The Pretender's Gambit

by Alex Archer

  I WAS TRYING TO GET OUT OF THERE, Sequeira texted back. I SUCCEEDED IN NOT BEING ARRESTED IMMEDIATELY, BUT I AM BEING DETAINED.

  YOU’LL HAVE TO PAY THEM MORE MONEY OR THREATEN TO GET THE PORTUGAL EMBASSY INVOLVED.

  WHICH COURSE OF ACTION WOULD BE BEST?

  BRIBE ONE OF THE SENIOR OFFICIALS ONSITE. PAY HIM DIRECTLY THROUGH AN ELECTRONIC FUND TRANSFER. IT WILL COST YOU MORE MONEY THAN YOU HAVE ON YOU, BECAUSE THE WAY THEY’RE LOOKING AT IT, THEY ALREADY HAVE THAT MONEY. THE SENIOR OFFICIAL ALSO KNOWS THAT MONEY HAS TO BE SPLIT WITH THE OTHERS. PAY HIM AND HE WILL GET YOU OUT OF THERE.

  YOU ARE STILL FOLLOWING ANNJA CREED?

  OF COURSE. SHE’S HEADED BACK TO THE AIRPORT.

  WHY?

  I WOULD THINK TO TAKE A PLANE.

  Sequeira cursed quietly. WHERE IS SHE GOING?

  I AM NOT A MIND READER. THAT’S WHY I PUT THE TRACKING DEVICE ON HER. WE WILL FIND HER. DO NOT WORRY.

  Sequeira was worried, though. Brisa didn’t know any of the stories about the elephant or what it might lead to. That knowledge was Sequeira’s alone. He put the phone in his pocket and opened the car door to get out.

  “Sir.” The policeman assigned to the vehicle put a hand on the door to restrain Sequeira. “You must remain in the vehicle.” He spoke English with a heavy accent.

  “Let me speak to the man in charge of this operation.” Sequeira remained outside the vehicle.

  “Get back in the car.”

  “If I don’t talk to your commanding officer now, there’ll be no more money. I will call the embassy and things will go very bad for him, and for you. And I believe that if the commanding officer finds out you refused to let me speak with him he will be upset, and he will direct that at you.”

  The man frowned, but he obviously understood the ramifications of both threats. “Wait here.”

  Sequeira shrugged.

  The policeman walked toward a police car parked in the middle of the road to the market and spoke to someone through the window. After a moment, he stepped back and the door opened.

  A tall man in a pristine uniform emerged from the vehicle. He paused to tug at his gloves, then reached back into the car and retrieved his hat. His face seemed more bone than flesh, but didn’t look emaciated, just hard. The dark eyes looked intelligent. He walked over to join Sequeira.

  “I am Captain Savenko. There is a problem?” he asked.

  “Yes, there is a problem. I do not want to be held here any longer. I have many things to do, and you and your men are keeping me from them.”

  “You and your men were involved in several shootings.”

  “Only to protect ourselves.”

  Savenko smiled thinly, and his almost lipless mouth drained the expression of any warmth. “A funny thing, that. According to the interviews my men have conducted, and are conducting, most people in the market remember you and your group as being the attackers.”

  Keeping a straight face, Sequeira said, “Obviously they are mistaken. Witnesses, as you know, can be horribly unreliable.”

  “It has been my experience, da. This is why I always do a thorough investigation. So my superiors do not question my ability to do my job.”

  Sequeira understood then. Savenko didn’t want to release him and his men too early because his superiors would know he had been paid off handsomely.

  “Then let me pay you again. Privately.” Sequeira took out his phone. “Give me a bank account you wish to receive the money in and I will put twenty thousand euros there in minutes. Your superiors can only guess at that money.”

  Savenko didn’t go for the deal immediately.

  “Otherwise, I will contact the Portuguese Embassy and ask that they intercede on my behalf,” Sequeira said. “I assure you, captain, they will intercede.” Bribery was an international commerce. Favors and cash greased wheels everywhere. “Then things will become even more messy for your superiors.”

