Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story

by Kenneth Eade

  Now that the stranger couldn’t see him, Robert ran as fast as he could through the underground passage to the other side of the busy thoroughfare. Once there, he leaped up the stairs three at a time and blended into a crowd of people on the street, looking back over his shoulder. His pursuer was there, but searching around like a rat sniffing for a missing piece of cheese. Robert surfed the crowd until he got to the corner and took a quick right toward the railway station. This was close to his neighborhood and he had memorized all of the surroundings.

  Using traditional counter-surveillance measures, Robert doubled back and checked behind him as he traversed the street. No sign of the mysterious stranger. He ducked into another side street and was finally on the block of his apartment. He scanned everyone in the area, and, convinced that the stranger was not among them, flashed his security key at the door to the building and it buzzed open.

  When he had finally shut the door of the apartment behind him, Robert looked through the drapes of the living room window onto the street below. Everything looked as normal as one would expect it to be. For now.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The more he thought about it, the more insecure he became. He outlined his options to himself. For one thing, he didn’t know who was following him, whether ally or enemy. That unknown variable had to be uncovered in order to determine an appropriate course of action, whether it be to evade, ignore or eliminate the potential obstacle. He made up his mind there was only one way to do that – he had to confront the sycophant face to face.

  Lyosha did check in with Robert by early evening and sounded as though he had just crawled out of bed. He proposed that Robert meet him at Pushkin Café for a late dinner around 11 p.m.

  Lana was right about Moscow night life.

  Until he had identified the stalker, Robert didn’t want to involve Lana. To compromise her safety just to be in her company would be selfish, but, above all, it would shave off his edge, and that edge was something he very much needed to have to resolve the problem. He dialed her number and she answered on the first ring.

  “Hi Lana, it’s Bob.”

  “Hi, Bob, I knew it was you. Is everything alright?”

  “Oh, yeah, fine, fine. I wanted to let you know that Lyosha just made a meeting with me for tonight so I’m not going to be free.”

  There was silence on the end. Then, “I see.”

  “But I’d like to see you tomorrow if that’s alright. Not only are you a terrific tour guide, but you’re also wonderful company.”

  Her voice brightened up. “I would love to.”

  “Good. I’ll call you tomorrow, say around 11?”

  “Sure, I look forward to it.”

  Robert said his good-byes and began to craft a strategy in his mind. Without giving away his location, he would have to offer himself as bait. To do that, he decided to start where he had lost his obsequious chaser and backtrack to cover all the public places where he may be lurking to pick up Robert’s trail.

  At about 10:00 p.m., Robert set his plan into motion. He surreptitiously made a convoluted path to the underground passageway where he had lost the stalker and crossed under Tverskaya Street. There, he openly strolled the boulevard all the way down to Red Square, stopping to look in the store windows along the way. All the while, he was mindful of his surroundings, always on the lookout for his mysterious pursuer.

  Robert sauntered through the entrance to the famous square and wandered around before stopping for a cup of coffee at Bosco. While he sipped, he watched the passers-by and scanned the area for the stranger.

  Nothing.

  He knew that he was a target for surveillance and, if this stalker was a professional like him, he would not have given up after he had lost track of Robert. Moreover, he would do his best not to be seen himself.

  He’s out there, somewhere lurking in the shadows. I can feel him.

  Robert finished his coffee and settled his bill, then proceeded past St. Basil’s Cathedral, out of the square and across the bridge over the Moscow River. He stood there looking out over the rail at the massive battlements of the Kremlin and the huge gold onion dome of the Christ the Savior Cathedral perched on the banks of the river. He checked his watch.

  10:40. He has to have seen me by now.

  Whether he had or not, Robert had to run to Pushkin Square to meet Lyosha. He set out back through Red Square, out the Voskresensky gates and through the underground passage under Okhotnyy Ryad Street to Tverskaya. When he arrived to Pushkin Café he was about 15 minutes late.

  He checked in with the maître d’, who showed him to Lyosha’s table on the first floor. Lyosha stood up and shook his hand vigorously.

  “Hello, my friend. I thought you were lost.”

  “No, no, was just doing some sightseeing in Red Square. It’s quite a walk from there.”

  The maître d’ pulled out a chair for Robert and Lyosha sat as Robert lowered himself into it.

  “You can take metro. In five minutes you’re here.”

  Robert smiled, and kept the secret of his mission to himself. “Can’t do much sightseeing underground.”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend. The metro stations are very beautiful. Some tour guides charge to show you best ones. I will do it – and for free!”

  “I appreciate that.”

  ***

  Pushkin Café was styled in the 18th Century time of its namesake, Alexander Pushkin, the famous Russian poet. The walls were wood paneling and carved ceilings, and bookcases filled with antique, leather bound books. Robert could see this was going to be another long dinner with a lot of drinking, for which he had tempered himself so he could keep his senses.

  “What’s wrong, my friend? Have you had enough vodka for one holiday?”

  “No, I’m fine, just trying to save myself from a hangover.”

  “You were sick next morning?”

  Robert hated to play the weakling.

  “No, I just have to get up earlier tomorrow. I have a date.”

