Coercion

by Tigner, Tim

  Think, Sergey, think!

  He walked up to the imposter’s table, leaned over and asked, “Where’d you get those clothes?” The impostor made no reply, gave him no acknowledgment at all. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. He had been in a bar for five hours, and obviously he was distracted. Sergey reached between the girls and shook the imposter’s shoulder, then shouted, “Where did you get those clothes?”

  “Piss off.”

  The imposter was a big man, but not nearly as big as the man Sergey would have to confront if Alex got away, so Sergey leaned over again to grab the man by the lapels. His hands never made it to their mark. Two enormous black-clad men materialized out of the shadows, grabbed Sergey by the arms, lifted him off the ground, and carried him toward the door. Sergey glanced back over his shoulder to see the imposter’s face nuzzling contentedly between four breasts. Then his head hit the door and he was outside, screaming through the frozen air like a demented snowflake. As if to add injury to insult, the parking lot was covered in ice rather than snow, and he whacked his head again hard while landing.

  The ground was freezing. Hell, it was nearly forty below freezing, but Sergey just lay there. As soon as he got up he would have to inform Yarik, and that would be much more painful than the frozen ground. He contemplated staying there, letting himself go numb and drift off. Perhaps he’d get lucky and a truck would back over him…

  As he communed with nature, it dawned on Sergey that perhaps there was still hope. He grabbed hold of that ray and peeled himself off the ice. Then he coaxed the Volga back to life and headed for the Hotel Irkutsk, picking up religion along the way.

  Ten minutes later, he burst into the hotel lobby. Oh please oh please oh please… “Do you know if Alexander Potapov is still in his room?” It was a different girl behind the desk.

  She checked the register. “I’m afraid not. He checked out about six hours ago.” She gave him an I’m-sorry shrug.

  “Where’s the girl who was here earlier?”

  “She suddenly got sick and had to go home.”

  Sergey felt faint. That was it. He had lost Alex and the trail was six hours cold.

  In the last twenty-four hours, Sergey had come full circle. He was down this time yesterday when he discovered that his girlfriend, an Aeroflot stewardess, had flown to Beijing with his pager in her purse. Then his spirits soared when she returned with the pager and the message that Yarik thought Alex was dead, even though Sergey knew the American was alive. Now he was back down again, deeper and darker than ever before.

  Sergey sagged into one of the lobby’s armchairs and went through his options. There were three: call Yarik immediately; spend the rest of the night searching for Alex; or run for his life.

  “Did she go home before or after Potapov left?”

  “Just after. She left you a note. It says, ‘He took a taxi to the airport to catch the midnight flight to Moscow.’” The receptionist nodded as though an invisible hand was patting her on the head.

  Sergey did his best to smile in appreciation, but he could not force his lips in that direction. He probably looked like a snarling dog for trying.

  Given Alex’s record, the flight to Moscow was the only place in Siberia Sergey could now rule out. Unfortunately, with the airport closed, he would not be able to check other departure records until morning.

  What next? Running for his life seemed far and away the more attractive of the two remaining options; however, he knew that feeling would not last. Yarik would come after him. For sport. They say Yarik can track a snowflake through a blizzard. No, it was better to take a swift blow now than to spend the rest of his short life anticipating a long, agonizing death.

  “I need to use your phone.”

  Chapter 24

  Academic City, Siberia

  Anna was feeling a bit like Mata Hari as she slowly applied her lipstick in the hospital locker-room. She didn’t make herself up very often. She received an uncomfortable amount of attention when plain faced, and cosmetics put it through the roof. Just this morning, she had overheard a colleague comment that beauty had been wasted on her, and she was the first to admit that it might be true. Physical appearance did not ordinarily mean that much to her. But tonight was not an ordinary night. Anna had finally agreed to go on a date with Vasily Karpov.

