by J. K. Kelly
“You did this, you bastard!” she shouted. “You killed my son!”
Wilkerson turned his head slowly and stared up at her, the gun now pressed against his forehead. Hadden and three other armed Marines pulled their sidearms and aimed them directly at the threat.
Terry left his weapon holstered. He took a step toward Sarah. “Don’t do this, Sarah. Please. Lay the gun on the floor.” He took another step forward.
She thumbed back the hammer on the .45 and pressed it harder against her husband’s head.
Matt was trained and had real-world experience with hostage situations. But he could see Sarah’s eyes. She was a stick of dynamite, and the fuse had already been lit. Something had to happen. But his instincts told him that this could only end very badly.
Russell Wilkerson just stared past the gun, at his wife. Tears had filled his eyes after the first shot was fired and his son lay dead at his feet. But now that he was at risk, the expression on his face changed from shock to anger. Matt flashed a look at Hadden and Terry. Neither had taken their eyes off the gun.
“Mrs. Wilkerson,” Matt said in as soft a tone as he could muster, “Sarah, this won’t solve anything. Please put the gun down before this goes any further. We can get you out of this safely right now. But with your finger on that trigger, you are a threat that these men are going to have to address.”
She didn’t react. Her eyes had glazed over. He wasn’t even sure that she’d heard him.
“Sarah, I know you know guns,” he continued. “The pull on that trigger is really light. The simplest mistake and you’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in a damp, dark Russian jail with hairy, unkempt women who don’t speak English and will pick on you because you come from America and from money.”
Wilkerson didn’t move his head, but his eyes found Matt.
“Okay, Mr. Fix-It,” he growled. “I’m beginning to get tired of this gun stuck against my head. Do something about it now!”
Sarah turned away from her husband and looked at Matt. She must have wondered if he was going to make a grab for the gun because she raised her free hand toward him, gesturing for him to stay put.
One of the Marines must have seen this distraction as the time to react. He jumped to slap the gun away from the ambassador’s head, but it went off once and then a second time, both bullets crashing through Wilkerson’s face.
The staffers screamed, the Marines opened fire, and Sarah Wilkerson dropped to the office floor within a few feet of her son and husband. In the span of five minutes, the Wilkerson bloodline had come to an end.
Matt was able to step back from the bureaucratic mess that ensued. He had discovered he had enemies in Moscow the first night he arrived. The last thing he needed was to be involved in this mess.
It was clear the minute the smoke cleared from the ambassador’s home office that there was no way the U.S. State Department could explain away, hide, or spin what had happened. The staffers at the Embassy and the higher-ups on both sides of the ocean knew there was nothing they could do other than go public and admit that an unfortunate situation had occurred. But at Matt’s suggestion, history was rewritten that night, slightly, and those who had cared for one or all of the Wilkersons agreed to play along.
The official story would be that Ray, the troubled youth who was now crazed on drugs, had shot his parents and then himself. With everyone in agreement, all that Matt needed next was to have Hadden erase the CCTV drive that had recorded the incident. Evidence and the bodies were moved slightly under the guise that life-saving measures had been tried but to no avail.
The remains of the three family members, along with a few of Matt’s belongings, would be flown home to Texas for burial. The homicide division of the Moscow Police conducted a preliminary investigation of the scene, interviewed the witnesses, and concluded very quickly, as Matt had hoped, that this had been a murder-suicide. They had expressed their frustration that the typically good CCTV cameras had failed to capture the act, but with all witnesses and physical evidence lining up, they were left with nothing more to pursue.
Hadden and Terry had agreed to his suggestion and on Dale’s insistence that he not be involved. He wasn’t in the room. The fog of the situation had left the staff stunned, and not one person ever mentioned seeing him with the Wilkersons in the office that morning. Late that night, once the bodies had been cleared to be flown home by the U.S. government to the military mortuary at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, Matt and his two Marines sat quietly in the residence’s kitchen and drank beer and vodka.
“What’s next for you?” Hadden asked after finishing off his six-pack of imported Budweiser. Matt wondered. Dale had suggested he spend a few days there to decompress, but the circumstances, from that first night he was assaulted until earlier today when he watched a family die, made him want to get out of there with the sunrise.
“I still feel the need to take care of Misha,” he stated, staring into his own collection of beer bottles and shot glasses. “I was supposed to meet her at four today in Red Square but texted her I needed to reschedule. By now, she has no doubt read the news about what’s happened here.”
“Screw her – they did,” Terry said in an angry tone, his words slurred by his own dose of alcohol. “I can’t believe they are all dead, all three of them.” Matt stared at Terry. While he himself was known for being inappropriate more often than not, Matt thought he was out of line and debated whether to address that with him there on the spot. All things considered, as drunk as they all were, and that Matt might still have a target on him in Moscow, he opted to keep his thoughts to himself. Instead, he gave them both his thoughts on lending a helping hand.
“From what I was told, she was just a young, naïve girl from a poor part of Moscow, and her family was very proud of her when she landed the job at the Embassy.”
Hadden chimed in, “So far, so good.”
