A few minutes later, Elisabeth lifted her head and dried her eyes with a tissue retrieved from her handbag.
“Grant, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I did that. I never cry and to come in here and put you through that. I’m so, so sorry.” She rose unsteadily. Grant held onto her wrist and pulled her back down into the seat.
“You must be crazy if you think I’m going to let you walk out of that door. I know you better than most, Elisabeth, and whatever it is that’s on your mind, it’s something big. Just tell it to me as it comes.”
---
Two hours later Elisabeth crossed the lobby of Nine Six Five Pennsylvania. Until now she hadn’t realized how low she had fallen. She’d been carrying a monumental burden on her own shoulders and it had almost broken her. She’d told him everything. He was the only person in the world in whom she could trust. He’d promised to help her. Elisabeth hailed a cab. She didn’t want Joseph, her driver, starting any gossip. On a brighter day, she’d have happily made the twenty-five minute walk to her office.
As the cab drifted along Constitution Avenue, edging in and out of lunchtime traffic, Elisabeth gently, but politely, nodded at the remonstrations of the Jamaican driver who seemed to have had a bad day so far. She was pleased that she’d called Grant. He said he’d make sure his people kept an eye on her. He would go straight to the president that afternoon. She stretched back into the faux leather seat, meshing her fingers together and stretching her arms.
As they passed Canal Lock House, opposite the corner of Seventeenth, she reflexively glanced ahead and to the right, wanting to catch a glimpse of her favorite place in the city, Constitution Garden Ponds. The driver’s head began to droop over to one side. She was about to yell at him, tell him to wake up. That was when the windscreen exploded as additional bullets sprayed the side of the car, the rear door to her right was pushed into the cabin as another vehicle collided with them and Elisabeth gasped for breath as her seatbelt drew tightly across her neck. The force of the still moving vehicle provided enough momentum for the cab to flip over when the wheels impacted against the sidewalk. Elisabeth experienced the first of two three-hundred-sixty-degree rolls before she mercifully passed out, still strapped-in, now upside down, to the rear seat.
Chapter 69
It was one o’clock. The lunch had been light, the mussels excellent. He was a picturesque ten-minute walk from the hotel. Michael had never felt fitter. He ate less, but healthier food, than in his old life when constantly attending business lunches, dinners, or sitting behind his desk chewing on cholesterol filled sandwiches and other assorted junk food. Without a driver whisking him around the place, he was forced to take public transport and quite often walk. Six months before, he’d never have considered walking more than a couple of hundred meters.
As Michael mulled these thoughts, he turned into a narrow side-street. One hundred fifty meters before the turn-off to the hotel, Michael noticed two men in black coats rounding the corner from the right. He became wary, considered doing an about turn, but decided it would look too suspicious. He continued without breaking stride. When the men were at one hundred meters, he thought about crossing the road. If they also started to cross, he would have time to make a break for it. A few moments later, one of the men yanked his hands out of his pockets and threw them up in the air. Michael was more bemused than anything else, particularly when the man simultaneously began shouting at him in Russian.
The other stood perfectly still, frozen to the spot. They weren’t staring at him, but behind him. He looked back.
The nose of the black sedan was two paces away and about to slam him into the wall of the house. Michael instinctively did the only thing he could. He jumped. Straight up. He fell flat against the bonnet which absorbed only some of the impact. It hurt like hell. Struggling to lift his head, through the windscreen he looked into the eyes of two men glaring at him in some consternation.
The engine revved and the car flew backwards. Michael rolled off the car, hit the road hard, put his hands up to shield his face and head with his hands, before slamming into the ground. He gagged for breath, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. The engine screamed, the car shot forward to crush him into asphalt. Michael took a gulp of air and swung his legs in behind his body just as the car’s chassis roared over his head. The nose crunched into the wall of the building behind him.
