The Russian Bride

by Ed Kovacs

  “I get it,” said Angel. “It’s the reckless-queen-with-no-strategy strategy.”

  “I’m making this up as I go along.” Kit smiled. “But first…” Kit reached into his backpack and produced four identical cell phones. “These phones are sterile and encrypted. Starting now we only use these. We all give our other phones to Jen and let her check them for tracking software that might have been installed.” Kit slid his old cell phone with the battery and SIM taken out to the middle of the table.

  “Second, and I mean right now, we ‘acquire’ some different vehicles. Then we go out to play.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The facility and parking lot on South Lena Drive in San Bernardino were surrounded by a wall of tall, bushy trees, like sentinels keeping bad things out. Or in. The brown stucco building trimmed with green tile and capped with a green tile roof almost looked inviting. Rosebushes, jacaranda, palm trees, and bougainvillea adorned the grounds. You’d think the place was a resort, not the county morgue. If your body has to get taken to a cold slab somewhere, this was a pretty nice place.

  But it’s never nice to look at a dead loved one.

  Yulana hadn’t wanted to come, but Yulana wasn’t calling too many shots these days. So she stood silently next to Kit as he gazed at his deceased mother on the stainless-steel roll-out tray in a very chilly room.

  She noticed Kit’s eyes were moist, but he didn’t cry. And he didn’t say a word.

  When she shifted her eyes to Gina Bennings’s lifeless form, it was Yulana’s eyes that grew moist. She bit her lip and then burst into tears.

  She watched Kit, who looked surprised, stare at her quizzically. She then broke down into a ragged, emotional crying jag that convulsed her body. Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw him boring his eyes into her, as if seeking some kind of answer.

  She didn’t care anymore what he or the other Americans thought. She only cared about one thing, but she couldn’t dare tell anyone, couldn’t trust anyone. She was on her own in the worst kind of way, held against her will in a foreign country with no money, no family, no friends, no coworkers; not a single soul existed whom she could turn to for help. She felt more like a Ping-Pong ball than a pawn; she was part of a game that was batting her around from one side to the other.

  As more tears rushed from her eyes, she knew that no matter who won the game, a cold slab in a chilly room was the most likely fate for her and for the only one she truly loved.

  She wiped away tears. Bennings’s gaze had softened. He looked different somehow. Not kindly, but … understanding. Not that it mattered. Yulana Petkova was sure her unfortunate fate was sealed. So she didn’t protest as he took her hand and led her out of the room.

  * * *

  Yulana struggled to keep up with Kit as he quickly crossed over the lighted fish pond on a small concrete walkway toward the Chevy Tahoe 4x4 in the dark parking lot. The Tahoe had a heavy steel front grill guard and a heavy-duty rear bumper—extras that looked like they meant business.

  “We’re about to meet some of Viktor Popov’s employees,” said Kit, with an edge to his voice.

  The two vehicles containing Russians had been spotted by Buzz when he reconnoitered the place on a motorcycle. Two late-model sedans sat parked in the very dim light near the two entrances. It was hard to see the occupants, but they were there.

  In the Tahoe, Kit pulled out his favorite knife, a Gerber DMF automatic folder with a tanto blade, and gunned the truck toward an exit. “Get in the back quick and hold on!”

  Frightened, Yulana scrambled over the console into the rear seat as the Tahoe neared the exit. Kit heard the dark sedan start its engine and watched as its headlights came on. At the last second, he swerved violently and sent the SUV flying into the sedan broadside at about 35 mph.

  The sickening crunch was heard blocks away.

  Kit used the Gerber to puncture the Tahoe’s air bags instead of waiting for them to deflate on their own. He didn’t stop to admire his handiwork but threw the big SUV into reverse and floored it.

  He blew a rear tire bouncing over a median but accelerated to almost 40 mph in reverse toward the second sedan. The Russians started to pull out in an attempt to get clear, but Kit slammed the rear of his truck into the trunk of the sedan, which went flying headfirst into a tree.

  Kit shook his head to clear his senses, then keyed his encrypted two-way radio: “Talk to me.”

