* * *
Our ship made port in Tallinn after sunup. I left Jill sleeping and headed for my rendezvous with Rodney at the Café Kinsky, near the cruise terminal. The café was a small place that appeared to be the haunt of locals, not tourists. Rodney sat at a window table, nursing a coffee with a side of something in a schnapps glass. He looked unhappy.
Before he burdened me with his displeasure, I said, “Did you ID the photos I sent?”
“Yes. They were a Russian hit team. The Brits think Putin sent them to settle some old scores. Where did you get their photographs?”
“A source gave them to me.”
“Did your source tell you those photographs were taken at a warehouse where Ironside, six MI6 assets, your four Russians, and one civilian were killed?” Rodney didn’t wait for an answer. “The civilian had one wrist cuffed to what was left of a chair. His name was Tommy Leeds. I believe he’s the fellow you used for some black bag jobs a while back. What the hell happened?”
“A misunderstanding.”
“Understand this,” said Rodney, lowering his voice. “The Brits have mounted a manhunt for you. They’re showing a drawing of your likeness around London. They don’t have your picture or real name, yet. If you want me to try and cover you, explain the misunderstanding.”
Rodney had no incentive to cover me at his expense. In fact, it would be to his advantage to cut me loose if the Brits closed in, but this was my chance to set the record straight, sort of. I told Rodney, “MI6 kidnapped me. The Russians killed them and kidnapped me, again.” Then, I got creative to protect my team. “The Russians put a bag over my head and were taking me out of the warehouse when someone—several someones—shot them. My new kidnappers kept the bag in place, shoved me into a car, and drove me to a field. They gave me the cell phone with photos of the Russians and told me to call a cab. I called my team instead and we flew out of the U.K. that night.”
Rodney was quiet, evaluating my story. “These benefactors who rescued you from the Russians, what were their nationalities?”
“Only one spoke. He sounded like a Brit or Aussie.”
“Why did he give you photographs of the dead Russians?”
“He said, ‘You might want to know who’s after you, mate.’”
“How generous of him.” Rodney sounded skeptical.
I tried to divert him from evaluating my story. “Are the Russians looking for me?”
“There’s nothing in the ether, but if they snatched you from the Brits, I assume they want you.”
Rodney emptied the schnapps glass into his coffee and took a long swig. I signaled a waiter and ordered what my companion was drinking.
“How did MI6 find you?” Rodney asked.
“Tommy hit Ironside’s place for me. Somehow, the Brits knew. They grabbed him and he gave me up. I’m wondering how the Brits knew about Tommy?” I figured Rodney had sources in MI6 or he had access to signal intercepts on that subject.
Rodney pursed his lips. “I think Tommy must have triggered a silent alarm during the burglary or even gotten his picture taken by a hidden camera. Maybe that’s why Ironside left Ibiza in a hurry. The other possibility is that MI6 had Ironside’s place under surveillance while he was in Ibiza. Either of those events would explain why MI6 sent a yacht to fetch Ironside from his vacation.”
“That explains Tommy. How did the Russians find out about me?”
“Where have you been that Russians might have seen you?”
Bogdanovich’s home or the meetings with Kulik and Viktor Lukovsky. I dismissed Viktor. He could have delivered me to the Russians twice, if he had wanted to.
I said, “MI6 told me Bogdanovich was dead. Maybe the hit team had his house staked out when I got there.”
Rodney picked up the thread. “Or they could have had Kulik under surveillance when you hijacked him at the hotel. By the way, what did he tell you?”
That sounded like a progress report request and, with both of my London sources dead, according to MI6, I was not about to give Rodney a memory dump. “Kulik gave me nothing. I threatened to expose him to the SVR. He called my bluff.”
“Did you expose him?”
“No.” I waited for Rodney to tell me that Kulik was dead; he didn’t. Curious.
Anyway, that was history. My concern was the future. “What about our doubles?”
“Are you and Jill signed up for the city tour in St. Petersburg?”
“Yes.”
