by Alex Ander
Chapter 5: Moscow
After the jet touched down at Moscow Domodedovo International Airport, Hardy de-boarded the aircraft, cleared the customs process and made his way to the front doors of the airport. He was to rendezvous with an American asset, who would take him to the meeting with Agent Volkov.
Outside the airport, Hardy scanned the area and spotted a man matching the description he was given. The man was tall and in his late thirties, leaning against a Volkswagen Polo Sedan, reading a newspaper. He wore a light gray suit, white shirt with a black tie and black dress shoes. On his head was a fedora-style hat, tilted backwards. Black sunglasses covered his eyes. Hardy strode toward the man. “Did the Tigers win yesterday?”
The man lowered the newspaper. “Not only did they win, but they shut out the Yankees, three to nothing.”
“Myself, I’m a Lions fan.”
The contact information having been verified, the man folded the newspaper and threw it into the car. He held out his hand. “I’m Tom MacPherson.”
MacPherson was an American asset stationed in Moscow. He worked out of the embassy. MacPherson’s American handler had contacted him and given him explicit instructions. He was to pick up Hardy at the airport, assist him during his time in the city and drop him at the airport when Hardy was finished with the mission. MacPherson was not to inquire about the nature of Hardy’s visit.
The two men shook hands. “Aaron Hardy.”
“Hop in.” MacPherson took Hardy’s suitcase and put it in the trunk of the car. He sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine and navigated the sedan into traffic.
Hardy did not waste any time. “Were you able to get what I asked for?”
MacPherson tipped his head backward. “It’s in the back.” He was given a list of items he was to acquire for his passenger.
Hardy twisted in his seat, retrieved a duffle bag and plopped it onto his lap.
“You’ll find everything you asked for is in there.”
Hardy unzipped the bag and inspected the contents. “It looks good.” He closed the bag and pushed it to the floor. “How far are we from the hotel?”
MacPherson scratched his chin. “About an hour, I’d say.”
Hardy looked at the time on the dashboard of the car—it read 6:13. The café, where the meeting was taking place—Apartment 44—was only a few minutes away from his hotel, the Marriott. “Good. That’ll give me time to get cleaned up.”
For the next hour, the two men made small talk, until MacPherson brought the sedan to a stop in front of the Marriott. He popped the trunk and jumped out. Handing over Hardy’s suitcase, along with a room key, MacPherson motioned toward the hotel. “You’re already checked in, so you can go straight to your room.
“Thanks.” Hardy accepted the items. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”
MacPherson nodded before getting back into the sedan and driving away.
Chapter 6: Marriott
Inside his room, Hardy started the shower and stripped, laying his clothes on the bed. He waited until the steam began to rise over the top of the shower curtain before he climbed into the stall. The hot water hit him like tiny pellets, but it felt good. He had been stuck on a plane for nine hours. After another hour in a small car, this was like a therapeutic massage. Standing with his back to the showerhead, he let the water loosen his tight muscles. He took a few extra minutes to enjoy the moist heat, before lathering and rinsing his body and hair. He rotated the shower handle to the right. Stepping out of the shower, he picked up the towel he had left on the toilet seat and wiped the remaining beads of water from his body. He tossed the towel onto the floor and left the bathroom.
Naked and standing by the bed, Hardy put on a pair of boxer shorts and blue jeans before adding a light brown t-shirt, white socks and brown hiking boot-type tennis shoes. Unzipping the duffle bag MacPherson had given him, he retrieved a Glock 19 handgun, holster, magazine pouch and two magazines. He tucked the small holster inside his waistband before attaching the clip over his belt to secure the rig. He picked up the Glock 19, retracted the slide to verify that the pistol was loaded and slid it into the holster. He put the magazine pouch on the other side of his belt and stuffed two fifteen-round magazines into it before draping his t-shirt over the gun and the magazine pouch. Slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder, he exited the hotel room.
