by John Lutz
Nothing unusual so far. Laker’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the line of the ticket windows across the hall. A stocky young man with buzz-cut dark hair and a folder under his arm cut in front of the first person in line, a tall woman in a red coat, and spoke to the clerk behind the counter. The woman waited patiently, without protest. She smelled cop.
So did Laker.
He watched as the man made his way along the wall, speaking to each ticket clerk, handing him a piece of paper from the folder. Then he went into a snack bar. Through its glass wall, Laker saw him repeat the routine with the cashier.
When the man strode toward the doors to the street, Laker rose and followed unhurriedly. Before stepping out he pulled down his hat and turned up his collar.
He was in time to see the man getting into a Toyota sedan parked in the station forecourt. On its door was painted . Police.
Reentering the station, Laker walked to the glass wall of the snack bar. The cashier was busy with a tape dispenser, taping a photo to the counter next to his cash register. When he took his hands away, Laker saw the familiar picture of himself in his football jersey.
Laker didn’t hesitate. Didn’t hurry, either. He turned and walked out of the station, tossing his train ticket into a refuse bin. Crossing the street, he boarded a tram. There was no time to waste but he couldn’t risk a cab. The cops had probably worked their way along the taxi queue by the curb, handing his picture to every driver.
They were probably looking for him in the big downtown hotels already. They’d get around to his flophouse eventually. Before they did, he wanted to retrieve his passport. Obtaining a forgery in a town where he had no contacts would be time-consuming and dangerous.
The tram let him off a block from his hotel. He approached warily, in case the police were here already, but saw no signs of them. At least he hadn’t been bug-bitten in vain.
He entered the bleak lobby. It was empty and his room key on its doorknob was still lying on the counter where he’d left it. He listened for the television in the back office, heard nothing. The desk clerk probably hadn’t come in yet.
The glass panel over the counter was thick, but the wooden door next to it looked flimsy. Laker lifted his foot and slammed it into the door, which flew open and swung against the wall. As it bounced back he caught it and stepped through. He’d seen the clerk put his passport in the top drawer when he’d checked in. The desk was sturdier than the door. He’d have to pick the lock. He picked up a paperclip from the desk, straightened it, and set to work.
The lock didn’t resist for long. He opened the drawer. There were several passports but only one was blue. Snatching it up, he turned and went out the door.
Yuri was standing in the lobby. Between Laker and the door. He was barefoot and in his underwear; the splintering of the door must’ve awakened him. He raised his ginger eyebrows. “Can I help you, Edward?”
“Get out of the way. I’m in a hurry.”
“So I see.”
“Yuri, I don’t want to hurt you.”
The young man stepped aside. As Laker rushed by, he saw Yuri picking up his key from the counter. “I’ll bring your suitcase to you,” he called after Laker. “The Eagle’s Nest. Noon.”
* * *
The day warmed up as the sun rose higher. At noon there were a lot of people at the Eagle’s Nest. It was a hill topped by a statue of two men in monks’ robes standing with a cross. The railing in front of it was fringed with padlocks. The fad for lovers to declare their undying bond by writing their names on a padlock and fastening it on some monument had started in Paris and by now had reached even Vladivostok. Several couples were placing their locks when Laker arrived. It was the sort of spring day that made young people feel amorous.
He took a seat on one of the long benches. Many people were sitting and looking at the views of downtown, the blue bay with its two silvery bridges, the green hills beyond. He’d thought it over long and hard before deciding to come to the rendezvous. His suitcase contained only a couple of changes of clothes, nothing that could help the police. It wasn’t worth the risk that the meeting would prove a trap. But Laker didn’t believe Yuri would set him up. It was just a feeling; he had no reason to trust the young man. He went back and forth on it. Finally, half an hour ago, he’d picked up a copy of the Lord of the East Times and spotted Yuri’s byline on several stories. He’d told the truth about that, anyway. It was enough for Laker to meet him.
