The Domino Game

by Greg Wilson

  The line went dead. Kolbasov lowered the receiver and turned back to the bedroom. The younger girl was standing in the doorway, watching him. Her eyes were blinking, trying to find focus, and she was swaying slightly. He supposed it was the effect of the drugs since it had apparently been her first time. Her older sister appeared behind her, barely sixteen herself, but already she had the poise of a woman twice her age. And the experience. She paused for a moment regarding Vitaly with an expression he found difficult to place, then she took the younger girl by her shoulders and steered her gently back towards the bed.

  The address Vari Vlasenko had given him was for a laneway off Tverskaya Ulitsa, not far from Pushkin Square. Hartman missed it the first time and had to backtrack. Eventually he found the ancient white-on-blue street sign fixed high on the facade of the corner building and drew the map from the pocket of his windbreaker, comparing the Cyrillic text.

  They’d left the riverside bar just before one, Hartman waiting until they were alone outside in the shadow of the building portico before handing over the thick yellow envelope.

  “There’s five thousand cash there. Personal funds. You may need more. If you do just tell me.”

  Vari took the package and weighed it in his hand. “This is enough. You forget, my friend, you can buy a life in this town for five hundred.” He slipped the envelope into his pocket, took out a notepad and pen and leaned towards the light, scratching a quick fine drawing, scribbling an address beneath it. He tore off the page and handed it to the American as if it were a receipt.

  “Be here, at this place, at three thirty, okay?”

  Hartman took the paper, studied it and nodded. Behind them a car slowed from the Embankment and turned into the lot and for a moment they were caught together in the sweep of its headlights. Hartman threw a quick glance across his shoulder then turned back, fixing on Vari’s coal black eyes. He nodded again.

  No need to say anything. That was the way the game was played.

  When he got back to his apartment the light on the answering machine was blinking in the darkness. He crossed to it and hit the play button, listening to the electronic voice.

  You have two messages.

  He stabbed the button again and stood over the machine as they played.

  The first was time-stamped ten after ten. It was Tom Gaines in Virginia, his voice cool and businesslike as usual.

  Jack. Call me.

  The second had come in at eleven fifty. Same voice but now sounding quite different. Clipped and tense. The tone of someone instinctively aware that a situation has begun to slip inexorably out of control.

  Jack? You there? Pick up if you are. What’s going on Jack? We’ve had a call from State; they’ve had a call from the Ambassador. You got a problem, Jack? Talk to me.

  Hartman hit the erase button and checked his watch. Supposed it wouldn’t be long before Gaines called again.

  The address Vari had given him was walking distance from the compound. That meant he had two hours to kill before he had to leave. There were calls to make to Kiev, Bucharest and Istanbul but they could wait until he knew Aven and his family were safely on their way. So, what to do? He thought about calling Kelly but decided against it. The last thing he needed now was to have to fake enthusiasm for his daughter’s choice of husband.

  The clenching in his gut came along right after that thought. Apprehension for Kelly, he wondered? Maybe. Or maybe it was fear for Aven and his wife and kid. Maybe even fear for himself.

  Then, as if in answer, he heard Nance’s voice, her frustration as clear as if she had been there with him.

  How long is it since you ate, Jack? How long since you had a decent meal? Darling you have to look after yourself. You’re on your own now.

  He couldn’t help the grim smile.

  On your own now.

  Dear Nance, how true that was.

  He walked across to the freezer and threw back the door. Okay. So what would be a good choice for a last supper?

  He left by the side gate a little before three, exchanging nods with the lone Marine Guard, wondering what the guy was thinking. A spook on his way to some clandestine rendezvous, or just a bored, middle-aged staffer who couldn’t sleep, heading out to look for some action?

  How things had changed. If he’d tried cruising the streets alone at three a.m. fifteen years ago, odds were he would have been bundled into the back seat of a passing sedan and spent the rest of the night answering questions in Dzerzhinsky Square. But the world had moved on and Moscow was a different place now. Almost civilized. No more threatening – or less – than any other city in Europe.