  The captain smiled again and tilted his head. “Of course. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” Sequeira accessed his bank account through his phone and then moved money around. He’d already paid thousands of dollars to smooth the situation over. Money like that was only a drop in the bucket to what he had and how much money he had coming in from his various legitimate and illegitimate businesses. He could even have managed millions easily.

  Savenko checked his own phone and accounts, confirming the transfer. “I will have you and your men released within minutes, Mr. Sequeira. Obviously you were a target of a kidnapping attempt gone very wrong.”

  “Obviously. There is one more thing you can do for me, captain. Now that I have been so generous.”

  Savenko didn’t reply.

  “A small thing that will require you only making a phone call.”

  “What?”

  “I need to know where Annja Creed is flying.”

  “Who is Annja Creed?”

  “An American. She was here at the market today, and she was involved in this.” Sequeira pointed at his wrecked sedan. “She was the one who shot my car.”

  Savenko’s face grew harder than Sequeira would have believed possible. “Why am I only now hearing of this person?”

  Sequeira ignored the question. “Can you help me or not?”

  Without a word, Savenko took out his phone and began dialing.

  “Would it be possible to have Annja Creed held at the airport?” Sequeira asked.

  The captain shook his head. “Not without a proper warrant.”

  “She was part of the situation here.”

  “If I have her held at the airport, then I must hold you now. Someone must testify against her.”

  Sequeira reconsidered his options. If Annja Creed were taken into custody, and if she had the elephant on her, it would be held as evidence. Getting the piece away from Odessan police impound might be difficult, and that choice would definitely delay his efforts to resolve the mystery the elephant posed.

  “On second thought, if you can, Captain, just find out where she’s going. A bonus could be arranged for your trouble.”

  Chapter 29

  Deplaning passengers crowded Sheremetyevo International Airport and, after passing through the security checkpoints, Annja and Klykov flowed into the crowd and walked down to claim their baggage. She checked for Nguyen Rao and anyone else who might be following them but spotted no one.

  “This has gotten a lot more dangerous than I thought it would be,” Annja said as she watched for her carry-on at the baggage carousel. She’d hung on to her backpack, but the carry-on had had to be stowed.

  “Are you thinking of turning back?” Klykov stood beside her and tapped the prepaid cell phone he’d picked up at a communications kiosk. He entered letters with a lot more dexterity than she’d thought he was capable of.

  “No, but I was thinking it might be a good place for you to turn back. This isn’t your problem.”

  Klykov grinned and didn’t pause in his texting. “Have you suddenly learned to speak Russian fluently?”

  Annja didn’t answer him because he already knew the answer. She was also curious about who Klykov was in contact with.

  “This woman we seek, Nadia Silaevae, I can assure you she will be reluctant to talk to you even after this granddaughter called her to tell her you were coming. She will be wary of tricks, and be suspicious of anyone who is not family. Many people still living in this country, they are not so far from the old days.”

  “Do you think she’ll trust you?”

  Klykov smiled broadly as he tucked his prepaid phone in his coat pocket. “I am handsome Russian man. What is not to trust?”

  Annja couldn’t argue with that either. Klykov was smooth. He’d gotten them out of Odessa with no fuss, although she still didn’t know how much he’d paid to accom
plish that feat. Her bag came by and she grabbed it. Klykov snared his, dropped it to the floor and extended the handle to pull the bag along after him.

  “Come,” Klykov directed. “We must make a stop before we go to Nadia Silaevae’s home.”

  “For a gun?” Klykov had been forced to get rid of his pistol before they’d reached the airport in Odessa.

  “No, no. I have already taken care of weapon.”

  Feeling suddenly anxious, Annja looked around as they headed for the exit. “You’ve already got a gun?”

  “Don’t be silly, Annja. This is airport. Very hard to get weapon in airport.” Klykov shrugged thoughtfully. “Not impossible, but very difficult. And no real need with so many waiting in streets.”