  The General had pursued her vigorously over a period of several months during the previous year. Much to her friends’ dismay, however, she had rebuffed all his advances—albeit as politely as possible. Vasily Karpov was many things to many people, and none of them was to be trifled with.

  Anna had no desire to be a conquest, but she knew that attitude put her in the minority when it came to Vasily Karpov. Most of the women in Siberia were crazy for him. Her friends were infatuated like teens with a roguish rock-star. Anna was skeptical of anyone with so much charm and power. Vasily seemed too good to be true, and to her thinking that meant he probably was.

  Still, on a date she would go. After months of silence, Vasily had called to ask her out again while the Professor Petrov affair had her brooding over Kostya’s death. The combination of events made for an odd emotional confluence, and it got her thinking. Vasily was obviously interested in using her body. Perhaps she should try and make use of his mind. She decided it was worth a try…

  Anna put away her makeup and inspected the results. Yes, she was ready for battle. It was time to get out on the field.

  In order to minimize the gossip, Anna had asked Vasily to wait for her in the hospital parking lot, rather than pick her up at home or meet her in the hospital lobby. She did this to avoid attention, although that was probably wishful thinking. She feared he would be in a chauffer-driven Chaika, and probably all decked-out in full military dress uniform to boot; in a word, impossible to miss.

  Exiting to the hospital parking lot, Anna was pleasantly surprised to find that she had been wrong on both counts. She hoped it was a sign that the rest of the night would exceed her expectations. Vasily was standing beside a Neva jeep in a sharp grey suit with a light blue tie. Even from a distance the tie brought out his eyes. She remembered reading that when you find yourself caught in Vasily Karpov’s gaze, you drink it in with the warmth and contentment of a baby suckling a breast. Anna had to admit that this was not an unfounded compliment, although it shamed her to do so. He was a handsome man.

  While she struggled to regain her objective composure, Vasily surprised her again, as much with what he didn’t say as with what he did.

  “I’m so pleased we’ll finally have some time to talk, Anna. Thank you for agreeing to dine with me.”

  Had she been too quick to judge? She extended her hand, “I thank you for your kind invitation, Vasily, and for your discretion.”

  He bowed his head to indicate “my pleasure” and then opened the passenger door.

  The real conversation started once they were seated in the restaurant. Anna was again pleased and surprised to learn that they would be dining not at the chic Cloud Nine atop the Hotel Siberia, or in the trendy Orchestra Pit adjacent to the ballet, but rather in a small, private Italian restaurant known only as “28,” in reference the number of Verdi Operas.

  Anna looked around the candlelit dining room at the paraphernalia connected with one of opera’s greatest stars and the country from which he hailed. She had never been in a place like this before, nor, she was sure, had any of her friends. Anna noted that the number 28 occurred throughout the establishment, like a mystical motif: candles along the wall, the number of seats, the price of the daily menu, and on this night, even in the age of one of the guests. Did Vasily know it was her birthday? It was a thoughtful if not eerie gesture if he did.

  The real conversation began once Vasily poured the champagne. That was when the night finally took a turn that she had predicted. “Tell me about yourself, Anna.”

  Here we go. “I’m a physician, as were my parents. My father died in Afghanistan, my mother is still alive. She also lives in Torsk. My only sibling, my broth
er Kostya, died five years ago.” She paused with the bait in the air and buttered her roll. Vasily didn’t bite, so Anna continued. “He was only twenty-five at the time.” She took a bite. Vasily’s brow did not furrow, nor did his gaze flicker, but Anna noticed that he had another telling habit: he began playing with the hair on the back of his fingers, pulling at it the way she sometimes did with the hair above her ears. Still no comment.

  All right. If he won’t react to a hint, perhaps a jab will provoke a response. “How about you, Vasily. Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?”

  “Not yet.”

  She could sense that he was not being truthful, although the gossip columns would surely have mentioned any wife or kids in his past. Anna dropped it. She did not care about Vasily’s family; she wanted him to care about hers. Time to try a different tack.