Five minutes late, Yuri arrived. The suitcase made him easy to spot in the crowd climbing the broad path from downtown. He was wearing a light jacket and his hip-hop jeans. He loped over to Laker and dropped the suitcase in front of him.
“Thanks.”
“Consider it professional courtesy. From the Lord of the East Times to The New York Times. Or whoever you work for.”
“What makes you think I’m a reporter?”
“Takes one to know one, isn’t that the saying?” He dropped on the bench beside Laker. “And the police being after you only confirms it. You’re working on a story they want kept secret. If they catch you, they’ll strip you of your press pass and put you on a plane back to America.”
If only, Laker thought. He decided to play along with Yuri. “You’re right. I’m a reporter. Did the police come to the hotel?”
“I don’t know. I left shortly after you did, for my office. From there I called my friend in the police. Asked what was up. He said they were looking for Thomas Laker, an American spy.” Yuri grinned, showing his wayward teeth. “That’s what they always do with a Western journalist they don’t like. Call him a spy. My friend said I was not to publish anything until further notice. They don’t want you to know they’re looking for you. They’re hoping to catch you unawares.”
Laker nodded. It sounded plausible. “Did your friend tell you how they know I’m in Vladivostok?”
“Yes, he’s very good about telling me things I can’t publish. Somebody saw you in the street. He recognized you from a photo on television.”
Somebody in the street. Just the unlucky break he’d been afraid of. Maybe it’d even been that teenager on the steps from the underground mall, who’d taken a second look and hurried away.
It could have been worse, though. They didn’t have his Edward McLean alias. His passport was still good. For a while, anyway.
Yuri had been watching him intently while he’d been thinking. Now he said, “Is Thomas Laker your real name?”
“No. My real name is Lester Comingore, and I’m on the Washington Post.”
Yuri grinned again, nodding. The name was familiar to him, as Laker had hoped. He’d chosen carefully from among his many acquaintances in the Washington press corps. Les was a world-renowned investigative reporter, known for his unconventional methods and willingness to take risks. He avoided appearing on television because he didn’t want his face to become known.
“What are you working on, Mr. Comingore?”
“Call me Les.” Laker figured Comingore wouldn’t mind. “There was an accident aboard a freighter. A Filipino sailor was killed. It’s being covered up.”
Yuri was disappointed. “Not much of a story. You couldn’t sell that anywhere but Manila.”
“The coverup is serious. An NGO was looking into the accident. Moscow ordered it hit.”
“Of course. Home Port, in Tallinn, Estonia It was passed off as a Muslim extremist bombing. You were there, as Laker. You’ve chased this story a long way. What else have you got on it?”
The kid was well-informed and quick on the uptake. Laker told him what he’d found out about the Comercio Marinero. When he got to the part about going to Magadan, Yuri interrupted.
“You can’t go. Now they’ve found out where you are, they’ll figure out why you’re here. They’ll be looking for you in Magadan. And it’s a small place. No, I’ll have to go.”
“You realize how dangerous that would be?”
Yuri shook his head. “Not so dangerous. I’ll tell them I’m work
ing on a story about the ties of commerce and friendship that unite Russia’s two great Pacific ports. The prosperous future we share. It’s the kind of crap I usually write. I’ll be very convincing.”
“You figure you can just bring up the accident and they’ll answer your questions?”
“I probably won’t even have to bring it up. Russians love to gossip. They know they can tell me anything. Even if I felt suicidal enough to put it in a story, my editors would never publish it.”
“Why go to Magadan, then?”
Yuri swiveled to face him. He was unsmiling and intense now. “To earn your gratitude, Les. You publish the story in the West. Without mentioning my name in it, of course. But you’ll tell your friends about me. At the Washington Post. At other media. I need contacts.”
“For when you emigrate?”
“That’s the plan.”
Laker thought it over. Failed to come up with a better idea. “All right. Just be careful. You want to meet here tomorrow?”
