by Greg Wilson
Belorusskaya was an interchange station. He wanted the Green Line now: up a level. He headed for the escalators, passing through the halls of pink and black Armenian marble, beneath overhead mosaics depicting scenes of rural splendor. Superbly executed, Nikolai gave them that, but still just Soviet propaganda. Like those stirring posters by Mayakovsky – the cluster of healthy, bright-eyed young folk brandishing a streaming flag and pointing dramatically upwards to something apparently magnificent, but beyond mortal view: presumably a vision of the glorious future that communism promised. As it happened, even Mayakovsky had become so depressed about reality he’d killed himself before he reached forty.
Nikolai fell into line and stepped onto the wooden treads, starting the rise upwards. Had travelled maybe ten meters when a thunderous female voice burst from the public address system overhead. He swung back to the attendant’s booth below where an elderly, overweight, blue-uniformed woman bellowed into an ancient telephone handset, berating a group of teenagers she’d seen clambering up the central escalator, jostling other passengers aside. To his astonishment the kids froze: shrank back and instantly transformed into model citizens. How did this work, he wondered? These were post-Soviet teenagers – Armani T-shirts, Nikes, Walkmen they’d probably stolen, or at least stolen the money to buy. Yet the throwback voice of a Soviet authority they’d never actually experienced still had the power to stop them dead in their tracks. He glanced back at the booth in time to see a faint smile of triumph slide across the uniformed woman’s face. Watched as she replaced the telephone handset and sat and folded her arms, a remnant of a dissolute regime left stranded here beneath the streets by a rapidly receding tide. Yet in many ways remnants like this were all that now remained to separate order from chaos. It was a depressing thought and his own reality was depressing enough.
There were three escalators: two up and one down. Nikolai swung back to face the upward journey, his eyes trailing right to the central escalator that followed the same course as his own. His gaze ran across the faces of its travelers: masks of indifference, except for one. One that was alert and animated and had been watching him before quickly turning away. He caught his breath and let the sweep of his gaze move on, pretending to have noticed nothing, but running the match in his brain. Hair, height, clothing all nondescript, but eyes that were unmistakable: eyes the color of pale gray-green glass. He swung around to the front without missing a beat, staring blandly ahead, careful to conceal the unexpected surge of confidence he now felt within. Nursing the fragile hope that he might still have some control over his own destiny.
He took the Green Line all the way south to Tsaritsyno in the suburbs where the station traffic was thinner, then switched platforms and rode back to Paveletskaya and picked up the Circle Line again. Took the Circle west to Park Kultury then changed to Red, back to Okhotnyy Ryad. Five legs to the journey, six stations in a little over an hour, and he had made her at four of them. She was still with him, trailing thirty meters behind when, at twelve minutes before two, Nikolai emerged from the subway into the shallow sunlight on Revolution Square.
The Rossiya was on the embankment, a few hundred meters south. It took him ten minutes, walking briskly, cutting through the backstreet behind GUM then swinging back towards Red Square. He entered the huge hotel through the western foyer, following Vari’s instructions; made his way across to the tour desk to the left, pretending to browse the brochures while he waited to see whether the woman followed.
She did, half a minute later. Entered and paused at the edge of the huge compass that marked the center of the lobby carpet, glancing around with apparent disinterest then, finding him, peeled aside, pretending to be drawn to a showcase display promoting a nearby casino.
Nikolai plucked a leaflet from a rack, began scanning it and half turned as if searching for better light. From where he stood fifteen meters away he could see the colored litter of gaming chips scattered across the base of the showcase, above them a roulette wheel propped upright against a panel of indigo baize. She knew what she was doing, he had no doubt about that. The dark fabric backdrop shadowed the inside of the glass creating a mirror that allowed her to read his every movement without turning.
Well, she could watch, but she wasn’t going to follow.
Nikolai slipped the brochure back into its rack, turned on his heels and strode off towards one of the two open staircases that flanked the foyer and led to the mezzanine. The woman at the showcase let him have a head start and then fell in behind. At the top he turned along the open gallery, past the balcony bar, following the icons that pointed the way to the men’s washroom. She reached the top of the stairs and started to follow, then realizing his destination, peeled aside again, pulling a compact from her purse and pretending to study her make-up. He got his last glimpse of her as he turned the corner into the restroom alcove. By then his left hand was already closing around the cell phone in his pocket.
To his relief there was no restroom attendant. He carried the phone to the last cubicle in the row, let himself in, closed the slide bolt and prayed to God the phone was going to work in this Soviet bunker.
It did. Vari answered on the second ring.
“So, little brother, did you have a successful trip?”
Nikolai ignored the question. He heard footsteps on tile outside and held his breath. Released it when he heard a heavy stream splashing against the porcelain urinal. He turned to face the back wall of the stall and cupped a hand to his free ear, keeping his voice low. “A woman. Early thirties. Around one hundred and sixty centimeters tall. Shoulder-length dark hair. Tan complexion. Light green eyes… electric green. Black pants, a white blouse, black sleeveless jacket. Attractive but playing it down.” He pressed the phone closer; heard Vari’s pen scribbling frantically on paper in the background.
