by William Cook
She looked at the man before her, his own face wet with tears. In a moment, she had decided. “May I come with you? Holly and I are best friends. We’re good for each other.”
“I’d really appreciate that.”
36. Going Nowhere
Sun streamed through the study windows. Volkov would have enjoyed Saturday’s thaw more had not the late-breaking news last night so upset him. What was it about that dermo town? Last year, two of his soldiers, sent to help Sokolov mind his own store. And then Sokolov himself! Now two of his most trusted generals. How was that possible?
Anastasiya interrupted his ruminations with a breakfast tray. “You will not come to breakfast, I bring breakfast to you. Two eggs the way you like them, sliced avocado, sourdough toast, and a carafe of coffee.”
“Thank you, radnaya. Join me?”
“I have eaten, but I brought another cup to sip coffee with you.” She laid the silver tray on a small table. “You did not sleep well last night. I heard you get up several times.”
“My apologies. I did not mean to disturb you. You know Oleg and Pavel have been killed?”
She put her hand to her mouth in dismay. “No! You cannot be serious!”
“But I am. Found in the house of Paul Drake—one of our crabbers. The police are calling him a ‘person of interest,’ but do not know where he is.”
“And his brother?”
“Gideon is also missing. The police are saying very little. They must have fled together.”
“I am stunned, lapka. Can any of this be traced back to you?”
“I doubt it. Oleg and Pavel were driving one of the company cars, many levels removed from me. But the brothers are a worry. If the police catch them, it would be a catastrophe for everything we are trying to build. Therefore, I am sending Alyosha after them.”
“Preobrazhensky? Former KGB? Then the brothers are going nowhere. If they are not dead in the ground already, he will find them and put them there.” She raised the china cup to her lips. “Another thought, meelyi. Has the car been impounded?”
He beamed at his wife. “You have a mind like a steel trap! What a team we make!” He took a bite of toast and another sip of coffee. “Excellent.” As he restored his cup to its saucer, he added, “We installed GPS trackers in all of our fleet two years ago. I have a call in to one of our managers to see where the car is. I will give Alyosha the paperwork to retrieve it—again, far removed from me and our business.”
“You have thought of everything. It will not be long before all this unpleasantness is behind us and you can have a good night’s sleep again.”
“My wish as well. And Alyosha will take care of something else for me while he is in Driftwood—that unfinished business. I must make that policeman suffer.”
Ana approached her husband and embraced him warmly. “My wolf bites,” she whispered in his ear.
Patricia complimented herself on playing her role perfectly. Yesterday afternoon, while Ethan was away, she had stripped to her bra and panties and knocked on her door quietly.
“What is it, Miss?” the guard called through the door.
“I was about to take a shower, but my toilet began to overflow. Will you come in and fix it? There’s a plunger here, but I’m not very good at plumbing.”
“I will call maintenance.”
“No need. I’m sure you can fix it in a minute. Please come in.”
When he opened the door and saw her, he froze.
“You look like you’ve never seen a young woman before. But I bet you’re very experienced.”
She saw his face turn red as he caressed her with his eyes. “This is very irregular, Miss. Ethan will not be pleased. I will call maintenance for you.”
“My name is Patricia.” She slipped off her bra. “Ethan won’t be back for hours, and I’m very lonely. This will be our little secret. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
She watched him struggle with her proposition, imagining his lust at war with his fear of his boss. Sweat began to bead his brow as she pointed at the evidence of his arousal. “Touch me,” she purred. “And tell me your name.”
He closed the door behind him and embraced her.
She had planted the seed. When she was ready to make her escape, he would willingly open the door for her.
Pulling back the draperies, she was greeted by sunlight glinting off the sparkling waters of Puget Sound. She could see mountains in the distance, white with a dusting of snow. If she weren’t a prisoner, it would make a perfect picture to post on Instagram and Facebook.