  “Why are you still here, in Siberia I mean? Isn’t all the action in Moscow? Wouldn’t it be much more politically expedient for you to be near the Kremlin?” Anna wanted to prime him to answer serious questions, and to show him that he would have to give thoughtful answers if he wanted to impress her. A little goading wouldn’t hurt either.

  Vasily gave her an appraising stare, and she met it. He smiled. “I can do more good here than in Moscow; they already have enough generals.”

  “Nice try, Vasily, but you’re not on television,” Anna said, shaking her head.

  Vasily’s expression didn’t change, but Anna was certain he was surging inside. She doubted anyone ever spoke to him this way, and found that her small act of defiance gave her an unanticipated rush. People always tiptoed around men of power because they wanted something from them, even if it was just a favorable impression. The only thing Anna wanted from Vasily was frank discussion, and she figured that this was the best way to get it. Anna took a small sip of champagne and came back to meet his eye for the answer.

  Vasily leaned forward as if to speak conspiratorially. “There are two reasons,” he said, and Anna could tell from his voice that he was going to be honest—at least partially. “In Moscow, a man of my intelligence is a threat to everyone beside and above him. So there I would be surrounded by people working against me. Here in Siberia, I’m a threat to no one in Moscow, so they all support me.”

  “And second?”

  “Better a big fish in a small pond…”

  “Because there’s less chance of being eaten?”

  “Because you can get things done,” Vasily said, before leaning back. “What do you think of the restaurant? Are you an opera fan?”

  Anna was thrilled, not with the restaurant, but at getting a shot through The General’s armor. Now he was retreating to safer ground, but she could still steer him towards her target. “I enjoy most any live performance, so long as the company is good.”

  “And what does the book of Anna Zaitseva say about good company?”

  “It’s honest, empathetic, and shows a selfless concern for the well-being of others.”

  “And yet your name’s not published on the communist party roster?”

  Anna found herself snared by her own trap and fettered to dangerous ground. How had that happened? They say the best defense… “No, I’m not. Frankly, I find it sad if not ironic that the people are the victims of the People’s Party. What about you, Vasily?” She met his eye.

  “So you don’t approve of Gorbachev’s programs?”

  This was going the wrong way, fast. But Vasily was pushing her buttons, and Anna couldn’t help telling him what she thought. “I don’t approve of anything that pushes good men over the edge, or forces doctors to decide who lives, and who dies. Somewhere along the way communism became a means, rather than an end. I’m okay with perestroika, so long as it’s compassionate.”

  “Would you change things if you could?”

  There was the opening she needed. She should have been thrilled, but something about his tone bridled her enthusiasm. “I wish your question weren’t so hypothetical, but it is, for me. I did try, you know. When my brother died five years ago in the radiation accident near your office, I tried to find out what happened. I tried to get the government to come clean about what caused the leak, and promise us that it would never happen again. I couldn’t get to square one. You, on the other hand, can get answers like that easier than I can get a cup of coffee. So tell me, Vasily, what happened at the power plant? You must know, given that you chose to keep your own office within the same compound.”

  Vasily’s irises flared and Anna thought she saw his head sway back a fraction, but overall he absorbed her big question like a corpse taking a needle. “I know it was a tragedy, a tragedy that could not be undone. And I know some things are better left unsaid, no matter how disappointing that silence must be. History is often better left buried, for the sake of the dead.

  “But come now, Anna, let us not speak of sad things on such a happy occasion as your birthday.” Vasily nodded and Anna looked behind her to see the waiter approaching with a small white candlelit cake.

  It was a beautiful confection and Anna delighted in those, but she felt no elation. She was deflated by how deftly Vasily had deflected her query. She was still searching for a different pitch when the waiter finished serving. As he turned to walk away, Vasily knocked the ball out of the park. “Tell me, what gives you the most pleasure in this life? Your work? Your friends? A good book?”