“Just the one?”
Nikolai shook his head as if his partner could see. “Not certain, but as close as I can be.”
Vari took a breath. “Okay. Good. Now, when we hang up, stay where you are and call reception. This is the number.” Nikolai closed his eyes and listened, committing the digital sequence to memory. “You want Mr Tarkovsky’s room, remember. Mikhail Tarkovsky. He’ll be in the west wing. He’ll give you the room number. Leave the toilets and go straight to the elevators but take your time and don’t look behind.”
“What about her… the woman?” Nikolai whispered urgently.
“Don’t worry about your woman, my friend. She’ll have other things on her mind. Are you with me, little brother?”
An apprehensive nod. “I’m with you.”
“Good. Now, just in case there is anyone else watching, when you get to the elevators, make sure you wait for one where you will be the only passenger. And remember, there’s a floor indicator panel so it’s important you make at least one other stop on your way up, okay? Now…” A pause from the other end of the line. Vari consulting his watch. “ … we have to move. We’re running late. You ready?”
Nikolai drew a breath. “Ready.”
“Then go, little brother. Now!”
Nikolai stabbed the call-end button and thumbed the number for the Rossiya’s reception, made the request and waited. From outside the stall he heard the sound of a zipper being pulled; a shuffling of feet then footsteps on tile receding. Two long rings died before the phone was answered. The voice was soft but precise. Pure American. Almost lazy in its self-assurance.
“Who do you want?”
Nikolai hesitated a beat. This was like stepping off a cliff in the dark.
“Am I speaking to…” Which name did he use? “Is that Mikhail Tarkovsky?”
“Who needs to know?”
“My name is Nikolai Aven.”
An unhurried warmth settled over the other man’s tone. “Well hello there, Mr Aven. I’ve been expecting your call. Room 8020, west wing, top level. Why don’t you come on up?”
Nikolai repeated the room number to himself. “Thank you. I will,” he replied, cursin
g himself immediately. What a stupid thing to say.
He killed the cell phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Flushed the toilet and left the cubicle, tossing a few kopeks into the absent attendant’s bowl on the way out.
The woman had given up on her make-up. Now she too was talking on a cell phone. Calling in for instructions, Nikolai guessed. He walked past her, pretending not to notice, and swung right through the double doors that led to the elevator lobby, hoping to God that Vari knew what he was doing.
He turned the corner and saw the elevators twenty meters ahead; beyond them, strolling towards him, two uniformed security guards, one with his head tilted sideways as he spoke into the microphone pinned to his collar. Was he imagining it or were they staring at him? Nikolai felt a cold surge of anxiety… fear or guilt, he wasn’t sure which. Somehow he managed to hold himself together until ten meters his side of the elevators he and the guards passed. Had one of them nodded or was he imagining it?
Was the woman still following?
He started to turn then caught himself and resisted the urge, pressing ahead until the commotion erupted behind him.
The male voice came first. Abrupt. Commanding. Then a woman’s, shrill and taut in protest, followed by the sounds of a scuffle, more shouting and the staccato squawk of a radio and now he did look back. He couldn’t stop himself. Looked back and stared in dismay at the unfolding spectacle.
The woman from the Metro was pinned face down on the floor, her head twisted, cheek pressed hard against the gray marble, her green eyes blazing as she writhed beneath the bulk of the security guard perched astride her. He held her arms pinned behind her back, his grin widening the more she struggled. His partner stood above them, watching, talking sideways into his radio as he unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt. For a moment it seemed as if the woman was about to surrender, then Nikolai saw her captor’s free hand slide beneath her and into her blouse, clutching and fondling her breast, and she started screaming again, thrashing out blindly with her feet as the handcuffs closed around her wrists. Now the guard’s hand moved down to the side pocket of her pants and slid inside, digging inwards towards her groin then sliding out again, fingers closed around a plastic envelope filled with white powder.
Nikolai glanced around. The traffic in the lobby had turned into a frozen tableau, riveted by the unexpected drama. The security guard shuffled backwards and held the plastic envelope aloft as if it were a trophy, displaying it to whoever might be interested, then pushed himself up from his haunches and started hauling the woman to her feet. She stumbled upright, her pale eyes glaring at Nikolai through the dark tumbling mass of hair that shrouded her face and suddenly he realized what was going on.
He swung back to the elevators. The small group that had been gathered around them a moment before had been lured away by the diversion. An empty car stood waiting, doors open, beckoning with its soft ringing chime. Without looking back Nikolai stepped in. Pressed the button for level eight then, remembering Vari’s instructions, hit four as well. And six for good measure.
The eighth floor lobby was deserted. He followed the signs, padding the long corridor until he came to 8020. Paused, took a breath then rapped twice on the door in quick succession.
The age of the man who opened it was difficult to assess. Mid-forties was Nikolai’s first guess, but then he noticed that the hair was more silver than blond and the lines that creased his face were deeper than they had first appeared and it occurred to him that he may have miscalculated by as much as a decade. His height matched Nikolai’s. The build slim but solid, face, arms and hands richly tanned in a way that looked right with the yellow golf shirt. Everything about him seemed American, except his eyes. The eyes were gray and complex, the color and depth of the Moskva at dawn when it was impossible to even imagine what lay beneath the surface.
