by Derek Haas
It was too early for any shops to be open, but he could find a place to lie down under some cover until the sun rose.
He found an awning behind a garage, pulled the motorcycle over, cut the engine, and lay down on the stoop, using his soaked jacket for a pillow. He’d always been good at falling asleep.
At least the rain had stopped. The sky remained dark and gray, though, and seemed to press down, like a trap closing. Clay opened his eyes, blinking away crust.
Two Russian police officers stood over him. The nearest one nudged Clay in the ribs with his boots. Clay climbed to his feet quickly and put what he hoped was the proper amount of deference on his face. When dealing with law enforcement the world over, it’s always a good idea to be respectful, humble, sheepish. He gauged quickly that they didn’t know who he was or why he was there. Otherwise, there certainly would have been a much larger police presence. They wouldn’t have tapped him awake with their boots; instead, he’d have opened his eyes to assault rifle barrels.
“You sleep where you like, is that it?” the boot-nudger asked in a somewhat feminine voice. He wore a beard that looked as if it had been carefully plucked and trimmed. Clay thought of Curly’s glove from Of Mice and Men and then pushed the thought aside. He was turning into a goddamn library reference desk when he needed to be concentrating on extricating himself from trouble.
He tried to speak with a bit of a country accent, flattening his vowels and stepping hard on the zs and vs so common in Russian.
“I apologize, friends. I drove in late last night in the rain.”
“You didn’t want to stop at a hotel?”
“I didn’t see one. Forgive me. I was tired and soaked to the bone.”
“Are you a vagrant?”
“No, Officer. I am on my way to Omsk from Moscow.”
“Long way on a motorbike.”
“True.”
“What is your business?”
“I am a writer.”
“A what?”
“I write plays. Dramas.”
“What is your name?”
“Parinshka.”
The effeminate one was nodding now. “Parinshka, yes.”
His partner eyed him with suspicion. “You have heard this name, Vlad?”
Clay waded in. “Perhaps you saw my play, Caretaker of Stepnoy? We held the Belanshky Theater in Moscow for eleven months last year.”
The one named Vlad searched his memory and then nodded. “I have not seen it, but I understand it is wonderful.”
“Thank you, friend. I have been called eccentric, as you can guess by my appearance and my strange idea to drive a motorbike from Moscow to Omsk.” The power of suggestion was a favorite tool of Clay’s.
“Ha! It is good for Russians to remember culture.”
“The very premise of Caretaker of Stepnoy!”
Vlad beamed. “Will you have breakfast here, then?”
“If you will point me to the nearest petrol station, I would be much in your debt, Officer Vlad. But I will forgo eating this morning, because I slept longer than I meant and would like to continue my journey.”
For the first time, Vlad’s partner spoke directly to Clay. “May I see your papers, Mr. Parinshka?”
Clay shifted his eyes to the shorter officer and forced a smile.
“Why do you ask this, Gregor?” Vlad demanded.
“This man is guilty of vagrancy, is he not?”
“He is one of Moscow’s great playwrights.”
“Hmm…even still, your papers.”
Old habits died hard in the Russian countryside. Whereas much of Moscow and St. Petersburg had embraced the rough sort of capitalism that marks the birth of a nation, the further east a man traveled, the more “old regime” Russia seemed. A mentality that still prompted officers to ask for papers.
Clay made a show of searching his pockets for his identification while Vlad apologized and Gregor’s watchful eyes never left his face. After a moment, Clay produced a small billfold and extracted a laminated card.
Sure enough, it was an up-to-date ID with his picture and the name Ivan Parinshka printed on it.
“You see,” Vlad said.
Gregor frowned. “Just a minute.” He moved a few steps away and withdrew a smartphone from his pocket. Clay eyed him and tried to show only a proper amount of anxiety. He had little doubt he could kill these two officers, but the body count on the road from Stepnoy would give away his direction of travel and might lead others to identify the purpose of his mission.
Vlad looked with trepidation from Clay to his partner. “What are you doing, Gregor?”
