The Moscow Club

by Finder, Joseph

  One minute later, he leaped out of the kitchen window and hit the soft earth just as the police cruiser pulled up, its headlights blinding him.

  28

  He cursed aloud and ducked down behind the high wooden fence that separated his father’s yard from the adjoining one, then ran as fast as he could. There were footsteps behind him.

  He ran unthinkingly, his adrenaline surging. A shout came: “Halt! Police!” One of them fired a gun, a warning shot, which exploded against the slat of a wooden fence. Stone threw himself to the ground, clutching the canvas bag of money, and then crawled along the narrow concrete alleyway between two buildings on Brattle Street.

  A siren shrilled nearby.

  A few hundred feet away was the back of a row of commercial buildings: a liquor store, a video-rental place, a cheap clothing shop. He remembered having once noticed a walkway between the liquor store and the video place, actually a crawlspace between two brick buildings put up twenty years apart.

  His pursuers were at least a hundred feet behind him. In a few seconds, they would round the corner and see where he was headed. With an extra burst of speed, he threw himself into the crawlspace, cracking his skull against the brick. His body flooded with agonizing, unspeakable pain. But he had to keep going. He squeezed himself between the buildings, his feet moving through the accumulation of trash, and he was on the other side.

  A carl

  It was his only hope. A young black woman was sitting in her dented Honda, which was idling in front of the liquor store. Waiting

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  for a friend or a husband, probably. Stone lunged for the passenger door and pulled it open. The woman screamed.

  “Drive!” Stone ordered her. He reached over and clapped his hand over her mouth, stifling the scream. Any minute, the police would be here.

  The woman thrashed around, her eyes wide.

  Stone pulled the unloaded gun out of his pocket and pointed it at her. Damn it! he thought; why didn’t I take the time to load it?

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Stone said rapidly, “but I will if I have to. Drive me over to Brookline. You’ll be all right.”

  The woman, terrified, swung into traffic.

  A few minutes later, she had driven the car across the Boston University Bridge, to Commonwealth Avenue.

  “Now what?” she whispered. Tears were streaming down her face.

  “A left here.”

  “Don’t kill me. Please.”

  “Pull over here.”

  Stone reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, which was crumpled and stained. “I know this doesn’t make up for the terror, but take it. I’m sorry.” He threw it onto the car seat and jumped out.

  The apartment building was one street over. Just inside the glass doors was a large panel of buttons. He found the one he wanted and pressed the buzzer.

  “Who is it?” the voice squawked tinnily through the speaker.

  “Charlie Stone. Let me in.”

  The inside door buzzed a few seconds later; Stone pushed it open and vaulted up the stairs two and three at a time.

  “Jesus, what happened to you?” Chip Rosen said as he opened the door. He was a large man about Stone’s age. “My God. Jesus, Charlie.”

  Rosen’s wife, Karen, a small brunette, stood behind him, her hand covering her mouth. Stone had met her once and knew only that she was a lawyer at a big firm downtown.

  “Come in, Charlie.”

  “You’ve heard,” Stone said as he came into the apartment.

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  “Of course we’ve heard. Everyone’s heard,” Karen said.

  “I need your help.”

  “Of course, Charhe,” Chip said. “You’ve got blood on the back of your head.”

  “Thank God you two were home,” Stone said, exhaling slowly. For the first time, he was aware of how rapidly his heart was beating. He set down the canvas bag and slipped the coat off. “I really need some help.”

  “You’ve got it,” Chip said. “First thing, though, you look like you need a good hot shower, then a good stiff drink.”

  Stone sighed with relief. “I can’t tell you what a nightmare the last few days have been.”

  “Take care of that nasty cut on the back of your head. There’s some Betadine in the medicine cabinet. You take a shower; I’ll bring you a set of clothes. Then we can talk.”

  In the bathroom. Stone removed the clothes he’d purchased at the Salvation Army store in Saugus, then found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some cotton balls and began to remove the false beard. He shaved with a can of Barbasol that was on top of the toilet and one of Rosen’s Bic disposable razors, lathering the foam, shaving slowly and luxuriously. He wanted— needed —to relax, but even now he couldn’t completely let his guard down.