  “A date! With Svetlana, I bet.”

  Robert nodded. “You’ve caught me!”

  “You filthy bastard! Of course! Tonight, you are officially excused from drinking!”

  What Robert did do was excuse himself from the table to go to the restroom and to place a call to Lana. Instead, he bypassed the bathroom break and went outside to play the part of a duck in a shooting range. It worked. Within seconds of exiting the restaurant, Robert spotted his stalker, this time dressed in a plain T-shirt, trying to blend in with the droves of humanity in the greenbelt across the street. Robert bummed a cigarette and a light from the doorman, shuttled down the stairs, turned to his right, and slowly wandered into an alley, where he pretended to smoke it, and kept walking. From a casual glance over his shoulder, he could see the stalker trotting across the street, tailing him. Robert chucked the cigarette, ducked behind some garbage cans, and waited.

  The stalker ran into the alley and looked around in a panic, hunting for Robert, who remained patiently crouched. Just as the stranger began to pass the trash cans, Robert burst out from them, pushed into the man with his hand against his throat, disarmed him in a flash, smashed him against the opposite wall, and held his own gun under his chin. The man, who appeared to be an American, white, brown-haired, about 35, was shivering with fear. It was obvious to Robert he knew who he was following.

  “Turn around asshole.”

  Robert forced him around, pushed the barrel of the gun to the back of his neck and smashed his nose into the wall as he frisked him with his free hand. Robert knew every conceivable place to hide a gun and searched in all those areas. He found a small .22 in a hidden holster under the man’s belt.

  “I can see you know who I am. Now who the hell are you and who are you working for?”

  “I’m with the company.”

  Robert deprived the man of his wallet and cell phone, and he pocketed the phone and held onto the wallet.

  “You’re pretty shitty fo
r a ghost. Can you prove you’re with the company?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Who do you report to?”

  “The Deputy Director for Operations.”

  “The man with no name.”

  “Yes.”

  Robert was furious. He pulled out the contents of the man’s wallet and went through them like a deck of playing cards, discarding each credit card and dropping them on the ground as if he were dealing them.

  “Where’s your passport? Your registration?”

  “Not there.”

  “Obviously. What’s your name?’

  “You know I’m not…”

  Robert turned him, grabbed him by the throat and shoved the gun under his chin. “I asked you a question. You have exactly three seconds to answer it. Your name – the name your parents gave you. One…”

  The man was trembling.

  “Two…”

  “David. David Gunther.”

  “Now you listen to me, David Gunther. If I see you or any of your buddies stalking me again it won’t go as well for you next time. Got it?”

  “Yes, yes.” Sweat had beaded on Gunther’s head and was dripping into his right eye, which he was blinking. Robert pocketed the guns and threw the wallet at the man’s feet.

  “Now get the hell out of here!”

  The man nodded and crouched to pick up his wallet and the contents.

  “I said now!”

  He swept them up in his hands, shoved them into his pockets and ran off.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Robert’s evening with Lyosha had to come to an early end. After fighting over who was going to pay the bill (and losing), he begged his leave.

  “You can’t possibly have something better to do than what I have planned for you.”

  Robert didn’t respond. He just smiled.

  “You filthy bastard! I know what you’re planning to do!”

  Lyosha offered Robert a ride, but the last thing he wanted was to be trailed to his apartment. So he feigned an excuse that he was going to meet Lana there at Pushkin Café. Lyosha accepted it on its face, eloquently, holding onto Robert’s hand a little longer after the shake and looking directly into his eyes. He sensed the reason for Robert’s early departure from the evening’s festivities was not just to meet a girl.

  “I have a feeling my friend is cutting his Russian holiday short.”

  Robert nodded. “I think I have to.”

  “Trouble back home?’

  “Something like that.”

  Robert didn’t tell him the “trouble back home” had followed him to Moscow.

  “You need ride to airport?”

  “No, that wouldn’t work. I have to disappear.”

  “Understood. Leave keys in apartment and just close door. My friend will collect them tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Lyosha, for everything.”

  “You’re welcome, Noll-noll-sem. You have memorized my PGP key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s stay in touch. You know, for American, you are pretty good guy.”

  “And for a Russian, you’re a pretty good guy yourself.”

  Lyosha gave Robert a shoulder hug, Robert latched onto his shoulder and slapped it, and then Lyosha took off on his way. Robert had a cup of coffee while he waited for an appropriate time to pass. Then, his phone rang. It could only be one of two people, and one had just left.

  “Hello Lana.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Only two people have this number.”

  “Oh. I just wanted to make arrangements for the continuation of your city tour tomorrow.” She was upbeat and sounded excited.

  “Lana, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tomorrow. “

  “Can I ask why?”

  “I really can’t explain it over the phone.”

  There was another awkward moment of silence. Then, “I understand.” Her voice was deflated.

  Robert felt bad that he couldn’t see her. After all, he had invested his time with her and did enjoy her presence. But, in his world, everything was temporary and the momentary thing that counted above all else was his life.

  “I’m sorry. Can I call you sometime?”

  “Sure, Bob, you can call.”