  “Missionary work.” The answer was automatic. “A nurse and I drive a specially-equipped ambulance to various villages on the last Sunday of every month, taking medicine to those who can’t come to it. It’s always the toughest, most rewarding day of the month. I also find it a wonderful way to put things in perspective.”

  Anna watched Vasily smile in reaction to her words. He seemed genuinely pleased to learn of her philanthropy, enough so that despite his political skills she was beginning to believe that she might have misjudged him. Perhaps there really was warmth and depth beneath his charming smile and commanding voice. As Vasily studied her, Anna studied him right back. There was something in the curve of his lips and the corners of his eyes that told her his smile, though genuine, grew from satisfaction rather than admiration or support. A sense of foreboding welled within her chest as she wondered why…

  Chapter 25

  Irkutsk, Siberia

  Alex watched with a mischievous smile as Gold Frame left the hotel in hot pursuit of the wrong man. He allowed five minutes to be sure they were well on their way and then went to the lobby to check out. The receptionist did a double take when she saw his smiling face. She seemed a bit nervous that he was leaving—fancy that—but brightened up when he asked her for a taxi to take him to the airport.

  “Flying home?”

  “Back to Moscow.”

  “Midnight flight?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Bon voyage.”

  She picked the phone up before he was out the door. So predictable.

  It was very cold out, but no snow was falling, yet. The Channel One news had warned that a major snowstorm was in the forecast, so it was a good thing that he was not really flying. He took the taxi to the airport and then walked around a bit to satisfy himself that he was not being followed. Once convinced, he ducked into a kiosk where he bought some mascara, a card, a fancy box of chocolate and red wool scarf.

  Alex filled out the card and tucked it under the ribbon on the box. Then he put the scarf around his neck, tied the ears from his fur hat snugly under his chin, and went back out into the freezing night with an altered stride. To all but the most careful of observers, he was a different man.

  Alex caught a different taxi back to town. This time he directed the driver to The Engine Room’s competitor, Propeller, which was located a half block to the other side of Irkutsk Motorwork’s entrance. Alex hoped these simple moves would be sufficient to baffle the KGB for the few hours he needed. At least Gold Frame was nowhere to be seen.

  Arriving at Propeller, Alex made a point of writing down the tax
i’s license plate number and then paid the driver two hundred rubles to deliver the candy and card to a fictitious address in a distant suburb. Best to keep the countermeasures coming; he could afford it.

  Alex entered Propeller and made his way through a boisterous crowd to the men’s room. There was a man at the urinal and another at the sink, so Alex locked himself in a stall and waited for them to leave. Once he was alone in the room, Alex moved to the mirror and began blackening around his left eye with his newly acquired mascara. This would make the guard less comfortable about staring, would give him an excuse for acting coy, and would make it that much more difficult to distinguish him from the photo in Boris’s propusk. “Parik,” that was it. He finally remembered the Russian word for toupee.

  Alex looked at the document that would gain him entry to Irkutsk Motorworks. It consisted of a folded piece of colored cardboard with a black and white passport photo glued on one side, and a form filled in by hand on the other. The triangular stamp of the enterprise adorned both sides, making it sacrosanct.

  Russians put their sacred stamps on everything official, and it was all security ever looked for. Alex found them ridiculous. They were extraordinarily easy to forge by Western standards. Today, however, he did not have the time for that. Given the appearance of Gold Frame he had needed Boris for more than his propusk and coveralls anyway. Speaking of which, he wondered how it was going at Max’s Place.

  Alex left Propeller in much better shape than he had left The Engine Room. There was probably still some vodka on his breath from the latter, but that would only serve to augment his disguise.

  It was time to get serious. The next two hours were what he had traveled half way around the world for. Get this right, and you could be home by this time tomorrow…

  Irkutsk Motorworks was a complex of three buildings surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. Alex noted that there was concertina wire around the top that looked much newer than the fence itself. He thought that smelled like a clue, but it was hard to tell with his frozen nose.