  “Then why are we stopping?”

  “To get gift for Nadia Silaevae. I will not go calling on this woman’s house, especially since we are strangers, without something for her. It is not proper.”

  As they stepped out into the bracing chill, Annja pulled her coat tighter, hoping to maintain some of the airport’s warmth. She gazed around, taking in the taxis, the buses and the crowds waiting for each.

  No one seemed overly interested in them.

  “They are not here, Annja. Do not worry. I would know. I am watching for them now.” Klykov touched his nose in a knowing way.

  Annja didn’t point out that Klykov wasn’t going to be there forever, or the fact that she’d been used to taking care of herself long before he showed up. He was just demonstrating the male mindset, the same way Bart had been doing by trying to protect her, she supposed. She didn’t mind because they were good men—as long as that attitude didn’t slow her down. “They surprised us at the market.”

  “Here we are ahead of them.” Klykov paused at the curb. “For now.”

  Just before she could ask him what he was waiting on, a dark sedan slid to a stop in front of them. A big man with a sad, seamed face and iron-gray hair got out from behind the steering wheel and walked around to the rear of the car to open the door.

  When the burly man waved her in, Annja slid across the backseat to make room for Klykov. The chauffeur put their bags in the trunk then took his seat behind the steering wheel. He spoke in Russian.

  “English, please, Vladi,” Klykov said, nodding to Annja. “Out of respect.”

  “You have address?” Vladi’s English was a trifle stilted. He put the car in gear and eased into traffic.

  Annja gave the address. Nadia Silaevae lived in the Kitai Gorod neighborhood, not far from the old KBG building on Lubyanka Square. Annja was faintly aware of the area being part of Moscow’s old city, and a quick perusal of the neighborhood via the internet hadn’t broadened her familiarity with the locale appreciably.

  Once they were on the highway, Vladi reached under the seat and brought out a shoe box, which he passed back to Klykov.

  “Is good,” Vladi said. “Is one I have used, but never on business.”

  “Thank you, Vladi.” Klykov opened the box and took out a pistol. “Very nice.”

  “I have included three extra magazines since you have had trouble in Odessa. And there is a silencer for when you wish to be quiet. Very good silencer. Easy on, easy off.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Klykov tested the weight of the weapon, then put it in his right coat pocket. He dropped the spare magazines and the silencer in his left pocket.

  Annja silently hoped that they wouldn’t need them. She didn’t wish to bring trouble to Nadia Silaevae’s door.

  * * *

  DEEP IN THE Kitai Gorod neighborhood, Klykov had Vladi pull the sedan to the curb in front of a small grocer’s. Klykov got out of the car and Annja followed.

  She loved the small shop because it felt casually comforting in its sameness even though the products were all listed in Russian. It still felt a little like the bodega down the block from her apartment. She couldn’t help thinking that there wasn’t a metropolitan area, anywhere in the world, where someone wouldn’t be able to find quaint neighborhood shops or markets. Cities were like home everywhere.

  A handful of children in school uniforms under their jackets stood in front of the candy section. Klykov walked over to them, talked briefly and got them all to laugh. Then he pressed coins into their hands. For a moment, he looked like any Russian grandfather doling out allowances, but Annja couldn’t forget how heavily his coat pockets hung with the pistol and extra magazines.

  He picked up a large shopping basket, walked to the back of the shop where the bread was kept and picked out three large loaves. He added a dozen small pirozhkis, which were pies filled with fish, cheese, cabbage or jam. He added klyukva s sakharom, which were sugar frosted cranberries, cans of sardines, a jar of pickles and packets of tea.

  “Not just tea,” Klykov told Annja when she asked about it. “This is black tea meant to be served with cardamom and lemon or cream. If you have not had it, you will enjoy it. Very robust.” He picked up the condiments for the tea, as well.

  “I didn’t know we were going on a picnic.”