“When you leave the ship, be among the first on your tour to clear immigration. While you wait for the rest of your group to clear, visit the gift arcade just beyond the immigration booths. Go to the restroom. Knock on the door of the last stall and say, ‘The city tour is leaving. Are you ready?’
“Your double will reply, ‘I’m with the Hermitage group.’ He will come out. His coat will be on his right arm if everything is okay. You discreetly exchange passports and IDs. I suggest you have those items in a plastic bag to facilitate the handoff, and don’t forget to include your ship’s ID card. Go into the stall, reverse your coat, and change your hat. Presto! The deed is done.”
“What’s the signal to abort, if there’s a problem?”
“Your double will emerge from the loo with his coat over his left shoulder. Do nothing. The next day, take the Hermitage Museum tour. Your double will contact you there, in the restroom, at the end of your tour. That’s the time of maximum confusion because of the crowds.”
“Does Jill follow the same procedure?”
“Yes, but, of course, she will meet her contact in the ladies’ room.” Rodney smiled at his little joke.
“Weapons?” I asked.
“Your double will leave a bag in his toilet stall. It will contain two FSB-issue automatics with noise suppressors, and the address of your safe house in St. Petersburg.”
Peering over his coffee cup rim, Rodney asked casually, “Any exfil plans, yet?”
“No.” That was the second time he had asked me if I had a plan to get out of Russia. If I had one, it was a bad idea to share it with anyone who didn’t need to know.
“Is that all?” I asked.
Rodney gave me an appraising look. “Sure you’re up to this, Max? You look tired. Is married life aboard ship wearing you out so soon?”
Wearing? Jill Rucker was the vigorous lover that her robust physique promised. I felt like my limbs and loins had been drained by an energy vacuum cleaner. That was another thing Rodney didn’t need to know.
* * *
When I returned to the ship, the remnants of a light breakfast littered the cocktail table in our cabin. Jill Rucker was facedown on the bed and naked. I admired her body for a time and draped a towel over her torso and tapped her on the shoulder. “Time to go to work.”
“Again?” She threw off the towel and rolled over, treating me to a frontal.
“Put something on. I need to brief you on our arrival routine for St. Petersburg.”
She gave me a feigned disappointed pout and got dressed. I relayed what Rodney told me and we rehearsed switching identities with our doubles until every move was second nature. Then, we had lunch. Afterwards, we read some and made love, a lot.
* * *
We missed dinner. I awakened at 1:34 a.m., according to the night-stand clock. Jill was curled into the fetal position beside me, close enough for me to feel the heat from her luscious body and hear her gentle breathing. I was where she had left me, on my back and physically drained. Fortunately, the mind I lost in her embrace had returned, alert and energized. I had that wonderful sensation that my brain was disembodied, free to roam with clarity and objectivity, unimpeded by physical need. I slipped out of bed and into jeans and a sweater. The hallway outside our cabin was deserted. I made my way to the all-night snack lounge two decks below. The place was empty except for the counter man who served me a double cappuccino. I took it to a table and studied my reflection in the window that separated me from the blackness of the Baltic night and churning sea. My restl
ess brain went to work on the Why mes? lurking there.
Six months ago, I had a career and a girlfriend, Vanessa, whom I wanted to marry. Before I could pop the question, my life became a roller coaster of bad luck, followed by good, followed by more bad and good. This pattern began when Vanessa, also an Agency employee, got a three-year assignment to Australia. We didn’t kid ourselves. Our relationship might not survive that time-distance barrier. We said a tearful farewell and, with support from my favorite scotch, I became more of a workaholic than usual.
As time passed, my boss, Rodney, noticed—in his fluent French—my lack of joie de vivre. “Max, you can’t moon over your lost love forever. You need to get out, meet new people. I’m having a party at my place next weekend. Be there. That’s an order.”
