“There are other details I need to mention—” He stopped talking as a sizeable group of pedestrians approached. He pulled Nicole through a gate into the weedy front garden of an apartment house and put his arms around her to whisper in her ear. “Sorry, but I forgot to tell you something. Aside from showing me the explosives, you have one other task.”
He reached into his attaché case, took out what looked like an oversized lipstick case, and handed it to her. She looked at him questioningly.
“Inside is a thumb drive,” he said. “Once we get to Red Square, your job will be to go into the office of the construction supervisor. It’s a temporary structure somewhere on the square and should be easy to access. Your job is to insert the drive into his computer and download its contents.”
“How will I know where to put the files?” she said. “Everything on his computer will be in Russian.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. The download is set to work automatically. When it’s done, the drive will eject itself. The whole process shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
Nicole pulled back from his embrace and stared at him. “How on earth can I manage that without getting caught?”
He shushed her, pulled her back into his arms, and leaned down to whisper again. “That’s my job. I’ll create a diversion that will allow time for you to take care of the download while the bomb squad deals with the explosives. Then we’ll make our getaway. We’ll exit through an opening our team has already cut in the temporary fencing at the back of the square.”
“A diversion?” she said. “What kind of diversion?”
“I’m going to plant a limited explosive device somewhere in the square. It’s controlled by a trigger I’ll have on my key fob. It will cause a loud explosion and a fire that’s fairly limited in scope but spectacular enough to send the workers running to put it out before it spreads to the temporary structures. It contains a fire accelerant so it flames up when water hits it. That way, they won’t be able to put it out until the fire trucks arrive.”
“Where are you going to get this device?”
“We’re being joined on this assignment by a three-member bomb demolition crew. They’re picking us up when we’re done shopping, and they will have the device with them. They’ll walk into the square with us, carrying credentials like ours. Sorry I didn’t think to clue you in on all of this. I’m so used to—”
“You’re forgiven, but from now on—”
“I swear it.” He put an arm around her and led her back onto the sidewalk. “Now we’ve worked that out, let’s hurry. Our cab will be there soon.” They walked quickly to the café where the cab was already waiting. After they got in, Reinhardt gave the cabbie the address, and they sped off. The trip took no more than ten minutes, leaving them off in front of a building that appeared even more derelict than Olga’s apartment house. Reinhardt hit the button on the intercom next to the front door and briefly spoke into it.
A buzzer went off, and the door unlocked to admit them. Reinhardt led Nicole into a darkened hallway and up a flight of dimly lit stairs. They walked to a door at the end of the hall and knocked. A voice from inside said something in Russian. Reinhardt answered, and the door was opened by a man dressed in a black satin dressing gown with a black-and-red print cravat. His dark hair was slicked back, which emphasized his deep widow’s peak. He sported a goatee and impossibly arched eyebrows, which may have been drawn on. He looked like an actor made up to play Mephistopheles in a campy version of “Faust.” He drew Reinhardt into a hug and air-kissed him on both cheeks. Only then did he notice Nicole and give her a smile.
“And who is this?” he said in accented English.
Reinhardt introduced them. The man’s name was Pierre. To Nicole’s great relief, she was spared the hug and kisses. Instead, he reached out to shake her hand.
“We’re in a bit of a rush,” Reinhardt said. “We need a few things.”
“Certainly, I’ll get someone to help you.”
“Don’t bother. I know my way around.”
“Don’t forget to say goodbye on your way out, my friend.” Pierre patted Reinhardt’s shoulder as he hurried off to answer the intercom, which was ringing again.
As Nicole followed Reinhardt inside, she was dying of curiosity. She’d never seen an establishment like this and wondered how common they were or if this one was unique. In the first room they entered, printers of various sizes were busy churning out documents. Reinhardt approached one of the workers and explained what he needed. The man handed him forms to complete. Nicole watched as Reinhardt filled in the blanks with Cyrillic. “This is for our new IDs and official papers and badges,” he said. “We’ll have our photos taken on our way out.”
