by Tim Tigner
It wasn’t until he stepped out of the shower that he found the wherewithal to focus on anything but his own humiliation. That was when it struck him. All Alex had accomplished with his deception was to exchange a sudden, painless death for a lengthy, excruciating one. A warm feeling enveloped him, and it was not just the towel. The more Victor thought about it, the clearer it became that there was nothing he would rather have happen to his rival than an encounter with Yarik. The largest member of the Knyaz made Torquemada look like the tooth fairy. At any moment now, Yarik would pick up Ferris for interrogation, and the fun would begin.
Victor would give anything to participate in that soirée. Perhaps he should fly to Russia to watch. Now there was a thought. A quick in-and-out would also give him a chance to pick up his shares of Knyaz AG stock. But no, there was still too much going on. And besides, Karpov had wanted Ferris brought to him unharmed, so there would be nothing quick about it. What was all that about, anyway? He would have to ask Yarik the next time they spoke.
With those intriguing thoughts running through his mind, Victor returned to the Shell station. He found a pile of Lucy’s Ladies business cards stacked in his phone booth. He hoped it wasn’t a sign that he would soon be sharing his office with call girls. Then again, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad . . .
He flipped through the cards. Each had a different picture. He pocketed a few. Then he took a special black box out of his pocket and set it lovingly on the metal shelf. Reading from a little address book, he keyed fourteen characters into the box but did not push the transmit button. Instead, he picked up the telephone receiver, inserted twenty quarters, covered the microphone with his voice-distortion disk, and dialed Seattle. He expected to find Dr. Davis home alone, as Clara had dance class Friday evenings.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Mark, how are you?”
“I’m sorry, who’s asking?”
“Okay, right to business then. I need you to mosey on upstairs to Clara’s room, please.”
“What? Who is this?”
“Look, Mark, don’t wear out my patience. Now get your ass up the beige staircase, past the pink bathroom, the linen closet, and the circus poster, to Clara’s room, pronto.”
“Oh, okay.”
Victor liked this part. It was like stepping into a Hollywood studio and acting out a role. That was why he used words like mosey and pronto, and said the cruelest things with the kindest voice.
“Now, on the wall over the head of Clara’s bed, there’s a picture of Winnie-the-Pooh holding a red balloon. I want you to take it off the wall and tell me what you see.”
“Jesus!”
“Tell me what you see.”
“It’s a page from a magazine.”
“And what’s on the page, Mark?”
“It’s a picture of a girl. A . . . a dead girl.”
“And what does she look like?”
“She’s been murdered. Cut up.”
“And who does she look like?”
“Clara. She looks like Clara.”
“I thought so, too. So, Mark, do I have your attention now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, call Taffy. Let me know when you’ve got her in your arms.” It was hard for Victor to keep from laughing as he pictured the scene: panic mixed with confusion, rage with supplication. Victor had half a mind to have Davis jump on one leg and cluck like a chicken.
“I’ve got her.”
“Good. Now look into her eyes, please.”
“Okay.”
“Are you looking, Mark? Don’t bullshit me now.”
“Yes, yes I’m looking.”
“Good. Now I want to hear you tell her ‘good-bye.’”
After a long pause Victor heard the word, soft and slow, and he pushed the transmit button on the black box. A moment later, eight hundred miles away, there was a yelp, and then Victor heard a lot of rustling. Eventually Mark got back on the line.
“What kind of a sick bastard . . .”
“Focus, Mark. Focus. What kind of a bastard I am is not what you should be concerned with at a time like this.” Victor spoke with a voice as kind as a granny on her wedding day. “Would you like to take three guesses as to what you should be concerned about?”
Victor heard the programmer crying, and smiled.
“Clara?” Mark’s voice was a whisper.
“Very good, Mark, Clara. You are exactly right. I knew you had potential. Now, first of all I have some rules for you, and then I’m going to tell you what you are going to do for me.”