I need to learn more about this ship if I’m going to escape from it. Are there more guards? How many staff are here during the day? During the night? And where are they?
She ran through her mind what she knew already—where the elevator was, what side of the craft the gangplank would likely be on. But what deck would the gangplank lead from? The main deck above hers, or one below? So much hung in the balance. Perhaps she could get the guard—her new friend, Michail—to tell her more.
She sat on her bed and pondered her situation. I’m a goddamn whore. And a drug addict! She knew this was no time for guilt or shame, but the enormity of all that had been happening came crashing down upon her. She had led a normal, boring life—a simple job preparing and selling pizzas, a stupid boyfriend, evenings of booze and weed and cable TV.
She recalled telling herself time and again that she was going nowhere, without a clue as to what nowhere really was. Now she knew. Nowhere was golden handcuffs in a jewel-studded prison—fine clothes, gourmet food, and rough sex, wondering every moment if this would be her last, if her jailer would lose interest in her and dispose of her as he had her predecessors, their only record a list of names scratched on a baseboard in a forgotten warehouse.
I have to stay strong. Time for second thoughts, for remorse, when I’m off this ship and away, safe at last. Until then, every thought, word, and deed must be strategic. I will escape.
Three days later, another opportunity arose. She and Ethan had just finished a simple breakfast of tomato and avocado on toast. Over their second cup of coffee, Ethan said, “Want something at the hotel today? I’ll be spending the day there in the lounge, and they have a great gift shop. A little something like earrings or a necklace? I’m feeling generous.”
She kept her voice soft and respectful. “What I’d really like, Ethan, is to be able to sit for an hour in the big front lounge you took me to the other day. I can’t see the harbor from my room here—just the sea beyond. I would love to watch you walk down the pier toward the hotel. You could wave to me! Oh, to see the bustle of the boat traffic in the marina. I would be back far enough from the windows that I couldn’t be seen. It would be so…refreshing.”
“But I’ve just told you I’ll be gone all day.”
“Would you let your guard take me? You must trust him.” She looked at her captor with her most flirtatious smile. “It would make me feel less a prisoner and more a lover on my man’s luxurious yacht.” She flashed her brilliant blue eyes at him. “And perhaps I could express my appreciation to you in a special way tonight.”
Ethan laughed. “I like you, Patricia. You’re such a little bitch!” He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “To be honest, I’m as trapped as you are. The hotel is as far as I can go. I can’t leave the fucking island.”
“What?” Patricia was startled by his sudden candor.
“My father is ashamed of me. I’m his Prodigal Son. He keeps me out of the way of his life and his plans by locking me up here on Elysium. But you don’t need to hear that.” He dabbed his mouth with the white cloth napkin and stood up from the breakfast table. “We won’t have company on the ship for another couple of days, so I’ll let you do it. One hour, not a minute more. If you give my guy any trouble or try to leave the deck, you’ll be locked in this room for the rest of the trip, however long or short I decide that will be. And I won’t give you your favorite medicine.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
As he walked to the door, he turned back to her. “Don’t do anything stupid, if you know what’s good for you.” Once out in the hallway, he gave explicit instructions to the guard and left the deck.
“Miss?” It was Michail’s voice, calling through the door. “Are you ready for your hour in the front lounge?”
“Not yet. Give me a few minutes.” At first, she thought she would change into something more provocative, but then hesitated, knowing that a server would be coming to her room to clear the breakfast dishes. She freshened her lipstick, brushed her hair, and knocked on the door. “OK, Michail.”
The young man opened the door and appraised her. “This way, Miss.”
“It’s Patricia, remember?” She was surprised that he made no reference to their previous encounter. “Would you like a quickie before you take me out there?”
“No, Miss. Please. Just come with me.”
She stepped out into the hallway, and he closed the door. She studied his back as he walked her toward the lounge. “Are you afraid of Ethan?”
He stopped and turned to face her. “The master can be impulsive. And violent. And my boss is even worse. I do not wish to cross them.”
