by Steven Gore
Ninchenko issued the order, then hung up.
“What do you mean, the rare capacity not to think?”
“He’s not like a sociopath who enjoys hurting people or like a murderer gets off on reliving the crime. Matson’s a guy who just doesn’t think about what he’s really doing.”
Ninchenko’s phone rang, he listened for a moment, then reported to Gage. “They’re heading south, paralleling the river toward farm country. Gravilov has a dacha out there. Near Taromskoe.”
Gage handed Ninchenko a water bottle and opened one for himself.
“You think she’ll tell Gravilov who her father is?” Ninchenko asked.
“Only as a last resort. She knows that her father would turn the thing to his advantage, try to get a cut of the deal. He’s a respected guy. Nobody’ll take Gravilov’s side once they find out he took Petrov Tarasov’s daughter hostage, and Gravilov would have to make up for disrespecting him by giving him a piece.”
“I may quote Yiddish,” Ninchenko said, “but you think like maffiya.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Gage stared at the dark monitor and took a sip of water. “Is there somebody who can keep an eye on Matson? He’ll stay put until Gravilov comes back for him.”
“Sure, I’ll take care of it.”
Moments after a blue Lada containing two of Ninchenko’s men pulled to the curb twenty-five yards away, Kolya turned the ignition and headed back to the Astoria Hotel.
“I wonder if Gravilov will let her go,” Ninchenko said as they neared the yellow-lit columns and blue-lit towers of the train station.
“It depends on whether they think they have leverage to make her keep her mouth shut after the deal is done. They figure they can use the U.S. government to control Matson—if he talks he’ll go to jail. On her, they’ve got nothing.”
“Which means?”
“That they’ll treat her well until they get the software, then just get rid of her.”
CHAPTER 71
The sun broke through the previous day’s cloudy remnants as Ninchenko drove them just after dawn through the southwestern outskirts of Dnepropetrovsk on their way to Taromskoe, where Alla had been delivered. The green and gold cupolas of the Byzantine Holy Trinity Cathedral struggled against the remaining haze as the industrial stacks, newly liberated from the low clouds, thrust their smoke toward the blue sky. The sun revealed that the buildings and factories that merely appeared a dismal gray on the preceding day, were, in fact, a dismal gray, brooding and unrepentant.
Gage could see on Ninchenko’s face that his night had been as restless as Gage’s, even with the reassurance from their surveillance people that Alla had arrived safely at Gravilov’s dacha.
Within minutes of leaving the city limits, Gage found himself looking out over vast expanses of collective farms. Ninchenko was soon winding through miles of unfenced land and rolling hills. Gage lowered the passenger window of the four-door white Lada. He smelled the acrid odor of industrial-sized cattle breeding operations mixed into the diesel exhaust exploding from ancient commercial trucks lumbering along on the ill-maintained two-lane highway.
“Is that winter wheat?” Gage asked, pointing out toward thousands of acres of green shafts just emerged from the soil.
“So they hope. Last year the February freeze killed ninety percent of the crop.”
“Tough way to make a living.”
“That’s all they know.”
Ninchenko tuned to the excited chatter of the Kiev Vedomosti news station as they rode west. They listened for a moment to the announcer’s excited voice.
“What are they saying?” Gage asked.
“The Supreme Court ordered a new election for next week, but without their own army they can’t force the president to let it happen.”
They drove without speaking until Ninchenko cocked his head at the radio, then burst into bitter laughter. “The Foreign Ministry has admitted that it issued three hundred diplomatic passports in the last week, all to members of the presidential administration. They’re probably getting ready to escape to Switzerland to join their stolen money.”
Thirty minutes after leaving the city, Ninchenko turned north, back toward the Dnepr River, and passed through two villages that served as the urban centers of a thirty-square-mile collective farm. Just before they crested a hill, he pulled over and parked next to a thick stand of fir trees.
“His dacha is down the other side, along the river.”