Chapter 23
IRKUTSK, SIBERIA
“I said, ‘What are you doing here?’” The bleary-eyed janitor in black coveralls repeated his question.
No doubt Alex’s contrasting blue garb was the reason for the immediate challenge. Alex kept his cool. You didn’t position your best men in the maintenance room, and besides, Mr. Black’s tone was more startled than hostile. Alex suspected he had caught the man sleeping.
Mindful of his expression, Alex looked around, as though he, too, were confused.
“Shit. I got myself turned around.” He started to leave then stopped.
“Say, you got a cigarette?” Alex walked forward a few steps before the man could collect his wits, then sprang like a mousetrap. Alex drove his fist up under Black’s chin just as he was opening his mouth to respond. It was a perfect punch, timed to catch the jaw as it dropped open in preparation for speech. Alex used just enough power to get the job done without causing permanent damage. No need to cripple the guy; this wasn’t personal. Black’s jaw slammed shut with a satisfying crack and bloody spittle sprayed forth onto Boris’s blues. Alex whipped around and caught Black in a headlock before he could react.
Alex used his right arm to help crimp his left tightly around the janitor’s neck, going for carotid closure and blackout. The janitor seemed to comprehend the strategy. He began bucking and spinning like he’d swallowed bees. He had a good eighty pounds on Alex, and in this situation, weight made a difference. Alex ran the calculations and switched to plan B. As they careened into the janitor’s cart, he released his right hand and used it to grab the hickory handle of a long scrub brush then, on Black’s next downward buck, Alex released his left arm as well. As Black stumbled forward, Alex clubbed the base of his crew-cut skull with the brush’s backside.
Black dropped like a stone.
Alex looked around while catching his breath, thinking ahead. The wind had surely drowned out the scream, but nonetheless it was time to slip into high gear. He stripped the slacking janitor, noting by his ID that his real name was Yuri Petrovkin. He dragged Yuri over to a large storage cupboard, where he used a spool of wire to bind Yuri’s hands, and dirty rags to gag his mouth. Then he rearranged the cupboard’s contents, and locked Yuri inside.
Still moving quickly, Alex donned Yuri’s black coveralls. He’d expected to find a modern electronic keycard in the pocket, but found a big ring of metal keys instead. Upon inspection, however, he noted that they were considerably more sophisticated than traditional keys. It was as though the black zone was set up to appear just like the blue one, when in fact it was much more. The puzzle pieces were locking into place.
His plan was to take a quick, confirmatory look at the black production facility. Then he would head for the administration building and whatever documentation he could find in the executive suite. Before leaving, he routed through the janitor’s toolbox looking for weapons. He selected a long awl and a sharp steel chisel, and threw both onto the janitor’s cart. Then he unscrewed the long wooden handle from the industrial mop head. It was thick and heavy and had a weighty iron screw head. He left it propped up in the bucket at the front of the cart. These wouldn’t be much good against an AK-47, but they’d be deadly enough in close-quarters combat.
Alex found himself shivering by the ti
me he’d pushed Yuri’s cart to the main entrance of the black production facility. His quivering hands made it difficult for him to work the keys. To take his mind off the imminent danger while he worked, he let his thoughts wander to the scene that would be transpiring about this time at Max’s Place. He could picture Boris drinking vodka from the navels of half a dozen Siberian hotties. Eventually his hat would slip off, exposing the deception along with his bald head. He hoped that wouldn’t be too soon.
With that wishful thought, the lock responded to one of the keys, and a moment later Alexander Temogen Ferris, International Private Investigator, stepped into the hot zone. It had been a long trip.
Alex found himself looking into the electronic eye of a security camera. He spun around to grab the janitorial cart, and backed in until he’d passed beneath its gaze. Then he turned back around to survey the scene before him. The sight made him feel as though he’d moved forward fifty years in time. The factory floor was spotless and covered with row upon row of modern manufacturing equipment. It wasn’t the equipment that riveted Alex’s attention, however, so much as the product of their labor.