“Your boss?”
“The owner of this ship. The true owner, not the man leasing it.” He turned away from her and resumed walking.
“Who’s your real boss?” When he did not respond, she whispered, “You’re a wonderful lover, Michail, far better than Ethan. You make me feel like a real woman.”
“Miss—Patricia—please!”
She sensed that he was getting agitated and decided not to push him further just yet. “I understand, Michail. But please sit by me on the sofa.” When he acquiesced, she slid in closer to him so that her thigh brushed his. “Tell me all about this big, wonderful ship, Michail.”
37. Slouching Toward the Elephants’ Graveyard
When Volkov learned that the black Mercedes was on the move, he decided that eliminating the Dragon brothers was the priority, and that the other matter in Driftwood could wait a little longer. “Take care of them,” had been Volkov’s simple instruction to him. No explanation was needed. Alyosha smiled as he put the phone back in his pocket, remembering how others in the ranks used to call him “Alyosha the Terminator” behind his back. It was a well-earned honorific. In all of his days of service, Alyosha had never failed to complete a mission.
Now the Russian sat at the small desk in the nondescript motel room in southernmost Wyoming, checking his weapons a final time. He attached the suppressor to his Makarov pistol and sighted down the barrel at an imaginary target on the far side of the room. Newer, improved models didn’t impress him. The original Makarov, issued to him during his tenure in the KGB, remained his favorite.
Placing the pistol on the desk, he withdrew his knife from the sheath strapped to his right leg, just above the ankle. He ran the blade gently down his thumbnail, smiling at the little curl of keratin that attested to the knife’s razor-sharpness. He laid the knife down between the gun and the coiled garrote wire, which he usually carried in his jacket pocket. As always, he was prepared for any eventuality.
He was proud of the fact that his greatest skill was assassination. He liked the respect—fear?—it garnered for him among the others. When a difficult job needed to be done right, or a botched job needed to be fixed, Volkov turned to him. This time, Volkov had warned him not to underestimate the crabbers. “They took out Oleg and Pavel,” he had complained bitterly. “But, of course, they did not have your level of skill.”
That triggered old memories. The Spanish ambassador twenty years ago, taken out with a single shot while surrounded by other ministers of state; the police chief in Turkey fifteen years before, succumbing to Alyosha’s wire around his neck; later, the Crimean spy and his choreography of knives. But in recent years?
He looked into the mirror over the desk and frowned. His face was rounder, his beard was whiter, his hair was thinner. Who am I fooling? No display of the tools of my trade is going to bring back my confidence. Remembering his former triumphs did nothing to dispel the fact that the years had not been kind to him. Although he wouldn’t admit to liking American pop music, Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” had become a constant companion of late, whether humming it in the shower or singing snippets of the chorus when he was driving. He was an old rooster, dropping his wing and dancing around the hens, trying to attract a flock busy being serviced by younger cocks—cocks who would soon displace him altogether. The torn rotator cuff in his right shoulder had ended his renowned ability for knife-fighting. The arthritis in his left hand made manipulating the garrote wire dicey at best. And worst of all, his right hand, the hand he used for his Makarov. He looked at it now, ring finger and little finger curled toward the palm, unable to open and flex. “Dupuytren’s contracture” his doctor had called it. Only surgery could relieve it, and even then Alyosha had his doubts. What kind of assassin cannot grasp a pistol quickly and hold it properly?
