Dead End

by R. J. Patterson

  “The U.S. is playing China next,” one of the men said.

  “Sounds like a great time for a sneak attack to me,” the other one said. “While everyone is glued to the television . . . boom! We eliminate two of our biggest problems all at once.”

  “Well, you’re forgetting about Ukraine—and Turkey.”

  “Ah, yes. But if we assert ourselves as the world power without the U.S. or China to interfere, who’s going to help Ukraine?”

  “No one,” the other man said, followed by the clinking of two glasses.

  Natalya rolled her eyes at the elementary worldview held by the men. She’d always thought such ignorance was reserved for the poor, the people who couldn’t read and were generally uneducated. Apparently, ignorance didn’t know such bounds.

  Once the hour mercifully ended, Natalya paid for her tab and headed for the elevators to meet Cal Murphy. She glanced over her should once more to make sure nobody was watching or following her. Convinced she was free of surveillance—at least as much as she could be in Moscow—Natalya pushed the button and rode to the fifteenth floor where the American journalist was supposedly staying.

  She smoothed her hair against her face, cleared her throat, and knocked.

  No answer.

  She knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  Then again a third time, but only silence from inside the room.

  A door across the hallway creaked open, and a man stepped outside. “Are you looking for someone?” he asked timidly.

  “Yes,” she said. “Cal Murphy. Do you know him?”

  “Sure do,” responded the man. “He’ll be back here in a few days, but he just took off for Samara to cover a match there.”

  “Samara?” she asked, brow furrowed. “What’s he doing there?”

  “I think there’s a player from Seattle who’s on the Ukrainian national team, and Cal is writing a special feature on this guy.”

  “He writes features?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?’ the man asked.

  “Never mind. I’ll see if I can track him down.”

  Neither she nor her father considered Cal Murphy might be doing something else than just covering the U.S. team when he arrived in Russia. The news irked her. She’d traveled all this way for nothing. But she knew she would’ve never known Cal Murphy was in her hometown if she hadn’t ventured to Moscow.

  She sighed and trudged back toward the elevator.

  Natalya had been looking forward to passing on the information to the journalist. It was a way she could still feel close to her father, joining on a project that was undoubtedly the pursuit of truth or justice. Her curiosity ended there, or so she thought. If the details contained on the device were enough to get her father killed, she wanted no more part in it than she committed to do. This was Russia, after all. There was no appeal to a higher authority if it was the one deeming you a threat. Escaping from the FSB’s grasp was a futile expedition, an act that led to greater pain and suffering.

  Just keep your word and vanish into the background.

  But curiosity nagged at her, leaving her to wonder what was more important: the information contained on the flash drive or the conversation she overheard her boyfriend Maksim Petrov having earlier that morning concerning explosives. She had to know more about what was on the drive.

  Upon returning to the train station, Natalya booked her return ticket and tried to vanish into a back corner. She wanted to make sure her screen wasn’t visible to any other passengers, not even in the reflection from the window. Choosing a row in the back, she settled into her seat and scanned those sitting nearby. She appeared free of any nosy onlookers.

  Her laptop whirred to life as she opened it and inserted the flash drive into the USB port. After a few seconds, a file popped up on the screen. She’d seen it before when she read the document labeled READ ME.txt from her father. It merely contained instructions on how to connect with Cal Murphy with the directive to give him the flash drive. But there was another folder labeled For Cal. She clicked on it, and a litany of files appeared, some that were video and audio in nature, while others that were PDF documents.

  She hesitated to click, terrified if she ventured down the rabbit hole, she might never reemerge. But she couldn’t resist.

  The first file opened, and she started reading, her father’s words appearing on the screen.

  “Something terrible is going to happen during the World Cup this year,” he wrote.

  She didn’t have to read much longer before she went slack-jawed and then covered her mouth with her right hand.

  It was worse than she’d ever imagined.

  Chapter 7

  Samara, Russia

  SERGEI BAZAROV STUDIED his cards and scanned the other men sitting around the table. His hand wasn’t a winning one, but he was getting bored with the game. Without hesitating, he shoved all his chips to the center.

  “All in,” he said.

  The only two competitors remaining folded.

  Sergei grinned and broke into a jovial laugh, exposing a hand that would’ve been roundly defeated by his other two opponents. Sergei’s victory led to a string of expletives by the two other players, followed by Sergei’s announcement that he was finished for the evening. His impatience had earned him an extra six million rubles. That sum barely registered in his mind, which is why he had no qualms about losing that amount. He was used to dealing with much larger figures.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to play one more hand?” Oleg Damiecki asked.

  “I’m tired of playing Texas hold ‘em,” Sergei shot back.

  “But don’t you want to give us a chance to win our money back?”

  “Don’t I pay you enough already?” Sergei scoffed.

