by Jenni Wiltz
One of the bulky men on the bench reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. There it was, on a high-definition screen: an image of her sister, bound and gagged, lying in the shadows. Beth’s face was turned away from the camera, but Natalie recognized the blond hair and the gray Yale sweatshirt.
Belial jumped to his feet, slamming his back into her skull. O God, to whom vengeance belongs, show thyself!
But Natalie barely felt the pain in her head. All the pain she felt was in her heart and her gut, as if God himself had put on a pair of steel-toed boots and kicked her until she bled. She met Viktor’s eyes, hazy through tears of rage. “Belial will kill you for this,” she said. “And I won’t stop him.”
“Can Belial give you the code you need to land this plane in Russian airspace?”
“He doesn’t care if we land. He just wants you to die.”
“He should care. Your sister’s in the cargo hold. If we crash, she dies first.”
“What?” Natalie dropped to her knees, pounding the floor with her fists. “Beth! Can you hear me? Beth!” She dug at the carpet like a dog searching for a buried bone. Her fingernails bent backward and broke as she raked them across the surface.
Viktor snapped his fingers and one of the men on the bench plucked her from the floor by the waist. “Stop it,” Viktor hissed, stepping through her flailing legs and slapping her across the face.
Natalie wailed, picturing Beth’s bound body. “Not her! I’m the one who should die!”
“No one has to die, you stupid girl.” Viktor grabbed her chin and wrenched her head upright. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
She let the wave of anger pass through her, panting with the energy it took not to act on it. She sagged against the muscular arm holding her up. Her eyes drifted to the floor, littered by pieces of broken glass. She imagined picking one of them up and slicing through Viktor’s wrists and femoral arteries.
Belial flexed his hands. I’ll do it for you, if you let me.
The idea made her smile and a strangled laugh croaked its way out of her dry throat. “You’re laughing,” Viktor said, taking a step backward. “Why?”
“I’m going to make sure you remember me.”
“Darling, how could I forget?”
“I’m going to carve my name into your bones.”
“Not quite the souvenir I had in mind, cherub. Let’s have another drink, shall we? We’ll all sing God Save the Tsar and then you’ll tell me what the password is.”
“You don’t know the words to God Save the Tsar.”
“Jesus Christ!” Viktor threw up his hands. “I don’t know how Constantine did it. Just tell me what the password is and this will all be over.”
“I don’t know it yet.”
“What do you mean, yet?”
“I’ve only read one of the letters. Constantine didn’t finish translating them for me.”
“I have the letters, you silly girl.”
“That’s what you think.”
Viktor’s face went blank. “What are you talking about?”
“There are two sets of letters. One is real. One is fake. You can guess which set you got away with.”
Viktor’s upper lip began to twitch. Natalie watched with satisfaction as the twitching moved across his face, spreading to his cheek and his brow. “You have nothing,” she snapped.
She felt Belial move his lips in a big, broad smile. Good girl, he said. Now promise me you’ll still let me tattoo his bones.
Chapter Forty-One
July 2012
En route to Moscow, Russia
The Beechcraft turboprop hugged the California coastline, chugging slowly and steadily toward the Mexican border. The pilot had indicated there would be one stop before crossing the Pacific; Constantine wanted to stay awake and alert until they were in international airspace. He didn’t trust Vadim, not yet. He leaned his head against the window and tried to let the drone of the propellers silence the doubts in his mind.
The lights below grew dim and sparse as they flew south over Mexico. Just outside Culiacán, the plane banked westward for its descent. The pilot brought them down on a deserted airstrip carved into the fertile hills east of the city. “We switch planes here,” the pilot said. “It’s too dangerous to go into Culiacán.”
They abandoned the plane at the end of the runway. The pilot led him toward a weathered, sun-beaten shack with windows covered only by tattered scraps of fabric. With a flick of the wrist, the pilot tossed a duffel bag through the window. “Bribe?” Constantine asked.
“More like a rental fee,” the pilot said, using the tail of his shirt to wipe sweat from his brow. “We hand-deliver the bribes.”
“Where’s the other plane?”
The pilot grinned. “You don’t work the Mexico desk, do you?”
He led him behind the shack, where they found a rusted U.S. Army jeep from what looked like the Stalin era, complete with the key in the ignition. The pilot started it up and drove them slowly over the ridge, dropping down into the next valley. Inside a lonely beige hangar, they found a second plane with a waiting co-pilot. “You’re late,” the co-pilot said.
“I know,” the pilot grumbled. “Primakov re-routed everyone for this. Fucking pain in the ass.”
It made Constantine feel more secure to know his plane had been upgraded—this one was a Challenger 605. Vadim wouldn’t destroy a Challenger and two pilots without a damn good reason. In all likelihood, he was safe until he reached Moscow. He followed the pilot into the plane. “We’ll need one fuel stop,” the pilot said, closing the hatch. “Try and sleep through it if you can.”
Constantine sank into a seat and tried to calculate their arrival time. Depending on conditions, they would land in Moscow sometime in the early morning of the next day—a half-day behind Vympel. Starinov would question Natalie as soon as Vympel brought her to him, but since she hadn’t seen the translation of the second letter, there was nothing she could tell him.
