by Tigner, Tim
Igor began to comment but Vasily held up his hand. “I know, I know, access is a problem. The Chief Justice doesn’t fall under the purview of the Guards’ Directorate. But that just means you’re going to have to get creative. And before you ask, no, there is no obvious third-party Peitho candidate. The Chief Justice is all alone and he’s financially unmotivated. Perhaps that’s why he has lasted as long as he has; he really isn’t corrupt. But … being virtuous doesn’t make one indifferent to life and death. Are you up to a frontal assault?” With that Vasily leaned slowly back in his chair and gave a Igor a gracious nod.
Igor paused for a contemplative moment, cleared his throat, and grew a grin of his own. “There’s another conquest we need, Vasily, one which I would propose is no less important to the cause, one which you and only you can manage.”
It was Igor’s turn to lean back. As he did so, Vasily did what Igor no doubt wanted him to do. He tried to figure out what he had overlooked, tried to guess what his friend had in mind. Vasily drew a blank, and Igor continued.
“You have lined up all the components required to become a head of state, Vasily, a king. You have the people, you have the money, and you will have the court—yes, I am up to it.” He looked slowly around, obviously enjoying his place at the center of everyone’s piqued attention. “Your campaign, however, is missing that something special, that extra ingredient that would give it—and your reign—magic. While I’m knocking on the Chief Justice’s front door, you, my friend, must find yourself a queen.”
Chapter 21
Irkutsk, Siberia
There were five metro stops between the Hotel Irkutsk and Irkutsk Motorworks. Alex stopped at every one of them, exchanging five twenty-dollar bills with five different black-market traders. Now in addition to ninety-eight hundred dollars he had smuggled into Russia in his boots, he had ten thousand rubles in his wallet. It was enough to live for a month like a Czar. He could have gotten twelve thousand, but he wanted the rarer hundred ruble notes to keep the volume down, so he had accepted a lower exchange rate with an internal chuckle; a hundred dollars and he was rich.
Thus far, the Irkutsk operation was going according to plan. Gold Frame’s presence had been a disappointment—one Alex had yet to fully analyze—but it had not posed a tactical challenge. He had neutralized his tail for the afternoon by priming the sexy hotel receptionist and shifty taxi driver with disinformation. Then he had slipped out the window. If the next couple hours went according to plan, Gold Frame would not know he was duped until Alex’s business was done. At least, that was the plan…
At the last metro stop, Alex used fifty rubles to buy himself a change of wardrobe at a flea market. It was unattractive but warm. The only things he did not change were his boots, socks, and gloves. Every soldier knows you don’t compromise on footwear or jeopardize your trigger finger. Alex had come in to Russia wearing a pair of Asolo winter trekking boots, and he would go out wearing them, hopefully not feet first. He had cut off the logos and used a marker to blacken over the accent marks. Now they were a secret weapon.
He pictured himself doing a boot commercial when this was all done, and wondered what claim he’d be able to make by the time he was home. He still had the bear-by-the-balls quote on the brain, but that probably wasn’t the market niche Asolo would be looking for.
Although Alex had no prior knowledge of a specific bar near Irkutsk Motorworks, he knew that every factory in the civilized world had a watering hole within a few steps of its doors. The Engine Room turned out to be one of two establishments that catered to Irkutsk Motorworkers.
Whereas the day shift would always wait until after work to hit the bar, Alex knew that night shift workers might well go in for an aperitif. It wasn’t that the day-shifters were more virtuous, it was just that the night-shifters could drink inconspicuously before work. At least that was the case in the US, and Alex figured that when it came to drinking, anything Americans could do, Russians could do better.
Before heading inside, he took an inconspicuous look through the fence at the factory complex, lest he be caught without even the most basic knowledge. Then he paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. It was time to earn an Ivan (the espionage version of an Oscar).
