Dobrev nodded. ‘His name is Marko Kadurik.’
He took a bottle of vodka from atop a desk in his small living room, poured himself three fingers’ worth, and downed it with one quick swig. His eyes never focused on the task. He was still consumed by the memory of his grandson.
Jasmine took a deep breath. ‘I should probably go.’
‘All right,’ Dobrev agreed.
Jasmine felt the pangs of remorse, and she wondered if she had taken her questions too far. She had assumed that Dobrev would object to her departure and beg her to stay longer. Instead, he seemed to welcome the impending solitude.
‘I will make sure you get safely to-’
‘There’s really no need,’ she said. ‘It’s early, and I saw a taxi station just down the block. I will be perfectly safe.’
‘Please, I-’
Jasmine smiled and took his hand, holding it gently in a show of affection. ‘Thank you for sharing your treasures and keepsakes. You’ll never know how much it meant to me.’
Marko Kadurik heard the conversation through the thin wall that his apartment shared with Dobrev’s. He hadn’t lived there long — less than a year — only in the months since Yury’s death. Yury had often bragged of his grandfather’s old-country regalia, and he had mentioned their value on more than one occasion. One item in particular had caught Kadurik’s interest: a gold coin. He had already broken into Dobrev’s apartment several times in search of the treasure, but he had yet to locate it.
It is only a matter of time, he thought.
When the woman left, he stared into the darkness of his apartment. His walls and windows were covered with RNU flags. They were emblazoned with swastikas and modified swastikas — symbols that looked like four deadly, interlocking tonfa batons.
Yes, he thought. Go to the taxi stand. Go where you think you’ll be safe.
The only illumination in the room came from the cell phone he held at his waist, his thumb dancing across the tiny keyboard. The dim backlighting of the device gave his tortured face an even more satanic glow.
A few seconds passed. The cell phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced down and saw the message clearly. His comrades-in-arms were on their way. And they were coming fast.
Kadurik smiled like a wolf when he heard the outside door of the apartment building slam shut. He peeked from behind one of the banners and looked at the street.
There she was. Walking proudly. Not knowing the fate that was about to overtake her.
His group’s leader had made it clear: Russia was for the Slavic — not the Jews, not the Muslims, not the Gypsies, and certainly not the hated Asians. He had been vehement about that. The Russian national identity must be protected from dilution by other races, liberal sympathizers, cross-breeders, mixed progeny, and temptresses — especially the exotic ones. The ones that made normally sane men, like Yury’s grandfather, dribble like senile old men.
Kadurik opened his door and grinned in anticipation.
This was going to be fun.
23
Cobb was waiting at the curb for Jasmine when she emerged from the squat apartment building on the suburban street. He was leaning against the gray UAZ Simbir that their railway partners had loaned to him — a plain but fairly powerful four-by-four that looked like a western SUV but with a more prominent snout and an overall look of Communist reserve.
Cobb had left the vehicle when things looked like they might go south. He held back as Jasmine regained control of the situation with Kadurik. Now he smiled as she approached.
He was glad to see her safe.
Jasmine looked both ways down the bleak, harshly lit, cement-enclosed street. She was relieved to see that the area was all but empty. Little wonder. The entrance to the Dobrev apartment was tucked into an unnatural pyramid with a curving wall beneath a roadway forming one side, the apartment building forming another, and the maw of a dark alley comprising the third.
In Manhattan, this would have been the butt end of the building.
In Kartmazovo, it was the grand entrance.
‘Hope I didn’t make you wait too long,’ Jasmine said with a mixture of sarcasm, relief, and pride — the pride that came from successfully pulling off a first assignment.
‘You did great in there,’ Cobb assured her. ‘I was thinking, though, we missed a golden opportunity. We should have brought one of those gold foil chocolate coins and done a switcheroo. He probably wouldn’t have noticed for years, if ever.’
She laughed at the suggestion. ‘Honestly? I was trying to think of some way to palm it. I would have felt bad, but not-’извините."came a loud, rough voice.
‘Shit,’ Cobb whispered under his breath. He saw two uniformed patrolmen out of the corner of his eye. ‘What’d he yell?’
