martineau planned to expand and improve the service, though he wondered about the implications, given that no more staff were being hired. Still, he was so delighted at being relieved of administrative work that he was prepared to put in a few more hours for something he actually cared about.
“I understand you’ll be attending next week’s consular conference in Ottawa,” Martineau said, after coming to her feet and wrapping up their meeting at precisely the end of their allotted time.
“Yes,” Charlie said, pausing by the door, realizing he hadn’t actually seen a sign-off on his travel request, which had been the last thing on his mind when he got in that morning.
“Assuming you can get a replacement visa in time,” she added. “You know how the Russians can be when it comes to bureaucratic timelines. I’d hate to lose you for another week because they refuse to let you back in.”
“I’ll call the MFA right away and get the ball rolling,” Charlie replied, referring to the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, grateful he had something to focus on other than looking for another job.
The Moscow Code Page 2