“I am using Google to see if this man is a great playwright or a great liar.”
“You’re— This is terribly embarrassing to me, Mr. Parinshka. You see, my partner’s father was high-ranking KGB, and Gregor wishes to be considered for FSB and so takes work very seriously. I am red with shame.”
Clay waited for what seemed an hour. The wireless connection out here in the sticks must have been as slow as an invalid.
Vlad shifted his weight from foot to foot like a schoolkid anxious to find a restroom. “You have a new play you are writing, then, yes?”
“I’m gathering ideas as we speak.”
“Oh! Ha. Hahahah. Yes.”
Finally, Gregor lowered the phone, grave disappointment on his face. “It seems your plays are better known in Moscow than out here, Mr. Parinshka. I apologize for detaining you.”
“It seems there are two Russias,” Clay said, dusting off his pants before throwing one leg over his motorcycle. “Good day, Officers.”
The playwright cover had been Clay’s idea after reading an article in the New York Times a few years earlier about the revival of the Moscow theater district. Russians had a proud history of literary greats, and despite generations of Communism, it was a source of national pride that had resurfaced. In the new Russia’s infant stage, the hint of celebrity shone brightly in the people’s eyes. Stedding had been against it, wanting Clay’s cover to be less flashy—a low-level government official or a shipping contractor—but Clay had held firm and had even had Stedding create websites and fictitious reviews dedicated to the emerging fame of one Ivan Parinshka. The ruse worked better than he had hoped. Never underestimate the blindness of people with stars in their eyes.
With a fresh tank of gas, thanks to a nearby petrol station, the motorcycle hummed along, settling again into the rhythm of the road. It reminded Clay of that boat again, that goddamn boat, and the endless lapping of the ocean on the hull outside his cabin’s porthole. Nine years he had spent on that boat with his uncle, from age six until his escape at fifteen. He was a strong swimmer by then, and when he had the chance, he took it. He hadn’t had much of a choice, what with the fire engulfing—
He was awakened from his reverie by a gunshot. His initial thought that his motorcycle had backfired was quickly erased by a second shot, which somehow missed his shoulder but shattered the glass of the right rearview mirror. He jerked his head around to see a pair of black Mercedes sedans closing on him, followed by a boxy Russian police sedan, a Volkswagen from the looks of it, struggling to keep up. Shit. That little ferret cop Gregor must’ve made some calls instead of letting it go…or more likely, the FSB was on the trail Clay had left from Zhedenko’s office and had put out a call for anyone suspicious, and Gregor had been alert enough to make the connection.
Clay cranked his wrist and pinned the throttle to its maximum point while he lowered his head and zigzagged back and forth across the road like a boxer trying to duck a cross. If they were going to shoot first and ask questions later, he wasn’t going to give them a clear target to hit.
The Mercedes pressed forward and his goddamn Spoykin couldn’t hold the distance. Why couldn’t it have been a Ducati? This assignment’s ledger was quickly dropping into the red. He pinned his knee almost to the ground and pivoted the bike off the road and into the forest. The pines were thick, but not that thick, and both Mercedes skidde
d into turns and followed, undaunted.
Clay bounced over loose needles, tightened his jaw, and hoped against hope that a rotting branch wouldn’t send him sliding sideways. One mistake and he’d be having his next conversation cuffed to a chair.
The sun was high in the sky now, so the shadows clung tightly to the trees. Visibility was good. Clay dipped his knee again and aimed for a tight pattern of trees, something he could squeeze through. The twin Mercedes had to give ground now, had to pick their way carefully through the trees like moose trying to keep up with a fox.
Clay shot out onto a small walking trail and crested a hill. He had a minute, maybe less.
In the animal kingdom, there are a few creatures that instinctively know the art of the ambush. They don’t stalk like lions, they don’t group hunt like chimpanzees, they don’t rely on speed or strength like hawks. They lie still, in wait, and when opportunity arises, they pounce. A crocodile beneath the water, a stonefish on a rocky sea bottom, an African bush viper on a tree branch.