She’ll be all right, he told himself. She has to be.
His mind circled back to Vadim. No one else could have told Vympel where to find Natalie. What hold did Starinov have over him? Without Vadim’s support, taking on Starinov and his thugs was a suicide mission. He needed access to the bureau’s armory and computers. If Vadim turned on him and revoked his access, he would have to bribe one of the analysts to let him back in. It was too much to think about without a few hours of sleep.
He stretched out across a row of seats and closed his eyes.
*
They approached Moscow in daylight, the morning sun glinting on the surface of the winding Moskva River. From several thousand feet, Constantine could see the thick Kremlin walls and wondered if Natalie were already inside them. He set his watch back to local time and touched his injured shoulder lightly. It was crusted with blood that had seeped from the hole. The dressing stuck to the wound and pulled painfully.
When the plane’s wheels touched down on Vnukovo Airport’s private runway, the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Mr. Primakov has sent an escort for you. It’s already arrived.”
Constantine looked out the window and saw a black BMW 5-series parked near the nose of the plane. What if Vadim betrayed him again and a Vympel death squad got out of the car? He cocked the Walther and held it ready.
When the co-pilot exited the cockpit and moved to open the hatch, Constantine pointed his gun at the man. “What did Vadim tell you to do once we’re on the ground?”
The man gulped. “Leave the city. We’re supposed to disappear for a few days.”
“If anyone other than Vadim gets out of that car, I will kill them and then you. Is there anything you want to tell me before you open that hatch?”
“N—no, sir.”
“Good. You go first.” The man opened the hatch and descended quickly, followed by the pilot. Constantine stopped on the bottom stair, gun in hand. After a moment’s wait, the BMW’s rear passenger door opened. A figure steppe
d out and waved the two pilots away.
Constantine held his ground and waited.
The figure walked toward the plane. Constantine recognized the stooped walk and lowered his gun. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had an answer. “Why did you do it, Vadim?”
Pouches of dark skin puddled beneath the older man’s red, watery eyes. “Maxim took my granddaughter. Liliya won’t speak to me or see me until I get her back.”
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “But now Starinov has your granddaughter, Viktor, and Natalie. Why did you let it happen?”
Vadim pressed his hands to his face. “Everything I’ve ever done to create a better Russia was for her. I can’t jeopardize her life, not for the bureau and not for myself.”
“But you know you can’t trust him.”
Vadim took a deep breath and raised his head. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from his cheeks. “He has a gun pointed at her head. I have no choice.”
“Yes, you do. You can take away his gun.”
The older man looked around the airstrip helplessly, as if expecting someone else to come and help him. “Everything I dreamed this country could be has gone.”
The older man wobbled on his feet and Constantine put a hand on his arm to steady him. “It isn’t gone. We can get it back, but we have to show Starinov he’s not the only one who knows how to lie.”
“And put Marya in more danger? I can’t do that, my boy.”
“You will if you want her back.”
“What will you do?”
“I’m going after them, Vadim. They’ve got Natalie.”
“The girl,” Vadim said, grey eyes glimmering with a hint of life. “Is she truly mad?”
“Of course not,” he snapped. “She hears something that she thinks is an angel. But it’s just her heart, and she listens to it.” He looked pointedly at the older man. “I don’t know anyone else with the courage to do that.”
Vadim hung his shaggy head, accepting the blow. “What should I do?”
“Tell Starinov anything he wants to hear, but promise me you’re on my side.” He held out his hand. “Can I trust you?”
Vadim clasped Constantine’s hand, his grip cold but firm. “Starinov will tell you I have turned on you. Do not believe him.”
Constantine nodded. He slid into the backseat of the BMW. He already felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins, ready and waiting for an outlet. “We have to stop at the bureau. I need weapons and supplies.”
Vadim sat beside him and signaled the driver, who sped toward the Kievskoie Highway. “Starinov has Marya at the Ussov building. I tracked the convoy with satellite imagery.”
“How many cars?”
“Two, both G55s.”
“Plus the men who kidnapped Natalie. That’s eight to twelve men, total.”
Vadim shook his head. “This is madness. They’ll kill you on sight.”
“Not once they know I have these.” Constantine patted his chest pocket. “When Starinov asks Natalie for the password, the first thing she’ll tell him is that his letters are fake. Once he knows she needs these to figure out the password, he’ll be the one looking for me.”
“And you plan on walking right into his trap?”
Constantine shrugged, wincing when the dried blood pulled at his skin. “It’s the easiest way in. Besides, Viktor will be there to help.”
“What about the password? We can’t let Starinov have it after what he’s done.”
He shook his head. “Once I get Natalie and Marya out, I’m not stopping for anyone. Call the Bank of England. Tell them we have the password and we’ll be coming to them.”
“They will never believe me.”
“Make them. Once I’m out, Starinov will chase me all the way to the bank. I need a plane and flight clearance. Can you do it?”
“General Alexeev can,” Vadim said. “Marya’s godfather.”