  He needed allies, friends, a safe harbor. He needed a place to hide while he figured out what to do. Maybe Rosen could use some of his contacts within the newspaper community to help get the story out. And maybe Karen could provide a legal way out of this nightmare.

  He could hear Chip and Karen speaking in low voices in the kitchen. This was a tremendous imposition, he knew; he would repay them somehow.

  He ran the shower, making it as hot as he could stand, and then got in. It felt wonderful. He washed his hair and the rest of his body, and stood there under the cascade, meditating to clear his head. He was in enormous danger, and this reprieve would not last. He had to have a plan.

  He heard a clipped ring from somewhere in the apartment and

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  wondered what it was, then recognized the sound. Chip or Karen was picking up the phone to make a call. He strained to hear what was being said, but the noise of the shower made eavesdropping impossible.

  The door to the bathroom opened briefly, and Stone, his reflexes still taut, jolted to attention. It was only Chip, laying out some clothes on the back of a chair.

  “Thanks, Chip,” Stone said.

  “No problem. Take your time.”

  When he had dressed in Chip’s suit, which was slightly too small but felt good nevertheless, he dabbed some Betadine on the gash at the back of his head and bandaged it.

  Then he came out of the bathroom and saw that Chip and Karen had poured three martinis. Stone took his and sank into a comfortable chair. He would sleep easily tonight.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Karen said. “It’s horrible.”

  Stone nodded.

  Karen looked grave. “Charlie, aren’t you in some kind of intelligence work? I know it’s none of my business, but is this related to that?”

  Stone shrugged.

  “Then what do you think is going on?” Chip asked.

  “I have no idea,” Stone said, unable to trust them with what little he knew of the truth.

  “What do you plan to do next?” Karen asked. Neither one of them was looking at him. Was it possible they, too, didn’t trust him? Was it possible they thought he was lying?

  “That’s partly up to you,” Stone said. “If I can stay just a few days—”

  “We’d be glad to have you,” Chip said. “There’s a guest room we never use. “

  “I—I don’t know how to thank you. I need to regain my bearings, make some calls.”

  “I can find you a lawyer if you want,” Karen said.

  “I appreciate it. But first I need to contact certain people. Chip, I need you to tell me something. All those Globe articles on me. Who gave the paper that information? The Boston police?”

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  “It wasn’t all police,” Chip said. “I asked the reporter who did the series, Ted Jankowitz, and he told me it was the FBI. Listen, aren’t you hungry? Let me get you something.”

  Karen got up and went toward the kitchen.

  “Who was it?” Stone asked. “What did this FBI guy say?”

  “He was saying all this stuff about your being involved in some violat
ion of government treason law or something. I’m sure it’s not true.”

  “Of course it’s not true. Chip.”

  “That’s what I told Jankowitz.”

  Stone got up from the chair and put down his martini glass. He went to the window that looked out onto the street.

  “What is it?” Chip asked.

  “That car out there. It wasn’t there before.”

  “What are you talking about? Take it easy, Charlie.”

  But a car was there, directly in front of the building, a squarish new American-made car of the type favored by law-enforcement agencies for undercover surveillance. No one was in it; it was parked in a No Parking zone, with its flashers on.

  Footsteps now echoed on the stairs outside. Someone had definitely entered the building.

  “What the fuck have you done?” Stone shouted. “You called while I was in the shower. I heard it!”

  Chip’s voice was muted and steely. “I’m sorry. You’ve got to understand.”

  “You bastard.” Stone grabbed his canvas bag, his old clothes, checked wildly for the passports, the gun.

  “You’ve got to understand,” Chip repeated. “We had no choice. Anyone who harbors a murder suspect or aids in any way can be charged with being an accessory. We had to cooperate.” He was speaking quietly, quickly. “Look, Charlie, just sit down. Give yourself up. Whatever the truth is, it’ll come out. Give yourself up. You can’t go anywhere. No one’s going to shelter you.”