Clay thought his pursuers should have spent less time taking potshots while speeding down a highway and more time learning the way nature worked. He intended to teach them the last lesson of their lives.
The first of the two Mercedes crested the hill and nearly ran over the capsized Spoykin. The Mercedes abruptly parked and the doors popped open, two FSB agents climbing out like synchronized swimmers with pistols drawn. They had only a second to realize they’d made a mistake by stepping out of the car before Clay was on them. He flew out from behind a tree and blitzed into the nearest agent, smashing him into the side of the car and wrestling his gun away in the blink of an eye. He shot the agent as he crumpled to the ground, directly through the top of his head, a kill shot. The second agent dove, but Clay anticipated the defensive move and dropped to the ground at the same time. He fired under the car and caught the second agent in the back before he could get into a seated position and gain his bearings. The agent fell over sideways and watched his own blood seep into the forest floor, unsure how he’d been killed right up to the moment his synapses stopped firing.
Clay quickly climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes and piloted it into a three-point turn, just as the other Mercedes approached. He honked and signaled with his hand out the window for the second car to pull alongside. With the tinted windows so many European departments insisted upon, the men in the other car couldn’t see a thing inside his sedan. They drew even with his driver’s-side door, and the driver rolled down his window. Two bullets greeted him and his partner. Hello and good-bye.
The police sedan was the final puzzle piece in this bloody contest. It did not turn into the woods to follow, Gregor and Vlad content to lead the big dogs to the hunt and then sit back and collect whatever commendations were headed their way for their role in recognizing the fugitive.
Clay steered the Mercedes back onto the road but emerged from the woods a hundred yards in front of the cruiser. He turned to face it. No other traffic appeared on the road, and he couldn’t help thinking they looked like two gunslingers facing off in an Old West town, except surrounded by chrome, steel, and glass instead of perched on horses.
He rolled down his window and waved the police cruiser forward.
The Volkswagen started his way and then stopped again, like a distrustful dog. His radio crackled and a Russian voice barked, “Report!”
Must be Gregor, though Clay couldn’t see through the windshield with the sun bouncing off it. He thought about replying but decided to try the arm one more time rather than allow his voice to give anything away. He waved more vigorously. Maybe they’d think he had engine trouble or was wounded.
The radio chirped again, “Report!”
Clay shook his head and picked up the receiver. In his most neutral Russian, he tried, “We’re hurt.”
The cruiser in front of him didn’t respond, and the radio remained silent for a good twenty seconds.
Then the police car gunned into a sharp turn, tires peeling out on the asphalt so it could head back toward town.
Clay reacted immediately, stamping his foot on the accelerator. The Mercedes charged forward, loping after the sedan like a wolf after a chicken. Thankfully, the cruiser was an older make and was no match for the diesel engine of the FSB Mercedes.
The easiest way to take out a lead vehicle is to tag the bumper from behind, forcing it into a slide, a tactic seen on the five o’clock news at least once a week in every big city in America. But the cops utilized that maneuver for a reason: they cared whether the driver lived or died at the end of the pursuit.
Clay chose a more effective route. He pulled even with the driver’s back tire and then emptied into it the entire contents of the Grach he’d taken from the hand of the dead FSB agent. The tire exploded and the cruiser leapt into the air like a startled rabbit, then rolled eleven times before flipping off the road like a bowling pin.
Clay immediately parked and hurried out of his car. No time to let Gregor recover and get his bearings if he’d survived the crash. Clay didn’t stalk his enemies, didn’t toy with them—he moved in swiftly and shot them before they could shoot back. This wasn’t sport.
He descended on the smoking cruiser, which had ended up on its back, tires up, a turtle on its shell. He quickly hit his belly and aimed into the driver’s window, but stopped, surprised to see Vlad behind the wheel, alone.
“Where’s Gregor?”
Vlad looked disoriented, strapped in upside down, bleeding from the chin. He turned and tried to focus on Clay.
“The Belanshky Theater closed.”
“What?”
