The Pretender's Gambit

by Alex Archer

Klykov shrugged. “It is what it is, Annja. These people blame who they want and kill who they can.” He paused. “We can turn around if you would like. Leave the elephant to whoever gets it. That would be much safer, perhaps.”

  That possibility didn’t linger in Annja’s mind. The mystery of the elephant had grown stronger and she felt she was getting closer. She wasn’t about to willingly give up the pursuit. Even if the elephant led nowhere, Onoprienko needed to pay for killing Benyovszky. “No. We’re not doing that.”

  “Good.” Klykov smiled. “I would hate to walk away from what could be my last adventure.”

  “Your last?”

  He shrugged an acceptance. “I’m an old man. There are only so many adventures allotted to men. I am grateful for the ones I have had, and I am grateful for this one.”

  “This isn’t going to be your last adventure,” Annja said. “We’re going to be careful.” She checked the highway traffic and pulled back onto the road.

  “I thought about getting you a pistol as well, but I did not think you would wish for one.”

  “I don’t like to carry guns. But I do know how to use them.” Annja pressed harder on the accelerator, feeling the pressure winding up inside her.

  * * *

  SEVENTH-KILOMETER MARKET was a collection of long aisles created by cargo containers stacked two deep. Many of those cargo containers were painted bright colors, even hot pink. The market looked like someone had been turned loose with an inexhaustible supply of toy blocks and told to create intricate mazes.

  Annja drove slowly, following Klykov’s directions while feeling she was getting more and more lost. There was so much visual spectacle that she was almost overcome. White lines marked parking areas and pedestrians were everywhere. Signage was mostly in Russian, but here and there other subsets of signs were in English and French and German for tourists. Many of them also featured Chinese and Japanese translations.

  In the 1960s, the market had opened for business as an outdoor shopping area. Early entrepreneurs had purchased cargo containers and had them delivered to the site. They’d operated right out of those containers, and only refurbished them into something more stylish in appearance after they’d become successful. Only open on Sundays in the beginning, the booming trade inspired still more budding capitalists to step into the business of knockoff clothing, jewelry, accessories, electronics and everything else that could be manufactured that was currently in vogue.

  “You are not speaking,” Klykov said.

  “I’m trying to take it all in.”

  Klykov laughed. “So perhaps you have not become a jaded traveler after all.”

  “No.”

  “Then let me teach you. I am sure you know of the history of this place, probably more than I do. But let me tell you what you are truly looking at. This is free trade, Annja. The merchants here wheel and deal to make a profit. Give and take, buyer and seller. It is one of the oldest stories there is, no?”

  “It’s a…bazaar. A huge bazaar.”

  “Exactly. And the people who really make the money are the container owners.”

  “Those places are rented out?” Annja nodded toward the long lines of cargo containers that made up the market and the expansive perimeter.

  “Yes. The real estate here, as you would guess, is quite expensive. Seventh-Kilometer Market will never leave this place. People will always come here to trade.”

  Annja slowed to allow a man carrying a boxed flat-screen television to cross the street. His two children tagged along excitedly after him. On either side of her, groups of women, couples and families wandered along rows of container businesses. Vendors accosted them in a variety of languages, always smiling, but always pressuring them to come see their wares. Most of the cargo containers had large display windows cut into them as well as doorways. The fronts of many of them also shared similar designs, giving them an appearance of belonging to the same company.

  “Some people believe that almost twenty million dollars’ worth of merchandise is sold here every day,” Klykov said.

  Every. Day. Annja couldn’t believe that amount, but she knew Klykov had no reason to lie to her.

  “There are free health clinics, modern toilets, a fire department and a security staff that are provided for by profits taken from these businesses. It’s a small city. This place is the area’s largest provider of jobs. Over sixteen thousand merchants flock here to do business, and they have to have a staff of over twelve hundred people to operate the shops. I am told that over one hundred and fifty thousand people come here daily.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this place.”

  “I should. I own six of these containers myself. These are legitimate businesses. More or less.” Klykov pointed. “Park up there. Fedotov’s shop is not far from here.”

