Coercion

by Tim Tigner

  “Excellent. I want to talk to you about that as well. See you at nine.”

  Yarik closed his phone. Victor was not going to be happy.

  When the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor, Yarik found himself face-to-face with an early riser. Having been spotted on the scene, he began to curse his luck but then recognized the face between the fur hat and collar: Luda Orlova, SibOil’s diligent and dedicated senior accountant. His victim had literally walked straight into his arms.

  Chapter 17

  IRKUTSK, SIBERIA

  The boardroom at Irkutsk Motorworks was as dilapidated as its product line. Chairs once grand were now wobbly and frayed, the laminated table had long since given up its shine, and even the walls seemed somehow sad. To Karpov, this room represented Russia’s state of affairs, and the very sight of it steeled his will. It was a disgrace, it was a shame, and it was about to change. The people of Russia deserved better.

  Stepashin and Yarik sat to Karpov’s left and right. The Knyaz were about to meet. As the wall clock ticked nine, Karpov’s watch beeped twice, and the telephone rang. He pressed the speaker button and began. “Victor?”

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “Good afternoon, Victor. How are you?”

  “I’m just fine, sir.”

  “Well then, I’ll get right to it. This afternoon I’ll be sitting down with the management of Irkutsk Motorworks to discuss the launch plan for the Acula Engine. They’ve already cranked out a dozen of the UE-2000 copycats, and I expect to learn that they will be ready to tool up for full-scale production within the month. Can you confirm that we’ll have no competition from United Electronics?”

  “The UE-2000 project is virtually dead.”

  “Virtually?”

  “Well as you know, the brain behind the project, Frank Ferris, is now dead. I had arranged to destroy their prototype as well, to have it explode at the weekly test run. That would have taken out additional project personnel and almost certainly led to the project being shelved, if not canceled. But a software glitch shut the engine down before my sabotage had a chance to kick in. Still, the project is severely crippled.

  “I was, however, successful with another related explosion. This one took out Alex Ferris, the PI who had been snooping around after I eliminated his brother.”

  “That explosion didn’t work, either,” Karpov said, sounding every bit the disappointed general that he was. “Alex Ferris arrived here, in Irkutsk, early this morning using a Soviet passport. He’s at the Hotel Irkutsk now, under the name of Alexander Grekov.”

  There was a painful silence before Victor responded, his voice calm and cool but uncharacteristically strained. “I don’t know what to say. I put a bomb on the ignition of the car that Ferris drives. It blew up. Those facts are certain. The press identified the victim as Alexander Ferris of San Diego. That is also certain. For reasons I’m sure you can appreciate, I did not hang around to witness the explosion personally, so I cannot give you a firsthand account of Ferris’s fate, other than to say that I have not seen him since then.”

  “It would appear that you haven’t seen him because he was on a plane. But believe it or not, according to what Yarik has told me, that may actually be a good thing.”

  “How so?” Victor asked, his tone cautiously optimistic.

  “Tell me what you know about Alex Ferris. I understand you were at Stanford together as undergraduates, and that you knew each other socially?”

  “That’s right. I knew Alex fairly well. He grew up in Geneva, Switzerland, which is where his American father met his Russian mother. So he’s a polyglot, got the Swiss German, French, and Italian trio plus native English and Russian.”

  That was news to Karpov. Good news. “What were they doing in Switzerland?”

  “His father was a banker, and his mother worked at our consulate.”

  “Really? I wonder if we ever met.”

  “In any case she’s dead now. Both Alex’s parents were killed in the terrorist attack at Rome’s airport in seventy-three. I’m sure thoughts of revenge drew him to the military and eventually the Special Forces. The CIA scooped him up after a few years in the Green Berets and put him in the field, in covert ops. I’m sure they made good use of both his language skills and military training.”

  “Where did he serve?”

  “I don’t know. He never talked about it, but I got the impression he was all over the Eastern Bloc and Middle East. But he’s done with that now. Opened ‘International Private Investigations’ about six months ago down in San Diego.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No. No girlfriend either. If he had one, I would have Peithoed her as insurance. As far as I know he’s never had a serious relationship, although the women line up.”

  “Is he gay?”

  “No. He enjoyed himself in college as much as any guy and more than most. I think he just prioritized his career, and it wasn’t compatible with marriage, something I know we all can appreciate.”

  “Close friends?”

  “Not since college. His career kept him moving around and wasn’t conducive to relationships, plus like most good spooks he’s naturally independent. He didn’t even talk to Frank very often, and they were twins.”

  Karpov put both palms flat on the table and said, “He’s perfect,” more to himself than anyone else. “Yarik, I want you to go ahead with your plan to follow Ferris for the day to learn what he’s up to. Then bring him back to Academic City for interrogation as discussed. I also want you to ensure that Ferris is . . . undamaged. I intend to put him to good use.”

  Chapter 18

  IRKUTSK, SIBERIA

  There were five metro stops between the Hotel Irkutsk and Irkutsk Motorworks. Alex stopped at every one of them, exchanging five twenty-dollar bills with five different black-market traders. Now, in addition to ninety-eight hundred dollars he had smuggled into Russia in his boots, he had ten thousand rubles in his wallet. It was enough to live for a month like a czar. He could have gotten twelve thousand, but he wanted the rarer hundred-ruble notes to keep the volume down, so he had accepted a lower exchange rate with an internal chuckle; a hundred dollars and he was rich.

