The Moscow Deception--An International Spy Thriller

by Karen Robards

  “I’m going to drop my escape cord down to you,” she said into the phone. “Tie yourself into it. Securely. We’re going to make an elevator for you.”

  Unclipping the cord dispenser from her garter belt as she spoke, she tossed it over the edge to him, making sure to keep hold of the loose end of the dental-floss-thin cord. She’d used it as an emergency means of escape many times and was confident in its steely strength.

  Whirring forward, Mason caught the dispenser in one hand. “How?”

  “The pulley system. Weight, wheel, counterweight.” She patted the steel-embedded-in-concrete light pole near her. It was round and smooth, cool to the touch, and sturdy. Obviously very sturdy. The glow the light itself emitted was faint enough that the more vivid colors flashing across the Strip swallowed it up, but it still enabled Mason to see her. “We’ll use this for the wheel. Pull you right up.”

  “If I’m the weight, and that’s the wheel, what are you going to use for a counterweight?”

  “I’ll call you right back. Tie into the cord.” Disconnecting, she looked at Doc, who was standing beside her. His expression was already mistrustful. She had to assume he’d overheard both ends of the conversation and had drawn the obvious conclusion.

  Holding up both hands, he took a step back from her. “Whoa. Is this where you, like, tell me I have to jump off the building?”

  Clearly he’d recognized his role as the counterweight. She would have done it, but her body weight wasn’t enough to pull Mason up. If she tried, Mason wouldn’t budge, and she’d end up dangling fifteen stories in the air.

  “You don’t have to,” Bianca said. “But it’s safe, I promise. You go down, he comes up. Then you grab the wheelchair, carry it up the stairs and we’re all out of here.”

  “That’s five stories down. That rope—” he took a look at the circumference of the cord she was holding in her hand, and his eyes widened “—that thread breaks, I could die. And did I mention I don’t like heights?”

  “Your call.” Bianca held up the filament-thin cord so that he could see the silvery trail of it snaking over the concrete wall. “Otherwise we’re going to have to go down there and carry Mason up five flights of stairs. If he’ll let us. And even if he does, it’s going to take longer than we probably have.”

  “He said he’d take a taxi,” Doc replied with a groan. But his tone, and the gesture that accompanied it, made the words a capitulation.

  “I said that. Anyway, are you really prepared to fly away to safety in the helicopter he ordered and let him fend for himself? In a wheelchair?” She was fashioning him a rudimentary harness out of the cord as she spoke. It was long enough to enable her to descend nineteen stories. Between Mason and Doc, they would be covering a distance of approximately ten stories so she allowed for that, then still had plenty to work with. Finishing, she showed him how to extricate himself from it when he landed by pulling on the clip at the end.

  “He left us behind in Bahrain.” The plaintive tone of that made no difference: Bianca had him trussed up like a chicken and was pushing him toward the wall.

  “Water under the bridge.” She checked to make sure the cord was tucked smoothly around the light pole. Then as Doc leaned over the wall to look dubiously down, she phoned Mason.

  “Doc’s the counterweight and he’s ready,” she said.

  “Let’s do it.” Mason pushed himself out of the wheelchair to lean unsteadily against the guardrail beside it.

  Disconnecting, Bianca tucked her phone in Doc’s pocket, because when he got down to the tenth floor Mason, who had the other phone, would have taken his place on the fifteenth and it was always good to have a means of communication.

  “I think I’m gonna barf,” Doc said as she checked his harness one last time. He handed her his hat. She put it on the ground beside them.

  “You’ll be fine. It’ll all be over in a flash.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Look at Mason. He’s not nervous.” She helped Doc, who was grimacing, clamber over the wall so that his stomach was resting on it and he was facing her. His legs hung over the five-story drop.

  “He doesn’t weigh three hundred pounds,” Doc said.

  “Doesn’t matter. If the cord breaks, you’re both dead.”

  “Oh, wow. Great bedside manner you got there, boss.”