  Annja found a spot and parked. She cut off the engine and pocketed the keys. “Are you sure we’re not going to get arrested because you’re carrying a concealed weapon?”

  “I am positive. I have brought money to take care of any inconveniences. Some policemen prefer to be paid in cash. As long as I don’t try to hurt the patrons of this place no one else cares. Come along.”

  Annja got out of the vehicle, opened the rear door to get to her backpack and shrugged into it. Then she followed after Klykov, stepping into the dizzying world of the marketplace.

  * * *

  RAO DROVE PAST Annja Creed and the old man, but he kept them in view in his side mirrors. He was lucky that the market was so busy because it made him easier to blend in.

  He pulled into a parking spot and watched in the rearview mirror as Annja walked past his position. Then he got out and locked the car behind him. The chill air was bracing. He pulled his long coat more tightly around him and took a woolen cap from his pocket to cover his head. The cap helped keep him warm and provided some disguise. He put on a pair of sunglasses to further change his features and followed Annja and the old man.

  He also kept an eye out for anyone else who might be interested in him. That feeling of being watched again scratched at his shoulder blades.

  A man stepped out of a nearby cargo container and grabbed Rao’s arm. Instinctively, Rao gripped the man’s arm in return, pulled him a step forward, and locked the arm in a painful hold that wouldn’t have taken much to snap.

  The man groaned in pain, then spoke in a flurry of languages, finally getting to English. “Please! Please no hurt me! I mean no offense!”

  Rao quickly released the man. “I’m sorry. You startled me.”

  “No, no. Is okay.” The man massaged his arm and grimaced slightly, but he was unwilling to forego a potential sale. “Only try to get attention. Show you many things. Many wonderful things.” He waved toward the cargo container of pop culture T-shirts featuring television shows and superheroes. “Do you want buy shirt? Make you look cool.”

  Some of the shirts were for Chasing History’s Monsters. That would have brought a smile to Rao’s lips had things not been so serious.

  In the end, in part because he felt badly about unintentionally hurting the man and because carrying a package would add another layer to his disguise, Rao purchased a T-shirt and continued on his way, bag in hand.

  Then he realized he had lost Annja Creed.

  Chapter 25

  “Leonid, my old friend! It is so good to see you again!” Viktor Fedotov greeted Klykov exuberantly and wrapped him in an immense bear hug. Big as a bear himself, Fedotov lifted the smaller man from his feet and kissed him roughly on both cheeks, laughing joyously the whole time. Shaggy gray hair fell to the fence’s broad shoulders and his beard hung to his chest. He wore round-lensed granny glasses, a faded red sweatshirt and blue sweatpants. He also wore pink bunny slippers that had drooping ears and googly eyes.

  Fedotov continued speaking in rapid Russian as he returne
d Klykov to the ground. Two young women stood behind counters on either side of the shop. Both of them were dressed in skinny jeans, blouses opened to a provocative degree and way too much eyeliner. They stared at Fedotov’s display of affection with bemused interest.

  The tough guy at the back of the shop cast a more prurient eye on the proceedings. His hand never strayed far from the pistol on his right hip almost out of sight under a blue windbreaker.

  Annja’s Russian was good enough to follow the introductory burst of enthusiastic welcome, but she couldn’t grasp the rest of the dialogue. Given the fact that Klykov had volunteered information that he and Fedotov were not good friends, the effusive display of affection was surprising. Then she reconsidered. Both men were on the verge of doing business together. Everyone wore a happy face till they got to the bottom line.

  “Viktor,” Klykov protested as he rearranged his coat. “English, please. Out of respect for my friend, Annja, who does not speak our language so well.”

  “Da, of course, of course.” Fedotov turned to Annja and lumbered toward her. “Annja Creed, star of Chasing History’s Monsters, da. You I know, and never did I think I would ever see such as you in my shop.” He picked her up in a bone-crushing embrace, then set her carefully down. “I am so honored by your presence in my humble business.”

