Mentally she knew she had command of the skill set that he had given her. But she had never had to test herself in the field. It was very different to be in a strange, dark room instead of in a bright gym with cushioned mats.
The anger was different, too.
This punk looked as if he wanted to tear her head off.
He is looking down, she told herself. He is a coward - a brute. That’s why he put that thing on his hand to fight an older man and a woman. He is afraid.
She straightened to her full height. Not swiftly but slowly, in total control. She did not take her eyes from him. She did not assume a stance. She just - stood.
Their eyes were level now, but they were not equal. She was confident and poised. He was angry and unsure. She knew exactly what she would do if she had to. She knew, from his action, which hand would come at her and that it would be with a hooked swing. She had already scoped out her immediate surroundings using peripheral vision. The first lesson she had learned from her sensei: get out of the way. Let your attacker move past you with wild momentum. Then attack from behind.
Her resolve was apparent. His uncertainty was equally obvious … even to him. After a moment or two more of alpha-dog huffing, he clamped his mouth shut, spun away, and left the apartment - slamming the door behind him.
22
The rage hung in the room for a few moments, then it evaporated. As it did, Jasmine saw Dobrev racked with shame.
‘I am so sorry,’ he said miserably.
‘There’s no need.’
‘I’m ashamed,’ he repeated, turning away slightly. ‘So ashamed.’
She let him have a moment. Jasmine did not know if Dobrev knew it, but those were reportedly the very words Nicholas II said to Alexandra after he was forced to abdicate.
When he looked at her again, his face was regretful. ‘My grandson, Yury … he held so much promise. He was named for Yury Lomonosov, the designer of the first diesel locomotive. His father thought that he would take after him. But it was not to be.’
Jasmine was cautious, but she couldn’t help herself. She took a few steps toward the man and placed a hand on his shoulder, letting him know that she, and the situation, were all right.
She knew from what Garcia had researched and whispered in her ear that the young man’s father, Andrei’s son, was Ivan Dobrev. Newspaper accounts and police reports said that Ivan had been a proud railroad man during the industry’s most trying time in the 1990s. Yury had been just a baby when the Russian mob, competing with the dying Soviet government for control of the railway workers, had opened fire on a picnic in the Lyubertsy neighborhood just outside Moscow city limits. Yury had survived the slaughter. His father did not.
‘My son was a good man,’ Dobrev said sadly, succinctly. ‘He was killed in an unfortunate incident. His mother, Dominika, lingered - but as you can imagine, she was never the same. She drank to bury her pain. She couldn’t control Yury, even when he was a child. I tried, but I was around infrequently. I found her dead one morning when Yury was eleven. We never did discover whether she simply gave up or committed suicide with the bottle. Yury was sitting by her side, reading a book about the Revolution. I can still see the cover, February and October—’
Jasmine nodded. ‘The abdication of the tsar, and then the rise of the Bolsheviks.’
‘That’s right,’ Dobrev said admiringly. ‘After the ambulance came, and the police, I asked the boy to join me at the rail yards. He didn’t answer. I referenced the book. I told him that in spite of everything that had happened, he was lucky not to have to live through the time of hunger and change. I told him how we had to work with military tanks in the streets, gunfire in our ears, and the smell of acrid smoke in our nostrils. He listened, looked at me for a moment … then he spit at me.’
Jasmine made a sympathetic sound in spite of herself. ‘He was just eleven?’
Dobrev nodded. ‘I didn’t strike him. I grasped him tightly by the arms and asked him why he had done that. He said that my trains had caused the trouble. Ease of travel from foreign countries. The influence of foreign culture and values. He blamed that on men like me.’
‘Where did that come from?’ Jasmine asked.
‘The RNU.’
Cobb whispered in her ear. ‘The Russian National Unity Group. Russian Nazis. Mainly young punks who embrace the label because they think it’s cool … By the way, we’re outside. Cough if you need us.’
‘Russian Nazis,’ Jasmine said.