  “All you have to do is push off. Hang on to the cord for balance as you go and bend your knees when you land. Then unhitch yourself and get back up here as fast as you can.”

  “Oh shit,” Doc said.

  “Go,” Bianca said, then had a thought. “And don’t scream. Or kick. Or do anything except hang on to the cord.”

  “Hail Mary, full of grace...” Muttering, Doc closed his eyes and screwed up his face. “Cowabunga, dude,” he said in conclusion, and pushed off.

  He dropped, not quite like a stone because he was spinning but almost that fast. At least, Bianca thought as she leaned over the wall to watch, he remembered not to scream, not to kick and to hang on to the cord. Mason shot up toward Bianca, his ascent far more graceful than Doc’s descent. The zipping sound of the cord against the light pole set Bianca’s teeth on edge: she hadn’t been kidding about what would happen if it broke. But they made it, both of them, Doc collapsing to his knees as he hit and Mason shooting up so that all she had to do was grab him and help him over the wall.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” Mason said as he freed himself from the cord. Doc’s end of the cord came flying back into the dispenser when she pressed the button, so she knew he’d managed to get his harness off, too. Expecting Doc to join them momentarily, she wrapped an arm around Mason’s waist and helped him hop, one-footed, toward the helicopter, which at a signal from him had already started to rotate its blades.

  His arm wrapped tight around her shoulders. He leaned heavily on her as he tried to cover the distance to the helicopter as fast as he could. She felt a weird pang in her heart at the feel of his arm around her. He’d never been one for hugs or any kind of physical affection. As a young girl, she’d sometimes watched other fathers and daughters meet up, watched them hug or kiss or even bump fists, and thought, that would be nice. Now she realized that he’d always treated her as a protégé. Which was exactly what she’d been to him. She’d loved him, he’d taught her. The bone-deep hurt she felt would heal, but the lessons would never leave her. When enough time had passed, she might even consider it a reasonable trade.

  “As I was leaving the casino, I spotted a man I think I recognized,” Mason said. He was breathing heavily. His voice was labored, and he was in obvious pain. In front of them, the helicopter blades were picking up speed. She could feel the wind of it on her face. The steady whomp-whomp-whomp made her lean closer to him to hear. “If I’m right, he’s part of a CIA kill team, and I think I’m right. Those guys are their best, crack assassins, and if they’re here—”

  The sound of a ringing phone interrupted. It could only be Doc, on her burner phone. Already experiencing a cramp in her stomach at the idea of a CIA kill team in the vicinity, she frowned as Mason fished the phone out of his pocket and, with an irony-tinged “I think this is for you,” handed it over.

  Why would Doc be calling? By now, he should have joined them.

  Bianca never even had a chance to say where are you into the phone.

  Talking so fast the words practically tripped over themselves, Doc said, “There’s guys coming up the stairs at you right now. We’re talking some badass dudes. Get out of there.”

  “What?”

  “They just searched this floor. I managed to hide. They found the wheelchair, checked it out. They’re probably going floor by floor. I think they’re looking for Mason—and you. I can’t get to you. You got to go.”

  Despite the shock of it, Bianca managed to stay cool enough to assimilate the news.

  “Got i
t,” she said, her mind racing to explore the various ramifications. “You go too. I’ll call you.” Bianca had to disconnect as she and Mason reached the helicopter. It was small, a four-seater, and the pilot leaned over to open the passenger door from the inside.

  Mason had clearly heard every word. “That’ll be the kill team.” His face was hard and set. “Get in. We’re heading to Hong Kong, and we need to haul ass. They’ll be armed to the teeth, and I don’t even have a damned gun on me.”

  She helped Mason get up into the passenger seat. The pilot put his headphones on and said something into the radio.

  “I’m not coming with you.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the rotors. “I can’t abandon Doc.”

  Doc would have no clue how to hide from a kill team or the security from the Wynn or anyone else. Without her, and with his image almost certain to be recoverable from the security cameras in the casino hallway, he’d be a sitting duck.