  Robert disconnected and pulled the alleged David Gunther’s phone out of his pocket. It was a cheap burner phone, just like his. He examined the recent calls, but none of them looked familiar. He rang the last number that had called Gunther, listened quietly and heard a male voice on the other end.

  “You have eyes on the rabbit?”

  A “rabbit” was spy talk for someone they were following. Robert felt relief that he had heard rabbit and not “target.”

  “Is this the man with no name?”

  “Who are you?”

  “This is the rabbit.”

  A pause, then, “Is the officer with you?”

  “I sent him home. Don’t worry, he’s okay. I don’t take kindly to being followed though, especially after you fucked up the pickup. This is pretty sloppy work.”

  “Come in and we’ll talk about it.”

  “I’m on vacation. You authorized it. I’ll come in when it’s over.”

  Robert clicked off the phone, left it on the radiator next to the table, and got up to leave.

  ***

  In the cloak room, Robert approached another American man who was putting on a light coat over his shoulders and a hat on his balding head.

  “Hey, buddy, I’ll give you a grand if you trade your coat and hat for my leather jacket.”

  The man looked at Robert as if he had just asked to swap wives.

  “What?”

  “My jacket and a thousand bucks for your coat and hat. Can’t beat that for a deal.”

  “Uh, no thanks. I’m not interested.” The man straightened his coat, turned away and started to button it.

  Robert got in front of and very close to the man and, in a low tone, said, “I didn’t ask if you were interested. I’ll make it fifteen hundred.”

  Robert took off his leather jacket and dove into his pocket for the cash. He handed both to the man, who just looked down at the money and back up at Robert.

  “Come on.” He shook the jacket and money in front of his face.

  The man reluctantly took the money first and shoved it into his pants pocket, then removed his coat and hat and gave them to Robert. Then, with a strange look, he snatched the jacket from Robert’s hand. Robert left without giving it a second thought, pulling the duster over his shoulders and covering his head with the hat. He waited at the exit for a group of French tourists to leave and pretended he was going with them, tagging along with his head down and hat hiding his features. When they piled into a waiting car, he opened the door of the taxi behind them. The driver looked over his shoulder into the backseat.

  “Bellarousky Vakzal.”

  The driver shook his head. “Ya zanit.”

  Robert figured that must mean he was waiting on a reservation, so he had to be forceful and convincing.

  “Bellarousky Vakzal,” Robert repeated, and handed the driver a crisp one-hundred dollar bill. The driver’s eyes opened wide and he took it without hesitation, unlike the American guy with the coat and hat, and pulled away from the curb immediately.

  When he was dropped off at the Bellarousky train station, he went into the main entrance in an inflow of people, and retreated into the restroom. He checked into an empty stall and locked the door. Then, he released the clips on both the guns and cracked the slides, popping the rounds out of the chamber. He emptied the magazines into his coat pocket. He broke down the .22 and then the 9mm, taking out the slides, recoil springs, barrels, strikers and plungers, extractors and safety pins, and mixed them all together in the other pocket of the coat. He exited the restroom and then out of the station on a wave of people leaving. Using his counter-surveillance techniques, he made his way back to the apartment, dropping the bullets in one trash can
and scattering the gun components randomly in five separate cans along the way.

  There was no time to waste. He knew who was following him but he didn’t know why. He had to leave for the airport immediately. On home ground he could sort it out more efficiently and easily. He packed the things he had purchased during his short stay in Moscow into his knapsack. Instead of ordering a taxi, he would walk back to the station and take the Aeroexpress train to the airport. He threw the keys on the entry table, pulled the door shut behind him and it clicked into place.

  Robert slung his pack over his shoulder and double-timed it to the train station, dumping the burner phone in a garbage receptacle along the way. He purchased a ticket in the machine for the next Aeroexpress to Sheremetyevo Airport and lay low for about 30 minutes until boarding. Like a chameleon, he mingled in with the crowd. The crowd was an international, cosmopolitan mix of people. With his swarthy skin and short black hair, he could easily pass for just about any nationality or ethnicity, whether Spanish, Italian, Arabic, or Armenian. In the hustle and bustle of the waiting area, he blended right in and then he withdrew into the shadows, which was where he had always felt the most comfortable.

  The boarding announcement echoed through the station. Robert merged with the flood of people hurrying for the train, but hung back against the wall by the platform and waited until everyone had boarded. Then, just as the conductor shouted last call, he shuffled off to a car in the middle of the train and took a seat, alert to everything and everyone in his surroundings. When he was completely sure he was not being followed, he walked through the cars to the first-class cabin at the anterior of the train.

  ***

  At the airport, Robert paid cash for the next flight to Paris on Aeroflot, which was in approximately two hours. After purchasing his ticket, he went directly through passport control and security, but he didn’t enter the business class lounge until he had made a tour through the duty-free shops, just to make sure nobody was tailing him. If it was truly the CIA who was following him, they knew where he lived anyway and he would meet up with one of their agents in Paris. He could have chosen to disappear at that point, but he had tried before and it didn’t work out too well, so he decided to face whatever the problem was and to do it on his own turf.