Rodney’s party was not the stodgy Georgetown cocktail affair I expected. It was lively, with people my age, a disc jockey spinning platters from my youth, and lots of dancing. That’s where I met Claudia. As I recall, she asked me to dance. She was—and is—a lean, mean, raven-haired, dark-eyed beauty, with great legs, interesting conversation, and excellent diction, all of which turned me on. A month later, she was a regular at my place. Two months later, she moved in. Speed dating? Anyway, it was the perfect match. Both of us had demanding schedules and liked the same things. In retrospect, that was my first “too good to be true” experience on the road to Russia.
The only thing we didn’t agree on was the President of the United States. Being a lawyer, she was in the innocent-until-proven-guilty camp. I, on the other hand, was from the impeach-now-before-he-ruins-us camp. Given the sensitivity of this conflict, we agreed to confine it to our home. That was working. Unfortunately, as the president’s actions got more bizarre, our arguments became more heated. One day, thanks to Claudia, my distaste for the Leader of the Free World spilled over into my office emails. I got fired as a result. For this president, loyalty was the gold standard and, in my case, the Agency enforced that standard. That was my first “too bad to believe” experience on the road to Russia.
After being rejected by the several organizations that needed my considerable skills and experience, I get hired for ten million dollars to prove what I believe to be true about the president—that he’s a traitor. That was my second “too good to be true” event. The third came when Rodney, the CIA boss who fired me, helped me get the ten-million-dollar gig and agreed to help me.
Next, I’m on a Russian assassin’s hit list and being pursued by MI6. That’s my second “too bad to believe” experience.
My most recent good news was that, as I carried out my ten-million-dollar suicide mission, I’m assisted by Jill Rucker, my Russian-speaking lover, who is also a skilled pistol shot and karate expert. How did I get so lucky?
While reviewing the good fortune the roller coaster had sent my way, I was reminded of an Agency analyst who used to caution, “If it’s too good to be true, it’s too good to be true.”
The follow-on thought was out of my case officer playbook. If I wanted to set up someone with my skills and experience to undertake this mission, I would do three things to the unsuspecting mark. First, take away the things most valuable to him, like his job and his girlfriend. Second, I would give him something to hope for, life with a woman like Claudia. Third, I would dangle before him the means to keep Claudia, a ten-million-dollar payday. The mark would be hooked. Then, I’d wind him up and send him to England and Russia in search of what I wanted. But why give the mark a Jill Rucker?
Before I could think through the answer to that question, the lady, herself, appeared at my table.
Smiling mischievously, Jill said, “I thought I put you to sleep?”
I smiled back. “You put me into a coma, and, yet, I rise.”
“You certainly do.”
Courtesy of the cruise line, Jill was wearing a white terry-cloth robe, tied at the waist. As she sat down facing me, she flared the garment to let me see there was nothing beneath it but Rucker.
CHAPTER 17
OUR CRUISE SHIP docked at the St. Petersburg terminal at dawn. Jill and I conducted a final rehearsal of the ID handoffs to our doubles and had breakfast at the buffet before the mob arrived. Afterwards, we returned to our cabin and dressed for debarkation, comparing our clothing to copies of the photographs I gave Rodney for our doubles. Then, we went to the lounge, got our tour ID stickers, and were off the ship at the head of our group. We presented our fake Mr. and Mrs. passports and entered Russia with only a cursory hostile glance from the immigration officer. While the remainder of our group negotiated immigration, Jill and I headed for the Russo-junk arcade restrooms.
The men’s restroom was apparently empty. When I had finished with nature’s call, I knocked on the door of the last stall and said, “The city tour is leaving now.”
The guy inside gave the correct answer: “I’m with the Hermitage tour.” He opened the door. I was surprised. He looked enough like me to be my twin and we were dressed exactly alike, down to the shoes. As he came out of the stall, I entered. We executed a brush pass, swapping plastic bags containing our IDs. I heard him wash his hands and leave. If it was a trap, now was the time for the FSB to come out of the woodwork and scarf us up. Nothing happened.