  “Got a live one,” said Angel Perez.

  Kit bounded out of the Tahoe as he pulled a silenced Kel-Tec Sub-2000 from a shoulder rig. He unfolded the uniquely designed weapon and it became a subgun that fired .40 caliber pistol ammunition. The two dazed occupants saw him, drew their pistols, and started to raise them.

  “Drop your weapons or I’ll shoot!” yelled Kit in Russian, as he took aim.

  The men didn’t comply but instead wheeled their guns in his direction.

  “Drop them, now!”

  As the two Russians sighted on him, Kit fired bursts into each man.

  He quickly returned to the Tahoe, and Yulana looked at him with true fear in her eyes.

  Good. It’s about time you became afraid, Yulana, because this is no game.

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the wrecked Tahoe as Angel sped up in one of the white vans. Once again, they piled into the back of a van, this time joining a bound-up Russian, and then they were gone.

  * * *

  Buzz and Angel took the captured Russian into the safe house for interrogation. Yulana was now a nervous wreck, and she was a smoker, so Kit drove her in a Honda Accord toward Koreatown. The drive would help him relax, and he wanted time alone with her, while she was seemingly vulnerable, to take a crack at her hard shell. He doubted she knew anything that could help him find Staci, but he wanted some truth as to how she fit into the picture. So he stopped in a liquor store to buy vodka, cold sake, and cigarettes. Then he took her to Koffea.

  * * *

  Koffea, on South Berendo in L.A.’s Koreatown is so big it would impress a Texan. Off-street valet parking is only a buck, but a simple cup of java with no refill, like at almost all Korean coffee joints, is très cher. It’s not so much that you’re buying coffee as it is you’re renting the seat. Koffea, with soft K-pop on the speaker system, is generally quiet, so a lot of students show up to study. There are many different rooms, nooks, crannies, and open spaces, so even when they’re busy, there are plenty of tables to be had. Kit led Yulana out onto the back patio, where recessed fireplaces warmed against the light chill in the night air.

  The steaming green tea and cold glasses of water came quickly. When the waitress left, Kit dumped their water into a potted plant, pulled a pint of Stoli from his jacket pocket, and filled her glass with vodka. He slid a pack of Marlboros and a lighter to her, and she quickly lit up, inhaling nicotine deeply into her lungs. The ashtray was a small celadon bowl filled with damp coffee grounds, and she nervously tapped ash into it, then took a long hit of the vodka. As she drew deep intakes from her cigarette, he surreptitiously removed a small bottle of Kikuyoi sake from another pocket and poured it into his water glass. He took a sip, savoring the taste, then ignored her as she smoked in sullen silence and calmed down.

  Kit jotted notes on a pad for twenty minutes as they sat at the round marble table without speaking. Her aqua eyes, the color of a Caribbean lagoon, held no sparkle. Dark circles pooled below them. A droop of sadness pervaded her entire face. She was so beautiful … and so perfectly miserable. Kit thought back on something Larry Bing had taught him when dealing with reluctant allies: “Sometimes to get truth, you have to give a little.”

  So he turned to Yulana and looked her right in the eyes.

  “Viktor Popov offered me two hundred thousand U.S. dollars to marry you and bring you here to America. I refused. So then he murdered my mother. To force me to marry you. And he kidnapped my sister, Staci. They were kind enough to show me the video of how badly she’s been beaten. He’ll kill Staci if I don’t do what he says, b
ut I don’t know what it is he wants. I’m only sure it’s something bad.

  “I was a diplomatic attaché working at the embassy in Moscow. Why did Popov target me to marry you? You’re so beautiful, he could have found some American guy to do it for nothing, for free. What is it that I can do for him that someone else can’t?

  “As you’ve seen since we flew in … I’m fighting back. Partly because I understand that even if I do everything he says, he’ll still kill my sister and probably me too. But I’m also fighting back because when you do nothing, a cancer will just grow and grow. And for some reason the cancer called Popov has infected my life. We live in a very corrupt world, you and me. We can’t right all the wrongs; all we can do is take care of our own as best we can. So I choose to take aggressive action to fight the cancer called Viktor Popov.”

