He knew her elegant stride, the nearly undetectable limp, how she held her head straight, how she wore her hair pinned up. She didn’t look around, but he knew those blue eyes didn’t miss much on the street. Nate was dressed as he had been before—nondescript and neutral—but she was dressed in a dark pleated woolen skirt with a belted tweed jacket over a black blouse. She wore black suede ankle-high boots with a low heel, not her usual style. He looked at the boots as she approached.
“What?” she said, noticing his look.
“Nothing,” said Nate.
“You are looking at my shoes,” she said. She may have been a spy, a mole, a clairvoyant synesthete, but she also liked shoes.
“They’re nice,” said Nate.
“What do you mean ‘nice,’ ” said Dominika. “What is wrong with them?”
“Very stylish,” said Nate. This was insane: Two spooks headed to a clandestine, coercive debrief with a hostile agent, and they were standing on the sidewalk arguing about shoes.
“You’re obviously quite the expert. I will have you know they are the latest style,” said Dominika. “And Line T has modified them.”
“Your shoes have television reception?” said Nate.
“Nevezhda, ignoramus. Steel toes. For self-defense. Shall I kick you to show you?”
“Look, they’re very nice. You look very nice. Do you mind if I ask you whether you’re clear?” Dominika looked down at her shoes, then at Nate, and nodded. He looked at his watch. “We’re running late; let’s go. Our boy may be there already.” Dominika walked beside him.
“That is okay. Udranka can relax him before our arrival.”
They entered the apartment building and walked silently up the curving staircase, both using supinating, heel-to-toe steps on the landings, to ease past the closed apartment doors without a sound. Second floor, third floor. Small bulbs in wall sconces in the stairwell had come on, casting shadows against the marble walls.
“I just cannot believe you do not like these boots,” whispered Dominika, half turning toward Nate as they climbed the last flight of stairs.
Her key was in the lock and they entered the apartment—lamps were already on and soft music came from the bedroom. They had assumed their operational faces, but that ended when they saw the flies on the walls—lots of flies, the wall was black with them—and the leading edge of the blood pool coming out of the kitchen. Dominika grabbed Nate’s arm and sidled up to the kitchen doorway and they looked in. Jamshidi was lying on his back, half under the table, his head propped upright against the wall, which was covered widely with blood spray. His face looked like dropped pie: Half his skull was gone, hollow and rimmed with bloody hair. The other side of his face was intact, but his remaining eye was filled with blood in an eight-ball fracture. Blood had come out of his mouth and down his chin, soaking his goatee and shirtfront. He lay completely in a pool of black blood around the edges of which settled scores of flies, drinking until they fell over onto their backs.
Nate bent to look at Jamshidi. There was no question about feeling for a pulse. He flicked open his suit coat, patted the pockets. He shook his head at Dominika: nothing.
“Weapons,” he whispered, and Dominika quietly pulled open a kitchen drawer and took out two thin-handled steak knives with serrated edges. She tucked one into the belt of her jacket—like a blue-eyed pirate, thought Nate—and handed him the other knife. They straightened and Dominika tapped his arm and pointed toward the stove. The merest plastic corner of something stuck out from under the appliance. Dominika stepped over the blood and eased it out. Jamshidi’s laptop case. Had it slid under the stove when he had been shot? They looked at each other. The laptop was inside. Had he brought what they had asked for? Missing data on the Hall C cascade? Procurement plans for the seismic floor? No time to check now. Dominika put the strap around her neck and across her chest.
Music playing; no other sound. Dominika nodded toward the living room and the bedroom beyond. “Udranka,” she whispered, eyes wide, fearing the worst. Nate motioned with a downward palm—go slow—and they inched along the living-room wall and peeked around the corner into that implausible pink bedroom. They stood stock-still. Dominika put her hand over her mouth.
