Only the Marussia “luxury” SUV drew their attention up from the pavement. Rebecca was glad when it pulled away from the curb and left them in obscurity. Pedestrians came and went on the busy street. The street was lined with identical buildings. Block-shaped and eight stories tall, it honestly looked like someone had set up two parallel rows of dominoes. Each building was indistinguishable from the others.
It had been the Communists’ attempt to squelch individuality. Conformity had been more valued than creativity. Like she said. It made her feel sad. Russia had such a rich architectural history. And to have it turned into this?
No wonder the people seemed depressed. She was getting bummed just thinking about living in these “ditto” digs. No wonder Osip had chosen the last building on the block. At the least his apartment overlooked the greenbelt.
For a man who had traveled the world, helping to build the largest Jewish center in Russia, only to be ostracized from Moscow must have been a blow. Then to have his shtetl, his sanctuary fail? He must have come here to lick his wounds.
“Ready?” Lopez asked as he escorted her to the apartment building entrance.
To what? To accept the fact Brandt and Davidson were MIA? To trick a defeated old man into telling them where a stash of weaponized Rinderpest was located?
“As I ever will be.”
* * *
Brandt swerved the motorcycle, or at least what passed for a motorcycle in Russia, around an old Moskvich. For fuel efficiency, the Chinese had their bicycles. America had its Priuses. Russia had these barely-more-than-a-lawnmower motorcycles. But damn they could rev up. Even with their heavy packs strapped onto the backs of the stolen motorcycles, they were still crushing the ninety-mile-an-hour speed limit. Lopez would be proud. Well, at least a little bit.
He glanced over his shoulder as Davidson completed his swerve, joining Brandt right on his six. The kid was hanging in there. When they had found the bikes Brandt had been hesitant. Could Davidson’s damaged hand take the punishment a motorcycle could deliver? Davidson insisted it could.
Given that the motorcycles were by far more maneuverable than any car they could boost, here they were.
Brandt didn’t have to look to his watch to know how close they were. If you added the time he and Davidson had traveled in the wrong direction on the train, plus the time to hike to the nearest town, then take into account their increased speed of the motorcycles over the train, they were about fifteen minutes behind Rebecca and the rest.
Up ahead brake lights flashed as cars slowed. What the hell?
Fear of a roadblock flared, but then the cause of the traffic jam became apparent. A combine harvester. Yes, a combine. It plugged along at probably twenty miles an hour. And since it was towing an extra wide set of plows, no cars could get around the blockage.
Channeling Lopez, Brandt gunned his motorcycle, taking it off the expressway and into the loose gravel. Rocks popped under the tires, shooting out in a spray all around him. His teeth chattered as the struts could protect him only so much from the punishment.
Once past the tractor, Brandt muscled his way back onto the expressway with only a few seconds lost. He looked over his shoulder to find Davidson with the biggest shit-eating grin a pair of wrecked lips could form. Brandt had to stop himself from smiling back.
Damn it. This was how he got sucked in the last time. Davidson’s easy manner and infectious optimism.
Not this time. Davidson was a means to an end. As long as he served the team he stayed. If he didn’t serve the team? Well, Davidson wouldn’t be grinning anymore.
With the open road stretching out before him and only the rural countryside to either side, Brandt shoved aside his misgivings. His sole purpose had to be getting to Pushchino without delay.
How much trouble could the team get into in fifteen minutes anyway?
Remembering India, Budapest, and Rome, Brandt hit the gas.
Screw the speed limit.
* * *
Rebecca readjusted her case as she mounted the last step to the eighth floor. Another Communist plot. No elevators to make sure their workers stayed in shape. Which during subzero winters was probably a good way to warm the blood. But in May at ninety percent humidity? Not so much.
Lopez held up his hand. Rebecca stopped within the stairwell as Harvish checked the hallway. A stark bulb glowed above them. To say this building had no decorative touches was like saying Lopez kind of had a lead foot. Gray paint peeled off the walls, and the concrete steps had large chunks broken off after decades of hauling furniture up and down them.