  “Leave him. They’re here to kill you and me, not him.”

  “I can’t. I’ll be careful.” She started backing away from the helicopter.

  Mason leaned out the door. “Bianca—between the CIA kill team and the Darjeeling Brothers contract, you don’t have much time. Acquire that thing we talked about as fast as you can and get it to me. Before it’s too late for both of us.”

  Nodding, she held up a hand in farewell. He turned away, slammed the door. He didn’t look her way again.

  Her throat tightened.

  Never look back: it was one of the rules.

  Which meant it shouldn’t hurt.

  But it did.

  She turned and ran for the wall as the helicopter lifted off.

  20

  An escape-cord-assisted leap over the wall, a hair-raising elevator ride down, a switch-up of her dress and a quick phone call later, Bianca caught up to Doc in the square opposite the Wynn.

  It wasn’t the rendezvous point she would have chosen.

  Never leave the way you go in.

  But the square was where Doc had fled, so that was where they were. It was thin of company now, because a few fat drops of rain had fallen minutes earlier. The rain had stopped for now, but from the heaviness in the air it was obvious that it could start up again at any time. The dragon was gone. The street cart vendors were beginning to close up shop. A few diehards made last-minute purchases of paper parasols and fireworks and Macau’s favorite dessert, the creamy, delicious egg tarts. The paper lanterns threw shadows everywhere as intermittent gusts of wind rocked them.

  “You should’ve gone with him,” Doc greeted her.

  “Where’s the fun in that? We’re a team, remember.” Bianca looked him over critically. Buzzed head, black suit and all, Doc still looked like Doc: way too recognizable. “You did good back there, by the way.”

  “That was like extreme sports, only for criminals,” Doc said. “Extreme criminaling. Could we not do any more of it?”

  “No promises. Hold still.” She took advantage of the deep shadow beside a potted cherry tree to plop her Kangana wig on his head. At this point, disguise was good. Even if, in it, she decided as she straightened it for him, he did look kind of like Sonny from the seventies Sonny and Cher Show. She was wearing her Ann wig and the reverse side of her SiuSiu Special gown, which was a deep cranberry red, shortened to knee-length by a hidden zipper in the skirt. She’d considered putting on Doc’s hat, which she’d grabbed before exiting the fifteenth floor, but had decided against it and tucked the crushable into her purse. The Ann wig was a better disguise anyway. She’d even altered her shoes, because nobody ever did and shoes were a dead giveaway. A trained operative always looked at shoes. Her four-inch spike heels were now flats. The spikes were in her purse.

  She’d even reversed her purse, which was now gold, smooth and worn cross-body over her dress.

  “He able to help out with the contract?” Doc asked.

  “Yes. Tell you later. Let’s go.” After casting a sweeping look around, Bianca started off across the square.

  “This is embarrassing,” Doc said as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window of a now-closed tea shop as they passed it.

  “Better embarrassed than dead.” Every instinct she possessed shouted that they needed to get out of there. She couldn’t get the uneasiness she’d felt in the square earlier out of her head. Was this where Mickey had picked up their trail? Or, worse, the CIA kill team?

  Was there surveillance here that she wasn’t able to detect?

  The thought made her heart beat faster.

  “True that.” Doc hurried to catch up.

  “Stay back a few feet,” Bianca said. If something went wrong, she was the target. In case of attack, he would have a better chance of escaping if he could simply fade away without anyone realizing he was with her. “If anything happens, you run one way and I’ll run the other. I’ll call you when we get clear, and we’ll meet up again.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Doc said.

  She was busy evaluating their surroundings. Rooftops, open windows, balconies: all held potential danger. So did trees, trash cans, the wheeled vendor carts—anywhere an assailant could lurk. The tourists milling around buying souvenirs looked harmless, but that didn’t mean they were. Like the Wynn, the nearby Macau Dome and the even closer tennis center overlooked the square: any would offer multiple vantage points for a sniper.

  She could almost feel her skin crawl.

