The Russian

by Saul Herzog

  “Is there something else?” the president said.

  “Sir, the call is from Lance Spector.”

  Roth let out a quiet laugh, as if to underscore what everyone in the room knew to be true.

  His fate was sealed, and he knew it.

  And Lance Spector had been his undoing.

  42

  Lizzie Shrader lay on her back, staring up at the bright fluorescent bulb as if staring at the sun. The room was swelteringly hot, and her skin was tacky with sweat. She hadn’t moved in hours. Maybe days. She had no idea how long she’d been there, and the only clue of the passage of time was the steady drip in the corner from one of the pipes in at the ceiling.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  She counted them. A hundred. A thousand. How many seconds in an hour?

  When she thought about where she was, what had happened to her, she began shaking uncontrollably and couldn’t breathe.

  And that was when she forced herself to stop thinking.

  Back to the drips. The counting. The light of the bulb shining down incessantly like the Eye of Sauron.

  She was underground. She could tell by the way the concrete was formed, poured in molds.

  By the looks of things, it had been a grow-op once. There was thick, plastic sheeting on the floor, and on the ceiling, as well as the long, fluorescent tubes, was the remains of a pretty heavy-duty ventilation system.

  It didn’t work now. The room didn’t feel like it had had ventilation of any kind in a long, long time.

  She was on the ground, but there was a bed. A spartan thing with a metal, wire mesh beneath a thin mattress that was stained so badly she didn’t dare go near it.

  Next to it was a filthy little porcelain sink, something worse than the worst gas station toilet she’d ever seen, and it didn’t work.

  She’d tried it.

  She was so thirsty she’d drink even from that.

  There was a sound outside the door, and her body flooded with adrenaline.

  The man hadn’t been back since he’d flung her in there. It sounded like he was coming now.

  Last time, he’d forced her to sit still on the bed while he filmed her on his phone. He’d told her to say hello to the camera, but she couldn’t. Her mouth wouldn’t move. Her voice wouldn’t sound. He’d pulled her head back by the hair and made her look at the camera.

  She’d been crying.

  She knew that footage was for her mother. At least, she couldn’t think of any other use for it.

  She pictured her mother receiving it, and it made her want to cry all over again.

  The man sounded Russian, at least as far as Lizzie could tell. She didn’t have a lot of experience with accents from that part of the world. He was massive.

  There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of her escaping him, overpowering him, but she had tried. After he was done with the filming, and she’d thought of her mother watching it, she flung herself against him, clawing, biting, scratching, like the cornered little animal she was.

  He’d flung her across the room with a single arm, like she was nothing more than a rag doll. She hit her head so hard on the wall it made her want to throw up. Her vision blurred.

  When she regained focus, she saw him, his enormous bulk, standing over her like a bear. He was looking at her, and the smile on his face made her blood shiver.

  It wasn’t right. Wasn’t natural.

  She’d never seen that look on a man’s face before, and she realized instinctively what it was he was thinking.

  Later, she heard him playing with the little peephole in the door. It had been reversed so that he could watch her.

  It made her feel like insects were running all over her body.

  43

  Lance and Larissa got a few blocks from the embassy before they dared to stop. They could still hear the chaos at the embassy, the helicopters overhead, and the police car sirens.

  “You really went for it,” Lance said.

  “I had to get you out of there.”

  Another police car sped by, and Lance turned away from it.

  “Well, you sure know how to get a crowd going.”

  He looked at her. There was a new confidence in her eyes.

  And it was justified. She hadn’t just succeeded in forcing the embassy into lockdown, she’d saved his life.

  She didn’t know it yet, but he did.

  “I’ve always been good at raising hell,” she said.

  Lance let out a brief chuckle.

  “It’s true,” she said. “You should consider recruiting me. I could be one of those agitators the CIA sends in to destabilize countries.”

  “The CIA doesn’t do that,” Lance said.

  Larissa smiled. “Sure it doesn’t.”

  Another police car sped by, and Lance said, “I think you might have created enough chaos to justify the ambassador in recalling the ejected marines.”

  Larissa said, “so the embassy’s safe?”

  “Well,” Lance said, “I wouldn’t go that far. But at least it’s got its guard up now.”

  “So, what next?”

  “We need to find a payphone,” Lance said.

  Going directly to the embassy had been a mistake. Lance had gone in to report a security threat to the station chief, and he’d ended up in an underground cell with a Russian trying to kill him.

  The embassy’s security breach went all the way to the top, and Lance needed to get word of that to Roth immediately.

  “There are payphones in the park,” Larissa said.

  They went to the phones, and Lance dialed Roth’s private line. There was no answer. He had to use his secure codes and go through Langley. When he got through, the operator said she couldn’t connect him directly to Roth.