  Agent Damiecki was Sergei’s inside man at the FSB office in Samara. Whenever Sergei decided there was a problem, Damiecki cleaned it up using legal means. Fortunately, the legality of FSB agents’ actions reached far and wide. There would never be any questions or inquisitions or hearings, no matter how gross the injustice was. If Damiecki didn’t like how someone spoke to him, he could shoot the person in the head and get away with it. A charge could be trumped up and sold to any judge, if one dared to ask for proof. The complaint would be dismissed, and the matter would be considered closed. It’s how Sergei preferred to conduct most of his business inside Russian borders. Operating within the ambiguous confines of his country’s law gave him at least an air of respectability.

  However, that didn’t stop Sergei from dealing with other matters in a different manner.

  Sergei glanced at his phone, realizing the time. “Gentlemen, we have some business to discuss before we’re dismissed tonight. As you all know, we have a major operation coming up, and we must make sure that everything is running smoothly. If one person gets out of line, that’s all it would take to end this entire operation.”

  Sergei stopped and looked to the back of the room, where two men stood guard by the door. He gestured toward them.

  One of the guards opened the door, while the other led a bound prisoner into the room. The man, who was dressed in a suit, twisted and turned, refusing to budge. But the guard forced him forward with hard shoves. Stumbling toward Sergei, the prisoner fell and landed at Sergei’s feet. The guard yanked the man to his feet and held him still.

  “What is this I hear about you, Christian?” Sergei said to the prisoner. “That you would betray me like that, it’s inconceivable. Well, at least inconceivable that you could get away with it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Christian said. “I’ve been nothing but loyal to you.”

  “Loyal? You call going to the American press loyal?”

  “It’s not like that. I—I was working a tip to find out what he knew. I didn’t say a word about anything to him.”

  Sergei reached inside his suit pocket and produced a photo. “Why, then, were you speaking with him
like this?”

  “That isn’t real. That photo’s a fake. It’s—”

  A gunshot cut Christian’s response short. He collapsed to the ground, the back of his head cratered by the bullet.

  Sergei knelt and pulled Christian’s pocket square out of his jacket.

  “Get him out of here,” Sergei said as he wiped blood droplets off his face.

  One of the guards walked over and stooped next to the dead body. He fished a few items out of Christian’s interior coat pocket and handed them to Sergei. Rifling through the various official documents, Sergei found a passport. He rubbed his chin and shrugged as he held it out for Damiecki.

  “Perhaps he was telling the truth,” Sergei said.

  Damiecki took the passport from Sergei and studied it.

  “Calvin T. Murphy? Is that name supposed to mean something?” Damiecki asked.

  “I’m not sure, but perhaps we should find out.”

  Damiecki looked down at the body, which the two guards prepared to hoist up and carry out of the room. “It will be a little more difficult now thanks to your paranoia.”

  Sergei laughed and wagged his finger at Damiecki. “The only kind of good snitch is a dead one. And whether he was snitching for me or someone else makes no difference now. He’s dead and won’t present us with any more problems. Now, I won’t have to worry about him any more.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  With his amiable expression now vacated, Sergei glared at Damiecki. “I want you to look into who this Calvin T. Murphy is and give me a full report. If he has any serious ties to this piece of rubbish, we probably need to know about it.”

  Chapter 8

  CAL COMPLETED HIS ASSIGNMENT for the day and retreated to his hotel in Samara. Compared to Hotel Ukraina, his new hotel was quite the downgrade. Finding a staff member after 6:00 p.m. proved to be a daunting challenge. With a vacant front desk, Cal wondered how such an establishment could remain in business, but he shrugged it off. His request wasn’t dire, though he was hungry and wanted a local to give him directions to Churchill’s Bar.

  A young woman walked past and gave him a long side glance. He tried to ignore her, wondering if she was a prostitute who was trying to score a job for the evening. Yet while her dress was tight-fitting and rather revealing, she didn’t have that edge to her, the one Cal quickly noticed on the women working street corners in big cities. She appeared somewhat sophisticated to Cal, a hunch confirmed when she spoke to him in English.

  “Do you need help?” she asked, her head cocked to one side.

  “Why? Do you work here?”

  “No, but you look lost.”

  Cal broke into a warm smile. “I know where I am, but I have no idea how to get where I need to go.”

  “Where are you headed? I’m sure I can point you in the right direction.”

  “Churchill’s Bar. Ever heard of it?”

  She nodded. “Come with me. I’ll walk you there myself.”

  Cal waved her off. “Oh, no. You don’t have to do that. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  “It’s no trouble. It’s just a few blocks from here.”

  Cal hesitated to join the woman, worried how it might be perceived if one of the other American journalists saw him. He wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression. But he also needed to eat. Cal decided to glance at his phone on the walk to the restaurant, making it difficult for anyone to tell that they were together.

  “I won’t bite,” she said, motioning for him to catch up.

  Cal took a deep breath and hustled alongside the woman. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I got your name.”

  “Natalya,” she said. “Natalya Listyev.”

  NATALYA CONSIDERED A STRAIGHT FORWARD approach to contacting the American journalist, but she wasn’t sure just how readily he would accept her. This was something she had to get right, the information too vital to fork over to a stranger that her father trusted but had never met. And she needed a way to back out in case she deemed him to be incapable of handling what was on the flash drive.