Gage climbed out of the car, then followed Ninchenko thirty yards through the evergreens, stopping in the shadows on the far side.
Ninchenko handed binoculars to Gage, then pointed toward a museumlike dacha formed by three-story, white stucco wings extending at forty-degree angles from a domed atrium. The driveway encircled a Romanesque fountain populated with Cossacks at play. No other dachas were in sight.
“What’s in there?” Gage asked, pointing at a dozen thirty-foot-square cages nestled at the bottom of a hill to the west of the house.
“That’s his menagerie. Wolves, bears, even a Bengal tiger. Most were smuggled in. Many are ones that evolution planned for climates other than Ukraine’s. But there are a few locals, too.”
“Does he take care of them?”
Ninchenko tilted his jaw toward trails of smoke rising in the distance. “They live better than any of the villagers we passed on the way.”
Gage surveyed the countryside, looking for observation points. “Where are your people?”
Ninchenko reached for his cell phone.
“Dobre utra…Dobre…Kak dyela?”
Ninchenko glanced at Gage. “Apparently it was a little chilly last night.” Then spoke into his phone again, “Donde esta?”
Gage’s head snapped toward Ninchenko. “That ain’t Russian, Pancho.”
“Eso es correcto, mi amigo,” Ninchenko said, grinning. “My helper was stationed in Spain during the late 1980s. He taught me a few words.” He listened again, then told Gage, “They’re on the hill above the menagerie. They can see Alla’s room. It’s on the top floor at the end of the wing closest to where they are. She turned on the lights and opened the curtains last night hoping someone would spot her. It looks like she believed you when you said you’d station people close by…and Gravilov’s car is still in the garage, so he hasn’t left yet.”
After bidding his man adios, Ninchenko walked back to the van to retrieve a thermos of coffee while Gage sat down, leaning back against a tree with a clear view toward the dacha and the Dnepr River just beyond. Through the binoculars, he watched a rusting six-hundred-ton cargo ship pass by, guided downstream by a small tugboat. Crewmen stood on the deck in surplus Russian Navy overcoats and gray lambskin ushankas with flaps pulled hard against their ears. The horn sounded as it approached a bend in the river, the moan seeming less to fade than simply be absorbed by the heavy brush along the shore, the forest beyond, and the low clouds that hovered above the valley.
His cell phone rang as Ninchenko walked up from behind and handed him a cup of coffee.
“This is my second kidnapping this week,” Alla said.
Gage smiled at Ninchenko and gestured with his cup at the dacha.
“Technically speaking, you ran into me, so you sort of kidnapped yourself the first time.”
“Have I called you a fucking American yet?”
“At least once.”
“I hope you’re damn close by.”
“Did you look out of your window this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You see the cages?”
“Yes.”
“What’s inside?”
“All I can see are wild pigs, antelopes, bears, and disgusting-looking hyenas.”
“When a bear growls or a pig snorts or a hyena does whatever a hyena does, we’ll both hear it.”
“I’m glad you gave me that little phone. They snatched mine.”
“Where’d you hide it?”
“Guess. Stuart always t
ried to get me to wear a thong. It’s a good thing I refused.”
“What happened last night?”
“Stuart pretended he didn’t know what Gravilov was going to do, but he can’t act. They cooked it up together. My guess is that they’ll keep me here until Stuart brings the other software from the States, except…”
“Except what?”
“I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“Doesn’t make a difference.”
“It makes a hell of a lot of difference to me. I didn’t come back to Ukraine for Gravilov to turn me into hyena food.”
“We’ll come get you as soon as Matson arrives in the U.S.”
“Unless they ground the planes. I’m not sure he’ll even make it as far as London.”
“The planes will fly. A lot of newly appointed diplomats are looking to get out.”
“What if…I mean…” The nervous edge was back in her voice. She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“There’ll be two men on the hill above the menagerie all the time you’re here—and if Gravilov moves you they’ll be on your tail. Ninchenko will give you their cell number in a minute. But first, what’s security like?”