He lay still. The engine, having stalled, roared back into life, the car speeding backwards. This is it, someone will put a bullet through my head. He didn’t move a muscle, hoping the car’s occupants would think him dead. The car vaulted forward, tires screeching, heading down the street, past the two black-coated men who, familiar with the sometimes very public activities of the Saint Petersburg mafia, were cowering in the doorway of a shop front.
Michael leapt up and ran to the end of the street. Tourists abounded in this area and taxis were everywhere. As he rounded the corner, he spotted a black Audi with a yellow Taksi sign on the roof. He could see the black Volga turning right into the road by the canal. He jumped into the taxi. The driver glanced in the mirror. Michael gesticulated wildly. First pointing straight ahead and then urgently swinging his hand to the right repetitively to make sure he got the message across.
The driver nodded, engine already running, he pulled out sedately.
“Let’s go. Now,” Michael shouted, as he reached into his pocket.
“I said, let’s go,” thrusting the euros under the driver’s nose.
“Mister, you don’t need to shout and if you keep waving your arm around like that I’ll be tempted to break it. Where do you need to go?” the driver said as they turned the corner onto the canal road.
Michael caught the man’s gaze in the mirror. He was young, maybe thirty, speaking clipped English. He was smartly dressed, wearing a dark suit and tie. The car was immaculate inside. The driver obviously plied the well-heeled tourist trade.
“Follow the black Volga. Five hundred meters ahead of us.”
The driver shrugged.
“Mister, I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but this isn’t Hollywood. Following people around in this place can get you killed. It’ll cost.”
“Look,” said Michael, “if you follow that car and don’t get seen, I’ll make sure you’re happy. All right?”
“Okay. I can’t see the car. I’ll speed up. Tell me when you see it.”
---
The brick-like, black Volga sedan was a kilometer ahead. They were forty minutes out of the city. There was barely another car on the road and so Sergey, as the driver’s name turned out to be, had kept his distance.
“We’re near the lake,” he told Michael, just as they swept into a long curve where the trees broke and Michael glimpsed a mass of water that stretched to the horizon.
“You sure this isn’t the Baltic Sea?”
“Biggest lake in Western Russia.”
“Good place to hide a body then?” the irony fell flat. “Just keep well back.” He had not seen another car for some time.
They followed the Volga for another hour, staying at least one kilometer behind it, sometimes more when the thick pine forest opened out onto gorse or scrub and all round visibility increased ten-fold. Michael had no doubt that they had been observed, but hoped that they would be taken for fellow travelers on a road where there were very few alternatives but to keep driving.
He’d lost them. They’d just passed through a village, Morazova, and had just come out the other side, entering yet another large expanse of woodland. The Volga had been ahead them, no more than five hundred meters, as both cars had been required to slow down going through the village. Michael had lost sight of the other car briefly on a gentle curve in the road. As they pulled out onto the straight, the Volga was nowhere to be seen.
“Keep driving,” said Michael, “don’t slow down for at least the next five minutes.”
Michael mentally noted the location of the corner where the Volga had vanished. They kept goi
ng. He hadn’t noticed any openings on the side of the road, although at that point he’d been trying to keep the car in his sights. He had to assume that the driver of the other car might have waited, curious to learn if the Audi would deviate from its course or carry on along the lake road.
Rounding the same bend in the road fifteen minutes later, but from the other direction, Michael had no problem spotting the turn the other car had made. A narrow track had been cut through the tall pine trees.
“Here,” said Michael, but Sergey, having already seen it, was making the turn. He pulled in off the main road and stopped, facing the direction of the dirt track that stretched for a considerable distance in front of them between the tall pines.
“How far is the water from here?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Sergey, “four, maybe five kilometers. You want to go on?”
“Yes, but slowly.”
“Who are we following?”
“A man who stole from me.”
“A man who stole from you. What will you do when you find him?”
“Not sure. He kidnapped a friend of mine. I think she’s at the end of that road.”
Sergey turned to face Michael in the rear of the car, his face was serious.