  She studied him for a long beat. “You cannot defeat this cancer,” she finally said, stubbing out her cigarette into the coffee grounds.

  “Cancer is beaten or sent into remission all the time.”

  “You think you can defeat the Russian Mafia?”

  “Of course not. But I think I can kill Popov and stop whatever it is he wants to do. I absolutely think that’s possible.”

  “You and your three friends?” she asked sarcastically.

  “We all have special skills.”

  “Do you have nine lives? Popov has dozens, hundreds of killers working for him. He’s rich, powerful, friendly with the other rich and powerful Mafia dons and spy chiefs and military generals. He seems to know everything about everyone all the time. How can you beat him?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. And it won’t be easy. But I’m going to do it.”

  “Or die trying?” she asked.

  “Or die trying.”

  She said nothing, just looked away and nervously bit her fingernail.

  Kit removed a photo from his pocket and placed it in front of her. It showed a smiling, very happy Yulana holding a laughing three-year-old girl. “You said you had some personal things in your bag you wanted back.”

  She quickly grabbed the picture and held it tightly.

  “If they killed your mother. And if they will kill your sister even when you do what they ask, then…” Tears ran down Yulana’s cheeks.

  “Then you don’t think there’s any hope for your daughter. Popov has her in Russia, right? That’s why you cried when you saw my mother. You thought it could be your daughter lying in a morgue somewhere.”

  “She’s only three years old,” she said, trying to choke back tears.

  “Then you’re lucky. Popov is an evil man, but I can tell you this: he’ll never harm a child, especially a toddler. He might try to kill you, but he won’t harm your little girl.”

  “I wish I could believe you.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  She looked up at him sharply. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

  “Maybe not. But at least you know why you are here. Don’t you?”

  She guiltily averted his eyes.

  “Unlike me, you know what Popov wants you to do. And because you love your little girl, you’ll do it. But deep in your heart, you believe it’s hopeless, that you’re both doomed.”

  She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

  “I’m here to offer you hope,” he continued. “But I need your help. I need to know what you know. Anything that might be important.”

  Yulana wasn’t sure what to think; she looked like a woman racked with confusion and doubt. “So you want me to believe you’re a good guy in this war?”

  “I’m a good guy who is willing to fight dirty to win. Because if you don’t fight dirty, you lose.”

  “Okay, then Mr. Good Guy. Let me go free.”

  Without pausing, Kit pulled an envelope from an inside jacket pocket and gave it to her. “Your passport, your return ticket to Moscow, and three hundred dollars. Udachi. Good luck.”

  She looked shocked, not sure whether this was some kind of cruel joke. She checked inside the envelope, then gave Kit a long penetrating stare.

  “I should warn you, though: You remember the video they took at the marriage office, where they made me count the money?”

  She nodded as a frown set upon her lips.

  “Popov sent it to the chief of all the American army. So there are many people looking to arrest me right now. And the American government thinks you, Yulana Petkova, are a Russian spy. That means they’re looking for you too. And the airport is the first place they’d start to watch. Your name will be red flagged. You might want to get to Mexico somehow. Maybe you could fly out of Mexico City. But Cuba would be safer, much safer. So, personally, I’d try for Havana.”

  The frown stayed on Yulana’s lips. She downed the last of her vodka, pocketed the cigarettes and lighter, and walked out clutching the envelope.

  Kit watched her go. Without a doubt, he now believed that Yulana Petkova had been trapped, just as he had been.

  He sat quietly for another few minutes, finished the sake, then rang the buzzer for the waitress. He paid the bill and walked outside, fumbling in his pockets for the valet claim check, but couldn’t find it. He found it in his wallet while walking toward the Mexican valet.

  “Sorry, Señor, I know the pretty lady come with you in the black Honda. She say she cold and you coming right out, so I bring the car up, but she jump in and drive away.” The valet looked nervous; he knew he’d made a mistake.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Kit handing him the claim check and a tip. He glanced into the lot to confirm that the car was indeed gone.