While these documents were being created, Nicole followed Reinhardt through rooms cluttered with goods of various sorts. Each held a completely different type of inventory—icons and antiques in one room, guns and knives in another. One featured consumables, like caviar, honey, and vodka. They passed a large room overflowing with paintings and sculptures, many of which looked as if they belonged in a museum. Next came a room filled with electronic devices, including audio and video surveillance equipment, and so on. It appeared that Pierre’s shop carried just about everything and took up an entire floor of the building.
They stopped at a room filled with racks of clothing and shelves of shoes piled one pair on top of another. On the wall were pictures of designer labels: Prada, Armani, Hermes, Louis Vuitton, Balenciaga, and many more. Women’s apparel was on one side of the room, men’s on the other.
Other shoppers were milling about, most of them clustered in what appeared to be the bridal department, a corner devoted to racks of white puffy gowns. A bridal dress, displayed on a mannequin next to the dressing room, bore a sign that said “Vera Wang” where its head should have been. Another mannequin on the opposite side of the fitting room was dressed in an orange silk, floor-length gown. This one bore a sign that said “Oscar De la Renta.” The orange number was strapless, backless, and form-fitting, making a mystery of what would hold it up when it was worn on a moving body.
“Are these all knockoffs?” Nicole said.
“Every one of them. Don’t be tempted by the gowns. You need clothes appropriate for an Eastern European female bureaucrat.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “Serviceable but not stylish.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Once you’ve made your choice, keep the outfit on. You’ll be wearing it when we leave.”
A saleswoman bustled over to help. After establishing that the saleswoman spoke no English, Reinhardt explained in Russian what Nicole needed before heading for men’s clothing. He gave the attending salesman a shake of his head and waved him away. He seemed to know what he wanted and where to find it.
Nicole was happy to have someone assist her. The goods weren’t organized by size but by style, and most of the clothes seemed to range from big to enormous. The saleswoman was all smiles but made no attempt to communicate verbally. Clearly, she understood that neither of them spoke the other’s language. But she seemed good natured and eager to please.
Nicole chose a navy-blue suit with a belted jacket and military-looking epaulettes. It almost fit, except that she had to fold the waistband several times to raise the hemline, and this made the skirt sag in the seat. To accessorize, she chose a pair of chunky, low-heeled pumps in black suede with a matching satchel-type bag and a white silk camp shirt. The outfit certainly fit the bill. Stylish, it was not. The saleswoman left to get some wigs for Nicole to try on.
Looking around, Nicole spotted a rack of glasses and plucked out a pair of granny-style spectacles with gold rims, making sure they had clear glass lenses so they wouldn’t distort her vision. Next to the glasses display was a rack of chains designed to be attached to the glasses so they could dangle around the wearer’s neck when they weren’t being worn. She chose a gold chain and attached it to her new glasses.
Meanwhile
, the saleswoman had brought out two full, long-haired wigs, both brunette. One was curly and the other straight. Nicole tried them on and, looking in the mirror, felt utterly ridiculous. Both had way too much hair for someone as petite as she. Nicole gestured to the saleswoman that she wanted something shorter and less full. The woman went back and returned with another wig, which was slightly shorter, along with one that had braids that wrapped around it. Nicole put the braided wig on and checked the mirror. Along with the glasses, it was perfect. As long as she didn’t smile and ruin the effect with her dimples, she looked like a teacher who’d be quick to whack a misbehaving student with a ruler.
When Reinhardt saw her, she could see he was trying not to laugh. But he looked almost as silly. His brown, double-breasted suit fit so poorly that the collar stood away from his neck. The jacket pulled across the chest and back because it wasn’t cut for someone with broad shoulders. He was wearing a white shirt buttoned up to the top with no tie. It was a powerful contrast to his usual stylish, custom-tailored clothes. He was carrying a large, boxy briefcase. For a long moment, they took in each other’s new look before they both started to laugh.
“With all these clothes to choose from, couldn’t you find something that fit?” she said.