  Lance gave her a top-level emergency clearance code. The purpose of the code was to ensure Lance direct access to Roth in situations like this, and built into it were secret flags he could use to pass additional distress messages.

  Lance gave her the distress code indicating a threat from within.

  The operator typed the code into her terminal and then hesitated.

  “What’s the problem?” Lance said to her.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It looks like your clearance has been revoked.”

  “I don’t have time to get into that right now,” Lance said. “I just need to speak to Levi Roth, urgently.”

  “Sir,” the operator said, her voice trembling, “under the standing order granting your status, I am required by law to tell you that this call is being traced and that deadly force has been authorized in your apprehension. You are commanded, by order of the President of the United States, to stand down immediately and turn yourself over to the authority designated under your terms of reference.”

  “Listen,” Lance said, “I understand what you told me, but you have to inform Roth of my call. You know what that code I just gave you means, don’t you.”

  “Yes, I do, sir.”

  “Then patch me through to Roth.”

  “They’re,” the operator said, and then hesitated, “sir, they’re tracing your location as we speak.”

  “I don’t care,” Lance said. “This call has to go through.”

  He gave her another security clearance code, and another, until the operator interrupted him frantically, saying, “Roth’s with the president. The only way you’re going to get through to him is if the White House operator connects you.”

  “Can you connect me to the White House operator then?”

  The phone clicked, there was a tone, and a moment later, he was on a direct line to the Oval Office. Lance gave the operator the same clearance codes he’d given Langley, and this time he was told to hold.

  When the operator came back on, her tone had changed, and she read to him the same legal message about turning himself in.

  “Can you tell Roth that someone at the embassy just tried to kill me,” Lance said.

  “I’m sorry,
sir,” the operator said. “I’m only authorized to read the message I just gave you.”

  “You want me to turn myself over to the people who just tried to put a bullet in my skull?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “What kind of joke is this?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Can you at least give me the authorization code for your message, so I can verify it’s real?”

  The operator read him the White House code.

  “I need the CIA code,” Lance said.

  She read him Roth’s code, and as Lance suspected, it had also been appended with a secret distress flag. The flag Roth had given him meant, cut and run.

  Lance hung up the phone, showing his frustration by slamming the receiver a little harder than necessary.

  “What happened?” Larissa said.

  “They wouldn’t put me through,” he said. “They told me to turn myself in.”

  “You already tried that.”

  “Something’s going on,” Lance said. “Someone at the White House is deliberately trying to prevent me from getting my message through to Roth.”

  “What else can you do?” Larissa said.

  “I can still try Laurel,” he said.

  Lance dialed Laurel’s private line, very aware it was the first time he’d called since he’d dropped her from a flying helicopter over the Moskva River.

  He waited nervously for the call to connect. He wasn’t sure how she’d react to hearing from him.

  “Lance,” she gasped when she picked up the phone. “Is that you?”

  “Laurel,” he said. “It’s me.”

  “The embassy is in chaos,” Laurel said. “The NSA cut all our feeds. We couldn’t get to you.”

  “That’s okay. I got out.”

  “What’s going on there?”

  “Something’s very wrong. I tried to warn them of an attack, but they locked me in a cell with a psychopath who tried to kill me.”

  “Tatyana told me about the plot. A threat against the embassy. A Russian albino from the Lubyanka and a Chinese.”

  “It’s real,” Lance said. “I’ve met the albino, and he’s getting help from our side.”

  “Who’s helping him?” Laurel said.

  “I don’t know, but he was holding a document authorized by the NSA.”

  “We’ve been searching all the databases we have access to,” Laurel said. “We have no record of an albino at the Lubyanka.”

  “There must be photos of him somewhere,” Lance said. “He’s seven feet tall. He goes by Polar Bear.”

  “Whoever he is,” Laurel said, “he doesn’t show up on the record.”

  “He’s a strange fucker,” Lance said. “He has a limp. Something congenital. Check hospital records in Moscow. See if any seven-foot albinos received leg surgery.”

  “I don’t know if we can find that.”

  “He also had a weird accent. I couldn’t place it, but I’d be surprised if Russian is his first language.”

  “A foreigner? That widens the search.”

  “Also, start looking at the NSA. I’m thinking the stink is coming from their direction.”

  “They have a new director. Sandra Shrader.”

  “Start with her,” Lance said.

  “All right,” Laurel said. “Anything else you can think of that might be useful?”

  Lance hesitated for a second, then said, “The guy, the albino, he had access to dirt Clarice Snow sold the Kremlin.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Things only she could have known.”

  “About you?”

  “Yeah, me, Roth, her.”

  “Okay, that helps.”

  “And check the embassy logs,” Lance said. “See who entered the embassy after I was arrested. This guy should have been logged. I was in the old embassy building basement.”

  “Tatyana’s pulling those records now.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Lance said. “I’m being traced as we speak.”

  “Good luck, Lance.”