  He turned away from the valet and scanned the street, but there was no sign of Yulana. His face twisted into a frown as he walked briskly to Sixth Street and then headed west. He knew a Korean soju joint with a hip crowd in the refurbished Chapman Market complex just up ahead. He needed to put a little distance between himself and Koffea and get off the street, just to be on the safe side. He’d misjudged Petkova; she not only took the opportunity to run, she stole his car.

  CHAPTER 18

  Just as in Korea, where every square foot of level space is fair game to park something on, Koreatown mall parking lots are so jam-packed they have security to direct the chaotic flux of vehicles into seemingly illogical parking configurations. As he threaded through the parking lot of the historic Chapman Market Courtyard complex crowded with trendy young Koreans and Korean Americans, Bennings fished out his sterile cell and called Buzz.

  “Good news on this end,” said Buzz.

  “Our friend was chatty?”

  “Very.”

  “Great. Listen, I’m in Koreatown and I need somebody to pick me up,” said Kit.

  “What happened?”

  “My lovely Russian bride…”

  Just then a horn honked. Kit turned around and saw Yulana behind the wheel of the Honda, snaking along in a single-file line of luxury cars. She gave him a wave.

  “Disregard that. I’ll be back soon for the debrief.” Kit ended the call, backtracked toward her, and got into the passenger seat.

  He and Yulana exchanged a long look that told him he’d made a new ally.

  “Thanks for coming back,” he said.

  “I almost lost you,” she said as she pulled a fifth of Grey Goose from a paper bag. “I like drinking this better. It will help me tell you some things.”

  He nodded.

  “So where do we go now?” she asked, inching the car forward.

  He checked his watch. “We’ll head back. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Yes, it’s okay,” she said, easing the car forward, out of the parking lot and into street traffic. “But do I have to stay locked in that room?”

  “I’ll make it nicer for you.”

  She nodded. “If I flew back to Russia, I think Popov’s men would just grab me again. Going to the police in Moscow would not help me at all. The SVR might help me because I know state secrets, but they couldn’t return Kala, my daughter
, to me.” She looked over at Kit. “So I’m going to take a chance that maybe you can.”

  “I’ll do my best, you have my word on that. And since you already pointed out that it’s just me and my three friends and we don’t have nine lives, then you know that it won’t be easy.”

  “The story of my life is that things are not easy. So … what to tell you? Well, believe it or not, I’m an engineer. My degree is in engineering physics, but because of politics and my refusal to sleep with my chief, I was transferred to a poorly funded department. I’ve been working as a research-and-development scientist in Samara on special projects.” She sighed. “Can we just stop somewhere?”

  They were sitting at a red light at Sixth and Vermont. “Turn right. There’s a restaurant right there, open all night.”

  She pulled into a Denny’s and parked in back. After shutting off the Honda, she opened the Grey Goose and took a hit right from the bottle. “Sorry, it’s not polite to drink from the bottle. Reminds me of when I was a teenager.” She offered him the bottle. Just to put her more at ease, he pretended to take a drink.

  “So you lived and worked in Samara. A lot of sensitive engineering takes place there. Can you tell me what kind of research you do?”

  “Any emerging technologies. We look at everything and evaluate how it might be weaponized.”

  “So you’re a black-projects engineer, like our people in DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.”

  “Yes, but without the generous funding DARPA has. They don’t even provide toilet paper in our restrooms.”

  “They probably would provide toilet paper if your bosses weren’t stealing the money,” said Kit.

  “Yes, perhaps. One thing is … please, don’t ask me to betray my country by giving you any specifics. I won’t do that.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, what else? My husband is a civil engineer. He’s an abusive drunk, so we divorced two years ago. I have lived in an apartment with my daughter since then.”

  “How do you know Popov?”

  “I don’t. I’ve never met him. I know who he is, only because of what I heard from the older engineers. His wife used to be a department chief at a weapons complex in Samara. In the 1990s, when the country was in chaos, Popov and his wife and their thugs looted the arsenal of EMPs, electromagnetic pulse weapons.”