“I’m sure I could have,” he said. “But this was the look I was going for. The fit of this suit is part of the strong man look I wanted. The tight jacket shows off my muscles.”
“If you say so.” She looked in the mirror and laughed again. What a pair they made.
Meanwhile, the saleswoman packed up the clothes they’d been wearing when they arrived. Back in the room where their documents were being prepared, they had their photos taken to be placed on their badges. The technician worked fast, and the forged credentials were soon ready. Papers, badges, and lapel pins were laid out on the table for Reinhardt’s inspection. He gave his approval. Reinhardt and Nicole put on the badges and lapel pins, while the documents were neatly folded and put in an official-looking leather envelope with the Russian Republic’s crest stamped in one corner.
“Charge as usual?” Pierre said.
“Yes, same account,” Reinhardt said. “But this will be the last time. I won’t be back. I’m moving abroad.”
Pierre’s face fell. Nicole suspected he was a little in love with Reinhardt, and who could blame him? “We’ll miss you, my friend.” He repeated the hug and air kisses. Then he gave Nicole a little bow. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Transformed into Russian bureaucrats, the two of them left the building as it was getting dark. As soon as they reached the sidewalk, a shiny black stretch limo came screeching to a stop at the curb next to them. The vehicle appeared so suddenly that for the briefest moment, Nicole thought they were about to be kidnapped. Then she remembered what Reinhardt had told her about the bomb squad picking them up.
A man—short and solidly built with the typically Eastern European broad face and high cheekbones—hopped out and said something in Russian. Like Reinhardt, he was dressed in a suit, tieless, with a shirt buttoned up to the top. He was holding a substantial package wrapped in brown paper. From the careful way they both handled it, it appeared to be heavy. The driver directed Nicole and Reinhardt to the seats in the first of two back rows. In the rear row were two other men, the rest of the bomb team. As soon as they were all inside and buckled up, Reinhardt said, “Please don’t start up the car until I put this away.” He opened the boxy briefcase and rearranged the contents to carefully fit in the package. “Carry on,” he said when he was done. The limo took off and made a tight U-turn. They were finally on their way to clean up the threat at Red Square.
Chapter Eleven
As on Nicole’s previous visit to Red Square with Chet, armed guards were spread across the entryway, which was still blocked by temporary traffic barriers. Reinhardt, Nicole, and the three bomb experts walked straight for the gate, their intention clear. When they were a few feet away, the head guard thumped the butt of his rifle on the ground and shouted a command that Nicole understood to mean “Stop!” He pointed to a nearby sign, which was in Cyrillic. After glancing at the sign, Reinhardt pulled out his fake credentials and stepped forward to show them to the guard. The man ignored the documents, shaking his head and waving Reinhardt away.
The two launched into a long argument in Russian. It ended when the guard stepped back and held out the flat of his hand, signaling for Reinhardt and the others to remain where they were. Then he called over one of the other guards and sent him into the square.
Reinhardt turned to Nicole and explained in a low voice. “He says no one is to be admitted except the workers finishing up. No exceptions. He’s sent one of his men to get the construction supervisor who, he says, will tell me the same thing. Don’t worry. We’ve got this covered.”
After a few minutes, the guard came back with a burly man wearing a hard hat. His clothes—trousers held up with suspenders and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up—were rumpled as if he’d been sleeping in them. He seemed thoroughly annoyed and ready for a fight. Perhaps he’d been asleep or interrupted at a bad moment. Maybe he was ill-tempered by nature. He and Reinhardt had a long argument, during which Reinhardt kept trying to hand the man his papers with no better luck than he’d had with the guard. Nicole could see that this man, just like the guard, was determined to not let them in and didn’t give a damn about what credentials they had.
Finally, Reinhardt pulled out his phone and tapped in a number. Someone answered, Reinhardt spoke briefly then handed the phone to the supervisor. As the man listened, his expression changed from belligerent to nervous and even a little abashed. He seemed cowed by the person on the other end. He muttered “Da” a few times before he handed the phone back. He immediately moved the temporary barrier aside and waved them into the square.