The bar did not look particularly cheery given the dim lighting, but Alex had a feeling it would look even worse with the lights turned up. The floors were either grungy-blue linoleum or blue linoleum that was grungy. Alex decided not to dwell on that; Vodka was a sterilizer. The plaster walls were painted different shades of green, but not according to any pattern or style that he could discern. The flat paints were most likely acquired one bucket at a time on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. The crowning jewel of the decorum was the bar itself. It had machine parts nailed, bolted, or welded to every square inch of its surface, and the countertop was the wing from an old airplane. It reminded Alex of something he had seen at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, but he decided that it would be unwise to inform the proprietor of the fact.
He sat at the bar and simply asked for two hundred grams, knowing that he would immediately be marked as an outsider if he used the superfluous word vodka. Although The Engine Room wasn’t busy yet, he still didn’t have his order five minutes later. Alex couldn’t figure out why the man was so slow to move, but as long as it wasn’t personal, he didn’t mind. With sixteen hours of jetlag, this evening was going to be one rough ride. Russians don’t sip their vodka with olives and vermouth. They slam shots. So it’s hard to fake drinking unless you have water in your glass, and Alex couldn’t afford to get caught in that old trick.
He was getting nervous about the implications of the bartender’s rebuff when a chesty waitress walked in the front door, ponytail a bobbin’, gum a chewin’. Alex got his two-hundred grams and a hello-lover look less than a minute later. As Olga walked away with her first tip of the night, she undid the top button on her strained blouse, giving Alex something to look at while he waited to get lucky. He had decided to give The Engine Room thirty minutes to produce what he was looking for. Then he would move down the street to the competing establishment.
Alex was hoping to find an Irkutsk Motorworker that looked like him. Thanks to his mother, he knew he was fishing in the right gene pool. Of course, even with a perfect facial match, there would still be issues. He looked happier and healthier than anyone in Siberia, and he still had the remnants of a tan from the Brazilian Boomerang case. There was little he could do about that but hope that his jet lag, five o’clock shadow, and the dim lighting would help compensate. He prepared a story just in case.
A large man in well-worn navy-blue coveralls entered the bar at four fifteen and took a seat at a small table in the corner. Alex tried to picture him as he would look in a black-and-white passport photo. He was a good match overall, but there was one glaring exception. The man was bald. Alex cursed his bad luck. If worse came to worst, he could shave his head, but given the temperature outside— The temperature outside, that was it. With a sigh of relief Alex remembered that he would still be dressed in outdoor clothing when passing through security, and that included his fur hat. The man, for his part, might also be convinced to leave his shapka on. Yes, this would work. Alex had found his fish. Now he just had to plant a hook and reel him in.
Coveralls looked up at Olga who in turn nodded to the bartender who poured a flask like Alex’s without further prompting. Alex intercepted Olga with a wink and a ten-ruble note and asked for a bottle of Stolichnaya with three glasses, which, thank you very much, he would personally deliver to the man’s table. In Russia it was customary—don’t ask me why— to drink in groups of three. No further explanation was required.
Alex sat down across from Coveralls and poured two shot glasses to the rim. Then, without saying a word, he lifted his glass and held it at eye level, looking across the small table at his new best friend. The man looked puzzled at first, like a guy who sees a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk and can’t believe that what he sees is real,
then, afraid it will vanish, pounces before it can disappear. Na Zdarovye.
They drained their glasses. Nasty! Alex did not care for vodka, shaken or stirred.
Alex poured another couple of shots and the two drank again, still in silence. The man seemed afraid to speak, apparently fearing he would break the spell. Alex, now satisfied that he had the hook in the man’s mouth, opened with the universal male icebreaker, “You see the tits on that chick,” he said, tilting his head toward Olga.
The man seemed relieved. Alex’s remark had indicated two things: one that he was just a guy drinking in a bar, and two, that he wasn’t gay.
“Tastiest pair in town.”
“You been there?”
“Oh yeah. Nice,” he said, drawing the word out with a smile and a nod. Then added, “You want an introduction?” He reached out to hold the bottle of Stolichnaya as he offered. Alex wasn’t sure if the gesture was subconscious or not.