“Not enough time. Make it the day after. Noon.” He put out his hand and they shook. “Thanks for the chance, Les. You won’t regret this.”
Laker watched the kid walk away. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it. Hoped, too, that he’d be able to keep his various names straight. His aliases were multiplying.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Two days later, when Laker returned, the scene at the Eagle’s Nest looked very different. Winter was taking another crack at Vladivostok. Gray, snow-laden clouds covered the sky. The wind had a sharp edge. He put up the hood of his parka as he climbed the hill.
The parka was new, replacing his wool topcoat. He’d also bought heavy, dark-framed spectacles with plain glass lenses and dyed his beard black. He wondered if Yuri would recognize him.
The last forty-eight hours had passed slowly. A spy spent most of his time waiting and lying low, Laker’s boss Sam Mason liked to say. You had to be good at these two things or you’d end up in a foreign jail. Or worse.
The police were looking for him in the sort of places foreigners frequented, so Laker avoided these. He killed time in university libraries, movie theaters, late-night jazz clubs, Laundromats. Provided you didn’t vandalize the machines or lie down on the floor and go to sleep, you could hang around a Laundromat all day. He checked the curb at the war memorial a couple of times, but Porfiry had left no chalk marks. Laker wasn’t surprised.
He reached the top of the hill. There were fewer people here, and most of them were striding toward their destinations without pausing to take in the view. One couple, whose ardor must be keeping them warm, were up on the monument with the statue of the monks, fastening a padlock to the rail. A tourist with a backpack was struggling against the wind to open a map and find his way. A businessman with a briefcase had stopped to take a call on his cell phone.
Only one man was sitting on the bench overlooking the city, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. When Laker got close enough, he could see the curlicue haircut. It was Yuri. Laker rounded the bench and sat down beside him.
“Any luck?”
Yuri turned to him. The pupils were dilated, the gaze unfocused. “Sorry, Laker. This is what they had to do to make me betray you.”
He pulled his hand from his pocket. It was red and swollen, the cuticles exposed and bleeding. All his fingernails had been pulled out.
Laker jumped up. The businessman was running toward him. He’d dropped his briefcase and phone. His right hand was in his pocket. “Stop! Put your hands on your head!” he shouted in English.
Instead Laker ran at him. They collided just as the man’s gun hand cleared his pocket. He dropped the pistol as they both went sprawling. Laker recovered first. He kicked the man in the head and picked up the pistol.
The tourist’s map was sailing away on the wind. Already he’d dropped into a shooting crouch. His arms came up, the left hand cupped under the right, which held the gun.
Apparently Laker had missed his chance to surrender and wasn’t going to get another one. He and the tourist fired at the same moment. The tourist missed. Laker didn’t.
The tourist crumpled to lie awkwardly upon his backpack, blood pouring from the bullet wound in his throat. Laker was running already. On the monument, the man and woman were pulling out their weapons. Machine pistols, HKs or something similar.
Laker made it to the path and the partial cover of a grove of bare trees before he heard the rattle of automatic fire. The bullets didn’t even clip any twigs near him; they were missing by a mile. He kept running downhill, slipping the pistol into his coat pocket.
As soon as he reached the downtown streets, he stopped running. Took off his glasses and pulled the hood of his parka over the wool cap on his head so that he wouldn’t look like the description that the agents on the hilltop were now telephoning to their backups in town. Tried his best to blend in among the pedestrians on the sidewalk despite his height.
He wasn’t hearing sirens. That could only mean that the local police had been ordered to stand down, leave the field clear for operatives who’d been sent from Moscow. He could take it for granted that they were now being told to shoot him on sight.
Ahead of him a car swerved to the curb. All its doors opened and men piled out. He swung around. Another car was mounting the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians. His retreat was blocked. But between him and the car was an opening in the pavement and steps down to an underground mall. Laker ran to it. The doors of the car were opening. A man got out and propped his elbows on its roof to aim, got off one shot before Laker plunged down the steps. It hit somebody. He heard screams behind him.