  She expected some conversation from Cal Murphy as opposed to their silent stroll. He either wasn’t a friendly person or his mind was consumed with thoughts that put him in another place. It wasn’t the best start to their meeting, but she needed to pull him out of the notion that she was simply a citizen of Samara leading him to the place he wanted to go.

  “How do you know about Churchill’s Bar?” she asked. “It’s one of the local favorites around here, even if it is owned by a couple from London.”

  “A friend told me about it,” Cal said, barely looking up from his phone.

  “You must have some well-connected friends.”

  He nodded absently. “I have some acquaintances that work with the U.S. embassy.”

  “Sounds very exciting.”

  “I suppose, more so than what I do.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I’m just a journalist, a sports writer to be more exact. I watch mindless sporting events and report on them.”

  “You make it sound boring.”

  He shrugged. “It can get interesting from time to time, as long as it’s something that happens off the field.”

  “Would you consider your time here in Russia interesting so far?”

  “It’s a new culture for me, so it’s been interesting from that perspective. But so far, it’s just soccer.”

  “Football,” she corrected. “You’re not in America any more.”

  He smiled for the first time and nodded in agreement. “Okay. Football it is.”

  “So, how would you like for your time here to get more . . .” she paused for effect, “interesting?”

  Cal threw up both of his hands and stopped. “I don’t know if I’ve given you the wrong impression or anything, but I’m not looking for anything like that. I’m happily married, and I have no desire to—”

  Natalya broke into a laugh, cutting him off. When she stopped, she explained herself. “I apologize for any miscommunication; that’s not what I meant. Churchill’s Bar is across the street. Let me buy you a drink and tell you what I meant.”

  She watched him study her closely before nodding. “Okay, but just one drink.”

  “If my father was right about you, that’s all I’ll need.”

  CAL STEPPED ONTO THE STREET at the crosswalk, scrambling to assess who this woman could be. Her cryptic comment led him to believe she knew who he was and this wasn’t some chance encounter. Though she’d yet to say any more about the purpose of her tracking him down, he anticipated something that would pull him out of his comfortable assignment and thrust him into a story he’d probably prefer to cover.

  They both settled into a booth after being seated by the hostess and ordered drinks. Cal was pleased they had bourbon as he refused to drink vodka. She ordered a vodka straight.

  “What? No vodka?” she said, reacting to his drink order after the waiter left. “I thought you Americans were real men.”

  “Bourbon is a man’s drink, too.”

  “In Russia, there is no man’s drink or woman’s drink. There’s just vodka for everyone.”

  “Vodka gives me heartburn.”

  “Perhaps you’re not drinking it right.”

  Cal laughed politely, wishing to usher their conversation to the point. “So, Natalya Listyev, you wouldn’t happen to be related to a Russian journalist named Yuri Listyev.”

  Her face lit up. “You know my father.”

  “Heard of him,” Cal corrected. “Even though I’m a sports writer, I’m still a newshound and try to keep track of all the journalists who are doing good work around the world.”

  “Even the ones in Russia?”

  He clasped his hands together and set them on the table in front of him. “It’s not always easy, but, yes, even the ones in Russia. So, how is your father?”

  “He’s dead,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,�
� Cal said. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  She glanced around the room and waited a moment before continuing. “FSB agents murdered him. Let him bleed out in his study. They’re animals.”

  Unsure of what to say, Cal apologized again. “I can’t imagine.”

  “And I had the unfortunate experience of finding him still alive.”

  “I just don’t—”

  She held up her finger as her face contorted in an effort to restrain tears. Once she composed herself, she continued. “You don’t have to come up with something to say to comfort me. I’ll survive this. This isn’t the first time I’ve lost a parent. But there is something you can do for me, if you’re willing.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said, leaning forward.

  Natalya scanned the room once more before discreetly reaching into her bra and retrieving a small object. She kept it hidden in her hand and reached under the table, tapping Cal on his knee. Unsure what to think at first, he put his hand on top of hers, and she released a flash drive.

  “What I just gave you will explain why my father was killed,” she said. “He stumbled onto a story, more like a conspiracy really. But I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  She slid a business card across the table. “You’ll need to do everything you can. If not, thousands of innocent people are going to die.” She glanced at the card. “You have my number now. Call me if you have any questions. I need to get out of here before the wrong people see us together and put both of us in danger.”

  She slid out of the booth, stood, and tossed some money onto the table.

  “Thanks for the drink,” Cal said, hoisting his glass to her.

  “I hope that information doesn’t turn out to be as costly to you as it was to my father,” she said before turning and exiting the restaurant.

  Cal drained the rest of his bourbon and hoped she was right. Trouble always seemed to find him, but he didn’t want it finding him in Russia. This wasn’t his turf. He had no idea how to navigate the notoriously corrupt law enforcement—or if it would even matter, given Natalya’s cryptic and grave warnings.