Entering the lobby, Hardy spied MacPherson, sitting in a chair and thumbing through a magazine. Noticing Hardy, MacPherson tossed the magazine onto the table next to him and rose to his feet. The two men left and got into the sedan. Hardy put the duffle bag in the back seat.
MacPherson eased the sedan into traffic.
Hardy twirled a finger in the air. “I want to make a slow trip around the café before we park the car. Go slow, but don’t make it conspicuous.”
MacPherson acknowledged him.
Less than ten minutes later, the sedan turned right down a narrow side street. MacPherson pointed. “The café is up ahead on the right.”
Hardy’s eyes scanned the street and buildings for anything, or anyone, that seemed out of place. He did not have reason to suspect anything was going to go wrong. Being acutely aware of his surroundings was something that came natural to him; furthermore, this skill automatically kicked in whenever he was in unfamiliar territory. The street was mostly deserted. A few people mingled on the sidewalk, talking as they walked. Cars were parallel-parked on the right.
After passing the entrance to the café, MacPherson gestured. “This street dead ends up ahead. I’ll have to turn around if you want to make a second pass.”
“No, park up there, the last one,” Hardy said, referring to the row of parallel parking spots on the right. He did not want to risk another drive past the café, in case there was someone watching.
MacPherson parked the sedan and shut off the engine. “How do you want to play this?” He removed his handgun from its holster. Pinching the slide near the muzzle between his thumb and forefinger, he pulled back the slide only enough to see a round in the chamber.
Hardy shook his head and held out his hand. “Let me see your phone.”
MacPherson flicked his eyes toward the outstretched hand. “Why?”
“I’m going in alone. I want you to text me if you see anything on the street.”
MacPherson relinquished his mobile.
Hardy punched in the number to his sat phone and returned the man’s phone to him. After verifying his gun was loaded, he gave the street one more check before getting out of the sedan. He maintained a brisk pace toward the café, his eyes taking in every detail around him. Approaching the café, he swung open the door and stepped inside.
Chapter 7: Café
Apartment 44 was a small café. There were several round-shaped, wooden tables in the center. Matching wooden chairs with circular seats complemented the tables. Straight ahead was a dark mahogany bar. Bottles of alcohol lined a shelf behind it. A full-width mirror behind the shelf gave the illusion there were twice as many bottles. A few patrons sat at the tables. The bartender nodded at Hardy. He nodded back before choosing a table off to the side next to a large brick wall. On one side of the table were two chairs. The other side had booth seating.
Hardy sat on the booth side, his back to the wall. He placed his sat phone on the table and removed a folded newspaper from his back pocket. He placed the newspaper on the table, making sure the section heading was visible and hanging off the edge of the table. His sat phone read 7:48. He glanced around the café, noting where the exits were located.
A few minutes later, a young woman in her twenties showed up at his table, placed a menu in front of him and said something in Russian. He presumed she wanted to take his order. He tapped his finger on the rim of an empty water glass and smiled. The woman had a blank stare on her face for a split-second before she smiled back and nodded her head. She left, returned with a pitcher of water and filled the water glass. Hardy checked his sat phone again—7:55.
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nbsp; During the next five minutes, more patrons entered the café. Each time the door opened, Hardy observed the new arrivals. None matched the description of his contact, the FSB agent.
At eight o’clock, a woman in her mid-to-late twenties with long, blonde hair made an entrance. She stood inside the door and surveyed the people. She displayed a slender figure, five-feet, seven-inches tall, and was dressed in skin-tight blue jeans. A white short-sleeve camisole shell was tucked inside the jeans. When her eyes settled on Hardy, she paused. Dropping her cell phone into the right pocket of her black fitted knee-length blazer, she strutted toward him. Her long legs carried her across the hardwood floor with minimal steps, the hem of her blazer flaring. With each footfall, the two-inch chunky heels of her black pumps echoed in the confined space of the café. The patrons noticed her impressive entrance. They stopped their conversations and held their glasses in midair to glimpse the newcomer.