‘Excuse me,’ she translated.
Cognizant of the button camera on his shirt, Cobb turned toward the cops, giving Garcia a clear view of what they were dealing with: two veteran Russian patrolmen, both with square-brimmed gray caps and gray pants, one with a matching gray shirt, the other with a light blue shirt with epaulettes on his shoulders. Both had heavy, brown belts complete with handcuff holders and large, worn, leather holsters.
One was taller than the other, but both were overweight. They had buzz-cut hair, double chins, bobbed noses, and suspicious eyes. The expressions on their flushed faces were smug.
‘What can we do for you, officers?’ Jasmine asked in Russian.
Both men were taken aback by the fluent Russian coming from the mouth of the statuesque Asian. They stopped a few feet away, their surprise fading as they became bossy.
""Ваши документы" said the taller, heavier one.
‘Papers, please,’ Jasmine translated.
Cobb was already pulling his passport and visa out of his jacket pocket. She did the same from her coat. They calmly handed them over to the officers and waited, apparently unconcerned, while the two conferred.
"Не в порядке "said the shorter one, looking up.
‘These are not in order,’ Jasmine translated, looking hopefully at Cobb. Thankfully his manner was as comforting as it was confident.
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘Give them my apologies, tell them that it’s all my fault, and if they’d be so kind as to hand our documents back for a moment, I’m sure I can correct my mistake.’
Jasmine did so, while the cops used it as an excuse to stare at her as if she was a particularly clever animal in a zoo. They handed the passports and visas back. Cobb returned them with a one-hundred-ruble bill tucked between each set. The cops’ eyes brightened at the sight, but they still put on a show of study.
‘What’s going on?’ Jasmine whispered to Cobb.
‘It’s the Russian game, been going on for centuries,’ Cobb assured her casually. ‘They lie, we know they’re lying, they know we know they’re lying, they keep lying anyway, and we pretend to believe them.’
‘How about if I just believe you?’
‘That works.’
The heavier officer looked up and held out the passports and visas — minus the money, of course — with a smile on his face. He opened his mouth, probably to say that their papers were in order this time, but he never had a chance to speak.
Instead, a jagged rock smashed into the side of the cop’s head.
He fell to the ground like a shot duck.
Jasmine screamed as Cobb moved her behind him and twisted to get a clear view of the entire area. The other cop stumbled back and started clawing for his gun.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough. A lead pipe struck the side of his head. He hit the ground with a heavy thud. Blood poured from the wound, staining the street.
Three skinheads in camouflage pants and mock leather jackets had rushed out of the alley. Two had lead pipes, and one held a stained AK-47 bayonet — a straight, single-edged, five-inch blade with a dark wooden handle and a black ring under the hilt for attaching it to the automatic rifle’s barrel. They came at Cobb and Jasmine like t
he pack of animals they were. The knife-wielding one in the middle, the pipe-swingers on either side.
Jasmine shrieked again when Cobb ran from her without a word, but the cry was cut short when she saw what he was doing. He wasn’t running from the three men. He was running straight at them, launching off the balls of his feet, and moving so fast they started to falter even though they were much better armed than Cobb.
In a flash, Cobb was on the man in the lead. He blocked the knife hand by slapping his left hand hard on the man’s wrist. That bought him the time he needed to bring his right hand to bear. Jasmine saw Cobb strike him in the face with the bony heel of his open hand. The man shuddered and staggered backward on legs that reminded her of cooked noodles.
Jasmine couldn’t follow Cobb, he was moving so fast. Even before the knife-wielder was finished wobbling, Cobb was already shifting to grab the man to the left by his pipe arm. He grabbed the back of the man’s wrist with his left hand and swung his right hand into the back of the man’s elbow. One deft move from Cobb, and he had immobilized his opponent with a classic arm-bar. The skinhead went down on his knees. Cobb planted a foot on his back between his shoulder blades and pushed the rest of him to the pavement, face first.
She could hear the crunching of broken teeth.
