by Steve Berry
His favorite café was a whitewashed building with a peaked roof and wide wooden veranda that sat not far from Lenin’s bust. A low wall of mortared boulders separated it from the bazaar. Sturdy wooden tables sat atop an earthen floor below dark wooden beams. Framed calligraphy dotted the inside. Dim lighting and discreet corners offered privacy. In spring and summer flowers topped the outer wall. Occasionally, you’d even hear the clatter of horse hooves on pavement.
Anya had come in for some cold water, dressed in the uniform of the local police. She had a clean, natural face unspoiled by makeup and a delicious laugh that burst deep from the back of her throat. Freckles dusted her pale skin. Her teeth slightly protruded from thin lips with a tiny gap in the middle. Nothing about her signaled dumb or distant, nor had she seemed preoccupied with dreaming of her youth. Quite the contrary. Her eyes stayed filled with mystery and excitement. He’d introduced himself and she spoke to him with a candor and sincerity he never doubted.
Everything about her signaled strength.
Several times he’d seen her around town, and inquiries had informed him that she was a respected member of the police. People told the story of how a gang had burst into a local club, driving right through the doors and windows, then beating everyone up. Anya had been one of the first on the scene and took four of the men down, nearly killing two of them. People spoke her name with respect.
As they had his once, too.
He recalled the pungent aroma of barbecued beef wafting from skewers on a metal grill. The flesh had been tender and succulent with a delicious smoky flavor.
Together, they’d enjoyed a meal.
“My father was a party leader,” she said to him. “He was an important man in this city.”
“Is he still?”
She shook her head. “He drank himself to death.”
“And your mother?”
“She is still alive and wishes her daughter would marry and have babies.”
He smiled. “And why doesn’t her daughter do that?”
“Because I want more than that from life.”
That he could understand.
“When I was little,” she told him, “in our house was a poster, from the Great Patriotic War. Mother and child clutching each other before a bloodied Nazi bayonet. And the slogan below. WARRIORS OF THE RED ARMY, SAVE US. I remember every detail of that poster and I wanted to be one of those warriors.”
He, too, recalled a poster from where he was raised. The image of a tall, powerful woman, her head wrapped in a kerchief, her mouth open in a shout of alarm with a timeless plea. THE MOTHERLAND CALLS YOU.
“I was but a teenager when the fall came,” she said. “But I remember the days before Yeltsin. Most people in this town still remember those, too. It’s why I live here. We have not forgotten.”
He was intrigued. She seemed to be in extraordinary physical shape and conversed in a calm, calculated way that drew his attention. She knew nothing of him. They were strangers, yet he felt a connection. So he asked, “Do you know of Chayaniye, by the lake?”
“I’ve heard of it. Is that where you live?”
He nodded. “Perhaps you’d like to come for a visit.”
Which happened, and led to more visits until eventually Anya quit her job and came to live with him. On those occasions when he’d taken work for the syndicates in Irkutsk, she’d gone with him. Together they’d earned the money. His fight became her fight. With him she’d found that “more from life” she’d been seeking. And he’d found a partner.
He forced himself free of his thoughts and slowed at an intersection to turn. The airport lay only a few kilometers ahead.
He checked his watch one last time.
10:25 P.M.
50 hours left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Luke rushed left toward a long staircase that hugged an interior wall, its wide risers lined with red carpet. He leaped up two steps at a time, one hand gliding along a polished wood railing, the other reaching for his Beretta. He’d meant what he said. He owed Anya Petrova and he planned to pay his debt.
He came to a landing that right-angled to another shorter set of red-carpeted risers. At the top stretched a second-floor gallery that matched the one directly beneath, this one also leading to the far side of the H-shaped villa. The dark-paneled walls were trimmed with molding, the ornate cream-colored ceiling a startling contrast. Large canvases dotted one side, tapestries the other. Three crystal chandeliers hung unlit. He noted more sculptures, flags, and swords, and a clear Asian influence. He knew only what Stephanie had said, that the security office sat adjacent to the serving pantry, which had to be close to the dining room—which he now spotted to his left through an open doorway.
He readied his weapon and entered the dining room, its walls also dark paneling, the floor an intricate inlay of stone. More tapestries were displayed, and a fireplace dominated the exterior wall. A shiny mahogany table lined with elegant chairs occupied the center, above which hung another crystal chandelier.
An open door to his left led out into a room outfitted with simple white cabinets, dark counters, and lots of drawers. A placard just inside identified it as the serving pantry. He entered and spotted another door at the opposite end, ajar. He rushed over and found a short hall that led to a small, windowless space stuffed with video monitors. A man lay sprawled on the floor. He bent down, saw no obvious wounds, and tried to rouse him.
“You okay?”
The guy came around, blinking his eyes, orienting himself. “Yeah. The bitch coldcocked me.”
“She’s gone?”
The eyes seemed to regain focus. “Yeah. She saw you on the screen, then smacked me.”