Dobrev nodded. ‘They recruit young boys to program with their mindless fervor. Yury kept getting angrier and angrier. When I saw him, which wasn’t often, his talk was increasingly spiteful and sadistic. It was this behavior that took him from me.’
‘What happened?’ Jasmine asked. She was speaking to both her immediate company and those listening on their closed frequency.
Garcia pounded his keyboard, frantically searching the Web for anything related to Yury Dobrev. ‘I’ve got nothing,’ he answered.
Andrei Dobrev took a deep breath, steadying himself before he continued. ‘Even among those united by hate, there are grave differences.’
Jasmine sensed he wasn’t finished and didn’t interject.
‘Not quite a year ago, Yury and his new “friends” traveled to Zvenigorod, about sixty kilometers to the west. Zvenigorod draws numerous foreign tourists, all seeking their destinies.’
‘Legend holds that the dreams one experiences in Zvenigorod foretell the future. It dates back to a story about Napoleon’s stepson, who saw his own fate while staying in a monastery there.’ Garcia and Dobrev spoke almost in unison, with virtually the exact same words, as if the former was quoting from a book that the latter had written.
‘The legend attracts foreigners,’ Dobrev continued, ‘and the foreigners attract nationalists. Or at least those who spit venom from behind the cloak of nationalist pride. Nazis, white supremacists, Aryans. Once a year, they all turn out en masse to show their strength. An event that quickly collapses into chaos.’
Dobrev paused, and his eyes glazed over.
Jasmine could see the pain in his memories.
‘That’s a lot of collected anger,’ Jasmine offered. She didn’t mean to salt the wound, but she knew she needed to hear the rest of the story.
Dobrev nodded. ‘It would seem that the only thing these groups hate more than foreigners are those who don’t know how to properly hate foreigners. The Nazis feel that the supremacists and Aryans impede their cause with unprovoked violence. The supremacists and Aryans feel that the Nazis are too concerned with politics, particularly international affairs. Perhaps the only thing they agree on is that the RNU has yet to earn their respect. Insults were exchanged, and punches soon led to weapons.’
Tears welled in Dobrev’s eyes. ‘Yury was stabbed. He did not survive. His so-called friends buried him somewhere in the forests between here and there. To this day, I do not know exactly where. I’m not even sure they know where.’
Jasmine pointed toward the door. ‘That was one of Yury’s friends?’
Dobrev nodded. ‘His name is Marko Kadurik.’
He took a bottle of vodka from atop a desk in his small living room, poured himself three fingers’ worth, and downed it with one quick swig. His eyes never focused on the task. He was still consumed by the memory of his grandson.
Jasmine took a deep breath. ‘I should probably go.’
‘All right,’ Dobrev agreed.
Jasmine felt the pangs of remorse, and she wondered if she had taken her questions too far. She had assumed that Dobrev would object to her departure and beg her to stay longer. Instead, he seemed to welcome the impending solitude.
‘I will make sure you get safely to—’
‘There’s really no need,’ she said. ‘It’s early, and I saw a taxi station just down the block. I will be perfectly safe.’
‘Please, I—’
Jasmine smiled and took his hand, holding it gently in a show of affection. ‘Thank you for
sharing your treasures and keepsakes. You’ll never know how much it meant to me.’
* * *
Marko Kadurik heard the conversation through the thin wall that his apartment shared with Dobrev’s. He hadn’t lived there long - less than a year - only in the months since Yury’s death. Yury had often bragged of his grandfather’s old-country regalia, and he had mentioned their value on more than one occasion. One item in particular had caught Kadurik’s interest: a gold coin. He had already broken into Dobrev’s apartment several times in search of the treasure, but he had yet to locate it.
It is only a matter of time, he thought.
When the woman left, he stared into the darkness of his apartment. His walls and windows were covered with RNU flags. They were emblazoned with swastikas and modified swastikas - symbols that looked like four deadly, interlocking tonfa batons.
Yes, he thought. Go to the taxi stand. Go where you think you’ll be safe.