The one to the right tried to redirect his attack, but the knife-wielder was in his way. He had to step around him, which cost him valuable time. With the pipe of the man he had just taken down, Cobb stepped forward, the pipe extended before him. It connected with the third man’s chest, cracking something inside. Cobb quickly regripped the pipe and swung it upward, smashing the hard iron into the soft cartilage of the attacker’s nose.
Blood sprayed in all directions.
Cobb’s counterattack had taken about five seconds. That’s how long it took Jasmine to suppress her fear, remember her training, and join the fray. The man Cobb had knocked to his face was trying to rise. Jasmine pounced, straddling his neck like a horse, grabbing his hair from above, and dropping. She allowed her entire weight to fall upon his upper back. That drove his face back into the street, knocking him out — along with more teeth.
She rose just as a fourth man darted from the shadows of the apartment building behind her. Jasmine chirped with surprise as she turned to face Marko Kadurik. There was a snarl on his face as his hand grabbed her by the throat. She remembered her training and tried to break the grip by laying her forearm on the groove of his elbow, pushing down, and twisting away, but he surprised her by punching her in the belly with his free hand.
She doubled over in pain.
He grabbed her by her hair, spun her around so she was facing Cobb, and pushed her left arm high up her back while clutching her throat in a death grip.
She tried to breathe, but Kadurik wouldn’t allow it.
24
Kadurik wasn’t just choking her, he was wrenching her forward and back, cutting off her air entirely each time he pulled back and strengthened his hold. Then he stopped moving. He stood erect, hugging Jasmine tight against him, lifting her onto her toes.
She tried to remember what she had been taught: focus on one finger. If she could pry one digit from her throat, his grip would loosen significantly. At the same time, she thought about her stance, and how she might be able to knock him off balance.
But training is not instinct. Thought is not muscle memory. And the seconds Jasmine squandered remembering the techniques cost her air and consciousness.
Now she was helpless.
Jasmine’s face turned red. Her tongue stabbed out of her frighteningly twisted mouth. Then her body jerked forward limply as if she were trying to throw up. The sounds of her gagging made Garcia and Papineau sick with helplessness all those miles away.
‘Sarah!’ Papineau screamed in the Moscow railroad office. ‘Where the hell are you?’
But Sarah wasn’t answering.
‘There must be something wrong with her unit,’ Garcia said.
‘Quiet!’ Cobb whispered, low enough so that Kadurik wouldn’t hear.
‘You!’ Kadurik snarled in heavily accented English. ‘Kick … pipe … here!’
He clutched Jasmine to him, huddling behind her, shaking her head with his hand at Cobb like a mad puppeteer.
Cobb motioned to lower his elbow first, relax the choke.
‘Do it!’ Kadurik threatened.
Cobb shook his head. ‘She dies, you die.’
Kadurik relaxed slightly — but it was enough. Jasmine was in no condition to fight, but at least she could breathe, albeit raspingly.
Cobb agreed to his end of the bargain. He slowly placed the pipe on the ground and kicked it forward — all the while deciding when to make his move. But before he had a chance to do anything, there was a blur of motion behind Kadurik, who made a whining, wailing sound, which was drowned out by the stomach-turning noise of ripping skin and smashing bone.
Kadurik crumpled to the sidewalk like a rag doll. Jasmine fell, too, but before she hit the ground, Andrei Dobrev caught her in his blood-splattered hands. To do so, he was forced to drop his nineteen-inch-long saddle-bolt spanner — an open-ended wrench used to tighten bolts in locomotives. Covered in strands of hair and bits of flesh, it clattered to the cement in the suddenly quiet night.
Cobb blinked a few times, surprised by the turn of events.
Although Jasmine was his main concern, Cobb rushed to Kadurik first. Not to treat his wounds, but to make sure he was no longer a threat.
He wasn’t. The skinhead was dead.
Cobb patted him down and searched his pockets. Then he placed the weapons back in the hands of the men who had been carrying them — including the rock, so the police would know who had attacked their colleagues.
All in all, it wasn’t a bad result.
Six men down, but his historian/interpreter was still alive.