The BMW turned onto Bolshaya Nikitskaya. Constantine looked up at the bureau building and prepared a shopping list in his head. Then he turned to Vadim. The old man’s eyes were still red and puffy, but a little color had returned to his cheeks. He has hope now, Constantine realized. And so do I. “Thank you,” he said.
Vadim held up his right hand with the first two fingers raised in blessing. “God be with you, my boy.”
Chapter Forty-Two
July 2012
En route to Moscow, Russia
“Define ‘nothing,’” Viktor said.
Fear and uncertainty dappled his bright black eyes with shades of gray. He held his jaw so tight that the muscles at the bottom of his cheek flexed and clenched as he swallowed. I can use this, Natalie thought. “I want another drink. And I want this jerk to let go of me.”
Viktor snapped his fingers. The goon holding her dropped her onto the floor. She stayed there, resting her palms on the carpet. Beth, I’m here, she thought. I’ll get you out.
“Now then,” Viktor said, “what’s this nonsense about fake letters?”
He brought her another inch of Scotch in a glass. She snatched it from his hand and drank it quickly. “Yuri’s letters were fakes. They were just copies of the real thing.”
“Ducky, if they’re copies, the words will be the same.”
“Not these. The real ones have two extra lines written in pencil that aren’t anywhere on the copies. I’m assuming you read them?”
“A bunch of rubbish about soldiers, sailors, and dancing girls.”
“It’s a code. I have to see complete translations of both letters, the real ones, before I can even start to figure it out.”
He nodded, flopping his hair into his eyes. He reached up and shoved it back, black eyes sparkling dangerously. “And your dearly beloved has both letters in his possession?”
She watched the way he held himself, the way he braced his shoulders and tilted his nose into the air, and wondered why she didn’t see it before. “You hate him, don’t you?”
“It’s not that I hate him, pet. It’s that I love me. As long as he’s in the spotlight, I get nothing.”
“Why do you want to be in the spotlight?”
“Because that’s where you get money, fame, respect….everything you want in life.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Really?” he snapped. “Then what is it for?”
She blinked quickly to help block out the vision. In the hospital, after Treblinka, the doctors had hooked her up to electrodes and shone a spotlight on her, trying to induce another seizure and record her brain waves. They left it on her for hours, until she could see nothing but painful bursts of red when she closed her eyes. Sweating, she passed out. When they revived her, they kept her awake for three days straight, still trying to induce a seizure. Then they tried strobe lights and forced hyperventilation. After five days, they simply shocked her with a 500 mC current. In the end, she had learned a valuable lesson. “The spotlight,” she said, “is where you learn to give them what they want.”
“Mere hair splitting.” Viktor rose to his feet and pointed at the largest guard, with thick brows and a scarred face. “Sergei, did you see Dashkov in the library?”
The man frowned. “You told us to bring you the girl, not to look for Dashkov.”
“I sense a rebuke coming on.”
“Starinov needs to know Dashkov has the real letters. He’s expecting us to give him the password as soon as we land.”
“I will handle this, Sergei.”
“The way you handled the order to bring the letters to Moscow?”
“Insubordination doesn’t suit you,” Viktor snapped. He pointed at the man sitting next to Sergei. “What do you think? Shall we take a vote and pretend this is a democracy?”
“I agree with Sergei,” the second burly man said. “Call Starinov. Tell him we don’t have the real letters.”
“And you?” Viktor asked, turning to point at the blond thug. “I suppose you also think he’s right?” When the blond man nodded, Viktor raised his hands to
the ceiling like a convert at a prayer meeting. “Consensus! The majority has spoken!”
Don’t let him do it, little one, Belial warned. Not if you want to see Constantine again.
“What?” she cried.
All the men turned to her. “What now?” Viktor moaned.
She bit her lip. “Don’t I get a vote? Or are you just another antediluvian misogynist who disenfranchises the weak and downtrodden?”
“By all means, princess, cast your vote.”
“I agree with you. Don’t call Starinov.”
Viktor straightened, as if he hadn’t expected her to approve. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, my dear, but I’m afraid we’re still outvoted three to two. You know what that means.” He reached into his pants pocket.
“No,” she said. “Don’t call him, Viktor, please…the less he knows, the better.”
“I’m sorry, princess, but the majority rules.” He whipped his hand out of his pocket, wrapped around a gun that looked just like Constantine’s. He squeezed the trigger and a spray of liquid exploded against the cabin wall. The man called Sergei slumped against the far side of the bench, his head trailing a stream of red as it fell.
Natalie screamed and covered her head with her hands.
“What the fuck!” The man sitting next to Sergei jumped up and cast a wide-eyed look of fear at Viktor. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Evening the odds,” Viktor replied. “Now it’s two against two. Anyone want to change their vote?”
Natalie looked up in time to catch the wary look that passed between the two remaining Vympel men. Neither said a word.
Chapter Forty-Three
July 2012
Moscow, Russia
Vadim slid his access card through the reader and waited for the keypad to unlock. When the system recognized his card, the number pad lit up in green. He typed his ten-digit code and the electric door unlatched. As soon as he grasped the door handle, the number pad glowed red, indicating it would lock him in his office once the door shut behind him. It was the first time he’d ever used the intruder mode on the bureau’s security system.