  As if to illustrate the point, as he neared Tverskaya a battered police Lada trawled past, the cop in the passenger seat regarding him for a moment then throwing him a lazy wave. Hartman raised a hand in acknowledgment and continued, taking a right at the corner, heading back along the broad Soviet-style avenue towards the Kremlin, passing darkened shopfronts where travel agents and computer showrooms now occupied buildings that had lain derelict a decade before, stepping through the waves of light and music that pulsed across the pavement from the doorways of the clubs and bars.

  When he found the lane on the second pass he slipped into it and carried on a hundred meters until he came to what he was looking for.

  The massive wooden gates filled an opening between the rear of a bakery and an old stone building that looked as though it may once have been a stable. The green paint that coated them was cracked and peeling, showered in the dull glow of a single overhead security light and daubed with a white number above a crude intercom. Hartman checked the number, pressed the buzzer and waited. A moment passed before he heard the sound of footsteps, then he felt the timber vibrate as a heavy iron latch scraped back in its mounting and the gates began to swing slowly inwards.

  As their arc widened Hartman saw the form of a black Mercedes saloon, crouching low to the cobbled surface of the yard inside, facing out to the street, then Vari appeared on the right and came forward to greet him, leaving a second figure behind in the shadows. He stepped around the vehicle and tossed a nod across his shoulder.

  “This should do, I think.”

  Hartman’s eyes drifted from Vari to the Mercedes, appraising it. Taking in the black tinted glass, the widened alloy wheels, the low-profile tires. What he saw was enough.

  “It should.” His eyes tracked back. “How about the driver. As good as the car?”

  Vari cocked his head to the side and the figure behind him stepped forward from the darkness. “His name is Roman. He used to drive for Yeltsin before that became too boring.”

  Hartman turned towards the second man. Early thirties, he guessed. Middling height. Black trousers, gray shirt, expensive black leather jacket and shoes. Lean but muscular with razor-cut blond hair and features to match. A face of tempered steel. Their eyes met and a silent acknowledgment passed between them. It occurred to Hartman that the car and driver seemed a perfect match. He wondered where Vari had found them but knew better than to ask. He touched the Russian’s elbow and steered him aside, speaking English, in a low voice.

  “You’re certain you can trust him?”

  The look he received made the question redundant. Hartman pulled a breath, nodded. “Passports?”

  Vari dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out two small red booklets.

  “It was a rush job so they’re not perfect.” He flicked them open to the photo pages. “The picture of Niko is genuine; I found it in the office files. The woman…” he studied the second image and grimaced, uncertain. “She was the best we could do. My cobbler has a photo archive. I had to pick the closest I could.” Hartman took the passports and examined them in the shallow light while Vari produced a folded paper. “A travel document for the little girl.” He handed it to Hartman. “These shoes will fit them well enough for Ukraine and Turkey but beyond that,” he grimaced again, shrugged, “I’m not so sure.”

  Hartman slipped the passports and folded pap
er into his jacket pocket. “That’s okay. I can handle it from there. How about the money. Enough?”

  “Enough. I could give you change,” Vari he tipped his head towards the waiting driver, “but I thought it might be a good investment to hold some back as a performance bonus.”

  Hartman gave a tight nod. Switched subject. “How much does he know?”

  Vari shrugged. “As little as he needs to. Address. Number of passengers. Destination.”

  The answer passed. “He’s armed?”

  The Russian blinked slowly. “What do you think?”

  Hartman turned back. Raised his arm and tipped his watch to the light.

  Three forty-five.

  He drew a breath. “Time to go.”

  Vari hesitated, pursed his lips.

  “You know, we Russians have an old saying. A wolf won’t eat wolf.” He watched as Hartman worked the meaning. “You and I might come from different packs but beneath our differences we’re both still wolves.” He raised a hand, looked at it a moment and then thrust it towards the American. “Whatever happens, remember that.”