  And then there was the fact that Mickey wouldn’t stay unconscious forever. Once he was awake again, he would be coming after her full bore.

  “Umbrella, lady?” An enterprising local with a basket of umbrellas over her arm popped up out of nowhere, brandishing a pocket-size (probably fake) tote. She addressed Bianca in English; Bianca remembered the Ann wig. Clearly it made her look like English was her native language.

  “No, thanks,” Bianca replied, waving her off and lengthening her stride.

  “Only fifteen patacas,” the woman persisted, scurrying to keep up. She was middle-aged, plump. Macanese from her appearance and accent. Dressed in a loose black top, black pants and the local version of flip-flops. Bianca imagined her with a family at home, seeing the rain, scurrying out to make a few extra patacas. Under better circumstances, she would have bought an umbrella.

  “No, thank you,” Bianca said again, shaking her head, and kept walking.

  Her immediate goal was the busy Avenida de Cotai that ran between the Parisian and Studio City. With luck, they should be able to grab a taxi there. The Lotus Bridge wasn’t far away.

  Goal number one: get off the Strip.

  “Uh, boss, the hotel’s the other way.”

  “We’re not going back to the hotel.” The hotel—either hotel—was too dangerous. It made for a fixed spot, a place where someone might assume she would come, an ideal arena to set up an ambush.

  “We’re not? Like, ever?”

  “No. We—” She turned her head to explain and bumped smack into something that hadn’t been in her path a few seconds previously.

  “It is soon to rain,” Umbrella Woman said. She waved the tote at Bianca, who, looking around even as she recoiled from the sturdy form she’d collided with, staggered back a pace. Bianca understood that the woman had planted herself in her path in a more determined bid to make a sale and was just opening her mouth to firm up her No when the woman’s chest imploded, blossoming scarlet in an instant before collapsing into a geyser of blood and shredded matter that blasted out through her back.

  Crack.

  Silencers didn’t work well on many sniper rifles; quite often the suppressor simply muted what would have been a high decibel explosion to the volume of a pistol’s bark. But it didn’t take the sharp sound for Bianca to realize what had happened.

  The woman had been shot. By a sniper with a high-powered rifle.

  She
was standing right where Bianca would have been if seconds ago she hadn’t put herself in Bianca’s path.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Her pulse skyrocketed. That bullet had been meant for her, she had absolutely no doubt.

  The kill team? Or someone else?

  Under Bianca’s horrified eyes, Umbrella Woman crumpled bonelessly to the cobblestones, her eyes already glazing over in death. Her blood gushed from the wound to form a rapidly growing puddle on the ground. The smell of it—raw meat—rose sharp and hideous to Bianca’s nostrils.

  A burst of adrenaline blasted her out of her shock-induced immobility.

  “Get down.” Bianca dived for the protection of a nearby vendor cart even as she yelled the warning to Doc.

  She hadn’t yet hit the ground when something that felt like a bunched fist punched her hard in between her shoulder blades and smacked her out of the air.

  Crack.

  She slammed down on the bumpy cobblestones with her arms extended and her legs stretched out and found herself staring, stunned, at a worm’s-eye view of what was happening all around her. She was light-headed and breathless with pain. Nothing seemed quite real.

  In those few seconds, the square had transformed into a scene of utter chaos. Everywhere people screamed and ran, taking cover, doing their best to get out of the line of fire. A few lay bleeding on the ground.

  I’ve been shot.

  Her heart thundered wildly. She tried to breathe, couldn’t. The burning sensation between her shoulder blades, the difficulty she was having drawing in air, this feeling of being hot and cold at the same time, terrified her.

  I don’t want to die.

  “Boss.”

  Doc landed beside her, his eyes shiny with terror. Flat on the cobblestones, he reached for her outflung hand—

  Crack.

  That round splintered a cobblestone inches from her face. Instinctively she flinched and rolled away. Her blood felt like ice water in her veins. Her mouth went sour with fear—but she could move.