Songs for Swingin’ Lovers! oozed out of a player in the corner of the room. A small electric fan, also candy pink, oscillated back and forth, stirring the pink fringe on the two lamps that cast an even pink glow on the bed and across Udranka’s naked body. She was on her back, with the top half of her body hanging off the end of the bed, head upside-down, arms trailing on the floor, eyes staring at the far wall. The graceful curve of her neck was marred by a knotted cord—Dominika recognized it as the belt to that ridiculous pink kimono—cinched tight across bulging veins, which had turned her face purple and her scar white. Her mouth was narrowly opened, those remarkable teeth partially visible. When the little fan pointed at her, loose ringlets of her paprika-colored hair moved slightly. Her breasts and stomach were crisscrossed with red welts—they looked like burns, but Nate saw a wire hanger that had been unfolded straight into a buggy whip lying discarded on the rug.
Dominika’s breath caught as she noticed the bottom of a wine bottle protruding between Udranka’s wide-spread legs. Dominika bent to take it away. Lips compressed and white, she flipped the bottle into the far corner of the room, where it bounced off the wall and spun on the carpet. She loosened the belt from Udranka’s neck, brushing the hair off her mottled forehead, but her hands were shaking and the knot was tight. She took one of the Sparrow’s trailing wrists.
“Neyt,” she whispered, “help me lift her onto the bed.”
This is bad, thought Nate. We’re in a red zone. They had blown Jamshidi up, then gone into the bedroom, tortured Udranka, raped her with the bottle, then bent her back off the bed and strangled her. Russians? No. Iranians? Who else? How long had they worked on her and Jamshidi? What questions did they ask, and what answers did they get?
“Neyt,” hissed Dominika, “help me with her.”
Most important, thought Nate, where the fuck are they now? Did they just leave? Do they know the laptop is missing? Do they know there are two intelligence officers in the mix? Or did they back off and are waiting for round two?
“Neyt!” said Dominika. “Lift her up.” Nate took a cold wrist and they lifted Udranka up and onto the bed. Her head flopped toward Dominika, as if asking her what came next, and Dominika’s trembling fingers worked at the knot around her throat. She drew the kimono belt from around her neck and covered her with a blanket. Udranka’s red toenails and the top of her magenta hair stuck out at either end. Nate stood in the entryway until Dominika came out of the bedroom, eyes red. He held her for a second, one ear cocked toward the door and the stairwell. He didn’t know how much time they had. He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ve got to get clear of here.”
Dominika looked at him blankly. “I say we wait for them,” she said. Her voice was uneven and gritty, like a cracked piston.
“Wait for them with steak knives?” said Nate, knowing she was serious.
“They’ll be back,” she said, “for this.” She touched the strap of Jamshidi’s laptop.
“Which is exactly what we’re going to give them,” said Nate. “We copy what’s on his hard drive, and we leave the laptop where we found it. The Iranians must think that no one has seen their plans. We need time for our covert action. You have to return empty-handed. You have to let Zyuganov win this one.”
“Zyuganov. This was his work,” said Dominika. “He killed Udranka.” She searched Nate’s face, weighing his willingness for revenge. His purple halo was pulsing, but not for blood, she knew. He was thinking furiously.
“Give me the laptop,” said Nate. He set it on the coffee table, turned it on, and aimed the TALON infrared reader at the remote USB port on Jamshidi’s computer. Fourteen seconds later, an LED winked on the TALON. Nate stuffed the laptop back in its case, went into th
e kitchen, stepped over the blood pool, and replaced it under the stove, careful not to smear any gore. Flies were everywhere; he brushed them off his sleeve like blue bottle snow. When he came back out Dominika was standing at the doorway to the bedroom, looking at Udranka’s covered body. Nate turned her by the shoulders to face him.
“We’ve got to get out, now,” Nate said. “Is there anything you need to take out of here?” Dominika shook her head.
“We walk away together,” said Nate. “If things feel right after an hour, we can split up. But only if we’re black. No taxis, no trams; we’ve got to clean ourselves on foot first. All right?” Dominika nodded again.
Nate shook her gently. “Domi, focus. I need you with me out there,” said Nate. “I don’t know what we’re up against.” Dominika closed her eyes and took a breath.
“We’re on the wrong side of the river,” she said. “This is Donaustadt; the area is part residential—houses, buildings, alleys—and part industrial warehouses.”
