by Eric Meyer
He explained about the show.
"Angelina here? She may be able to help us. It's an amazing coincidence."
Something nagged at his inner thoughts. He hated coincidences. They were like a signpost. What was that quotation?
‘Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.’
But Angelina? Impossible, no way! She’s a successful model, and about as far away from a spook as it’s possible to be. And if we ask her for help, she could be in terrible danger.
"I want to keep her out of this," he said, his voice cold, "It's enough they've taken Abigail, and Elena is dead. Let's not see any more of the people we love mixed up in this."
"You loved Elena?" Joe stared at him, "I never knew."
He cursed himself for the mistake. "She was just a nice girl, that's all."
"Yeah, right. Even so, we do need a phone. If you can get to her, she'll help; it wouldn't compromise her. Right now, we're out on our own, wearing stolen FSB greatcoats. We have no money, no transport, not even a room for the night. If she gets us a phone, you can call Lorak and get him to fix things for us."
He nodded. Joe was right; there was no risk. "Okay, I'll go inside and find her room. Although when the desk clerk asks me questions, he'll know I'm not Russian, and definitely not FSB."
"So don't talk to him," Al suggested, "Do the silent and nasty routine, KGB style. Frighten the shit out of him. You have officer’s epaulettes on your coat, so you're a bigshot. He'll be terrified."
He smiled. "It could work. Waite, come with me. Al and Joe, neither of you looks Russian, so stay out of sight. Wait around back, and we'll fetch you when we've found her room."
"That would be good. We could all do with a shower and a hot meal," Al murmured.
"I'll see what I can do."
The night clerk stared at them as they stormed into his lobby. At first, his expression had been supercilious until he recognized the greatcoats, and which organization they represented. He gabbled out a string of Russian that they ignored. Waite gave him a massive heave that sent him sprawling to the floor. He stood over him, staring down balefully at the terrified clerk.
Raider scrolled down the computer screen. Little of the unfamiliar language made sense, and he wished Elena were still with them. He put her out of his mind and went through the room numbers one by one until he came to Blass, A. Room 224. He glanced at Waite, who gave the clerk a fierce stare and put his fingers to his lips. The man nodded his understanding. They left him cowering on the floor and made for the stairs. The handwritten sign on the elevator was in Russian, but the meaning was clear. ‘Out of order.’
The corridor on her floor was paneled in rich, dark wood and lit by subdued lighting recessed into the ceiling. Most of the bulbs were lit, and only a few were broken. The doors were of carved wood, and the carpet seemed almost a foot thick. They made almost no noise as they crept toward Room 224.
He knocked on the door and waited while Waite covered the corridor. There was no reply.
Shit! She has to be here.
He knocked again, and then a third time.
"Who the fuck is it?"
He smiled as he recognized the angry voice. She never did enjoy being woken from a deep sleep. He knocked again. This time she erupted in anger.
"Mister, you knock on that fucking door again, and I'll bust your face. I'm coming now."
The door opened, and she peered out. "Yeah, what is it? Police, what the hell do you want?" Then her jaw dropped as she made out his face.
"Raider!"
"Pipe down. I don't want the entire hotel to know we're here."
"Have you done something wrong? Again," she grinned, "Never mind, come on in. You look freezing cold. I'll fix you a drink. It'll have to be vodka. How come you're wearing those crazy Russian coats?"
Before they replied, they tossed down the tumblers of vodka she handed them. The fiery spirit took away some of the chill they'd endured since the terrible journey from Moscow on the open truck.
"Is anyone else sharing this room?"
Her look was indignant. "Hey, what kind of a question is that? I'm a fashion model, not a whore."
He smiled an apology. "I just had to know. We're on the run."
She nodded. "I kinda worked that out. Only a fugitive would walk around St. Petersburg armed like a terrorist who buys his clothes from a thrift store."
"That's perceptive of you." He looked at Waite. "Bring Al and Joe up the back way."
He nodded and slipped out through the door.
"Angelina, I need to use a phone."