No one was outside, and no one had been near the staircase he’d used. But in a house this big there had to be many ways up and down. He could only hope that Petrova knew as little about this place as he did.
“Stay here,” he said.
He left the security room and stepped back to the serving pantry, halting his advance at the doorway to the dining room. He could feel it. She was here. Waiting for him. Like last time, thinking herself one step ahead.
He crept to the exit to the second-floor gallery.
All quiet.
Another impressive inlaid stone floor stretched from one end of the gallery to another. Maybe fifty feet. Suddenly. Anya appeared in a doorway at the far end. She aimed a gun and fired. He retreated into the dining room. A bullet tore into the wood only a few inches from where his face had been. Another round came and did more damage.
Then another.
He was waiting for a chance and decided that the other side of the room with the dining table between them would be better. This woman was bold. She liked offense. She’d purposefully waited to joust with him. So if she was coming for him at least he could be ready. He rounded the table and assumed a firing position, his gun trained on the doorway.
“What is it you say?” Anya called out. “Come. Get me.”
He shook his head.
Did she think him that little of a threat?
He told himself that may be the whole idea, to taunt him into making a mistake. What would Malone say? Walk, don’t run, into trouble. Damn right. He fled his position and approached the doorway to the gallery.
No sight of dear sweet Anya.
He eased out, gun leading the way.
Quickly, he determined that there were four ways in and out of the gallery. The stairway he’d first negotiated, the dining room where he’d been, the doorway at the far end where Anya had appeared, and a final portal ten feet away.
He approached and saw that it opened to a narrow gallery that overlooked a ballroom below. Another long staircase hugged an interior wall and led down to a polished wood floor dotted with tables devoid of linen or ornaments. What had Strobl said? They were preparing for an inaugural event. Glass doors below and windows high above allowed the sun to flood the cavernous space, made even brighter by glossy white walls. A decorative ir
on railing protected the outer edge of the semicircular balcony that stretched before him.
She was here.
No question.
So come and get it.
Anya appeared.
To his left, from behind a glass-paneled door.
The sole of her boot slammed into his right hand, jarring the Beretta from his grasp. He reacted by spinning just as she leaped out and faced him. She held no weapon. Apparently, she wanted to settle this hand-to-hand. Fine by him. He recalled what the SVR man had said earlier, how she’d been formally trained.
Again, fine by him. So had he.
She lunged and pivoted off one leg while driving the other his way. The balcony was narrow, maybe four to five feet wide. Not much room to maneuver. But enough. He dodged the blow and readied one of his own, planting a solid kick into the pit of her stomach, reeling her backward where she fell across a row of wooden chairs along the wall. She quickly rolled and recovered, but he could see she was a little shocked at her clumsiness.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “Can’t take it?”
A defiant smirk came to her lips.
Large, liquid brown eyes showed anger and rage.
She pounced like a cat, grabbing him by the neck, her fingers burrowing into his flesh. She clamped her arm around his neck and, using her other hand, formed a vise that held him in an iron grip and began to restrict his breathing. He swung around so her spine faced the solid interior wall and drove her body into it. Once. Twice. On the third time her breath exhaled in a swish and she released her grip. He swung around, giving her arm a violent twist, then slammed his right fist into her jaw.
But she had staying power.
An elbow caught the back of his head, driving his face into the wall. His arms were yanked back and up in a painful double hammerlock. She forced him to his toes, his face and chest now jammed to the wall. In movies and on television it was normal to see the tough aggressive woman taking down some larger man with a few well-placed kicks and punches. In reality, size mattered, and he had the advantage of both weight and reach.
He dropped, legs limp, allowing him to wrench free, then he whirled and threw a forearm into her knee, kicking her legs out from under her. She’d tried to avoid the move, but she was an instant too late.
Down she went.
She rebounded with the agility of a tumbler, but he thrust a straight arm into her face, the heel of his palm pounding the tip of her nose.
She staggered, weaving from disorientation.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on—
He punched her again and she collapsed across the row of wooden chairs, which clattered about, one of the legs breaking from the impact. A thin trickle of blood crawled down the corner of her mouth.
“You want some more?” he asked her, his breathing coming hard and fast. “Come on, and I’ll give it to you.”
His face surely had the look of coal, not candy. Or at least that’s how his mother used to describe it. He’d been taught since childhood that hitting a woman was bad. But his parents had never met predators like Anya Petrova. Enough extra doses of testosterone flowed through her to disqualify the “Don’t hit a woman ever” rule.
And there was still the matter of his beloved car.
Which this nutcase had shot to hell and back.
She stayed down. All her energy seemed spent.
He found his gun, then pressed his knee into her spine, pinning her to the floor.