  On the bad-news side of the coin, he had picked up a tail while clearing customs in Moscow, a green agent with distinctive gold-framed glasses. Alex had masked his discovery and extreme disappointment and had strung “Gold Frame” along in order to ditch him at the most opportune time. That time had come a half hour ago, when he left the Hotel Irkutsk by window after priming both the sexy hotel receptionist and a shifty taxi driver with disinformation. If the next couple hours went according to plan, it would be midnight before Gold Frame realized that he’d been outmaneuvered.

  At the last metro stop, Alex used fifty rubles to buy himself a change of wardrobe at a flea market. It was unattractive but warm. The only things he did not change were his boots, socks, and gloves. Every soldier knows you don’t compromise on footwear or jeopardize your trigger finger. Alex had come into Russia wearing a pair of high-end winter trekking boots, and he would go out wearing them, hopefully not feet first. To blend in he had cut off the logos and used a marker to blacken over the accent marks. Now they were a secret weapon.

  Although Alex had no prior knowledge of a specific bar near Irkutsk Motorworks, he knew that every factory in the civilized world had a watering hole within a few steps of its doors. The Engine Room turned out to be one of two establishments that catered to Irkutsk Motorworkers.

  Whereas the day shift would always wait until after work to hit the bar, Alex knew that night-shift workers might well go in for an aperitif. It wasn’t that the day shifters were more virtuous; it was just that the night shifters could drink inconspicuously before work. At least that was the case in the US, and Alex figured that when it came to drinking, anything Americans could do, Russians could do better.

 
Before heading inside, he took an inconspicuous look through the fence at the factory complex, lest he be caught without even the most basic knowledge. Then he paused for a moment to gather his thoughts.

  The bar did not look particularly cheery given the dim lighting, but Alex had a feeling it would look even worse with the lights turned up. The floors were either grungy-blue linoleum or blue linoleum that was grungy. Alex decided not to dwell on that; vodka was a sterilizer. The plaster walls were painted different shades of green, but not according to any pattern or style that he could discern. The flat paints were most likely acquired one bucket at a time on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. The crowning jewel of the decorum was the bar itself. It had machine parts nailed, bolted, or welded to every square inch of its surface, and the countertop was the wing from an old airplane. It reminded Alex of something he had seen at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, but he decided that it would be unwise to inform the proprietor of the fact.

  He sat at the bar and simply asked for two hundred grams, knowing that he would immediately be marked as an outsider if he used the superfluous word “vodka.” Although The Engine Room wasn’t busy yet, he still didn’t have his order five minutes later. Alex couldn’t figure out why the man was so slow to move, but as long as it wasn’t personal, he didn’t mind. With sixteen hours of jetlag, this evening was going to be one rough ride. Russians don’t sip their vodka with olives and vermouth. They slam shots. So it’s hard to fake drinking unless you have water in your glass, and Alex couldn’t afford to get caught in that old trick.

  He was getting nervous about the implications of the bartender’s rebuff when a chesty waitress walked in the front door, wearing a big white fur hat and stomping the cold from her feet. Alex got his two hundred grams and a hello-lover look less than a minute later. As Olga walked away with her first tip of the night, she undid the top button on her strained blouse, giving Alex something to look at while he waited to get lucky. He had decided to give The Engine Room thirty minutes to produce what he was looking for. Then he would move down the street to the competing establishment.

  Alex was hoping to find an Irkutsk Motorworker that looked like him. Thanks to his mother, he knew he was fishing in the right gene pool. Of course, even with a perfect facial match, there would still be issues. He looked happier and healthier than anyone in Siberia, and he had a light California tan. There was little he could do about that but hope that his jet lag, five o’clock shadow, and the dim lighting would help compensate. He prepared a story just in case.

  The first half dozen patrons to enter were no good for one reason or another, too old or fat or dark or disfigured or all of the above. Then at four fifteen a large man in well-worn, navy-blue coveralls entered the bar and took a seat at a small table in the corner. Alex tried to picture him as he would look in a black-and-white passport photo. He was a good match overall, but there was one glaring exception. The man was bald. Alex cursed his bad luck. If worse came to worst, he could shave his head, but given the temperature outside—the temperature outside, that was it. With a sigh of relief Alex remembered that he would still be dressed in outdoor clothing when passing through security, and that included his fur hat. The man, for his part, might also be convinced to leave his shapka on. Yes, this would work. Alex had found his fish. Now he just had to plant a hook and reel him in.

  Coveralls looked up at Olga, who in turn nodded to the bartender, who poured a flask like Alex’s without further prompting. Alex intercepted Olga with a wink and a ten-ruble note and asked for a bottle of Stolichnaya with three glasses, which, thank you very much, he would personally deliver to the man’s table. In Russia it was customary to drink in groups of three. No further explanation was required.