The woman stopped at Hardy’s table. She put her right hand on the back of the nearest chair and eyed the newspaper. The section heading, ‘sports,’ was hanging off the edge of the table. “My money is on the Yankees this year.”
Now that she was standing in front of him, Hardy saw her beauty. Her skin was white, almost like cream. Her blue eyes were set above a narrow nose and below impeccably manicured eyebrows. When she spoke, her full lips parted and revealed a set of white teeth, brilliant in color and perfectly aligned. Her photo in the dossier did not do her justice. “They’ll never make it past Boston.”
“Boston’s bullpen is terrible.”
Hardy stood and extended his hand. “I’m Aaron Hardy.”
She shook his hand. “Natasha Volkov—it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hardy.” She slid the chair out from under the table and sat.
“Likewise, Ms. Volkov.” He took his seat.
“Please call me Natasha. I find Ms. Volkov a bit too…old…for my tastes.” She smiled and half-chuckled. “Perhaps if we meet again in forty years, you can call me, Ms. Volkov.”
Hardy laughed as the young woman, who had brought him his water, spoke to Natasha. Natasha replied, and the woman left and came back with a pitcher of water and filled Natasha’s water glass.
After the woman had left, Natasha directed her attention toward Hardy. He’s handsome. She eyed his facial features. He had light brown hair, cut short. His jaw was square. His chin came to a slight point and had a tiny dimple in the center. She was drawn to his deep blue eyes. They made her feel as if he was peering into her inner being. His physique was muscular. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his brown t-shirt to the point where she was expecting the fabric to split at the seam.
She had always been intrigued by American men. They seemed to be freer and more relaxed than their Russian counterparts were, but every bit as tough. Inwardly, she laughed. Maybe she had seen too many American movies when she was younger. “My superiors tell me we’re to work together.”
Hardy detected a sarcastic tone in her voice, but dismissed it.
She opened the menu and pretended to be deciding on what to order. “So, let’s work together. You can start by telling me what you know about Anton Rudin.”
Hardy did not appreciate this woman’s attitude; however, in this scenario, he was the visiting team and he wanted to get off to a good start. He opened the folded newspaper, took out a few documents and a map of a specific location in Russia. He placed everything in front of him. “A couple of weeks ago, the FBI uncovered and stopped a plot to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge during rush hour traffic. During the investigation, they captured the man who was going to set off the explosion. He had entered the United States from Russia, one week earlier.”
Natasha closed the menu and set it aside.
Hardy took a drink of water. “Fast forwarding a little…during the interrogation, the FBI discovered the identity of the man who was to make the bomb that was going to be used on the bridge.”
Natasha crossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair. “Anton Rudin?”
Hardy nodded. “The man in custody divulged the location of where he had met Rudin when he was in Russia.” Hardy twisted the map and pointed to a location and the address of the house where the man had met Rudin. “My people believe this is the best place to begin our search for Rudin.” Hardy slid the other documents across the table.
Natasha peered at the map and recognized the address. Without realizing what she was doing, she reached under the table and rubbed the top of her left thigh. She stared at the map in silence. Images of Sergei flashed across her mind. Even though it was not on the map, she envisioned the house, the explosion, the debris. The entire incident came rushing back to her.
Hardy thought she was inspecting the map, but when several awkward moments had passed, he knew something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” She did not respond. Reaching out, he touched the map. “Natasha?” She flinched. “Are you okay?”
She blinked several times and took a drink of water. “I’m fine.” Her eyes went back to the map. “No, there’s nothing there. My people have already—” she paused before flatly stating, “There’s nothing there.”
“I’d still like to see the house. Maybe, something was overlooked. It can’t hurt to have another pair of eyes—”
Natasha cut him off in mid-sentence. “Trust me.” Her voice grew louder with each successive word. “There’s nothing there.”
Hardy had touched a nerve. He wanted to push her on the issue. The FBI had been certain there was a better than good chance Rudin used the house as a home base. After staring at her for several moments, he decided not to push it. He remained quiet, letting her read the rest of the documents.