  The shop was anything but humble. Annja had been expecting a small place on the order of a pawn shop, something shadowy and mysterious tucked in an out-of-the-way spot. She’d had in mind a business with dim lighting that featured a smorgasbord of worthless items out front for show while the illicit sales were done out of the back room.

  Instead, the Mad Russian’s Emporium of Nice Things was a gala affair in a prominent place in the market and was filled with flashing lights, including a string of bright red jalapeno peppers that were incongruous in present surroundings. Spinner racks held paperback books in a dozen different languages. Electronics, statues and ceramics from many different cultures, Russian icons in a half-dozen different sizes, ships in bottles that ranged from Clipper ships to nuclear submarines and rifles and shotguns occupied locked display cases. Festive helium balloons announcing “specials” wafted on the breeze. A hidden PA system blared songs by the Beatles.

  “Tanya.” Fedotov addressed the red-haired young woman manning the counter that displayed jewelry and expensive watches. He spoke quickly and she ducked behind the counter for a moment, then reappeared with a gray-and-silver bottle of vodka. The young woman set up six shot glasses and poured out drinks in a long stream as quick as an LA bartender on a Friday night.

  “Come, come.” Fedotov motioned to Annja and Klykov, then to the other young woman and his obvious security guard. “Galina. Emil. Come. Join me in a toast to my old friend, Leonid Klykov.”

  They drank and Klykov and Fedotov slammed their shot glasses back on the counter almost at the same time. Annja finished up shortly after them and the vodka burned all the way down.

  Tanya resupplied the glasses without being told to do so.

  “And now,” Fedotov said, “a toast to my new friend, Annja Creed. Drink!” He hammered the second shot down.

  This time the vodka brought tears to Annja’s eyes and she choked back a ragged cough. A momentary disconnect flashed through her senses, then quickly faded, but she’d had warning enough. The vodka was not something she wanted to mess around with.

  “And now a drink to the business we are about to do,” Fedotov announced, and pointed to Tanya to pour yet another drink.

  “I surrender,” Annja said, holding her hands up and laughing. “Two is my limit.”

  “Ah, you Americans.” Fedotov grinned broadly at her, exposing a lot of gold dental work. “So weak when it comes to drinking. You lack the true sadness that lurks in the Russian soul.”

  Annja didn’t argue. She watched as the others slammed back another shot and didn’t appear to be any worse for wear.

  “And now,” Fedotov announced, “we should get down to business, da?”

  “Da,” Klykov agreed.

  “I will call our friend Onoprienko and tell him I am ready to make a deal for his bauble, that I have his money. He should arrive here in a short while. I have sensed he is both greedy and in a hurry. In the meantime, my new friend Annja, perhaps you could do me a small favor.”

  “If I can,” Annja replied.

  Fedotov walked to the back of the shop and took up a box from the floor, then carried it over to her. Inside were stacks of Chasing History’s Monsters DVDs.

  “If you could autograph these, I would be thankful.”

  Annja did a quick estimate of discs in the case. There had to be over a hundred copies. “Sure. What would you like me to put on them?”

  “I would like you to put, ‘Special bargain from the Mad Russian Emporium of Nice Things,’ but we do not have time for such niceties. Onoprienko is very desperate for cash. He will be here in short order and I call him. Unless you wish to wait so you can do proper job.”

  “No. No waiting.”

  Fedotov nodded in understanding and handed her a black Sharpie. “So just put, ‘With love, Annja Creed.’”

  “All right.”

  Fedotov took her to a back room office on the second-floor cargo container and sat her at a messy desk. Framed posters of science fiction movies hung on the walls. He escorted her to the executive chair behind the desk. The interior of the area had been refinished with Sheetrock and painted bright blue.

  “Please be comfortable. There is security camera to show front of shop.” Fedotov indicated the CCTV screen hanging on the wall near the door. “There is facilities.” He pointed to a small cubicle in the corner of the cargo container near a set of circular stairs that led up to the second floor.

  Annja was amazed at how homey the cargo containers had turned out.