  Alex sat down across from Coveralls and poured two shot glasses to the rim. Then, without saying a word, he lifted his glass and held it at eye level, looking across the small table at his new best friend. The man looked puzzled at first, like a guy who sees a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk and can’t believe that what he sees is real, then, afraid it will vanish, pounces before it can disappear. Za zdarovye.

  They drained their glasses.

  Alex poured another couple of shots, and the two drank again, still in silence. The man seemed afraid to speak, apparently fearing he would break the spell. Alex, now satisfied that he had the hook in the man’s mouth, opened with the universal male icebreaker, “You see the tits on that chick?” tilting his head toward Olga.

  The man seemed relieved. Alex’s remark had indicated two things: one, that he was just a guy drinking in a bar, and two, that he wasn’t gay.

  “Tastiest pair in town.”

  “You been there?”

  “Oh yeah. Nice,” he said, drawing the word out with a smile and a nod. Then added, “You want an introduction?” He reached out to hold the bottle of Stolichnaya as he offered. Alex wasn’t sure if the gesture was subconscious or not.

  “Nah, thanks. I’ve got enough woman problems.”

  Noticing with seemingly genuine surprise that the bottle was now in his hand, Coveralls took the initiative of filling the glasses the third time. Alex started getting nervous. He was planning on finesse, but at this consumption rate he wouldn’t be able to beat a chicken at tic-tac-toe in half an hour. He needed to buy time. Alex made a point of directing his gaze at Ms. Titties for a while, and sure enough, his new friend went ahead and drained his glass alone.

  “Speaking of introduction, I’m Alex.”

  “Boris. You new to town?”

  “Just this part. I’m avoiding my wife’s friends.”

  Boris nodded with understanding. “That where your woman problems come from?”

  Alex faked a surprised look, then nodded as though suddenly remembering his earlier comment. “Her friend saw me with my girlfriend. Of course I said it wasn’t me, but she didn’t buy it.”

  “Tell her to mind her own business.”

  “I wish it were that easy. She’s the one with the money. And the connections.”

  “So dump the girlfriend. A guy like you can always find another once things cool down.”

  “I’ve tried. Can’t do it. She looks like an Italian film star and fucks like a Swedish one. I’d almost rather die than walk away from that bed.”

  “Guess you gotta be more careful.”

  “Exactly, and that’s my problem. She’s hired a private eye to spy on me.”

  “No shit?” Boris downed another shot.

  Based on Boris’ coveralls, Alex was sure he worked at Irkutsk Motorworks, but he did not know in what capacity. If he learned that it was quality control, he would never be able to fly Aeroflot again.

  Putting that thought out of his mind, he continued to bait Boris. “Meanwhile Sophia has said that if I leave her sitting at home alone one more Friday night, she’ll dump me like yesterday’s garbage.” While he spoke Alex fidgeted in his seat uncomfortably, eventually withdrawing his very thick wallet and setting it on the table.

  Boris’s eyes bulged, but he didn’t comment. Instead he said, “When’s your next date?”

  “Ten o’clock tonight.”

  Boris shook his head. “What you gonna do?”

  “I was hoping you might help.”

  Boris looked startled. Then he grinned. “You want me to fuck Sophia for you, keep her satisfied till you work things out with the missus?”

  “Don’t you have to work?” Alex asked, nodding at Boris’s coveralls.

  Boris’s eyes bulged, and he paused, clearly unsure if the vodka was interfering with his hearing. Then he said the magic words. “Shit man, I can always call in sick.”

  If this guy was stupid enough to think a stranger was going to buy his drinks and then give him his girlfriend for the night, Alex knew he would have no problem selling his real plan. “Nice idea, but actually I was thinking we could trick the private investigator into following you,
and then I could go see Sophia.”

  Boris gave him a doubtful, crestfallen look. It was time for Alex to reel him in.

  “Of course, I would compensate you for your lost wages. And for the inconvenience of replacing a lost ID. You could go spend the evening at Max’s Place, on me, as long as you make sure the PI follows you there.”

  Boris’s face lit up like a young Hugh Hefner’s. Then, realizing his mistake, he did his best to look concerned. “I dunno, man, I had to miss a few days already this month, and this might be too much. Could cause me to lose my vacation voucher.”

  Alex thought, yeah, right, but said, “I understand,” and opened his wallet. “How about I give you a hundred for the inconvenience,” he laid a crisp ruble bill on the table, “a hundred to keep things cool with your boss,” another bill, “and one, two, three hundred for Max’s ladies?”

  Alex could tell Boris was trying to control his excitement. It was too good to be true, and in a minute he would figure that out, so Alex said, “I love spending the wife’s money this way.”

  Boris raised his glass.

  Chapter 19

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  “In the short term the question for the Soviet leadership now is not whether reforms will succeed, but how to prevent anarchy and chaos.”

  —US Secretary of State James A. Baker III

  Ri-ri-ring . . . swish. The sound of the encrypted call was music to Sugurov’s ears. Andrey’s critical report was overdue.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Alex is in Irkutsk. So am I. After his stunt with the car bomb, I’m surprised to be reporting that he picked up a tail in Sheremetyevo. A young KGB agent followed him onto the connecting flight.