  Hartman took his grasp and their eyes met. The Russian stared back at him for a long moment then looked aside to the waiting driver and looped a finger in the air. The blond man gave an expressionless nod, slipped into the driver’s seat and flipped the ignition, bringing the Mercedes’ engine to life with a menacing low rumble.

  Hartman fell into the front passenger seat, drew the heavy door closed behind him and glanced across at the driver.

  “You know where we’re going?”

  The man beside him nodded once at the windshield and slipped the Mercedes into gear.

  “Okay,” Hartman breathed, “then let’s go there.” The headlights flared to life and the black sedan crept forward into the lane. Hartman shifted in his seat and cast a glance behind him, catching a last glimpse of Vari standing in the open gateway, his thick shoulders squared, hands hanging loosely at his side, one open, the other closed, a cell phone locked in its grasp. As he turned away he lifted the phone, his downcast profile suddenly washed with a dull flare of pale blue light.

  12

  The apartment lay in darkness save for the soft glow that trickled along the polished floorboards from the room at the end of the corridor. Nikolai leaned away from his place beside the living room window and checked the illuminated clock beside the television.

  Three fifty-two.

  He turned back, lifted the edge of the curtain again and peered down into the shadowed street, trying to ignore the clutching within his chest.

  From the end of the passage, he could hear Natalia’s hushed and patient voice as she helped Larisa to dress. They had let the little girl sleep as long as they dared but now, woken so suddenly, she was irritable and confused and Natalia was doing her best to soothe her, explaining that it was time to go; that she must hurry or they would be late for the start of their wonderful adventure.

  Four levels below the window parked vehicles lined both sides of the shadowed street. Nikolai glanced its length and back again, along the row of streetlamps that cast a weak shroud of light across the pavement, seeing no movement, hearing no sound apart from the murmur of the city at sleep, the muted wail of a siren somewhere far off in the distance. He watched for a minute longer then a noise from behind distracted him and he turned to find Natalia standing in the doorway that led to the hall, Larisa beside her, one of her tiny hands reaching up to clutch her mother’s while she rubbed gently at her eyes with the knuckles of the other. In her free hand Natalia was holding something. Nikolai’s eyes traced down and settled on the chubby form of Boris the Bear, suspended by one ear from his wife’s slender fingers. Larisa stopped her rubbing and held her hand out expectantly, waiting patiently for Boris to be deposited into her grasp. Seeing them like this, Nikolai was overcome by a sudden surge of contentment. For a single moment all of his apprehension seemed swept away on its tide, then the moment was gone and the misgivings and fears rolled back again and crashed against him like a storm wave pounding a defenseless shore. He blinked at the impact; swung his gaze in a tight arc from daughter to mother.

  Natalia read the concern in his eyes. “She’s fine.” She looked down at their daughter and forced a smile, too thin to conceal her tension. Swapped her gaze back to Nikolai and half whispered, “Anything yet?”

  Nikolai drew a breath and shook his head. He began to speak again then froze, raising a hand towards Natalia, spinning his head back to the window and straining to listen. From somewhere outside a new sound rose faintly above the undertone of the city. He turned quickly and edged the curtain aside, scanning the street. There was movement and a trace of light at the northern end; he shifted to get a better angle and brought his eyes into focus. A long black sedan was turning the corner, side lamps on, headlights off, approaching slowly now, edging forward down the aisle that separated the parked vehicles. Nikolai concentrated through the gloom, following its path, noticing how it slowed even further as it came closer. He flung the curtain aside and spun around to Natalia, answering her unspoken question with a sharp nod.

  He moved quickly now, his body wired, the anxiety and uncertainty cast aside, each action deliberate and exact. He threw a hand towards Natalia, adding emphasis to the direction.