  Klykov smiled at her. “At her age, Nadia Silaevae is probably a woman alone. Even if she is not, she will appreciate not having to make a meal or two for her husband and herself after we have gone. She is doing us a favor. She should not be doing this for nothing.”

  Annja couldn’t argue with that logic.

  After the purchases were made, they returned to the car and Vladi drove on.

  * * *

  NADIA SILAEVAE LIVED on the first floor of a six-story apartment building that looked as if it had survived most of the era since the time of the Bolsheviks. Scars decorated the bricks, and the mortar needed replacing in several areas. A few children lounged around the steps and the small yards, eyeing Annja and Klykov with open and wary speculation.

  Arms loaded with food, Annja and Klykov stood outside the unit that Klykov said had the woman’s surname on it. Annja couldn’t read the Cyrillic alphabet, but Klykov verified the address. He knocked on the door.

  The peephole inset in the door darkened for a second, then a woman’s voice spoke in Russian.

  Klykov quickly replied and Annja recognized her own name. Then he smiled and looked at Annja. “Nadia Silaevae is afraid we are door-to-door salesmen trying to sell her something.”

  A short round woman appeared in a dark dress and scarf. She held a heavy cast-iron frying pan in one hand. Quietly, she and Klykov talked for a few moments, then Nadia Silaevae stepped back from the open door and directed them in. As they passed, she inspected the grocery bags with keen interest. Annja suspected the groceries had done more to gain entrance to the home than anything Klykov said or Tanechka Chislova had told her.

  The living room was small and it led to the kitchen. At Nadia’s instruction, Klykov and Annja carried the bags to the small, modestly dressed dining table where white-petaled chamomile blossoms stood proudly on spindly stalks in a leaden glass vase. The faint scent of apples from the fragrant blossoms lingered in the kitchen.

  Once the bags were on the table, Nadia chased Klykov and Annja from the kitchen to the living room and began to put the food away. Klykov guided Annja to the small green sofa and he sat beside her. Across a low coffee table, a matching love seat sat with a knitting basket beside it. Judging from the way the knitting project laid on top of the basket, they had interrupted Nadia’s work.

  Klykov and Nadia spoke back and forth intermittently. Annja felt left out of the conversation and satisfied herself with looking around the room. Guessing from the number of knickknacks on shelves and a small shadowbox on the wall, Nadia had lived in the apartment for a long time.

  There was a shelf of books that made her curious. Closer inspection of those revealed that some of the titles were in English and that they were spy novels by British and American authors. None of them were recent editions, so she suppo
sed Nadia’s husband had been the reader.

  No sign of the husband, other than pictures of a couple with a much younger Nadia featured in them. The absence was circumspect, but Annja felt sad for the old woman.

  “I am sorry, Annja,” Klykov said. “I could translate my communication with Nadia Silaevae, but there is nothing of consequence we are discussing. Merely pleasantries and some catching up on events and people in Moscow.”

  “I heard my name come up a few times.”

  Klykov smiled. “Nadia Silaevae is very curious about you. She asked if you were my granddaughter, and I told her that you were an American television star, that I was merely your guide.”

  Annja stopped herself from pointing out that she was an archaeologist first and foremost, then she decided making the argument wasn’t justified.

  “Nadia Silaevae is most impressed. She has never had a television star of any kind in her home, let alone one from America. She feels very honored.”

  “Please tell her thank you for me, and mention that she has a lovely home.”

  Klykov nodded and spoke to the old woman again. They had a brief exchange and Klykov turned to Annja again. “Nadia Silaevae would like to know how you will take your tea.”

  “Lemon, please.”

  The choice was relayed. A few more minutes passed, and then Nadia Silaevae carried a tea service to the living room. She spoke to Klykov and he nodded and began pouring tea while she returned to the kitchen. When she reappeared, she carried another tray, this one covered with bread and jam and a few of the pirozhkis. She passed out small plates, sat in her chair and gestured to the food with a smile.