They stared at one another for a moment across the threshold then the man’s neutral expression broadened into a disarming smile.
“Forgive me for asking, but do you happen to have some ID?”
Nikolai blinked, processing the question. Dropped a hand into his pocket, pulled out the small wallet that contained his FSB shield and ID and flipped it open.
The American reached forward with his left hand and slid the leather case from Nikolai’s grasp, drawing it close, studying the laminated image. Nikolai noticed the unpretentious watch on his wrist, the simple gold wedding band on his third finger. Finally the older man nodded and stepped aside.
“Thank you, Mr Aven. Come in.” He waited for Nikolai to pass then let the door go and held out a hand as the lock engaged. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Hartman.”
7
“Can I get you some coffee?”
Hartman strolled across the suite, pausing beside a low table to look back. Nikolai’s eyes fell to the silver coffee service; the two fine china cups, linen napkins, silver sugar bowl and plate of delicacies arranged elegantly around it. This was incredible. He was about to commit what was effectively treason and the niceties of the deal were to be negotiated with this complete stranger over coffee and petit fours.
He looked up blankly.
No. Thank you.”
He stepped forward, bypassing Hartman, and made his way across to the window. The room overlooked the southern end of Red Square: St Basil’s to the right, the gold domes of the Kremlin cathedrals rising behind the towering burnt sienna wall that ran down to the Embankment. Below him sightseers ebbed and flowed across the vast open expanse, splashes of color moving against the dark gray cobblestones. Nikolai sensed Hartman’s presence behind him and half turned. The American was smiling the same disarming smile. He inclined his head and Nikolai followed the direction. Below them, perhaps three hundred meters away, a lone figure stood at the edge of the square panning his digital camera in an arc that was about to take in the facade of the Rossiya.
“Call it an abundance of caution,” Hartman reached around Nikolai and tugged the drapes, “but experience has taught me you can never be completely sure who’s on the other side of a lens.” He stepped away, talking across his shoulder. “Which in a roundabout way is why you are here. Correct, Mr Aven?” Hartman’s voice was soft and measured, the tone and inflection similar to that of the American bankers with whom Nikolai had worked. Educated. Assured. Refined, by American standards.
At a guess Hartman was from the east coast – New York, or perhaps somewhere nearby. Nikolai stepped away from the shrouded window and surveyed the suite. It had originally been two rooms, joined recently it seemed in what was probably a hurried response to the demands of the burgeoning Western market. They were standing in what served as the living room. Writing desk, bar and entertainment unit. Twin leather sofas facing off across a coffee table. The American took a place on the sofa that backed the wall and poured himself some coffee, sipping it as though he were alone in the room, taking his time, regarding it, appraising it. After a time he spoke without looking up.
“You managed to dispose of your excess baggage?”
It took Nikolai a moment to compute the meaning. After eight years working for an American company his English was almost perfect, but he still wrestled with the euphemisms. He smiled briefly, more out of politeness than amusement.
“My partner had it taken care of for me.”
Hartman allowed himself a subdued grin. “Vari’s good at that sort of thing. We’ve known one another for quite some time, I suppose he told you. I like Vari. He’s always been straight with me.”
Nikolai considered the words. “Did it ever occur to you, Mr Hartman, that being straight with you probably required him to be deceptive with others?”
Hartman shrugged. “It’s not a perfect world, Mr Aven, you should know that by now. But it’s a free one, more or less.”
Nikolai stared at him a moment. “More for you. Less for us.”
The American smiled, acknowledging the bleak humor. “What I meant was, we make our own choices.”
�
�Indeed,” Nikolai drew a breath. ‘so I’m learning.” He took the other sofa. Looked at the coffee service then back to Hartman. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”
“Be my guest,” Hartman gestured. He settled back against the leather cushions and swung one leg across the other, watching Nikolai pour. “So… what do you have, and what’s the price?”
Nikolai flinched. So that was how they regarded him: another Russian hustler looking for his chance. He set the cup down deliberately and regarded the American with a cool stare.
Hartman pursed his lips a moment then responded with a diffident smile. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessarily blunt. Let’s start again. Vari told me that you have a wife and a small daughter and that as a result of the situation you find yourself in you have concerns for their safety as well as your own.” He paused, meeting Nikolai’s gaze. “For what it’s worth, Mr Aven, he also told me that you are the most principled person he has ever known.”
Nikolai’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “A questionable description, I would have thought, for someone who is prepared to trade what he knows to a foreign power. But then given the kind of company Vari keeps, one could argue that his judgment is probably of dubious merit.”
The implication wasn’t lost on the American. He laughed lightly to himself and the creases that radiated from the corners of his mouth etched deeper. Nikolai studied him, trying to measure what lay beyond the expressionless, river-gray eyes. He knew nothing about this stranger but either he had to take the chance and trust him, or get up and walk out of this room right now. He let go a resigned breath and stayed where he was.
Hartman seemed to be reading his thoughts. He held his smile and played the timing, letting a membrane of tenuous trust settle between them before speaking again.