“When she started to fall for a co-worker, a good-looking kid from America, she got swept up in the family’s bullshit. Whether Ray’s good-looking, powerful, and charismatic father who showered her with gifts and cash, impressed or intimidated her, she got screwed, and in more ways than one, Marine!” he said, staring at Terry. So much for keeping my thoughts to myself, he thought. Terry’s body language stiffened. It didn’t take Matt’s expertise to notice that. Hadden noticed too, and he quickly tried to diffuse the situation.
“She got the shitty end of the stick, that’s clear,” Hadden offered. “We all realize that, even Terry here will once he sleeps this one off.” He looked to his buddy, who continued to stare at Matt but was quickly distracted by the beer and vodka shot Hadden slid in front of him.
“If you’re ever in a fight, this is the guy you want to have your back,” Hadden went on. “He’s got a big heart, though he just has trouble managing his temper every now and then.” All three men took a swig of beer and downed a shot.
“Can I let you in on a little secret, Mr. Fix-It?” Hadden asked. Matt nodded.
“That night you arrived, the ambassador was infuriated that the secretary had asked the DNI to send someone to fix his mess.”
Then Terry chimed in. “Yeah, it was Wilkerson who sent the two off-duty thugs to rough you up at the Sheraton. He wanted to scare you off.”
Hadden continued the story. “But guess who called them off?” Matt stared at them both. He didn’t have a clue, and he told them so.
“Sarah Sinclair Wilkerson, the coolest woman I’ve ever met, told her husband to call off his Russian dogs, or she would leak the Misha problem they were having to the press,” Terry stated. “And she meant it.”
Matt thought through what he had just been told. He debated cursing the ambassador but instead thought of something that would tie them together and help close out what he hoped would be his last night in Russia for some time. He poured both Marines a shot and raised his glass for a toast.
“To Sarah Wilkerson, a great lady from the great state of Texas!” With the three shots d
owned and the glasses brought down hard on the table, Matt got up to leave and thanked his fellow Americans for their help over the last few days.
“So that said, do you think it’s safe for me to go to Red Square tomorrow myself, or do I need a few bodyguards?” he asked.
“You’ll be fine,” Hadden stated, his words beginning to slur like Terry’s.
“Nobody knows you’re here or gives a shit about it, buddy boy,” Terry stated. “So go take care of little Misha and then head to the airport and go the hell home.”
Matt knew now was indeed time to head upstairs. He shook Hadden’s hand, grabbed two more beers, and headed to his room. The next day, he planned on connecting with Misha, paying her out of the CIA slush fund he had been authorized to use, and then flying out on the first plane that was headed somewhere interesting. He didn’t want to fly for 10 hours back to the states. Perhaps he’d go somewhere to clear his head and get some exercise before going home.
The next morning, Matt awoke to a much different ambassador’s residence than he had experienced since his arrival in Moscow. With the Wilkersons now gone, there wasn’t the coming and going of domestic and embassy staff that had kept the phones and the footsteps in the hallway moving. He showered and dressed, packed his bag, shut down his laptop, slung the backpack over one shoulder, and headed downstairs to begin his coffee ritual.
To his surprise, there wasn’t any. Much of the staff had been given the rest of the week off, including the kitchen staff. The few domestic workers that remained behind had worked into the night and had begun early that morning to wipe away anything and everything that could remind them and the ambassador’s successor that this had been a crime scene hours before.
Like a man on a mission, Matt found the coffee and within minutes had a large pot brewing. He checked the secure email account on his phone and read the texts Dale had sent him while he slept. There was also a voicemail from Coleman. It said that she hoped he was okay and that POTUS was stunned by what had happened there. She suggested he stay overseas for a week or so until things quieted at home. He had already planned on it. Hadden joined him in the kitchen. They sat and discussed the plan for the day.
“I’m set to meet Misha at eleven o’clock in front of Lenin’s Tomb. I need to get over to the Embassy to collect the funds, and then I’ll head over to finish this up and get the hell out of here.” Hadden insisted that he would accompany him. Terry would drive them to the Embassy, then the 30 minutes to Red Square, and then to whichever Moscow airport Matt wished to go.
“You guys really want to spend that much time sitting in traffic with me?” he joked. “Terry might just shoot me if he gets wound up again.”
Hadden poured himself a cup of coffee and freshened Matt’s. They sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking about the Moscow traffic but more about the events that had taken three lives just down the hall from where they were sitting.
“Terry needs to get back to the States to decompress,” Hadden suggested. “He was very close to Mrs. Wilkerson. Probably too close, if you catch my drift.” Matt nodded. “Yep, I picked up on that late the other night when he knocked on her door.”
Hadden had already heard about the awkward encounter. “I guess the fact that Mrs. Wilkerson mentioned you were a good-looking guy, and that he found you in her room at that hour, got the jealousy meter pegged a bit.”
There was no reason for Matt to pursue that topic any further, so he changed the subject and talked about what he was going to do next. Then, “Terry does need some time off, back in Texas. He probably should have flown home with them if it wasn’t stopping in Dover first.”
Hadden agreed with the nod of his head. “Now, let’s get over to the Embassy and get you moving.”