Natasha held a sheet of paper in the air, while she read the next. She consumed everything Hardy and the Americans had on Anton Rudin. She frowned and her eyebrows curled downward. The Americans had no new information. She tightened her grip on the papers, crinkling them. Her government had insisted she work with Hardy in the spirit of cooperation to find Rudin. Why? It was obvious the Americans had nothing of value to offer. She put the papers in order and passed them back across the table.
Hardy wasted no time in quizzing her. “Now, it’s your turn. What information do you have?” He took the papers and set them on the folded newspaper.
Natasha studied Hardy for several seconds. After taking a drink of water, she glanced over her shoulder. “Look, my government has ordered me to work with you. Why, I don’t know. Your country has nothing new to offer in this matter; however,” she tugged on the lapels of her jacket to straighten it, “in the spirit of cooperation, I will play nice.” She smiled at Hardy, but did a poor job disguising her feelings. “I’m this close,” she lifted her hand, her thumb and forefinger close together, “to finding Rudin. I’m waiting for a call from one of my contacts. He thinks he knows where Rudin is hiding.” Natasha stood, the backs of her knees pushing the chair away from the table. “Where are you staying?”
“The Marriott,” replied Hardy. She’s going to blow me off.
“Good. Go back to your hotel and rest. When I find out more, I’ll call you.” She spun around, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Hardy,” and marched toward the door.
Hardy watched her leave, his hand shaking from the death grip on the water glass. She had dismissed him with a virtual ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’ attitude. She had not given him any information. This meeting had been a disaster. So much for cooperation. Still fuming, he considered his options; go after her and insist on being involved in the conversation with her contact, follow her or visit the site on the map himself. He was contemplating a fourth option when he noticed something odd on the other side of the café.
Chapter 8: Surprised
Natasha left the café. She had no plans to contact Hardy when she found Rudin. She had worked hard, tracking the man to that dilapidated house, only to have him slip though her fingers. Sergei’s death would not be in vain. No, when she found Rudin, she was going to be the one who brought him to jus
tice. No pretty boy American was going to take from her the satisfaction owed. After Rudin was in custody, she would call Hardy and give him an excuse for why she had not called him sooner. It was a matter of urgency and I needed to move fast. That should placate him.
Reaching the sidewalk, she heard her phone ring. It was her contact. She swiped a finger across the screen before tucking the phone under her hair. “Tell me you found him.” Focusing on the voice on the other end of the phone, she listened.
Striding up the sidewalk of the narrow, deserted street, she was paying too much attention to the caller and did not see the slow-moving black van to the right, until it was too late.
The van accelerated and came alongside Natasha before swerving left and coming to a halt, the tires screeching. The side doors were open. Two men jumped out and rushed her. She dropped her phone, threw back the right lapel of her open-front blazer. Before she could get to her weapon, the first man latched on to her right arm and twisted it behind her back. The second man took her pistol from her holster. The first man, who still held her arm behind her back, grabbed a handful of hair, took two steps toward the van and threw Natasha through the open doors.
She threw out her left hand to break her fall, her palm skidding across the rough fibers of the van’s carpeted floor. She landed on her stomach, her knees hitting the metal trim of the van’s running boards. The surge of adrenaline kept any pain from reaching her brain. She rolled onto her left side and brought her right foot up, ready to drive the heel of her shoe into the first target presented. She lined up her foot with the center of the man’s chest, the one who had thrown her into the van. She never got the chance to deliver her strike, however.
As the men approached the van, Natasha heard several loud bangs. The men’s shirts split open in several different spots. The second man staggered backward and hit the open door of the van before sliding to the pavement. The first man dropped to his knees, his upper body landing inside the van. Staring at Natasha, he appeared to have been shot. She was not going to be denied her revenge, however. She thrust her leg toward the man, the heel of her shoe landing squarely on the man’s nose. After a loud crack, streams of blood stained the carpet. His head rocked backward and he disappeared from sight. Before she could get to her feet, she noticed movement to the right.