As they waited, Rebecca took a peek down the hall. It looked exactly like the seven other halls they had passed. Threadbare rugs with dark gray doors. The only difference between the apartments were the numbers on the door. And over half of those were really just the outline where the number used to be.
For such a large complex the building was eerily quiet. On their travels up the eight floors they hadn’t passed a single person. There had been one baby wail a few floors down and the occasional squawk from a television set. Which wasn’t that surprising. Russia’s unemployment rate was extremely low. Rebecca guessed that was one of the perks of communism. If there weren’t enough jobs, the government would make one for you.
Down the hallway, Harvish waved them forward. They joined him at apartment 829.
She looked to Lopez, who nodded. They might as well get this over with. Rebecca knocked twice. However no answer came.
“Maybe he’s out?” she asked, although that seemed unlikely. The man was in his late seventies. Not even the Russians considered Osip an “able-bodied worker.”
Harvish pulled out a handheld thermal scanner. He pointed it to the door. The screen showed a rather wide, bright yellow and red figure straight ahead. It looked like Osip sat at a small kitchen table.
Rebecca knocked again, this time harder. Maybe Osip had trouble hearing? On the screen the figure cocked his head to the door, however he did not answer. She tried again, but this time he turned his head back toward the window.
“Osip,” Rebecca said, trying not to attract attention from any neighbors left at home. “It is Dr. Rebecca Monroe.”
That got his head to swivel in the direction of the door. Still he didn’t get up.
“I was Archibald Lochum’s research student. We all had dinner at the Institute of Archeologist’s award ceremony in ninety-five? Oxford?”
The glowing figure rose slowly, then shuffled a few steps toward the door but stopped.
“Be more specific,” Lopez urged. “Tell him something no one else could know. Jog his memory.”
Rebecca tried her best, however that had been a pretty boring and routine ceremony. Archeologist weren’t exactly known for their off-the-hook parties. But wait, there was one detail…
“They overcooked Archibald’s Yorkshire pudding,” Rebecca stated. “And he sent it back three times?”
Lopez raised an eyebrow. Okay so it didn’t sound like that big a detail, yet had you been there, and had to listen to Lochum grouse for two hours, the night was etched in your mind. Clearly Osip felt the same way as he made his way to the door.
The sound of locks being opened filled the deserted hallway. Finally the door cracked a few millimeters. Rebecca could barely make out the plump face as Osip. The years had not been kind to him. The last she’d him he was a bit “stocky” as Lochum put it yet still had a vitality to him. Now he looked as gray and worn as the walls.
Osip muttered something in Russian. Even if she understood Russian, Rebecca doubted she could have understood what he said.
“Osip, I don’t speak Russian, remember?” Rebecca prompted. “Please let me come in.”
A few doors down the click of metal sounded. A neighbor getting nosy.
“Please.”
With a humph Osip closed the door. Harvish tightened his grip on his gun, but Rebecca put a hand up. She could hear the chain lock slide against the guide. The door opened to reveal a rather
short, squat, and sweating old man. He stood in what appeared to be a pair of boxers he’d worn for the last few days and a white wife-beater that he’d possibly worn for more than a weak given the red and brown stains across the front.
His long beard and unkempt hair did little to enhance the image. A decade ago he would not have been considered any Tom Cruise by any means, but he was dapper. It was almost difficult to reconcile the troll-like man in front of her with the revered biblical scholar of old.
And what Rebecca could see into the small apartment, it looked in no better shape than Osip. If anything it looked like a ream of paper had gotten really, really mad at the old man and thrown a tantrum across the floor. Dirty clothes, dirtier than the ones Osip had on, lay strewn on furniture, and the stack of dishes went well above the lip of the sink.
No wonder the place smelled vaguely of borscht.
The only objects not in total disarray were Osip’s books. Those were still neatly stacked on bookshelves or carefully opened on the table by the window.
“Step aside,” Harvish said, pushing his way past the old man.