“I don’t know. They covered my eyes when they brought me in, but I don’t think there’s much. I didn’t hear many people talking. A woman brings me food. She looks like one of those unisex Bulgarian weightlifters. I can’t tell whether she wants to break me in two or have sex with me—or both.”
“Is there a way down from your room on the outside?”
“I’d need wings. They took the sheets off the bed so I couldn’t make them into a rope.”
“We’ll get you out in a way that doesn’t require flight.”
“You better. You got me into this.”
“No, you got yourself into it. I just gave you a rather complicated way out.”
An hour later Ninchenko and Gage were following a quarter mile behind Gravilov’s Mercedes as he and Hammer rode toward Dnepropetrovsk.
“It makes me a little nervous that he left Razor behind,” Gage said. “Guys like him derive sexual pleasure from their work. He may do something preemptive.” He glanced at Ninchenko. “What do you know about him?”
“Hammer recruited him for Gravilov in Chechnya at the end of the first war in ’96. He worked for warlords and maffiya. The rumor was that if he didn’t need to eat, he would’ve worked for free.”
“Why would he give it up?”
“Too many enemies at home and age, probably. He’s in his early forties now. But don’t underestimate him. Gravilov keeps him close because he believes Razor is still at the top of his game. And Gravilov’s life depends on him.”
“He sure looks the part, with his face twisted like that, his nose angling off to the side. When I saw him in London I felt like reaching out and straightening it.”
“Not a good idea. It would be the last thing you ever did with that hand.”
Gravilov’s Mercedes was already parked by the time Ninchenko and Gage arrived at a spot on the street with a view of the Grand Domus Hotel.
“I wish we had the van,” Ninchenko said. “We’re kind of exposed sitting here.”
Gage glanced over. “If anybody pays attention to us, feel free to kiss me. I won’t tell your wife.”
“I’m not married.”
“Good. I think Alla is looking for a new boyfriend.”
“It won’t be me. She’s already complained that she keeps picking the same type over and over, first her ex-husband and now Matson, and I don’t think I match the profile.” Ninchenko nodded toward the hotel entrance. “It looks like the wire transfer went through.”
Gravilov and Matson were walking down the hotel steps, preceded by the driver and followed by Hammer, carrying Matson’s luggage.
“We just need to babysit Matson until he gets on the plane,” Gage said, “then put our plan into effect to rescue Alla.”
“Which plan was that?”
Gage looked over. “I was afraid you’d ask that.”
CHAPTER 72
In the early evening, Hixon One was reclining in his car listening to a motivational tape about how to succeed in small business and watching the entrance to Matson’s London flat. Rain was ticking lightly on the windshield. He cracked the window open as a defense against his damp breath condensing on the windshield and blocking his view. His eyes flinched when an occasional gust sprayed droplets through the gap.
He watched as a red cab drove toward him, then stopped in front of the building. Matson stepped out, dragging his luggage behind him. Hixon One saw him hand the driver a few bills, then wave off the change. As the driver rolled up his window Matson turned away, then spun back, knocking on the side of the cab. The cabbie rolled the window back down, listened for a moment, then handed something to Matson.
Hixon One sealed up his car, jumped out, and hustled across the street. As soon as the cab switched on its roof light, he raised his hand and whistled. The cab pulled over and the rear passenger door popped open. Hixon One got in.
“Bloody dismal out, eh?” the cabbie asked. “I’ll bet it’ll rain like this all the way through Christmas.”
“It’s good for the taxi business.”
“So they say. Where to?”
“St. James Square.”
Hixon One waited until the cabbie turned onto Knightsbridge for the long, straight run to Piccadilly. “Any good fares?”
“Mostly short, except for the last one, that American. But at least this shift will end with a good long ride tomorrow morning.”
“He reserved you?”
“And paid extra. For 8 A.M., all the way to Heathrow. I imagine he didn’t enjoy soaking outside of Paddington Station waiting for a cab earlier tonight.”