  “You stay here. I’ll go down and make sure of everything, then bring the American back up to collect the tapes.” He touched her, gently but firmly, reading her eyes, searching for the acknowledgment. She bit her lip. Nodded. He hesitated a moment then slid his fingers into his pocket, pulling them out and pressing them into hers. “Keep this for me.” His hand pulled away and her eyes fell to the crucifix resting in her palm. He cast a glance down at Larisa, paused to brush the back of his hand across her cheek, then stepped around them both, moving quickly towards the door. He was almost there when Natalia’s sharp cry stopped him in his tracks.

  “Nikolai?”

  Her tone sent a shiver of apprehension triggering through him like a live current. He spun around, shocked by the impact of what he saw.

  It was Natalia, of course. The high, slanting cheekbones and perfect lips, the exact proportion of her exquisite face. It was Natalia right down to the errant strand of hair that loped forward across her brow, but not Natalia’s eyes. Even during the darkest moments of Larisa’s illness Natalia’s eyes, beneath their tears, had still always glowed with determination and courage. Those that stared back at him now were empty. Empty of everything but liquid, black panic.

  For an instant it seemed to him that they belonged to someone else. Someone he didn’t know. Someone who had already seen the future. Then her hand closed tight around the small gold cross and she spoke softly, finishing what she had been about to say.

  “I will, I promise. Always. I love you, Niko.”

  The traffic was light; their destination no more than two or three kilometers from the lane behind Pushkin Square. They travelled in silence, Hartman studying the driver’s profile as they wound their way east around the Garden Ring and north into Prospekt Mira, trying to place his origin, puzzling the blond hair and blue eyes, the refined angular features of his face, against the name: Roman. As they rounded the corner a shower of light scattered across his pale skin and Hartman settled for one of the Baltic States: Estonia or Latvia or Lithuania. Somewhere the Teutonic Knights had sowed some seeds before moving on. His gaze broke away as they crossed the dip in the asphalt and swung into the side street. Roman eased off the gas and crept the big saloon forward, hunting for the turn. Began to arc the wheel then stabbed a hand at the dashboard, killing the headlights, and pulled hard right, swinging the Mercedes into the curb neatly behind the last of the parked vehicles.

  Hartman spun around.

  “What is it?” He stared at the profile again. The features were tensed, the pale blue eyes alert and narrowed for focus. Roman remained silent but tipped his head forward and waited for Hartman’s gaze to follow. Up ahead – a hundred and fifty meters away, maybe – anothe
r vehicle sat stationary in the roadway facing them, side lights burning, its running engine pumping a chimera of exhaust vapor into the chill air.

  “Shit!” Hartman slammed a hand sideways into the door panel.

  Beside him Roman pushed back the edge of his jacket, eased a matt black pistol from its holster and set it down carefully on the seat between his legs. He threw Hartman an expectant glance. Hartman leaned aside, trying to peer forward across the line of parked cars that trapped his view.

  “Is that his building?”

  Roman looked around, searching for some point of reference Vari must have given him. Apparently found it, gauged distance and nodded. He shifted in his seat, squinting along the empty street towards the other vehicle then pulled back and turned to Hartman with a wary look. The American tried to read his expression. Gave up and snapped with impatience. “What?”

  Roman gave a low whistle. “The plates, my friend.” He lifted the automatic from the seat and slipped it back into its holster. ‘The Vor or patsani… Phsst!” He threw a hand aside derisively. “They don’t worry me, but there’s no way I am going to get into a face-off with these guys. Dealing with the gangs is one thing but this… this is something else completely.”

  Hartman stared at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  The driver turned back to him abruptly, regarding him as if he were stupid. “Have a look for yourself. The plates are blue. That car is MVD: Interior Ministry.” He raised his eyebrows. “You get it? This isn’t what I signed on for.”

  Nikolai took the stairs two at a time. The hollow gnawing in his chest had returned, but the need to focus – the immediacy of what he had to do – kept it at bay.

  In his mind he saw Natalia again, heard her cry and tried to re-interpret the expression in her eyes.

  Why wouldn’t she be fearful? Christ, he was petrified. But in six hours – eight at most – it would all be over. He and Natalia and Larisa would be out of Russia and on their way to a new life, and all of this would be behind them forever.