How long before Volkov loses all confidence in me? Alyosha remembered how close he had come to bungling his last assignment, the details of which he hoped would never reach his boss’s ears. His target had been a reporter for a newspaper in Portland. Alyosha confronted him in an underground parking garage, but had sorely misjudged the younger man’s martial arts skills. In the blink of an eye, the man had kicked the gun from Alyosha’s crippled hand and then delivered another kick to his stomach, hurling the assassin to the pavement. Had not another driver come along just then, traveling much too fast in such close quarters, the job would have had a much different outcome. As it was, while Alyosha was still lying on the ground, he was able to kick the other man’s knee with just enough force to tip the man off balance and into the path of the oncoming car. The driver slammed on his brakes. The reporter screamed and bounced off the vehicle and onto the hood of another parked car, setting off its alarm. In the chaos that followed, Alyosha was able to retrieve his gun and finish his business. Two bullets into the head of his target, two for the driver, and two for the passenger concluded the misadventure. Alyosha still scolded himself for being so amateurish, especially after the third vodka every night to help himself sleep.
A younger Alyosha would have relished an opportunity to attack the brothers face-to-face, to see their eyes as they realized their certain fate. This older Alyosha preferred death at a distance, safe from possible defeat in hand-to-hand combat. So tonight, under cover of darkness, he would set the explosive devices under the brothers’ car—one attached beneath the gas tank and one under the driver’s seat. He would detonate them remotely once the vehicle was out of town.
The old Russian frowned. Is there a place for me? he thought, as he tossed off another shot of vodka. A kind of Elephants’ Graveyard for old assassins? Or will I wind up floating face-down in a river somewhere, thrown out with yesterday’s trash? As his eyes misted over, he tried to call up pleasant memories of times past, but that only left him feeling more melancholy.
He thought of beautiful Nadia, the wife who had left him after ten troubled years of marriage, unable to tolerate his dark moods and aghast when she discovered that the man she thought she had known was not working as a salesman for a heavy machinery manufacturer. There was Svetlana, eight years old, clinging to her mother’s hand and crying as they fled from their Moscow apartment. He had never seen her again. How old would his darling daughter be today?
“Stop!” he said aloud. In a quieter voice, he said, “I have work to do.” He looked at his watch. 2:00 A.M.
He had finally caught up with the brothers here, at this godforsaken motel in the godforsaken wilderness of Wyoming. He hadn’t seen either of them as yet, only found the Mercedes in the parking lot five hours ago. The room he had rented gave him a perfect view of the automobile.
Certain his quarry and the other residents of the motor inn were asleep, he donned his black clothing, took two towels from the bathroom, and slipped outside with the explosives in hand. He laid the t
owels on the snow- and ice-covered pavement for a modicum of protection and got down on his back to attach the devices to the underside of the car. It only took moments. Sliding back out from underneath, he grunted as he struggled to regain his feet. These old bones, he complained to himself, as a spasm of pain radiated from his shoulder to his lower back. He gathered up the towels, looked briefly around the lot, and walked back to his room, relieved that this part of his mission would be over soon.
The alarm on his phone sounded at 6:00 A.M. He walked to the window and parted the curtain. The black Mercedes was gone. “Dermo!” he hissed as he threw on the same clothing he had worn the day before. After using the bathroom, he packed his gear and ran out to his car. It was not full daylight as yet. The weather report had predicted overcast skies, but no precipitation until the next day. “Feels like Moscow before snowfall,” he snorted, as he started the car and turned on the seat warmer. Looking at his GPS screen, he could see that his target was several miles away.
The little town gave way to a barren, snowy landscape, gradually illuminated by a sun that climbed unseen above the cloud cover and spread a cold winter’s glow over the countryside. Alyosha sped along, closing the gap between them. When the Mercedes was a half-mile ahead, he triggered the detonator on the passenger seat beside him. He was rewarded by a fireball of light, and soon after, the heavy bass concussion of the explosion. Black, oily smoke sullied the horizon, and he soon heard the roar of the flames that were consuming what little was left of the demolished vehicle. As he approached the holocaust, he saw that smoldering debris littered both sides of the highway, far into the surrounding fields. He stopped his car and got out.
“Dragon brothers,” he called, his breath forming small white puffs around his mouth. “My name is Alyosha the Terminator. Sleep now.”
He got back in and turned the car around. “This old man needs breakfast,” he announced. “And coffee. Especially coffee.”