  “Good luck to you too,” Lance said. “I’ll check back with you in a few hours. Hopefully you’ve got something for me by then. I want to go get this guy.”

  “I do too,” Laurel said.

  “And for God’s sake,” Lance said, “convince someone that the embassy needs to be evacuated. Whatever’s coming, it’s going to be big.”

  “I’ll get Roth to tell the president.”

  “Laurel,” Lance said.

  “What?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Roth’s in trouble.”

  “What? He just went to the White House to meet with the president.”

  “I tried to call him. They wouldn’t let me speak to him.”

  “He was in the Oval Office.”

  “I sent him a secret distress code when I tried to speak to him.”

  “Did he get your code?”

  “I think so,” Lance said, “because he sent one back.”

  “What was it?”

  “He told me to cut and run.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “If they’ve gotten to him.”

  “You need to be careful, Laurel. Watch your back. Watch that new NSA director.”

  Larissa tapped Lance on the arm. Two Moscow police officers were approaching cautiously, their hands on the guns at their hips.

  “I’ve got to go,” Lance said. “I’ve got company. I let the NSA trace my location, and guess who shows up?”

  “Who?”

  “Russians.”

  44

  Larissa watched the two police officers approach.

  “You there,” one of them called out.

  They were still a hundred yards off, and she hit Lance again on the arm. “We’ve really got to get going,” she said.

  Lance hung up the phone and grabbed her arm. They started walking through the park away from the cops.

  “Hey,” the officer called. “You. Stop right there.”

  Lance kept walking as if he hadn’t heard them.

  “What are we doing?” Larissa said.

  “There’s a gate up ahead,” Lance said. “When we get to it, you run.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get rid of these guys.”

  “I’m not leaving you again,” Larissa said.

  “I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  Larissa didn’t like it, she didn’t want to split up again, but she could hear the police officers getting closer by the second.

  “Don’t look back,” Lance said. “Just slip through the gate and get back to the hotel.”

  She touched his hand unconsciously and was embarrassed when she realized what she’d done.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Lance said, looking at her. “I promise.”

  The cops drew their weapons.

  “Stop, or we’ll shoot,” one of them called.

  Larissa looked back. They were approaching very cautiously. They’d been warned of potential danger.

  “Get down,” the cop called.

  The two officers spread about ten yards from each other. It looked to Larissa like they’d received tactical training. They were about thirty yards away. One of them spoke into a microphone at his collar, calling for backup. In the distance, she heard yet another police siren.

  Lance stopped. He turned around slowly to face the officers.

  “Is something the matter?” he said in flawless Moscow dialect.

  The officers lowered their weapons, just a hair, and Lance pushed Larissa in the direction of the gate.

  “Go, now,” he cried.

  Larissa didn’t hesitate. She ran for the gate, slipping through it as the sound of two gunshots filled the air.

  On the street, two police cars sped past her in the direction of the park’s main entrance. Larissa went the opposite way, trying hard not to run as more and more police
vehicles sped by.

  When four more gunshots went off, each bang felt like a blow to her stomach.

  She pictured the bullets ripping through Lance, knocking him to the ground in a mess of blood.

  She kept walking, not fast, not slow, and when some cops pulled over next to her, she pretended to be drunk, on her way home from a nightclub. She slurred her words and gave silly answers to their questions. She even tried to kiss one of them.

  They swore at her and drove on, and she walked all the way to Kiyevsky railway station before she dared stop.

  She entered the station and looked at the electronic departure board hanging above the concourse. She looked down the list of international departures leaving in the next thirty minutes. Kyiv, Lviv, Dnipro, and Odessa in the Ukraine. Chisinau in Moldova.

  She could board one of those trains, and all of this would be behind her. But not without Lance.

  She went back outside and got in a cab, telling the driver to take her to the hotel.

  “There’s something going on down there,” the driver told her. “Police everywhere. You’d be faster to walk.”

  “I don’t want to walk.”

  He turned and looked at her.

  She knew she looked a fright. Her hair was everywhere. Her makeup was smudged. She’d been crying.

  She made no attempt to hide the fact from the driver.

  The driver scanned the steps of the train station, looking for a more lucrative ride. There was no one.

  “I’ll pay twice the meter,” she said.

  “The meter will be nothing,” the driver complained. “Five hundred tops.”

  “I’ll give you two thousand. I just want to sit.”

  The driver sighed. “You mind if I smoke?”

  Larissa shrugged, and after the driver lit his cigarette, she lit one of her own. It was snowing again, and she opened her window to let in the air.

  The traffic was as bad as the driver had said, it took thirty minutes to travel six blocks, and when they finally got to the hotel, she could see that the police were still dealing with the disturbance outside the embassy.

  “What happened there?” she said, curious to know what story had been circulating.

  “I heard it’s a protest against the sanctions,” the driver said.