The phone call had completely changed his attitude. As he escorted the group into the square, his manner was polite and even hospitable. But it was soon clear that he wasn’t planning to let them roam his building site on their own. Instead, he assumed the role of host and guide. As they walked along, he introduced himself as Vlad Galyorkin. This much Nicole understood, but the rest of his chatter was lost on her.
Reinhardt introduced Nicole and the bomb experts to Vlad. Dmitry was their driver. The other two were Ilya, and Vadim. All had last names that were too long and complicated for Nicole to catch.
She’d been too distracted by Reinhardt’s efforts to get into the square to give them a close look when they got out of the van. They made an interesting group. They all had facial hair. Dmitry sported a square mustache just under his nose. Ilya had a well-trimmed goatee and handlebar mustache. He was wearing gray sweats with a hoodie. Vadim, tall and broad-chested, had a beard and mustache that were so thick and unruly that his mouth was barely visible. Nicole wondered what happened when he ate. He was wearing a heavy black overcoat. The three of them followed along silently, contributing as little to the conversation as Nicole.
As they walked, the supervisor chattered on, pointing to each new structure they passed. He was obviously proud of the project and his role in supervising its construction. Reinhardt and the others paid scant attention. They stopped repeatedly to do the job they were purportedly here for—inspect the bleachers and other temporary buildings. They looked each one over carefully, taking time to check beneath and behind the structures.
At several points, workmen appeared, apparently wanting to ask the supervisor a question. He was visibly annoyed when they approached and impatiently waved them away. When one man persisted, Vlad thumped his ear with a fist and yelled, letting the man know he was too busy to be bothered. After he sent each worker scampering away, Vlad would turn back to Reinhardt and the others, once more the genial host.
Before they arrived, Nicole and Reinhardt had discussed what she could do to disguise the fact that she didn’t know Russian. If anyone addressed her, they decided, she’d pretend she had laryngitis. She’d practiced pointing to her throat
and make a croaking sound until she was satisfied she could pull it off.
Even though she didn’t understand what they were saying, Nicole found it interesting to watch the interaction between Reinhardt and Vlad. Vlad was overly polite and deferential, as if he were talking to someone not just important but to be feared. Reinhardt, on the other hand, appeared dismissive, making it clear he was barely listening to the man. His expression was serious, even grim, as if he expected to find building violations and other problems with the new construction. He appeared intent on the inspection and wasn’t going to let Vlad distract him. This reminded Nicole of the first time she met Reinhardt, when he was investigating a major drug ring. She’d found him sinister and more than a little frightening. At the time, she hadn’t known he was with the police.
As the minutes ticked off and it was clear Vlad wasn’t going to leave, Nicole grew more anxious. How were they going to complete their mission under his watchful eyes? When they’d gone halfway along the row of bleachers, they were almost even with the grandstand. Nicole moved closer to Reinhardt and bumped her hip against his so he’d look at her. She tipped her head in the direction of the grandstand. Behind the stand, Lenin’s tomb had disappeared under a giant toaster-shaped cover decorated with Russian flags and some kind of motto in Cyrillic. Reinhardt nodded his understanding that the grandstand was where the explosives were hidden.
He immediately stepped closer to Vlad and spoke to him. The man nodded, pointed back the way they’d come, and appeared to be giving Reinhardt directions. Before he set off, Reinhardt turned to wink at Nicole and hurried off in the direction Vlad had pointed.
Nicole was pretty sure what that wink meant. Reinhardt had asked where the toilets were, but that wasn’t where he was headed. Like her, he must have realized they were never going to get rid of Vlad, so he was going straight to the planned diversion. She thought of the thumb drive he’d given her and wondered how she was supposed to install it on Vlad’s computer when she had no idea where his office was. Nor did she know how to find the gap in the fence that was supposed to be their escape route. She’d assumed Reinhardt would point these places out to her, but he hadn’t had a chance. Vlad’s presence had undermined their carefully orchestrated plan.
The Moscow Affair Page 16