“I don’t like this. I have a wife, a little boy. I’ll not die here and leave them with nothing. We must turn back.”
“I can’t do that,” said Michael, “I’ll go on alone if I need to.”
“You need to,” the driver’s hand tapping on the gear stick. Nervous.
“How old’s your car?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know. I’m going.”
“How old?”
“Five years. I bought it three years ago.”
“I’ll give you fifteen thousand euros for it, now, in cash. You can be back in Mozarova, or whatever it’s called, in half an hour. Call someone to come and pick you up.”
Sergey’s face brightened.
“It’s a good car, fifty thousand new. Fifteen not enough.”
Michael subdued his desire to bargain. He didn’t have time to waste.
“Okay, twenty, but that’s it or I’m walking.”
Sergey smiled. “You Americans are crazy, but okay, you have a deal.”
Michael didn’t bother to correct him and instead opened his backpack and counted out twenty thousand euros, for the first time glad that he’d wired money in from Switzerland.
He handed the thick bundle of notes to Sergey who quickly counted the cash.
Sergey took the key from the ignition. With his other hand he rummaged around under the driver’s seat. Bloody hell, thought Michael, another vodka swilling, Eastern European taxi driver. Sergey emerged, his hand cupping a dark grey handgun. The Russian’s arm swung round and Michael felt his stomach lurch.
Sergey grunted. “Don’t worry, American, it comes with the car. I live in a dangerous city, but I think you’re going to need this more than I will.”
He held the gun flat against his palm, the barrel under his thumb and the handle facing Michael.
“This is the safety,” he gestured with the index finger of his other hand to a small lever above the magazine. “Flip this, point and shoot. It’s a Stechkin 9mm, twenty rounds.”
Michael looked into the Russian’s eyes, amused. He hesitated, but only for a moment, before taking the gun and stashing it in his backpack.
“Thank you,” said Michael. The other man handed him the keys.
Sergey opened the door and got out of the car. Michael did the same. Instead of walking away, he surprised Michael by coming around to the rear of the car, wrapping his arms around him and slapping Michael on the back vigorously. He abruptly stepped away.
“Good luck, American, I hope you won’t need it.” He nodded at Michael and began walking the fifty meters or so up to the main road.
Michael absentmindedly watched him leave, most of his attention focused on what he was going to do next. An explosion. Sergey stumbled. The Russian pitched forward headfirst, onto the cold, hard ground. He didn’t get up. Too late Michael realized the track’s entrance was probably monitored by cameras. Him next if he didn’t move it. He yanked open the door, dived across into the driver’s seat, swearing in frustration as he dragged his legs across the center console. He turned the key, slammed into first and hit the accelerator. Shots shattered the rear windscreen. He ducked. Michael risked looking in the car’s rearview mirror and caught the reflection of a black Range Rover, headlights blazing, bearing down on him at great speed.
There was nothing else he could do but try and outrun them. He shifted into third, then fourth, tearing along the track with tree branches and bushes slapping against the side of the car. The Range Rover had cut its speed, pulled back. Michael glanced over to check the position of the backpack on the seat beside him. He kept his foot to the floor. It could only mean one thing. A dead end.
Something moving in the distance. Another car, closing on him rapidly. Both cars must have had a combined speed of two hundred kilometers per hour, or more. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The Range Rover had speeded up again and was powering towards him. The other car was closing in. He had a few seconds to make a decision. Skid to a stop and run for it, or keep going and hope that he had bigger balls than they did.
He could make out the emblem on the dented black sedan in front of him and knew that in a few moments there would be no decision to make. Michael grabbed the strap of the backpack with his right hand and then used the same hand to hold the wheel steady while opening the door with his left. He waited until the last moment before hitting the brake, enough to slow the car, but not stop it, and threw himself from the car into the undergrowth at the side of the track.