The fluorescent-lit corridor of the mall was brighter than the street. The crowd was thicker, with people taking refuge from the weather to shop or idle before windows. They didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on above them. Piped-in music covered the noise. Most of them were bare-headed so Laker pushed back his hood.
He plunged into the crowd, slipping among them as quickly as he could without causing a commotion. He knew from his previous visit that the underground mall was only this one corridor, with two exits. He had to get to the other one before it was blocked.
The stairs came into view. Feet appeared and descended them. There were three men, right hands in their coat pockets, faces grim and alert, eyes scanning the people in the corridor.
He didn’t bother to look over his shoulder. Of course his pursuers were coming up behind him. He was trapped. He went into the store entrance on his right.
It was a small furniture store, only a couple of customers in it. This was no good. Even if his pursuers hadn’t seen him go in this store, they had secured both street entrances and would begin a shop-by-shop search. There was a sofa he could hide behind, but that would buy him only seconds. He was trapped and outnumbered.
He looked at the sofa again. How had it gotten here? How had all the merchandise gotten here? Not by being carried down the stairs.
He went up to the salesman at the cash register, a stout young man with eyes as black and shiny as his hair. “Where’s your back door?”
“What?”
Laker drew his pistol and put the muzzle against the tip of the man’s nose. His black eyes bulged with fear.
“The faster you show me the back door, the faster I’m out of here.”
The salesman turned and led him through a curtained entrance to a small stockroom. There was a door in the opposite wall. The salesman’s hand came out of his pocket with his keys. They rattled as the hand shook. He slid the key in the lock, turned it. Laker pushed him aside and flung the door wide.
The corridor was narrow and dim. Its walls were bare concrete. Laker ran swiftly and quietly in his soft-soled shoes. It wasn’t long before he heard rapid footfalls behind him.
The corridor zigged and zagged, because some stores were smaller than others. As he came around a turn, a door opened right in front of him. He brought up short as a woman stepped out, gave him a blank look, and dumped an armful of flat
tened cardboard boxes on the floor. She stepped back, and the door swung shut. Jumping over the pile of boxes, he got up on his toes and sprinted.
Rounding the next turn he heard an exclamation, a heavy thud, a curse. His leading pursuer hadn’t seen the boxes in the faint light. He’d slipped and fallen. That bought Laker a few paces.
He lost them soon enough. The corridor ahead was nearly blocked by a large trolley piled high with boxes. He had to turn sideways to squeeze past the cart. A blond man in overalls was pushing it. He said indifferently, “Big load. Sorry, pal.”
“Me, too,” said Laker, and punched him in the chin. He dropped, unconscious. Grabbing the trolley’s handles, Laker angled it to block the whole corridor, swiveled its back wheels to jam them.
He had a straight stretch of a hundred paces ahead and he covered it at a sprint. He was around the next turn when he heard the thuds. His pursuers were pushing boxes off the trolley to make an opening they could clamber through. That would take a little while.
The corridor ended in big double doors. He pushed them open and was on a loading dock. Stacks of boxes. A big dumpster, reeking of restaurant garbage. And the back of a truck yawning open, as its driver took out crates and stacked them on a dolly.
Laker put the gun in his face. “Give me your keys.”
The driver raised his hands, though Laker hadn’t told him to. He said, “They’re in the ignition.”
Laker jumped down from the dock. The truck’s door was open, and he climbed in. Grasped the keys and turned. The engine roared to life. He let out the clutch and went through the gears. As the truck climbed the ramp, crates slid out the back and crashed onto the cement.
Reaching the top of the ramp, he was at street level. He merged into traffic. Large, wet snowflakes were falling on the windshield. The skies had darkened so much that the streetlights were on. Laker turned on his wipers and headlights. Glanced at his mirrors and saw no pursuing vehicles.