The only illumination in the room came from the cell phone he held at his waist, his thumb dancing across the tiny keyboard. The dim backlighting of the device gave his tortured face an even more satanic glow.
A few seconds passed. The cell phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced down and saw the message clearly. His comrades-in-arms were on their way. And they were coming fast.
Kadurik smiled like a wolf when he heard the outside door of the apartment building slam shut. He peeked from behind one of the banners and looked at the street.
There she was. Walking proudly. Not knowing the fate that was about to overtake her.
His group’s leader had made it clear: Russia was for the Slavic - not the Jews, not the Muslims, not the Gypsies, and certainly not the hated Asians. He had been vehement about that. The Russian national identity must be protected from dilution by other races, liberal sympathizers, cross-breeders, mixed progeny, and temptresses - especially the exotic ones. The ones that made normally sane men, like Yury’s grandfather, dribble like senile old men.
Kadurik opened his door and grinned in anticipation.
This was going to be fun.
23
Cobb was waiting at the curb for Jasmine when she emerged from the squat apartment building on the suburban street. He was leaning against the gray UAZ Simbir that their railway partners had loaned to him - a plain but fairly powerful four-by-four that looked like a western SUV but with a more prominent snout and an overall look of Communist reserve.
Cobb had left the vehicle when things looked like they might go south. He held back as Jasmine regained control of the situation with Kadurik. Now he smiled as she approached.
He was glad to see her safe.
Jasmine looked both ways down the bleak, harshly lit, cement-enclosed street. She was relieved to see that the area was all but empty. Little wonder. The entrance to the Dobrev apartment was tucked into an unnatural pyramid with a curving wall beneath a roadway forming one side, the apartment building forming another, and the maw of a dark alley comprising the third.
In Manhattan, this would have been the butt end of the building.
In Kartmazovo, it was the grand entrance.
‘Hope I didn’t make you wait too long,’ Jasmine said with a mixture of sarcasm, relief, and pride - the pride that came from successfully pulling off a first assignment.
‘You did great in there,’ Cobb assured her. ‘I was thinking, though, we missed a golden opportunity. We should have brought one of those gold foil chocolate coins and done a switcheroo. He probably wouldn’t have noticed for years, if ever.’
She laughed at the suggestion. ‘Honestly? I was trying to think of some way to palm it. I would have felt bad, but not—’
came a loud, rough voice.
‘Shit,’ Cobb whispered under his breath. He saw two uniformed patrolmen out of the corner of his eye. ‘What’d he yell?’
‘Excuse me,’ she translated.
Cognizant of the button camera on his shirt, Cobb turned toward the cops, giving Garcia a clear view of what they were dealing with: two veteran Russian patrolmen, both with square-brimmed gray caps and gray pants, one with a matching gray shirt, the other with a light blue shirt with epaulettes on his shoulders. Both had heavy, brown belts complete with handcuff holders and large, worn, leather holsters.
One was taller than the other, but both were overweight. They had buzz-cut hair, double chins, bobbed noses, and suspicious eyes. The expressions on their flushed faces were smug.
‘What can we do for you, officers?’ Jasmine asked in Russian.
Both men were taken aback by the fluent Russian coming from the mouth of the statuesque Asian. They stopped a few feet away, their surprise fading as they became bossy.
said the taller, heavier one.
‘Papers, please,’ Jasmine translated.
Cobb was already pulling his passport and visa out of his jacket pocket. She did the same from her coat. They calmly handed them over to the officers and waited, apparently unconcerned, while the two conferred.
said the shorter one, looking up.
‘These are not in order,’ Jasmine translated, looking hopefully at Cobb. Thankfully his manner was as comforting as it was confident.
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘Give them my apologies, tell them that it’s all my fault, and if they’d be so kind as to hand our documents back for a moment, I’m sure I can correct my mistake.’
Jasmine did so, while the cops used it as an excuse to stare at her as if she was a particularly clever animal in a zoo. They handed the passports and visas back. Cobb returned them with a one-hundred-ruble bill tucked between each set. The cops’ eyes brightened at the sight, but they still put on a show of study.