Osip cursed in Russian, spit flying. As Rebecca put a hand on Osip’s arm to comfort him, she shot a glare to Harvish. Like the point man couldn’t have added a “may I?” It was going to be hard enough to convince Osip to help, antagonizing the old man was not going to make it any easier.
“Please, let’s get inside,” Rebecca urged as the old man’s rant carried down the hallway. As Lopez shut the door behind them, Rebecca turned to Osip. “It’s okay. They don’t mean you any harm.”
“Ebanatyi pidaraz KGB,” Osip snarled.
“No,” Rebecca reassured him. “No, they’re American.”
The old man spat at Lopez, slurring his words. “That makes it worse.”
Okay, not only was she worried for Brandt, now she missed him. Not in that “I wish I were still engaged to you” kind of way, but in the ring master kind of way. The sergeant’s calm, “I am going to kick your ass if you don’t get into line” manner certainly made things easier.
The point man came out of the studio apartment’s small bathroom. “All clear.”
“Get out,” Osip said, waving toward Harvish. “Poshel von!”
“Please, if we could just sit down.”
“Nyet!”
The confrontation between Osip and Harvish looked like it was about to get physical. This is not how Rebecca envisioned this meeting going.
“Amed,” she blurted out.
All heads swiveled to her. The plan had been to slowly talk Osip up and try to tease out of him whether or not he had met with Amed.
Oh well.
She’d learned last year how quickly plans could go out the door, and equally quickly you had to get another in place.
And it turned out the name “Amed” had silenced Osip.
“If you did not meet with him, we’ll walk out that door,” Rebecca stated, even though it was Harvish’s turn to glare. “But if you did, can we please sit down and discuss it?”
The old man still glowered, his eyes darting from Harvish to Lopez and then back. Rebecca nodded to the corporal. “Maybe eager beaver can check the hallway?”
Lopez didn’t hesitate. “Harvish, make sure the stairwell is clear.”
Osip visibly relaxed as the redheaded soldier left the apartment. Lopez inclined his head. “I’ll stay by the door.”
Rebecca turned her attention to Osip, herding him toward the table. It seemed to be the only place in the apartment where he took care. Surprisingly the tablecloth shone a stark white and not even a crumb cluttered the surface. A mixture of scrolls, textbooks, and Bibles were laid out in neat, clean precision.
“Have a seat,” she urged as the older man’s hand shook. “I’m sorry we barged in like this, but as you know, this really is a matter of life or death.”
Osip’s eyes studied her as she sat down opposite him. Rebecca shrugged off the scrutiny as the sun streamed in the window, dappling the yellowed pages of the ancient documents. It appeared Osip had been researching Exodus intensively. No great surprise there. Early Jewish history was his wheelhouse, after all.
“So you did speak with Amed?”
The old man snorted. “He came to me.”
Rebecca cocked her head, glancing to Lopez. That was not just confirmation their terrorist had visited Osip, but had somehow not only tracked down the old man, then let him live. Certainly not normal terrorist behavior.
“Why?” Rebecca asked, not bothering to beat around the bush.
With a groan and a few creaks, Osip rose. “It is too early in the day for such talk without coffee.”
She didn’t bother to correct him. It was midafternoon.
“You want some?” he asked as he made his way to the kitchen.
“Sure,” Lopez answered.
“Not you,” Osip corrected. “Only the pretty one.”
Rebecca shot Lopez a sympathetic look. The corporal shrugged at her. “Show off.”
It had been a while since she’d been called pretty. Granted it was by an unbathed, harmless old man. And you know what? Rebecca was going to take it. She carefully moved the current issue of Yivo, the Institute for Jewish Research’s journal, as Osip busied himself in the tiny kitchenette. Drawers were pulled out, lids slammed down in the most contorted coffee-making session in history. However, it did seem like it was about to be successful as the pungent odor of Russian coffee beat across the room.