Lined up on both sides of the mammoth room like eggs in a carton were a dozen enormous aircraft engines. Alex pushed the squeaky cart toward the closest engine to confirm his expectation. There was no doubt as to what he was seeing. This was his brother’s design. The engines had the same unusual sharklike “gills” he had seen on the prototype at United Electronics.
Alex had expected to uncover something like this, but nothing so grand or advanced. To his eye, Irkutsk Motorworks was better equipped than United Electronics. Its production was certainly more advanced. The student had surpassed the teacher. Where did they get the money? Surely the State had not sanctioned this? If so, then Perestroika would take on a whole new meaning, Gorbachev’s halo would rust, and the Cold War would heat up.
Alex would have liked to ponder the implications of his discovery further, but this was neither the time nor the place. He had gotten what he needed from the production facility, but he still had a lot to accomplish before escaping during the shift change. The whistle was just ninety minutes away.
He pushed the cart back out into the wind and cold, careful to keep his back to the security camera. Thirty seconds later, he reached the entrance to the administration building. It was locked, but he found the right key on his second attempt. He headed straight for the elevator, assuming the executive suite would be on the top floor.
It was a U-shaped building, with offices running along the outside wall, and the hallway running along the inside, overlooking the courtyard. The bottom section of the U, where the elevator was located, was built twice as wide as the wings. This accommodated conference rooms overlooking the courtyard and secretarial stations outside the executive offices.
The decor that met his eyes when the elevator doors pinged open was typical of the Soviet era. Sad laminate furniture with chipped edges, and shabby seat cushions that gave the air a sour smell. Clearly the black modernization had been limited to the factory floor. None of that mattered to Alex. He was there for information, not accommodation.
His first choice of places to pilfer was the central office. It was twice as wide as the others before him, and no doubt held the juiciest files. It also looked directly over the guardhouse, and thus was the most exposed. Alex didn’t know if janitors were allowed to clean it or not. He would have to risk it.
Reaching for the key ring, he thought back to Boris’s words and had a change of heart. He crossed back through the secretarial section and tried the boardroom door on a hunch. It was unlocked. Stepping in, he closed the door, flipped the light switch, and felt another drop of adrenaline hit his bloodstream.
It was obvious that the room had just been used for a long meeting, undoubtedly the one about which Boris had spoken. There were empty coffee cups and bits of leftover sandwiches on the table. More confirmation that Yuri had been slacking off. The chairs were all over the place as though the meeting had dragged on far too long and people had gotten restless.
Alex scanned the table for papers. He checked underneath it and around the chairs. He found nothing. He walked over to the whiteboard and tried to read its post-erasure markings. That was hopeless. Then his eyes came to rest on something else, something that appeared out of place. He walked to the end of the room and lifted the overhead projector off its cart. A single lost acetate was hiding there atop a film of dust and a bent paper clip.
Alex took a quick survey of the courtyard below, confirming his solitude, and then brought the projector to life. The acetate displayed a map on the wall. It was Siberia, and it had several locations marked by flags. Irkutsk had a flag labeled “Irkutsk Motorworks,” Krasnoyarsk had one labeled “RuTek,” and Novosibirsk had two: one in the center labeled “SovStroy,” and the second in the famous scientific suburb of Academic City. It made Alex smile. Positioned beside a crescent-shaped lake, it read “HQ.”
Alex burned the map into his mind. It completed two-thirds of the puzzle, the what and the where. The missing piece of the puzzle remained the all-important who. None of the pages contained names, and he could not fly home without them. That would be like predicting the end of the world without forecasting the date.
He would have to risk searching the chief executive’s office.
Alex folded the acetate and stuffed it into a pocket. He’d just grabbed the cart’s handle when the boardroom door opened, and an enormous figure darkened the doorway.