‘What’s going on?’ Jasmine whispered to Cobb.
‘It’s the Russian game, been going on for centuries,’ Cobb assured her casually. ‘They lie, we know they’re lying, they know we know they’re lying, they keep lying anyway, and we pretend to believe them.’
‘How about if I just believe you?’
‘That works.’
The heavier officer looked up and held out the passports and visas - minus the money, of course - with a smile on his face. He opened his mouth, probably to say that their papers were in order this time, but he never had a chance to speak.
Instead, a jagged rock smashed into the side of the cop’s head.
He fell to the ground like a shot duck.
Jasmine screamed as Cobb moved her behind him and twisted to get a clear view of the entire area. The other cop stumbled back and started clawing for his gun.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough. A lead pipe struck the side of his head. He hit the ground with a heavy thud. Blood poured from the wound, staining the street.
Three skinheads in camouflage pants and mock leather jackets had rushed out of the alley. Two had lead pipes, and one held a stained AK-47 bayonet - a straight, single-edged, five-inch blade with a dark wooden handle and a black ring under the hilt for attaching it to the automatic rifle’s barrel. They came at Cobb and Jasmine like the pack of animals they were. The knife-wielding one in the middle, the pipe-swingers on either side.
Jasmine shrieked again when Cobb ran from her without a word, but the cry was cut short when she saw what he was doing. He wasn’t running from the three men. He was running straight at them, launching off the balls of his feet, and moving so fast they started to falter even though they were much better armed than Cobb.
In a flash, Cobb was on the man in the lead. He blocked the knife hand by slapping his left hand hard on the man’s wrist. That bought him the time he needed to bring his right hand to bear. Jasmine saw Cobb strike him in the face with the bony heel of his open hand. The man shuddered and staggered backward on legs that reminded her of cooked noodles.
Jasmine couldn’t follow Cobb, he was moving so fast. Even before the knife-wielder was finished wobbling, Cobb was already shifting to grab the man to the left by his pipe arm. He grabbed the back of the man’s wrist with his left hand and swun
g his right hand into the back of the man’s elbow. One deft move from Cobb, and he had immobilized his opponent with a classic arm-bar. The skinhead went down on his knees. Cobb planted a foot on his back between his shoulder blades and pushed the rest of him to the pavement, face first.
She could hear the crunching of broken teeth.
The one to the right tried to redirect his attack, but the knife-wielder was in his way. He had to step around him, which cost him valuable time. With the pipe of the man he had just taken down, Cobb stepped forward, the pipe extended before him. It connected with the third man’s chest, cracking something inside. Cobb quickly regripped the pipe and swung it upward, smashing the hard iron into the soft cartilage of the attacker’s nose.
Blood sprayed in all directions.
Cobb’s counterattack had taken about five seconds. That’s how long it took Jasmine to suppress her fear, remember her training, and join the fray. The man Cobb had knocked to his face was trying to rise. Jasmine pounced, straddling his neck like a horse, grabbing his hair from above, and dropping. She allowed her entire weight to fall upon his upper back. That drove his face back into the street, knocking him out - along with more teeth.
She rose just as a fourth man darted from the shadows of the apartment building behind her. Jasmine chirped with surprise as she turned to face Marko Kadurik. There was a snarl on his face as his hand grabbed her by the throat. She remembered her training and tried to break the grip by laying her forearm on the groove of his elbow, pushing down, and twisting away, but he surprised her by punching her in the belly with his free hand.
She doubled over in pain.
He grabbed her by her hair, spun her around so she was facing Cobb, and pushed her left arm high up her back while clutching her throat in a death grip.
She tried to breathe, but Kadurik wouldn’t allow it.
24
Kadurik wasn’t just choking her, he was wrenching her forward and back, cutting off her air entirely each time he pulled back and strengthened his hold. Then he stopped moving. He stood erect, hugging Jasmine tight against him, lifting her onto her toes.
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