  The footsteps were now coming from the landing one flight below.

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  There was only one exit to the apartment, and it led directly into the path of the people coming up the stairs. Stone, holding the canvas bag, flung open the door and saw what he had noticed on the way in: a fire door off the landing that led to a back staircase. Once, leaving a party at Chip’s somewhat inebriated, he had accidentally taken that staircase, which led outside, to the back of the building.

  His pursuers were yards away, within view, coming up the main stairs. Two of them, both dressed in suits. “That’s him!” one shouted, and both began running toward Stone.

  He had maybe twenty yards on them. He raced down the stairs, taking them three and four at a time until he found himself on the street, the men close behind. He ran without direction, as fast as his legs would carry him, an enormous fear powering him. Behind him, he could hear shouts, the footsteps louder as they came nearer.

  He plunged into the traffic of Commonwealth Avenue, heard the squeal of brakes, horns blasting, as the cars swerved around him and their drivers cursed.

  Stone had no idea how close the men were—feet? yards? He did not dare look back.

  In the center strip of Commonwealth Avenue run the trains of the Green Line subway, the cars aboveground before their descent below Kenmore Square into central Boston. He saw one coming, headed toward the city. It had just stopped, and now, proceeding at full speed, the train blocked his path. There was no way around it. His pursuers were just behind; if he turned around, they would have him.

  It was adrenaline, coupled with tremendous fear, that propelled him toward the train rather than away from it. He leaped at it.

  His feet landed on the jutting ledge of one of the car’s doors. He grabbed one of the protruding handles. He was on the moving car, his grip tight, every muscle in his body strained to the utmost to keep him flat against the train. Inside, passengers were shouting. He could not keep holding.

  The Green Line stops frequently, an annoyance to its regular riders, but fortunate for Stone now. Less than a quarter-mile down the track, the train came to a halt, its hydraulic brakes whining. He

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  jumped back to allow the doors to open, and then he propelled himself inside the crowded train.

  He had lost the men in suits. They had not been able to outrun the train, although they had tried, and he could just see them back in the distance. He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of change, which he threw into the coin box to mollify the driver, and sank into a seat, heaving great sighs. His heart was hammering.

  The car was abuzz, the passengers staring at him and talking loudly, many of them backing away. In Chip Rosen’s good suit, he didn’t exactly look like a common criminal, but it was clear he wasn’t your average commuter, either.

  Of course they had gotten to Chip. They had gotten to all his friends, as Sawyer said they would, threatening each with substantial criminal prosecution if he or she harbored Stone.

  So who was left to help?

  Stone looked out the car’s window and saw, his heart sinking, that there was another train right behind him. God damn it, he almost said aloud. You wait and wait for a Green Line car, and then they come, all bunched up, two and three trains within two minutes.

  The men were in the train immediately behind him.

  The trains were underground now, in the dark tunnel beneath Kenmore Square. Stone had once memorized the stops, an idle exercise to occupy time when the train was stalled for an annoyingly long stretch between stations. He ran through them: one, two, three … five stops. At each one there was great danger. These men might well be equipped with radios, talking with others throughout the city. At any stop someone might come aboard, someone carefully briefed on his appearance.

  He held his breath, tried his best to melt in with the crowd, yet knowing that it was useless if anyone was waiting for him. Auditorium, Copley, Arlington … He reeled oflF the stops in his head, trying to keep panic from overtaking him.

  Auditorium seemed clear. Stone saw with great relief, and so was the next stop. At Arlington Station he got out, shoving passengers aside, then hurled himself at the revolving-door exit and ran up the stairs to Arlington Street.

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  There, just up ahead on the left, was the Ritz-Carlton. He slowed his pace in order not to arouse suspicion and entered the lobby of the hotel. On the right side of the lobby was the hotel’s bar, which was sparsely populated tonight—after the businessmen’s happy hour but before the postdinner crowd came in. At the bar he spotted a woman, sitting alone. She was in her forties, well dressed, smoking a cigarette as she drank some sort of highball. A divorcee, a widow, or just a single woman. Stone calculated, but she would not be sitting alone at the bar if she didn’t want company. She could always order drinks from room service if she wanted to drink alone.