Ninety minutes later, Terry drove their black SUV into a parking spot close to Saint Basil’s Cathedral at one end of Red Square. Matt hopped out and, with Hadden keeping a distance of 30 feet or so behind him, walked at a brisk pace across the wide-open square.
He remembered the black-and-white videos he had seen on YouTube of Nikita Khrushchev, the leader of the then Communist Soviet Union, in the early 1960s waving to the parade of Russia’s military might – soldiers, tanks, and missile launchers presented there in front of the Kremlin. Some things might be different now, in color, like the massive, vibrant red brick walls of the Russian fortress, but others remained much the same; here was an American operative paying off the Russian mistress of the American ambassador to keep her quiet.
As he continued his walk toward Lenin’s Tomb, Matt laughed to himself. I’ve tried to get in there to see the old dead bastard three times now, and I’ve never managed to make it inside. Maybe today will be different, as long as Hadden doesn’t mind waiting.
He arrived right on time and was wearing a red Washington Nationals baseball cap, something he thought would make it easier for Misha to find him. A few minutes after he donned the hat, she tapped him on the shoulder from behind. He had seen pictures of the pretty young Misha Doronin, but when he turned and recognized her, he smiled. She was a true Russian beauty, a young woman with those captivating blue eyes he had seen so often at the Sheraton bar. But she didn’t appear to be a wolf in a red dress; this was just a hard-working young woman, a beautiful innocent who had fallen into a sick family game. There were no wolf eyes, just bright ones that had sadly lost some of their luster.
She extended her hand. “I am Misha, tell me your name, please.”
“Matt, I’m Matt. We’ve texted each other many times. I’m very happy to meet you, but sorry it had to be under such strange circumstances,” he said, and he meant it.
Misha turned and waved for an older man who had accompanied her to come forward to meet the American.
“This is my father, Alexi Doronin. He does not speak English, but he is pleased to make your acquaintance.” She paused as the two men shook hands. “He understands that you came here to help me, not to hurt me as the Wilkerson men tried to do.”
Matt looked the father in the eyes. He could see the heartache and worry in them. If living in this tough country wasn’t hard enough, dealing with this most certainly had added years to this man’s already worn-looking face. If Matt had a daughter who had been subjected to such behavior, treated like a trophy, and robbed of the career opportunity of a lifetime, he would have shot the bastards dead. With the family settling their own scores as they had, Matt had just one thing left to do.
“Misha,” he said as he handed her a new backpack, this one an expensive green-and-grey Eddie Bauer he had stuffed with 3 million Russian rubles, “I hope you are able to do something good with this money.”
She took it from him and handed it to her father.
“I am truly sorry that this ever happened to you,” he said, “very sorry.” He then extended his hand to the father and did his best to say the words properly. “Ochen zhal.” He backed away from them, turned, and nodded to Hadden that all was A-OK.
Without looking back, he walked toward the Marine, and then they walked together back across the square toward Terry and Matt’s ride to the airport.
“Didn’t you say something in the car about visiting Lenin’s Tomb?” Hadden asked.
“Nope, not this time. He’s not going anywhere,” Matt responded coldly. “Let’s get out of here.”
An hour later, the black SUV drove away from the departure area of Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport. Matt hadn’t told anyone where he was headed or what time his flight was, but he had acted as if he was cutting it close so they would just drop him off and assume he was running for the gate.
Instead, Matt went to the Swiss Airlines ticket counter and bought a one-way ticket, First Class, to Zurich, Switzerland. With a reservation at an airport hotel there, his plan for the next morning was to rent an all-wheel drive BMW or Audi and drive the three hours to Zermatt and his favorite mountain in Europe, the Matterhorn. He pictured himself driving the last hour or so, speeding through the switchbacks, the lefts and rights of the uphill
run on the single-lane road that would take him to the little town of Tasch. That would be the farthest anyone with a non-electric vehicle was permitted to go. Visitors needed to ride the local train into Zermatt or take a battery-powered taxi into town.
He would have four hours to kill until he boarded his flight. That would give him plenty of time to decompress as best he could, maybe pick up a set or two of Matryoshka nesting dolls as a thank you to a receptionist or admin back in D.C. he might need a small favor from sometime, and hope there were no issues as he passed through the customs area. Before he’d left the Embassy, he’d used their secure Wi-Fi and filled his phone with Netflix downloads, Kindle books, and a few Audible versions. Now it was time for a beer and a burger and hopefully a peaceful end to a very stressful adventure.
Later, when it was time to move through customs, he maintained his calm demeanor. But when two guards stepped in front of him and a man in a dark blue suit took his diplomatic passport from the clerk, Matt figured he might be headed for another date with an empty vodka bottle.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The man in the worn dark blue suit looked as if he’d had a long, hard life. His graying hair was cut close; his features, height, and weight were average. The only remarkable thing about the man was his love for vodka and cigarettes, both of which Matt could smell on his breath. He led Matt through customs, down a long hallway, and into a small, windowless office. He gestured for him to drop his black backpack on the table and take a seat. Matt looked at the only photo in the room, one of Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, the first person to ever orbit the earth. The two uniformed officers took their positions outside the room. One pulled the door closed and smiled at Matt.