“Not quite done cleaning yet,” Alex mumbled, stooping down to pick up some trash.
“Oh, I think you’re done.” The voice was gruff, but its tone seemed satisfied.
Alex surreptitiously slid his hands toward the chisel and awl while looking slowly up at the man who had discovered him. He was a bald-headed giant with a face like a clenched fist and a neck that would moor a ship. Alex knew the fight was over before it began. Hand tools were no match for Mr. Clean, or the hand-cannon leveled before him.
“Sandwich?”
Chapter 24
IRKUTSK, RUSSIA
Ri-ri-ring . . . swish.
“I’m listening, Andrey,” Sugurov said, anticipation in his voice.
“Sorry for the early call. Alex has been captured. He was caught inside Irkutsk Motorworks, one of the factories that supplies the Tupolev aerospace company with their engines.”
“There’s our first solid connection.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you know if he found anything other than copycat engines? An organizational chart? A strategic plan?”
“No, sir.”
“So if we lose him now . . .”
“We won’t be back to square one, but we’ll still be a long way from home.”
“What else do you know?”
“Yarik caught him, personally.”
“And he’s still alive?”
“Yes, surprisingly. Seems Yarik wants to take him elsewhere, for interrogation, I assume. That may give us a shot, both at saving Alex and at identifying the Knyaz.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“I’m outside Chulin Air Base, where they’re holding Alex. It’s just east of Irkutsk. The snow is coming down pretty heavy now, and there’s a nasty wind, so obviously they’re waiting until the weather improves to take off.”
“Do you think you stand a chance of getting him out of there first?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I am going to try. It will be very risky. That’s why I wanted to check in with you now, to let you know what was happening in case things don’t turn out.”
Sugurov stopped pacing and dropped into a chair as he exhaled. “Listen, Andrey, I know I don’t need to tell you how important this mission is to Russia. You understand that better than anyone. But don’t go throwing your life away either. If it can’t be done, it can’t be done. We will find another way.”
“Do we have time for that?”
Sugurov was not one for candy coatings or wishful thinking. As foreign minister he could not permit himself such indulgences. Still, knowing and loving the man he was speaking with, he dreaded the consequences of the only answer he could give. “We don’t have time.”
“Then I will do everything in my power to ensure that Alex does succeed.”
“Can I send you some help?”
“No, sir. I doubt there’s time, and in any case it’s too risky. Any overt help would expose our connection to Alex and alert the Knyaz.”
“What about tracking the plane to see where they take him?”
“Won’t work, sir. You’d need to work with the air base here, and we have to assume it’s been compromised. In any case I doubt they could help. Yarik knows his business and will surely dip below radar long enough for us to lose him.”
“Godspeed then.”
Sugurov put down the receiver and noticed that his hand was shaking. He had not experienced that before. Was it age, or nerves?
He slid aside one panel of the oak headboard on his bed, revealing the door to a safe. Sugurov keyed in the long combination and was rewarded with the familiar whir and click before thick steel door swung open. He removed a metallic briefcase, set it down on the bed, and pressed his thumbs down squarely on the two large clasps. A microchip verified the thumbprints of the foreign minister, and the case popped open.
The briefcase contained the single red file that had started it all. The file that had survived a helicopter crash and exposed the existence of a powerful, clandestine organization within the Russian government. The file that had proved that organization’s ability to infiltrate the elite and coerce cooperation from the trusted. The file that had led Sugurov to Victor Titov, and then Elaine Evans, and then Frank Ferris, and then Alex. It read:
I am pleased to report that I shall deliver US projects two and three and complete my assignment as scheduled. I would like to add that the latest figures from the parent companies estimate sales of between one and two billion dollars for each project in the first year alone. We have chosen wisely. With the war coffers secured, I trust this means we will keep to the master schedule and launch in full force by New Year’s, assuming Gorbachev continues to be ripe for the plucking.