She ignored him. "First, I need a fuck. What do you think I've been doing all alone in this godforsaken frozen patch of hell? It's not easy for a girl who's on her own. You wouldn't believe how many offers I've turned down," she informed him as she started to remove his greatcoat, "Yuk, this is disgusting. It's only fit for a dumpster."
He took her hands off his coat. "Hold on, they'll be back any moment."
She pulled a face. "They can always join in. I've always wondered about... you know."
"I don't want to know. You'll have to wait."
Her lip curled. "Huh! Maybe I should have taken up some of those offers."
She smiled to show she was just joshing him. A knock sounded at the door, and he let the three men into the room. He was worried about Joe. He was shivering with cold, and his eyes were dilated, probably from the blow to the head. The last thing he needed was to be on the run in sub-zero conditions.
Angelina poured vodka for them, and while they were trying to warm their frozen bodies, he borrowed her cellphone to call Lorak. His voice was weaker than he remembered. The man was going down fast.
"This is Raider. We need your help."
"Raider! Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead. After they arrested you, we heard they'd sentenced you to death."
"Sorry to disappoint you, I'm still very much alive. We managed to get away."
"Did you shoot your way out?"
"Yes."
"So you left a few bodies along the way," he sneered, with a little of the old, disapproving fire.
"You could say that. Last time I checked, the FSB didn't hand out 'get out of jail free' cards. I assume you're still handling things for the Dragan Foundation, with him in prison?"
He meant to ask him if he was still able to work, in view of his illness after the Polonium poisoning, but he didn't spell it out.
"You don't know about Dragan?"
"I don't know anything. We've been freezing our balls off in the Russian snow. What about Dragan?"
"They released him."
"They what? You mean Malenkov let him go?"
"It was Putin who gave the order. Malenkov is in the shit. The Putin file, so-called, was a fake."
"You're not serious."
After all we did, battling into the museum, and narrowly getting out with our lives. The dead bodies strewn along the way, and it was all for a fake! Jesus.
He heard Lorak continue, "Putin looked it over and said the details were all wrong. It's not just a fake, it's a poor fake, and obviously designed to hide the fact they have the genuine file still hidden."
He felt confused. "Who has the genuine file hidden away? I don't get it."
"We're not sure. It could be Svoboda, or Pamyat, or even a third party, we just don't know. It's clever. Just when Putin thought he was safe, they could hit him with the file like a bolt from the blue. They'd own him, whoever is behind it."
He put it out of his mind. Russian politics were like a maze without an exit. What else could people expect from a nation of chess masters?
"Lorak, we need transport out of St. Petersburg, and the whereabouts of Yuri Malenkov. You know he still has Abigail?"
"Yeah, I do. I can fix that up fairly soon. You know you ex-wife is here in Moscow with her father, Paul Vann?"
"Mariyah? What the hell for?"
"She wants to get her daughter back, of course. She still has good contacts inside Russia. She be
lieves she can go to them for help."
It was no surprise. She was the daughter of no less an eminent Russian than Boris Yeltsin, the former President of Russia. There would be people who'd been close to the Yeltsin Presidency and may be inclined to help.
"Let me know if she comes up with anything."
"I will."
"Find out about Malenkov, and fix up our transport out of here."
"Transport, sure. Where to?"
"Wherever he's hiding."
"I get it."
"And Lorak, we need clothes. They took everything off us; our clothes, our possessions, cellphones, weapons, you name it. All we have is what we borrowed when we got away."
A pause. "I'll arrange to send what you need. It'll be on the aircraft."
"Aircraft?"
"This is a big country. You won't get far if you use their crappy roads. Besides, you're on Russia's most wanted list, so it's best you stay off the roads. Raider, you have a habit of really pissing people off."
"Just find out about Malenkov."
"You're going to kill him?"
"Damn right. After I have Abigail on the way home."
There was silence on the line for several seconds. It stretched into a minute. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper.
"You and me, we never hit it off, did we?"
He smiled to himself. "Our jobs are different, Lorak. We see things from opposite viewpoints."