“You’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RUSSIA
Cassiopeia hated helicopters worse than airplanes. The ones she’d been always compelled to ride inside seemed to bump and grind their way through the air, like a car on a pitted highway, and all to the deafening beat of powerful rotors. Compounding the experience here was the pitch dark, the cold, and her anxiety over what may have happened to Cotton. She’d been sent no new information from Stephanie and the briefing she’d received on landing at the air base did nothing to alleviate her fears. No word had been heard or seen of Cotton since his plane went down. Or at least no word the authorities were willing to pass on.
She decided the crash site would be her starting point, so a military chopper was ferrying her east toward Lake Baikal. She’d appreciated, though, the cold-weather gear, which definitely helped, and the officer in charge seemed quite accommodating. If she weren’t mistaken he may actually have been flirting with her, which was the last thing she needed to deal with at the moment.
Clouds hung low in a freezing shroud and they skirted the air just beneath the ceiling. A rim of lights blurred by distance framed a halo around Irkutsk to the south. Over the years she’d learned to sleep in snatches, and she’d caught some rest on the jet flight east. She tried again now, hoping to take her mind off the fact that she was hundreds of meters off the ground in a machine that, technically, should not even be able to stay aloft. Like the bumblebee, she’d read once. Neither should be able to fly, but somehow both managed. The local time was approaching 11:00 P.M., but her body was still seven hours behind in France.
“The wreck site is twenty kilometers ahead,” the voice said through her headset.
“How far is the dacha from that location?”
“Ten kilometers north.”
She nodded at the officer sitting across from her. Two pilots manned the controls. Everything had been spoken in English, Stephanie suggesting that her linguistic skills be kept to herself. She’d learned Russian in college, along with a few other languages, thinking that one day they’d all come in handy. At the time she’d had no idea how handy. Though she might try to deny it, she liked the action, and enjoyed a good fight. Most of the intrigue she’d participated in had started from some personal motivation, mainly thanks to her old friend Henrik Thorvaldsen. God rest his soul. After Henrik died, she’d occasionally outright worked for Stephanie Nelle. Never for money, more as a favor, friend-to-friend.
But Utah changed all that.
Yet here she was, flying through Russia, headed to who-knew-what.
This time for love.
* * *
Malone engaged the clutch, then ground the shift into second and spun the wheel. The rear end swung wide, the low gear gripping the cold road. He floored the accelerator and turned up the high revs in a straightaway before working his way through the gears on a curve.
Bullets whizzed by.
The road clung to the side of a hill, a cathedral column of trees tightly packed along sharp embankments. The chassis slewed side-to-side on the occasional ice and crusted snow. He rode the clutch. Wind buffeted the cab, rocking the vehicle. Everything in the Goat rattled.
A side window shattered from a round.
Fragments of glass stung the back of his head and neck.
He was trying to be a difficult target but was not having much luck. The road found ground level and he moved out of the trees. To his right stretched the wide-open expanse of the lake, its frozen surface offering little cover. Yet there was something to be said for room to maneuver where he would not have to worry about slamming into a tree. So he angled the front end to the right, leaped the road, and tunneled through underbrush, leaving a rugged swath before emerging onto the ice.
The chattering of the weapon continued and a bullet sang off the Goat’s interior. He decided to change things around, downshifting and swinging the vehicle hard left. With a foot on the clutch, the tires glided easily across the ice and he executed a smooth 180-degree spin. He then jammed the gearshift into second and accelerated straight toward his pursuer.
The action had clearly caught the two men behind him off guard and he swerved left and right to thwart any clear shot at his windshield. The other vehicle veered hard left to avoid a collision, which showed him that his pursuers may not have the stomach for this fight. He swung around in a wide arc and set his sights on the windshield on the other vehicle.
Headlights filled his rearview mirror.
A new p
layer.
More gunfire came his way.
* * *
Cassiopeia stared down at the wreckage. A pair of night-vision goggles offered her a view of the burned-out hulk of a plane and the two bodies at either end. The Russians had already reported to Stephanie that there was no third corpse. She should take a look inside the cockpit. Stephanie was interested to see if Cotton’s cell phone was there, as there’d been no signal from it for several hours. The Magellan Billet tracked its phones with sophisticated software and Stephanie had suggested a retrieval, if possible.
“We have a report of gunshots on the lake,” she heard in Russian through her headphones.
“Where?” the officer-in-charge asked.
“Six kilometers north.”
They hovered thirty meters over the ice.
She kept up the ruse of not understanding and asked in English, “What’s going on?”
The officer explained.
“It could be him,” she said.
The officer motioned for the pilots to fly that way.
* * *
Malone counted three more Goats, the vehicles fanned out in an attack pattern like fighter jets.
All that room on the lake worked both ways.
He definitely had a problem similar to the one back at the dacha with the cuffs and the iron pipe. He could keep going until he found the west shore, but that could be many miles. At least this time he was armed, as he’d brought along the assault rifle.
One of the Goats swung out, trying to flank him on the left, attempting to pass. He decided a little offense would be good, so he swerved its way, cutting in front and causing the other driver to make a fast decision.