“You said you held the Belanshky Theater for eleven months. But it closed two years ago. I knew you were lying.”
Clay nodded. He had misjudged which cop was the more ambitious. Vlad wanted the acclaim for himself.
“I called FSB. They’re looking for you. Said you were dangerous.”
Clay shot him then, thinking the FSB was right.
Chapter Four
HE WASN’T sure what he had told them. Nelson remembered the pain, the hunger, the thirst, and the fear, all with unkind clarity, but of what he had told them, he wasn’t sure. Central Intelligence had trained him to withstand torture, but those efforts had proved woefully inadequate. If he had wondered during those sessions at the Farm how long he could hold out, he had his answer. Not long.
His leg was healing. The cast was off and the pain had subsided. He might walk unassisted soon, but for now, he relied on a cane. They had provided one made of hard plastic, the kind found in hospitals. Leaving him with a stick he could conceivably wield as a weapon told him everything he needed to know: they had broken him and they weren’t worried.
He rose from his bed and made his way over to the window facing the Kremlin. He had tried to open it once, but that had brought punishment. He hadn’t tried again. He was sure it wouldn’t open, anyway, and the glass was reinforced and unbreakable. Even if he hurled his body against it in order to jump, it wouldn’t give. He was sure of that. The window was a torture in and of itself; he could see people scurrying about their business, driving cars, drinking coffee, commuting, smoking, talking, unaware of the prisoner thirty stories above them.
They’d kept him alive and treated his gunshot wound, and that meant something. He was now a pawn on a chessboard; he would be traded so the Russians could collect a piece of their own.
The fat-faced man with the gray beard entered. He’d had it trimmed sometime in the last few days, and it made him appear younger. His name was Egorov, Nelson had learned in one of the cycles when the man was nice to him. A smile formed inside the beard. This was one of those times, it appeared.
“Ahh, you’re up.”
“You knew that before you walked in.” There were cameras in three of the corners of the room, covering it with constant surveillance. Nelson didn’t even bother nodding at them to make the point.
Egorov clucked his tongue, an affectation Nelson had come to despise.
“You seem irritated.”
Nelson closed his eyes, then turned from the window. He forced a tight smile. “I’m fine.”
“How’s your leg?”
“Better, thank you.”
“We’re going to have another session about Marika.”
The smile disappeared. Nelson wished his hand wouldn’t tremble on the cane’s handle, but the tremor came involuntarily. He tried saying, “I’ve told you everything I know.”
“You’ve told us the answers to everything we’ve asked, but perhaps we weren’t asking the right questions.”
“What could I possibly have left to say?”
“Who might be completing your work?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Who might your brothers at Central Intelligence have sent to take your place?”
Nelson covered his right hand with his left, trying to force the trembling to subside. It was no use. He searched his brain for an answer, but only the worst one would come to him. “I don’t know.”
Egorov frowned, crow’s-feet appearing next to his eyes. “Like I said, we weren’t asking the right questions.”
“Dear God, don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew?”
“Maybe you need help thinking.”
A couple of large Russians wearing blue rubber gloves entered the suite behind Egorov.
Nelson dropped the cane and sat down heavily on the carpet. His knee had buckled. Then he had an idea, and his face momentarily lit up. “Kespy! Kespy out of our Turkish bureau! They’d send Kespy!”
“We have Kespy under surveillance in Istanbul. He hasn’t moved.”
Nelson dropped his chin, defeated. He wished tears wouldn’t spring to his eyes, he wished he didn’t have to fight off a sob, but he did.
Michael Adams drove himself toward downtown Los Angeles. Traffic was light on Olympic this time of night, and he picked his way through Koreatown, only braking for an occasional red light. He liked to listen to Classic Radio on his SiriusXM player, and the host, Greg Bell, was spinning back-to-back episodes of Suspense, his favorite old-timey show. Agnes Moorehead was in the middle of a panic attack, unable to get her husband on the telephone, when Adams reached the garage of his office building. He thought about sitting in his car until the episode ended, but time wasn’t on his side. It was already late on the East Coast.