"Sure. What I want to ask is...well, it's a favor. Before you kill Malenkov."
"What favor?"
"He has an antidote the Russian scientists developed, to the Polonium poisoning. If there's a remote possibility, I'd like to have it."
An antidote? Jesus Christ.
"Why haven't you gone after it yourself?"
"I tried everything, offered to give him anything he wanted. But he's a sick sadist. The guy just laughed at me. Said it was worth more than I could offer just to see me suffer. Raider, if you could locate it, I'd give you anything. Give me a figure, and it's yours."
"Lorak, if I come across this antidote, it's yours. I don't take money for something like that. Get us that aircraft, so we can go after the bastard."
"Consider it done. I'll send the company jet, the one you came over in. It's still in Moscow. I'll call you as soon as it's in the air."
He ended the call and looked at the others. "You got all that?"
"Most of it," Al nodded, "I gather it's open season on our friend Malenkov."
"It is. When we catch up with that guy, he has a lot to answer for." He looked at Angelina. "We need to stay off the street. Is it okay if we stay in your room for a few hours?"
She still looked disappointed they hadn't been able to have sex, but she nodded. "No problem. I won't be going back to bed now," she glanced at him. "Not to sleep, nor anything else. The show starts in," she checked her wristwatch, "in five hours. It's five now. It'll take me an age to get ready, so I have to be down there for seven-thirty. I'll call down for an early breakfast. Or should I say five breakfasts."
"They'll think you're having an orgy up here."
She smiled. "Fuck 'em, let them think what they like. I guess they need something to get them off in this ice box of a city."
She called down to reception, and by 05.30, they were wading through heaps of ham, eggs, hot toast, and hash browns, all washed down by flasks of coffee. Afterward she showered and dressed, and slipped out of the room, looking like a movie queen. At 08.00 Lorak phoned to say the aircraft had taken off from Sheremetyevo International Airport, Moscow. By 10.00, when Angelina was about to take her first strut along the catwalk in the nearby Mariinsky Theater, there was a knock on the door. He opened it expecting to see the pilot. It was his ex-wife, Mariyah, with Paul Vann.
"What the...Mariyah, Paul," he nodded a welcome, "Why did you come? I thought the pilot come for us."
"He did. I flew the aircraft myself," Vann said crisply.
Raider remembered he'd added type approval for commercial and corporate jets to his pilot’s license. He was that kind of man; if he owned a jet, he'd want to fly it himself.
"Stay out of sight," he continued, "The porter will be up in a few moments with our bags. We brought the things you asked for."
"All of it?"
"Yes. Despite what you think of Andy Lorak, he's good at his job. That Polonium poisoning is a hell of a way to go. He'd like to see the end of Malenkov before he goes."
"I guess he would."
They crammed into the bathroom as the door knocked again. The porter wheeled in a trolley with four heavy Samsonite cases and left. When they came out, Mariyah was unlocking the first two.
"They said you needed clothes, so I brought a suit for each of you. I had to guess at the measurements. There also shirts, shoes and ties, a selection of different sizes, as well as warm coats. I guess you know how cold it gets in these parts."
"We noticed."
"Yes." She opened the third case, "Andy said you needed weapons. These are compact enough for you to carry underneath your coats."
Waite leaned across and took out a short, futuristic-looking submachine gun. "Oh, yeah, this baby is a Bizon. Twenty rounds of 9mm armor piercing, it's just a pity it's so noisy."
"Andy included silenced weapons as well. He said you might need them."
Raider picked a longer rifle out of the case. It had a large bore suppressor on the end of the barrel. Vann looked at him.
"Lorak said it's sound suppressed. It fires a sub-sonic round. He told me it's almost totally silent, although I don't know how true that is."
"It's an AK-9," Joe said from across the room, "If someone points that rifle at you, you're dead before you hear the bullet leave the barrel."
"I want something more painful for Malenkov."
"A blunt knife?" Waite suggested.
"That'd do it."