I reversed my coat, exchanged my hat for a cap, and checked the IDs my double had given me. My new Russian passport said my name was Oleg Stasevich. I had all the other papers and a credit card to prove it. My other ID said I was Colonel Nikolai Usenko, an officer in the FSB. The credentials looked good, but it had been a while since I had seen authentic FSB creds. I hoped this stuff wasn’t from a Russian spy museum. I also had a U.S. passport for emergencies. There was a cloth bag beside the toilet. As promised, it contained two FSB-issue SPS automatic pistols that had been modified and fitted with short-barrel silencers. You don’t want to be trying to screw on a silencer when you need one. Our thoughtful armorer had also provided three 18–round magazines and a pancake holster for each gun. We were loaded for the Russian bear. The trick was to avoid him.
To avoid getting caught together on camera in our new personas, Jill and I caught separate cabs and gave the drivers an address one street over and two blocks away from the one Viktor Lukovsky had given me for Tatyana Kedrova. When I met Jill at our rendezvous address, she was wearing a wig, a different hat and scarf, same coat. Thankful for our boots, we crunched through old snow to a massive Stalin-era building. It had no elevator. We walked up four flights to Tatyana Kedrova’s apartment. Above us, the stairs continued up to the vanishing point. Maybe they went to Communist Heaven or the Dustbin of History.
I stood out of sight to the side of the door while Jill Rucker knocked and spoke in Russian. “Tatyana Kedrova, I have a message for you.”
The female voice in the apartment asked a hostile, “Who are you?”
“A friend of a friend,” replied Jill.
I stooped and slipped a hundred-euro note partway under the door.
The note disappeared. The woman asked, “What friend?”
Jill said, “A friend with money for you.”
I fed another hundred euros into what was becoming a reverse ATM.
“If I came to hurt you,” said Jill, “I would have kicked the door in by now.”
After a pause, we heard locks being released and the door opened enough for us to see a tall blond in her fifties, an age that would make her about right for a 1987 tryst with Ted Walldrum.
“What’s the money for?”
“Information,” said Jill. “We can pay more, if you help us.”
Saying we and us was a mistake. Tatyana took a quick peek outside and saw me. She tried to slam the door. Jill blocked it open with her boot. This time I offered her a five-hundred-euro note.
Tatyana paused before issuing a hostile invitation. “Come in.”
Over her protests, I conducted a quick search of the messy little apartment while Jill kept her occupied. When I was sure we were alone, the three of us sat down at her kitchen table.
> Tatyana wore her blond hair in a ponytail. She had large eyes, a straight nose and sensuous mouth, and dimples in her cheeks and chin. She had what Rubens fans would describe as ample breasts to fill out her turtleneck sweater and her tight pants revealed long shapely legs. She had been a beauty in her youth, but time and the street life had added a hard edge to her good looks.
One at a time, I laid three more hundred-euro notes on the table, side by side.
Tatyana eyed the money greedily. “What do you want?”
Jill told her, “We’re Americans. We were told that you provided sex services for Theodore Walldrum during his visits to St. Petersburg in the 1980s. What do you remember about those visits?”
“That was long time ago,” she said, in broken English. “I don’t remember him.”
Jill stood and began looking around the apartment. Tatyana tried to keep an eye on her. I laid down another five hundred to focus her attention on me. “Are you telling me that you don’t know the President of the United States?”
She eyed my bankroll and I added another five hundred, for an even two thousand.
Tatyana swept the money off the table top into her lap and sneered, “I remember him. He was a pig.”
“That’s a good start, but it’s not worth two thousand euros. I need details, if you want to get rich today.” Under her greedy eyes, I counted out another five hundred, but held the stack in place with my fist.
Jill asked, “Toilet?”
“Through there.” Tatyana nodded in the direction of her living room.
“What did Walldrum like?” I asked.
“Tall girls,” she said, grudgingly, “with low voices, heavy accents, long hair, long legs, big tits. More than one girl at a time.”
That narrowed it down to half the male population on Planet Earth. “And … ?”
“And what?” She shot a glance at Jill, who had paused in the living room to leaf through papers on Tatyana’s desk.
“Do you remember how many times he came to St. Petersburg?” I asked.
“Three times, I think.”
The President’s Dossier Page 11