Hixon One rode the last few blocks to St. James Square in silence. He hopped out, waited for the cabbie to swing around the square and shoot out the other side, then hailed another taxi back to his car.
As Matson climbed into the cab in front of his building the next morning, Hixon One took up his position outside terminal one at Heathrow. An hour later, Hixon One trailed Matson from the curb to the British Airways first-class checkin. Hixon One bought a refundable ticket on the same flight and trailed Matson through the security checkpoint, then called Gage.
“He’s taking the British Airways 10:40 for San Francisco,” Hixon One said.
“Stay with him until he gets on the plane. I don’t want to take a chance of him escaping onto a flight somewhere else.”
“Why haven’t we heard from her?” Ninchenko asked himself aloud for the fourth time in an hour. Gage thought he heard more in Ninchenko’s voice than just concern for an operative.
It was 3 A.M. Gage and Ninchenko were stationed on the hill to the west of the dacha from where they could look down on the top of the menagerie, Alla’s window, the fountain, and the entrance to the mansion. Two of Ninchenko’s men, Maks and Yasha, had kept watch on Gravilov’s apartment until they were sure he and Hammer were in for the night, then took up positions in the bushes along the dacha’s fifty-yard-long driveway.
“Slava sounded nervous when I told him we may have to go in after her,” Gage whispered.
“He’s not looking for a war with Gravilov and he’s afraid what we’re doing here may start one.”
Gage’s phone rang. It wasn’t Alla.
“Graham? This is Viz. Scooby came through customs a minute ago. He’s in line for a cab, all fidgety, like a man on the run. Should I stay with him?”
“Just long enough to see whether he heads down to SatTek to get the low-noise software. A hundred says he goes home instead of paying the ransom.”
“No way I’ll take that bet. Not on that scumbag.”
Gage rang off and turned his attention back to the mansion.
“Alla thinks that all Gravilov left here are Razor and the androgynous one,” Gage told Ninchenko.
“No need to waste the extra manpower. It wouldn’t cross Grav
ilov’s mind that Matson would send someone to rescue her.”
Forty-five minutes later, Viz called to report that Matson’s cab had turned off from the freeway away from San Jose and was now heading toward Saratoga. “You were right, the little weasel went home.”
Gage spotted movement at the entrance to the mansion as he ended the call. Light from the interior illuminated Razor’s profile as he lit a cigar, the lighter flame giving his pale, distorted face an orange glow.
Ninchenko slowly shook his head.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Gage said. He then hoisted on his backpack and withdrew a semiautomatic from the waistband of his pants. “We’re way, way too old for this.”
“Don’t worry old man, my young helpers will be right behind us.”
“To follow us in or carry us out?”
Ninchenko laughed softly. “Probably both.” He then called Maks and Yasha and told them to seal off the entrance to the property.
Gage and Ninchenko snuck down the hill, their path through the forest intermittently lit by a last-quarter moon. Halfway down, Gage glimpsed Razor again, the glowing tip of the cigar in his left hand rising and falling. They paused and watched him pass behind the fountain in front, then work his way toward the pens and around the western wing of the house, passing under Alla’s window. He disappeared around the back and reappeared a few minutes later, walking around the eastern wing. He walked up the driveway, then back, and began another circuit.
Hooves thumped as Gage and Ninchenko continued down the hillside until they reached the rear of the pens. They stopped moving, but more of the animals alerted to their presence. Bird wings fluttered. Gage sensed the sniffing of a hyena, nose pressed into the chain-link fence three feet away. A wild pig snorted, then scraped at the ground as wolverines began to pace. A slight breeze off the river brought them the smells of fresh straw, dirt, and the odors of animal waste.
Gage looked up toward Alla’s window, hoping her phone was on vibrate, then pressed “send.” The phone rang four times, then stopped. A low-wattage light flashed in Alla’s room. He called again, let the phone ring once, then disconnected.