When they'd finished changing, they looked more like businessmen, attired in charcoal gray suits with shined black shoes, sober shirts and ties, and dark overcoats. Raider hung the AK-9 down the front of his body by the sling under the overcoat. Al and Joe had a Bizon apiece, and Waite carried a Stechkin APS in a custom shoulder holster. The Stechkin, unusually, carried a spare twenty 9mm round magazine in the stock. It was not silent, which was a major disadvantage. However, it could fire on full auto, should the need arise. That could be a major advantage.
"No handguns?"
"Apart from your Stechkin? No," Vann replied.
"Shit."
At least Waite still had the pistol they'd taken from the guard. The final Samsonite yielded satphones for each of them, and even more important, passports. Each document kept their first names but with a different family name. It would enable them to survive a cursory check, but no more. There were also personal items, including Dragan foundation credit cards, and a bundle of cash for each of them, dollars and roubles. Andy had done them proud. Mariyah saved the best till last. She handed him a single sheet of paper. He raised an eyebrow.
"Malenkov?"
"Malenkov. We had to call in a few favors to get this info. He has a dacha in Novorossiysk on the Black Sea. When Putin began building his new dacha, what they call Putin's Palace, Malenkov converted an old military base in the same area. He made it into a luxurious complex so he could be close to his boss. It's just outside the village of Gelendzhik, between Novorossiysk and Tuapse. Even though Putin has withdrawn his favor, the local militia still heavily guards Malenkov, although the FSB are giving him a wide berth. Presumably on orders from the President."
He stared at her. "What favors did you have to call in?"
She didn't answer, so Paul Vann filled in the details. "Boris Yeltsin had a lot of friends in Russia, and a lot of them owe their fortunes to him. She put the word around, and one of them, Vladimir Gublinsky, came up with the address."
"Why?"
"Why? I guess he looks on her real father with some fondness, you know..."
"Bullshit. What's the reason, Paul?"
He waited, and Vann capitulated. "I had the dirt on him. I knew I'd need it one day. He'd skimmed from the building fund for Putin's dacha. If they ever found out, they'd kill him."
"Won't Malenkov kill him for selling out?"
"Malenkov doesn't have the power, not now he's lost his job. Putin wields the big stick in this place."
What kind of a country is this? Do all Russians live their lives in fear, weaving webs of blackmail and deceit? That's the way it looks.
"What about Abigail? Anything?"
He shook his head. "Not so far. It looks like the only way to get her back is to grab Malenkov and beat it out of him."
Waite smiled. "Believe me, Mr. Vann, that'll be a pleasure."
"Uh, yeah." He looked embarrassed, as if the prospect of beating a man to death may muss up his executive suit."
"There is one thing more," Mariyah said, "What Paul said about his friendship with Boris Yeltsin, my father, is true. He will help you if you call on him." She smiled, "After all, he's my godfather, so it's not unreasonable he'd assist to bring back my daughter."
"Godfather? It sounds like the Mafia," Al commented.
She stared at him. "Vladimir is Mafiya. Russian style."
"The Godfather."
She smiled back at him. A cellphone rang and Vann answered, spoke for a few moments and hung up. "We need to head back to the airport," he told them, "My co-pilot says there's a new weather front coming in, heavy snow. If we don't leave soon, St. Petersburg International will be closed."
They shrugged on their overcoats and left the hotel. If the clerk on reception recognized them as the FSB desperadoes who'd threatened him, he made no comment. They climbed into Vann's rented Mercedes and drove the short distance to St. Petersburg airport. Snow was already falling, and visibility was down to less than five hundred meters.
The driver took them directly to the General Aviation area. The crew of Dragan's Gulfstream was anxiously waiting for them at the bottom of the airstair. The co-pilot shook Vann's hand.
"We're cutting it fine, Sir. The weather front is moving in fast, and I've already had to pay the control tower guys a bribe to stop them closing the runway. If we don't get off the ground in the next five minutes, we'll have to wait it out, perhaps until tomorrow. " He handed him a slip of paper, "It's a message from Vladimir Gublinsky. It came over the fax machine a few minutes ago."