“We don’t cross the river until we know we’re clean,” said Nate. “You can’t go back to your apartment if we’re still covered in ticks. And if the Iranians find out who you are, and that there were two of us at the debriefing, you cannot go back to Moscow.” Dominika looked back at the bedroom.
“There is a bridge with a walkway,” she said absently. “But near the river there is, how do you say, bolota?”
“Marshes?” said Nate. “We’ll have to wade through them.”
“I was going to get her out after this,” said Dominika. The hand that brushed a strand of hair off her forehead shook.
“Listen, there may be a whole team,” said Nate, ignoring her. “They’ll want to identify us.”
“She wouldn’t tell them anything,” said Dominika. “She was too strong.” Dominika remembered the brandy and tears. “She would send them to hell.”
“Worst case, they may not care where we’re going,” said Nate. “They may just want to finish what they started here.” Dominika turned and walked back into the bedroom. She lifted a corner of the blanket and looked at Udranka’s face, then laid the blanket over her again.
“Domi, we have to move,” said Nate. She walked back to Nate as he opened the door a crack and peeked down the hallway. Dominika pushed the door closed.
“Before we go …, ” she whispered, and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Her mouth collapsed and she buried her face in his shoulder. After a minute she lifted her head and wiped her wet cheeks. “If they get close enough, they will pay.”
Nate hugged her again. “Listen to me. We have one objective: to get clear of here and get black.”
“Two objectives,” said Dominika. Nate’s face darkened, and his halo flashed. He eased her up against the door and pinned her arms at her sides. She had never seen him like this. His voice was steady, but it was not his own.
“I’m telling you this once,” he said. “Stop being a Russian. Be a professional. Maybe we’ll survive the night.”
“What do you mean stop being a Rus—”
“Zatknis,” said Nate softly. Shut the fuck up. Dominika saw his eyes; she didn’t have to read the colors. She tamped down her anger and nodded at him, registering that she loved him even more than before.
As if to announce their departure, the front door of the apartment building squeaked when they opened it. Both spies used one-second eye shifts to check either side of the street. Are you bastards there? We’re coming out. They turned right immediately and moved down the sidewalk. Nate kept his hand on Dominika’s arm and reined her in from walking too fast. Nothing triggers the pack-pursuit instinct of a surveillance team faster than a rabbit bolting. Keep it slow, consistent, and reassuring.
There was a chill in the air—or was it them shivering?—and the night sky was covered in clouds bleached chalky by the mild city-glow of Vienna. It was relatively early, the streets not quite empty—a car passed, and a few last pedestrians hurried home. Lamplight from apartment windows cast inky shadows between the cars parked tightly along either curb. Dominika squeezed Nate’s arm and unobtrusively pointed her nose at a man walking slightly ahead of them on the other side of the street. No bells went off—it was the way he walked, the set of his shoulders—and Nate shook his head slightly. A casual; drop him. They continued walking straight, shielded by parked cars and the loom of middle-class apartment buildings. Nate wanted to walk straight—no turns, no reverses, yet—to lock in whoever was following and stretch them out.
Nate’s thoughts raced. If there were Iranians out there—had to be them—it would be a special surveillance team, maybe Qods Force or that Unit 400, which did its own version of mokroye delo, wet work, for the mullahs. If they were going to try something, it wouldn’t be before they verified who Nate and Dominika were, and that would be the end of DIVA’s career as CIA’s penetration of SVR.
Time check. Almost 2300. The street grew quiet, and there were fewer lights on in the buildings. Nate walked, listening for footsteps on the pavement behind them, for the soft squeal of tires ahead at the next corner, for the ill-timed scratch of a match ahead of them. Nothing. He could see Dominika spotting to her right and left, quick glances made without turning her head or shoulders. He caught her eye; she looked worried. Nate was worried. They had been out for fifty minutes, and they hadn’t seen what top pros call anomalies—not a single demeanor error, no car caught out of position, no three men smoking on a street corner then hurriedly separating, as if strangers. The trouble was that Nate and Dominika both knew what they felt: There was coverage out there. And two dead people in that candy-cane apartment, with the blood, and the flies, and the lampshade fringe stirring. And the nuclear secrets of Iran in the tablet around Nate’s neck. And Dominika’s single-shot lipstick gun effective out to two meters, first developed on Stalin’s orders in 1951 to shoot an East German traitor in Berlin. And two cheap steak knives.