Which was not necessarily a good thing. Sure the stuff came from coffee beans, but the thick liquid was more of what was found on the bottom of the pot. The stuff that required stainless steel pads to remove. Worse, Osip scooped in some cream. Which had been left out on the counter for exactly how long?
Forget getting shot out of a submarine. This might kill her. Yet when the old man turned around, Rebecca smiled encouragingly. At least they seemed to have gotten over their brusque entrance. Perhaps now Osip would feel comfortable enough to tell her exactly why Amed had sought him out.
As Osip shuffled across the short space between the kitchenette and the table, a dog barked down the street. She could feel Lopez tense. The corporal opened the door, checking down the hallway. He paused there for a moment and then gently closed the door. He gave a thumbs-up. Everything was fine.
Well, Brandt was still missing, so not exactly fine. And where was he? If Brandt and Davidson had simply been misplaced, shouldn’t they be here by now?
“Excuse?” Osip asked.
Rebecca shoved thoughts of Brandt aside as she moved her hand out of the way for Osip to place the coffee cup down in front of her. Coffee-steeped steam wafted up. She tried not to let her grimace show. Rebecca used the small tarnished silver spoon to stir the drink, hoping she could delay taking a sip as long as possible.
“What did Amed want?” Rebecca asked as Osip set his own cup down with shaky hands.
“He found something,” Osip explained as he sagged into his chair. “He found it during an excavation.”
Rebecca doubted very much that Amed had excavated anything for scholarly purposes. More than likely the terrorist had been digging to provide a home for his new bioweapon.
“It was only later,” Osip said, “after he left, that I discovered he was a terrorist.”
There was something in the way his eyes refused to meet hers that made Rebecca question the veracity of that statement. She didn’t need to be trained in interrogation techniques to know the old man was lying. Well, maybe not full-on lying but definitely holding something back.
“What was the item Amed found?” she asked, then blew on her coffee hoping Osip didn’t notice her lack of interest in the drink. The Russians took national pride to pretty extreme reaches, including their homegrown coffee.
“A block of stone.” Osip set down his cup after a long drink and made the size of about a playing card with his fingers. “About so big. It was inscribed with ancient Hebrew. Amed wished me to translate.”
Rebecca w
aited for Osip to continue, yet he just kept drinking that damned cup of joe. “And?” she prompted, not wanting to push him but also anxious to find out what would drive Amed to reach out to a Jew.
“The stone’s inscription,” Rebecca asked. “Do you remember it?”
“Da,” Osip said, lazily stirring his coffee. “There were only fragments of passages.”
“And those would be?” Rebecca asked as she tried to take a sip herself.
“Herein lies the Asereth ha-D’bharîm.”
Rebecca nearly spit the coffee out. Not because of the taste but for the words that came out of the old man’s mouth.
“Asereth ha-D’bharîm?” Rebecca repeated, sure that she had heard incorrectly.
“Da,” Osip said. “As you Americans call it…the Ten Commandments.”
CHAPTER 8
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Pushchino, Russia
2:19 p.m. GMT
Davidson laid into the turn. His scarred fingers screamed from the abuse. The tendons were so tightly contracted around the motorcycle’s handles that Davidson honestly wasn’t sure if he could remove his hand from the bars, but he also didn’t care. The wind whipped through his hair, snapping above his ears. Russia had a decidedly more lenient helmet law than America.
Righting the bike after the expressway exit, Davidson let off the gas. They had to slow as they entered Pushchino. Seldom were the back roads patrolled by Russian police. The town near the country’s largest bioweapons manufacturing plant, however? Those were well patrolled. Otherwise there was no way Brandt would have slowed.
They were both worried for Rebecca. Each for their own reasons.
He worried that he did not tell Rebecca everything he knew about Osip. Of course he’d thought that he would have an hour on the train to discuss the historian. Davidson’s eyes slid over to Brandt. If anything came to pass with Rebecca and the sergeant found out that Davidson had not fully divulged what he knew? Davidson did not walk that thought forward as they turned left, heading for the far side of town.
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