The Volga didn’t brake in time. As he felt his face and arms being scratched and torn by dozens of small branches, he heard the sound of metal tearing against metal, glass shattering and showering into the air. As he hit the ground, dirt and leaves forced themselves into his mouth and nostrils, he heard a human scream that died almost as soon as it had arisen.
Despite doing his best to shield his head, Michael was stunned from the impact of hitting the hard-packed earth. If he didn’t move he’d die. Michael pushed himself up and broke through the undergrowth lining the track and onto the leaf strewn forest floor. The Range Rover’s doors thudded shut and he knew his pursuers were close behind.
The safest place to run was directly away from the track. Fleetingly it had crossed his mind that he had the pistol in his backpack and could try and surprise the men following him, hide in the undergrowth and take them out as they ran towards him. He had second thoughts. They were trained killers. The last time, the only time, Michael had fired a gun was on a grouse moor in Scotland, at least five years before.
He ran through the trees, kept his head low, his whole body in excruciating pain. This could well be it, he thought as he reached a clearing in the trees. They crashed through the fallen leaves and dead wood close behind him. He had no option but to run across the open ground. For thirty seconds he would be without cover, a proverbial sitting duck. He plunged through the tree line and into the clearing.
With each pace that he took he thought his legs would collapse beneath him, jagged pain shooting up his calves into his hips and jarring his spine. He waited for the bullet that would end it all, but forced himself to keep going. He was almost there, maybe ten meters to go. His right foot caught on something, maybe a branch or a rabbit hole. It didn’t matter, his right leg collapsed and his body crumpled to the ground, air knocked from his lungs for the second time in only a few minutes.
He pulled the backpack from his shoulder and released the drawstring, jamming his hand inside it for the gun. Too late. Against the dark backdrop of the trees, he failed to notice the leg swinging through the air. Or the steel-toed boot at the end of it. It connected with his wrist. He screamed in agony as the backpack flew across the clearing. The owner of the boot brought it crashing down onto Michael’s hand, crushin
g it into the ground. One of the two men above him held a gun pointing straight into his face, its barrel glinting in the moonlight.
Michael’s life didn’t flash before him. Neither did he try to make out the face of the man who was about to put a bullet through his head. It was as though he didn’t inhabit his body anymore. His mind refused to accept that his life was about to end. All that he’d done, reduced to this. He couldn’t believe that it was going to end at the hands of two Russian thugs in a forested wilderness. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet.
When it came, he assumed that the man had missed, deliberately or not. When it was succeeded immediately by five others and the screams that followed belonged to someone else, he knew his life had been saved, but was beyond comprehending how or why.
Chapter 70
It had taken Tatianna longer than she’d thought to reach Saint Petersburg. She’d arrived at two a.m. and been forced to sleep in the car. She’d chosen the railway station. It was seven fifteen. She’d just come off the phone.
Shortly after leaving Dmitri, she’d made a call to a friend she had trained with at the Academy. Irina worked for a criminal intelligence department within the Militsia. Its only purpose to keep track of people like Konstantin Rykov and, to the best of the department’s ability, to know what his kind were up to and who their associates were. Irina’s call was brief and to the point. The information she had was highly classified and not meant for the eyes, or ears, of anyone outside the department. Rykov was working for a businessman and suspected white collar criminal who went by the name of Jay Rivello. Rivello owned a sprawling mansion on the shore of Lake Ladoga, situated close to the village of Morazova. One final thing. Rykov was ex-FSB.
It cost fifty rubles. She’d palmed it to the fearsome looking old woman dutifully perched behind the desk of the Morazova post office. In return she received directions to the estate. Tatianna parked the Nissan in an unobtrusive location on the outskirts of the village and trekked through the forest to the track the old lady had described. Not unfamiliar with finding her way around woodland, Tatianna settled herself into the crater created by the dislodged roots of an upturned tree. She covered her hideaway with brushwood gathered from the forest floor, both to keep out the cold and rendering her near invisible from the track twenty meters away. She waited for darkness to descend.
The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) Page 18