  Stone sat on the stool next to her and flashed a quick, pleasant smile. “Hovv’re you doing?”

  “I’ve been better,” the woman said. Her face was made up with too much powder, an orangish mask that cracked around the eyes and lips. Her mascara was a deep blue. “I’ve been worse.” She took a drag on her cigarette and flecked the ash as she exhaled. Her carefully plucked pencil-thin eyebrows arched into high inverted commas.

  They wouldn’t be searching for a couple. Just as he was about to turn on his charm, he glimpsed something in his peripheral vision.

  A man was at the entrance to the bar, looking around swiftly. At the side of his suit jacket was a slight, almost imperceptible bulge: the holster of a gun.

  “Excuse me a minute, all right?” Stone slid slowly off the bar stool and edged backward, keeping his face out of sight.

  With a sudden burst of speed, he lurched toward the swinging doors that gave onto the hotel’s kitchen.

  Stone saw instantly that he was cornered; there wasn’t a single concealed place in the kitchen, and the only other exit led, he could see, into the restaurant.

  There had to be a service entrance, the door that led out onto the loading dock, where the crates of fruits and vegetables were brought in. The door! He had to make it to the door.

  A waiter crossed his path, holding aloft a tray of drinks. “What the hell are you doing here?” the waiter demanded.

  Stone lunged for the door, knocking the waiter aside, the glasses shattering on the tiled floor behind him, and in an instant he was

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221

  outside. A large green truck, labeled royal institutional food SERVICE in white block letters, was idling at the loading dock. Stone jumped off the concrete platform, flung open the truck’s rear doors, and closed them, falling backward, painfully, onto large square cartons. The engine rumbled as the truck pulled away from the dock.

  29

  Moscow

  The chairman of the KGB, Andrei PavHchenko, walked tensely along the long corridor, down an expanse of Oriental carpeting, past sets of double doors. He was on the fifth floor of the building that houses the Central Committee, on Staraya Square, three blocks from the Kremlin, headed toward Mikhail Gorbachev’s hideaway office.

  The call from the President had come an hour earlier. Pavli-chenko was at home, in his apartment on Kutuzov Prospekt, where he had lied alone since the death of his wife four years earlier. He avoided going home whenever possible, trying not to leave himself pockets of free time into which his loneliness could seep.

  When he arrived at the antechamber outside the President’s office, he nodded at the male secretaries, then continued through another antechamber, until he had reached Gorbachev’s small office.

  Gorbachev’s two other offices, in the Kremlin and on the other side of the Central Committee building, were largely ceremonial, designated for receiving foreign visitors. The President did his real work, held his most important meetings here, in a small, spartan room dominated by a large, immaculate mahogany desk. On the walls of the room hung portraits of Lenin and Marx, exactly the same prints that are found in virtually ever' Soviet official’s office. In the center of the desk was a gra- telephone with push buttons connected to twenty lines.

  Well, this is it, PavHchenko thought gloomily. The Politburo is clamoring for my head, and Gorbachev won’t be able to resist making me the fall guy.

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 223

  He was admitted immediately, and was pleased to see that no one else was present. Just the President, who looked less hred than he had that night in his dacha, but still worn. He was dressed in a dove-gray suit, which Pavlichenko knew had been made in London by the Savile Row firm Gieves and Hawkes. Pavlichenko, too, favored Savile Row suits; he was glad that, at last, Western attire was politically correct. Gorbachev also wore a top-of-the-line gold Rolex; Pavlichenko wore a somewhat less expensive Rolex. Gorbachev, Pavlichenko knew, sent his shirts and underwear out to the elite laundry near the Hotel Ukraine that serviced the Kremlin; Pavlichenko—who knew that imitation really wasn’t a bad form of flattery at all—also had his laundry done there.