“Nah, thanks. I’ve got enough woman problems.”
Noticing with seemingly genuine surprise that the bottle was now in his hand, Coveralls took the initiative of filling the glasses the third time. Alex started getting nervous. He was planning on finesse, but at this consumption rate he wouldn’t be able to beat a chicken at tic-tac-toe in half an hour. He needed to buy time. Alex made a point of directing his gaze at Ms. Titties for a while, and sure enough his new friend went ahead and drained his glass alone.
“Speaking of introduction, I’m Alex.”
“Boris. You new to town?”
“Just this part. I’m avoiding my wife’s friends.”
Boris nodded with understanding. “That where your woman problems come from?”
Alex faked a surprised look, then nodded as though suddenly remembering his earlier comment. “Yeah. Her friend saw me with my girlfriend. Of course I said it wasn’t me, but she didn’t buy it.”
“Who cares. Tell her to mind her own business.”
“I wish it were that easy. She’s the one with the money. And the connections.”
“So dump the girlfriend. A guy like you can always find another once things cool down.”
“I’ve tried. Can’t do it. She looks like an Italian film star and fucks like a Swedish one. I’d almost rather die than walk away from that bed.”
“Guess you gotta be more careful.”
“I wish it were that easy. She’s hired a private eye to spy on me.”
“No shit?” Boris downed another shot.
Based on his coveralls, Alex was sure Boris worked at Irkutsk Motorworks, but he did not know in what capacity. If he learned that it was quality control he would never be able to fly Aeroflot again.
Putting that thought out of his mind, he continued to bait Boris. “Meanwhile Sophia has said that if I leave her sitting at home alone one more Friday night, she’ll dump me like yesterday’s garbage.” While he spoke Alex fidgeted in his seat uncomfortably, eventually withdrawing his very thick wallet and setting it on the table.
Boris’s eyes bulged, but he didn’t comment. Instead he said, “When’s your next date?”
“Ten o’clock tonight.”
Boris shook his head. “What you gonna do?”
“I was hoping you might help.”
Boris looked startled. Then he grinned. “You want me to fuck Sophia for you, keep her satisfied till you work things out with the Misses?”
“Don’t you have to work?” Alex asked, nodding at Boris’s coveralls.
Boris’s eyes bulged and he paused, clearly unsure if the vodka was interfering with his hearing. Then he said the magic words. “Shit man, I can always call in sick.”
If this guy was stupid enough to think a stranger was going to buy his drinks and then give him his girlfriend for the night, Alex knew he would have no problem selling his real plan. “Nice idea, but actually I was thinking we could trick the private investigator into following you, and then I could go see Sophia.”
Boris gave him a doubtful, crestfallen look. It was time for Alex to reel him in.
“Of course, I would compensate you for your lost wages. And for the inconvenience. You could go spend the evening at Max’s Place, on me, as long as you make sure the P.I. follows you there.”
Boris’s face lit up like a young Hugh Hefner’s. Then, realizing his mistake, he did his best to look concerned. “I dunno man, I had to miss a few days already this month and this might be too much. Could cause me to lose my vacation voucher.”
Alex thought, “Yeah, right,” but said, “I understand,” and opened his wallet. “How about I give you a hundred for the inconvenience,” he laid a crisp ruble bill on the table, “a hundred to keep things cool with your boss,” another bill, “and one, two, three hundred for Max’s ladies?”
Alex could tell Boris was trying to control his excitement. It was too good to be true, and in a minute he would figure that out, so Alex said, “I love spending the wife’s money this way.”
Boris raised his glass.
Chapter 22
Moscow, Russia
Ri-ri-ring … swish.
“I’m listening.”
“Good evening, Sir. Are we secure?”
“Good morning. Yes, we are secure.”
“Alex is in Irkutsk. So am I. After his stunt with the car bomb, I’m surprised to be reporting that Alex picked up a tail in Sheremetyevo. A young KGB agent followed him onto the connecting flight.