They approached a corner—Langobardenstrasse and Hardeggasse—and the shadow of a man stepped out of a doorway and walked ahead of them, keeping a half-block distance. At the next corner, he peeled off down a cross street and disappeared. A woman with a long coat and head scarf hurried past them on the opposite side of the street, and Dominika whispered without moving her lips that the woman carried no purse, or string bag, or parcel. Maybe we’re stretching them a little, thought Nate, and they had to throw some feet closer in.
They picked a narrow little street—Kliviengasse—that ended in a set of steps down to a path through backyard gardens. Nate stopped Dominika with an arm, and they stood in the shadows and listened. Nothing. They were tight with the tension, weary from the stress. The night wind had come up a little and there were wind chimes on someone’s back porch, and a dog barked, and a wooden gate swung in the breeze, clattering as it hit the latch. Nate looked at Dominika and she shrugged, I don’t know. He leaned toward her and put his mouth next to her ear.
“Time to go provocative,” he whispered. Ratchet up the pace, complicate the route, make them choose between hanging back, staying discreet, and losing the eye, and moving closer and showing themselves. Dominika turned her lips to his ear.
“How provocative?” she said. It was insane to be flirting out here, with some amorphous black beast stalking them, but the tension was making her jittery. Nate’s halo flared, not in anger, she noted, but he took her by the hand and pulled. They turned south on Augentrostegasse, stopped for thirty seconds, then ran west on Orchisgasse, crouched behind a fence for two minutes, then ran south again on Strohblumengasse, narrow little lanes with smaller buildings, and more garden plots. At one turn, they saw the silhouette of a woman under a tree. How? The night was very quiet as Nate and Dominika walked past a boarded-up swimming camp with a log cabin and furled umbrellas—Strand Stadlau beach was a miserable grassy plot on the Danube canal, but the bare bulb over the cabin cast a shadow of a man standing stock-still, the toes of his shoes showing from around the corner. Jesus Christ, thought Nate, for two hours we’ve been p
ushing an aggressive, stair-stepping foot route, turning corners, changing directions, and this guy is here ahead of us.
It was getting colder. They could smell the river, and the mud, and the spilled fuel oil in the marshes ahead. They walked south on Kanalstrasse, then jogged west on Múhlwasserstrasse, heading toward the green and red lights of a rail semaphore about a half mile away. Let them get around a rail yard, Nate thought, but he was feeling a little nervous now, a little impatient—it’s not panic unless you start screaming—and he hurried a bit more, listening for the sound of running, or the bumblebee buzz of a motorbike, or the squelch break of a radio. They high-stepped over a single set of rails, then two, then five, slipping on black tarry ties, the smell of diesel in their noses. Standpipes throughout the rail yard—curved pipes coming out of the gravel—vented dripping steam that was blown sideways in the rising wind, and they ran through the sour plumes, and over more rails, toward a group of warehouses in a row.
There was runny mud around the warehouses, and rusted engine parts, and tilted rolling-stock axles, and cracked iron wheels on their sides; they saw the black maw of an open warehouse door and ran up the sloped ramp and inside, then sat on a wet cement floor with their backs to a splintered wooden crate and eased their aching legs. Nate was thirsty and cursed himself for not thinking of bringing water. A leak in the roof dripped rainwater into a large puddle on the floor with a metronome plop-plop.
“How many of them?” said Dominika, her head back and resting. Her designer boots were muddy and scuffed.
“I don’t know,” said Nate. “More than a dozen. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“How are we going to get across the river?” said Dominika. Nate looked at her and thought wildly about making a run for the front gate of the US Embassy. No. Impossible. It would burn Dominika and be the end of the DIVA case. But at least they would be alive. Jesus, no. Nate could already hear Gable screaming at him.
Red Sparrow 02 - Palace of Treason Page 15