Cobb knelt beside her and pressed two fingers behind Jasmine’s inner left ankle. It was an acupressure technique he had learned in the service, intended to help her recover. A few seconds later, her eyes fluttered open. Her pupils were clear and her flesh was pale in the streetlight, but she appeared okay, at least physically. And she would benefit from this experience: the next time she felt that fear, she would know it, confront it, and hopefully get past it.
That was how combat worked.
Jasmine looked up at Cobb in wounded wonder.
‘What happened?’ she croaked.
Cobb put his hand on Dobrev’s shoulder. ‘You survived — thanks to your friend.’
‘Really?’
Cobb nodded. ‘Really.’
She smiled at Dobrev and thanked him in Russian.
McNutt had heard the confrontation through his earpiece, but he never had a clear view from his vantage point across the street. And he felt sick about it.
‘Chief,’ he said sincerely, ‘I didn’t have a shot. I’m sorry.’
Cobb waved off the apology. ‘It’s all right.’
‘I’m coming now. Two minutes out.’
‘Don’t. We don’t need you … Sarah?’
‘Ready,’ was all she said.
McNutt slowed to a halt. ‘Instructions?’
‘B to A,’ Cobb said quietly. ‘We’ll pick you up as soon as we can.’
‘Outstanding,’ McNutt replied.
Over the intercom, Papineau pleaded with the team, hoping that someone — anyone — would recognize his authority. ‘See if you can get back upstairs. Tell Andrei that Jasmine needs a drink. If you do that, see if you can get the coin. We-’
‘Shut up,’ Cobb said.
‘Boss man,’ Garcia said fearlessly, ‘it would be a big help if I was able to laser-scan it.’
‘A painful process, if I shove that coin up your ass,’ Cobb growled.
He practically heard Garcia’s mouth snap shut.
Cobb helped Jasmine and Dobrev. He was angry with himself for having assumed Kadurik was among the initial gang of three. That was a mistake that could have cost th
em dearly.
‘Now what?’ Jasmine wondered.
‘You hear that?’ Cobb asked.
‘Hear what? My ears are ringing.’
‘Sirens,’ he said calmly. ‘Someone must have seen the fight and called the police. We need to go before they arrive.’ He pointed at Dobrev. ‘Tell him that.’
Jasmine did, and Dobrev replied sadly.
‘He understands,’ she told Cobb. ‘He said he’ll keep our names out of it if anyone asks.’
Cobb smiled. ‘He doesn’t get. I mean we all have to go. Now.’
Papineau objected from afar. ‘Jack, what are you thinking? We don’t know this man. His presence puts everyone in jeopardy if-’
Anger flared in Cobb’s eyes. ‘Another word and I terminate. Got that?’
Papineau’s response was heavy breathing. The only reason Cobb was still listening at all was because he needed to stay in touch with the other team members. On most missions, this was the point when he pretty much stopped giving a damn about what the bottled-water-drinking bastards back in their ops tents thought, said, or did.
But Papineau wasn’t the only one objecting to Dobrev’s inclusion in their escape. Dobrev himself was arguing with Jasmine, shaking his head and pointing to his apartment.
It was obvious that he intended to stay.
Jasmine translated for Cobb. ‘He says he’s not leaving without the coin. He left it in the open, and he’s afraid he might never see it again if he doesn’t go get it right now. I think he’ll come with us if we just let him run upstairs and-’
‘There’s no time for that,’ Cobb replied.
The sounds of the sirens were growing louder.
‘Sarah, you copy?’ Cobb asked.
‘Heard it all,’ Sarah answered.
‘Good. Smash and grab,’ Cobb instructed. ‘Two minutes. Then get down here.’
‘Two minutes?’ Sarah repeated. ‘In two minutes we’ll be two blocks from here.’
‘Prove it,’ Cobb challenged.
25
Sarah jumped backwards over the edge of the rooftop directly above Dobrev’s apartment. Her rappelling gear held fast, preventing a quick plummet to her death. In a mere fifteen seconds, she had dropped several stories to Dobrev’s locked window. A quarter-minute more, and she had popped the latch that anchored the window to its sill. She climbed inside the apartment then unfastened her harness, leaving the rope dangling down the side of the building.
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