“I was able to get close enough to the tail to use my sound surveillance equipment. He placed a call to none other than Yarik.”
“Yarik—the KGB’s chief executioner—heaven help us.”
“Between Victor and Yarik we now know that both the KGB’s Illegals and Executive-Action Departments are involved. We’re uncovering a monster, Sir, a hydra, only I don’t know how many heads it has.”
“There’s only one head, Andrey, you may be certain of that. Multiple heads exist only in mythology. And I fear you have not encountered him yet.”
“What makes you so sure, Sir?”
“Victor’s relative age and permanent presence in the US rules him out. Yarik, cunning though he may be, is no grand strategist. With those two names, however, we can begin sketching a portrait of the mastermind we’re up against. I dare say he appears to be somebody in the top echelons of the KGB. Let us hope so anyway. If the Knyaz are bigger than the KGB, then there may be nothing we can do to stop them. As it is, my friend, I’m more than a little concerned.
“Tell me, how is Ferris doing?”
“Brilliantly, Sir. He slipped his tail at the hotel but they don’t know it yet. Alex is a very resourceful man. I almost felt sorry for the agent though. I wouldn’t want to be the guy who has to tell Yarik he lost his quarry.”
“You just make sure you don’t lose yours, Andrey. There is far too much at stake.”
Chapter 23
Irkutsk, Russia
Sergey Shipilov entered Max’s Place five minutes after Alex, just in time to see him disappear through a beaded curtain with a couple of girls. Since Sergey did not have the twenty-five rubles required to follow Alex into La-La-Land, and was sure his grunt-level KGB ID wouldn’t intimidate the bouncers, he tried sitting at the bar to wait. That plan didn’t work out so well. He found the constant barrage of girls offering themselves to be too distracting. It was easy enough to tell them no, but it was wonderfully-terribly preoccupying, and he was afraid that as the night wore on his brain might eventually defer to organs further south. So Sergey went back outside to wait. It was better than a cold shower.
Five hours later it was 3:00 a.m. and Alex had still not emerged. Of course, he understood what guys did at Max’s, but that was usually for twenty minutes, perhaps an hour if a fetish was involved. He knew the women in there were special, and during the second hour had given himself over to fantasizing about what Max must have there in La-La-Land, but come on, five hours?
Sergey was running out of patience, and gasoline. He had to keep the Volga’s engine idling both f
or the heater to work and to keep it from freezing up. Another twenty minutes and he would have to start siphoning other tanks. Time to go back in and see what was keeping Alex.
It was a Friday night, so Max’s was still busy despite the late hour. Wandering through the labyrinth of red-velvet couches and curtained booths, it took him a couple of minutes to spot Alex in a dimly lit, smoke filled corner. The American was seated on a circular couch, and for some inexplicable reason was still wearing his fur hat. Didn’t he know that marked him as a foreigner? Well, regardless of his fashion faux pas, three girls whose combined age was probably less than half of Sergey’s current heart rate were showing Alex all kinds of attention.
Setting aside the “how?” questions for now, Sergey wondered why Alex was still there. Was he waiting for somebody to show? He should pay more attention to the faces of the entering patrons. For now, however, he would risk attracting the bouncers in order to watch them for a few minutes, just long enough to get his own heater going before returning to his cold car. It didn’t take long. Ninety seconds later, he exercised his newly thawed willpower and turned for the door—while he could still walk straight. As he did so, from the corner of his eye he saw one of the girls remove Alex’s hat and began kissing his head, his bald head.
Sergey scoffed. That explained the hat; Alex had shaved his head. The American would have to be more clever than that to throw him off. Speaking of which, Ferris had changed something else as well…
Sergey reversed his retreat and moved closer to get a better look. As he did so a couple of working girls walked up and tried to lean on each of his shoulders. He gave them a brusque “Back off” without turning his head. The clothes were right, so was the nose, but it wasn’t Alex!
Fear grabbed Sergey by the throat like a bulldog.