  Klykov sat in the chair on the other side of the desk while Fedotov called Onoprienko. Annja grew anxious when the call was not immediately answered, but then she could hear Onoprienko’s gravelly voice come on the line.

  The conversation between Fedotov and Onoprienko was short and to the point. Fedotov had the money, Onoprienko was on his way.

  Finished, Fedotov returned his phone to his sweatpants pocket. “He will be here soon. Then we will have him.”

  * * *

  “STOP HERE,” FERNANDO SEQUEIRA ordered his driver.

  The luxury sedan glided to a halt next to the narrow aisle of containers. Only a hundred feet away, the Mad Russian’s Emporium of Nice Things stood out from the other shops around it. Lines of multicolored triangular flags snapped in the breeze.

  There was no sign of Annja Creed or the Russian who was supposed to have the elephant.

  Sequeira texted Brisa for an update. I AM HERE. WHERE IS ANNJA CREED?

  SHE IS INSIDE THE SHOP, Brisa responded.

  YOU SAW HER?

  THE TRACKING DEVICE I PUT ON HER AT THE AIRPORT SHOWS THAT SHE IS THERE.

  Sequeira relaxed a little. He would relax more when the elephant was in his hands, and be a happy man when he knew for certain what he was dealing with.

  IS THE ELEPHANT INSIDE?

  NO. THEY ARE WAITING ON THE RUSSIAN.

  Impatience chafed at Sequeira. WHERE IS THE RUSSIAN?

  THAT I DO NOT KNOW. WE TRACKED ANNJA CREED, NOT THE RUSSIAN. HAVE PATIENCE. SHE IS NOT GOING TO WAIT AROUND HERE FOR NOTHING. THIS IS WHERE THE ELEPHANT WILL BE.

  Time passed and finally Sequeira’s phone screen lit up again.

  THE RUSSIAN IS HERE.

  Staring out the windshield, Sequeira spotted the lanky Russian walking along the line of shops toward the Mad Russian’s Emporium of Nice Things. Some of the bruising still showed on Onoprienko’s thin face. Sequeira had heard about the beating the man had taken. Onoprienko wore sunglasses to disguise some of the damage. A
long coat covered his cheap suit.

  There was nothing else, no sign of a box or a bag.

  Frantic, Sequeira tapped out a message on the phone. HE IS NOT CARRYING A PACKAGE!

  HE IS A CAREFUL MAN. WAIT A LITTLE LONGER. THE MAN HE IS DEALING WITH WILL NOT GIVE HIM THE MONEY HE WANTS UNTIL HE HAS THE ELEPHANT. NEITHER OF THESE MEN ARE TRUSTING PEOPLE. THE ELEPHANT WILL BE HERE SOON.

  Sequeira glanced at the two mercenaries he had in the car with him, then over his shoulder at the five in the car behind him. He pushed an earpiece into his ear and opened the radio channel they would be using.

  “All right, when this goes down, remember that I want the elephant. Unbroken and in one piece! I don’t care how many other people you have to kill to get it, but I do not wish to lose that statue.”

  Monitoring the front of the shop, Sequeira hated the fact that he had to rely somewhat on the mercenaries he’d hired. He trusted Brisa implicitly.

  * * *

  ANNJA HAD BARELY finished autographing the box of DVDs when the red-haired woman, Tanya, stepped into the room and announced, “The man you are waiting for is here. Viktor will bring him back to you once he is certain the man has what you seek.”

  “Thank you.” Annja put the last DVD in the box beside the desk. She got up and walked around the desk, seeing immediately that there was a problem.

  Onoprienko hadn’t come alone. Two burly men trailed after him a few minutes post his arrival. Both of the newcomers looked like they had handled plenty of trouble in their lives.

  On the CCTV screen, Fedotov waited behind the counter where the red-haired girl had been. A hidden microphone picked up the conversation and broadcast it into the office.

  Nervously, Onoprienko glanced around, then focused on Fedotov and spoke. Klykov provided a running translation because they spoke in Russian.