Suddenly energized, Kate rolled to a sitting position, her legs dangling over the bed’s edge.
The room rocked like a ship in heavy seas.
Kate gripped the mattress to steady herself. What a fool she’d been! If she didn’t get out of here she’d suffer the same fate as Irina and lose any hope of attaining her birthright or fulfilling her mother’s dreams. Simon couldn’t help. She had to cope on her own. And—with September 1 looming—she must act now.
But before Kate could function, she’d need to get these drugs out of her system. Flush them out. She remembered her mother’s old Russian remedy for a sour stomach: a purge of warm salt water.
Rolling off the bed, she crawled across the heavily carpeted floor to the bathroom. With any luck, she’d find what she needed under the counter.
Chapter 50
The alarm sounded a split second after Kate kicked out the glass.
Now she hung twenty feet above the sidewalk, clinging with her running gloves to an outcropping in the brick walls.
A block away, a transmission whined in downshift. Brakes screeched. A mix of diesel smoke and scorched tires reached her nose. It was dawn, and the city’s trucks were starting their runs.
She’d risen less than an hour ago, pulling on her black spandex. Kate’s lips still tasted of the salt she’d found in the bathroom. She felt tired, but an up-and-down night of the heaves, and an icy shower, had done their work: Her mind was clear.
Opening the interior window latch, she’d crawled onto the wide stone sill and rolled onto the small of her back, knees drawn flat against her belly. Then, gathering all her strength, she kicked straight out, shattering the outside window.
Now, with the alarm screaming, she heard a door slam. Someone yelled.
Kate crab-legged down the side of the building, using the jutting bricks as handholds. Her tenuous grip slipped, her cheek scraped the wall, and with a yell she dropped most of the distance from the first story to the sidewalk below.
She collapsed into a sprinter’s crouch, instinctively thrusting her right leg forward. Kate wasn’t a runner, but she’d often trained with them. She knew that in a good start the athlete uncoiled from the blocks in an explosion that flung her down the track. In three or four strides—about two seconds—she’d hit top speed.
Kate’s lungs pulled in air and the muscles tightened above her knees. She mashed the pads of her feet into the earth.
She launched.
In an instant, she hit full stride.
“Drive with your arms and your legs will follow,” a running coach once told her.
But Kate was aware of only one part of her body: the soles of her feet. They slapped the pavement like hammers hitting nails. The key to speed was this: pushing each foot down with maximum force and minimum strike, so that it touched the ground as briefly as possible.
Kate’s heart pounded. The cool morning breeze brushed her face. Exhilaration blew against her back like a strong wind. She was breaking free. A mile and a half away, the Yauza River wound west through the city. After a short swim to the Moscow River, she’d hide along the banks of an adjacent canal.
Her eyes cleared a path before her. The world shrank to the drumbeat of her feet.
Slap! slap! slap!
Kate closed out the sound of dogs barking behind her. The universe became her churning glutes, quads, knees and calves.
Her feet came off the ground as if it were ten thousand degrees hot.
Slap, slap, slap.
As animals, humans possess few weapons—no fangs, claws or horns. But they are relatively fast and durable; over long distances, a man can outrun a horse. This is how homo sapiens survived centuries of pursuit by predators, and why, in primitive societies, running remains highly prized today.
Slap, slap, slap.
As her twelve-block dash faded behind her, Kate passed through Chistiye Prudy (or “Clean Pond”), the city’s oldest neighborhood, still marked by narrow, quiet streets and mostly pre-Revolution buildings. Chistoprudny Bulvar itself, however, was the widest of the Ring roads, dominated by the body of water in its center that had once been called “Foul Pond” for its stinking collection of sewage and slaughterhouse waste.
Slap, slap, slap.
Kate passed the main Moscow Post Office—a poor place to leave a letter if one ever hoped to have it delivered. Next came the gray slab of the Procurement Ministry, then the Sovremenik Theater. She ran by three churches—two of them topped with Orthodox spires—and, respectively, the Swiss, Kazakh and Iranian embassies.
Slap, slap, slap.
Passing the Indian Embassy, Kate entered Yauzsky Bulvar, the last and skinniest of the Ring boulevards. Lined with trees, the street became even narrower as she approached the Church of Saints Peter and Paul. Heading left, she saw one of Stalin’s “wedding cake” skyscrapers, the imposing Kotelniki Apartments on the opposite side of the Yauza River. She’d almost made it: The Yauza’s juncture with the Moscow River lay less than 100 yards away.
* * *
Vandal, the 140-pound alpha male, raced at the head of a pack of four attack dogs. So far, the fierce mastiffs had been unable to close the gap with the fleet woman. Weighing a collective 590 pounds—roughly 465 pounds more than their prey—the canines had been trained as pups to leap from behind and take down their target with a blow to the back.
Despite the large leather muzzle covering his snout, from the moment the woman began running, Vandal had locked in on trace scents of her urine. Nostrils flaring, his powerful body veered in a turn, huge haunches gathering and releasing beneath him.
Suddenly, at the boulevard’s end, the woman vanished.
* * *
The trees that shrouded Kate’s escape stood at the foot of the Bolshoy Ustinski Bridge, built in 1938 as a link to the district that had once served as an outpost against the Mongols. For Kate Gavrill, the gently-arching bridge was a gateway to freedom—if she could execute a perfect, soundless dive. Kate pulled herself up on the ironwork guardrail. For an instant, she paused. Her hand touched her neck; a thin strand of gold floated in the air, high and away from the river below. Then she dove.
SPLASH!
Vandal and his mates swung their heads.
Saliva foamed over Vandal’s incisors, flecking his ears and chest. In seconds, his pack reached the bridge.
Below, still distant from the river’s edge, the woman swam. Sensing they would gain by staying on the bridge, the dogs roared along the pedestrian walkway. Then at the last moment, Vandal vaulted over the same guardrail Kate had used to launch herself moments before. As he hurled toward the water, the beast saw his prey. His timing had been perfect: He would surface between her and the riverbank. She would be his now.
Chapter 51
Simon Blake stood on the bridge, lungs heaving. A golden frog and a sheared necklace lay in his upturned right palm.
Moments before, Kate’s scream had merged into a single, shrill alarm. Blake had watched her drop a full story to the sidewalk, crouch, then leap out in a runner’s sprint. Close behind her were a pack of panting dogs and Novyck’s henchmen.
Jumping to his feet, Blake had raced after Kate’s pursuers, but too late. He’d watched helplessly from the bridge as Novyck’s dogs herded her to the riverbank. The Russian’s goons then hauled her into their waiting Maserati.
Blake turned the jewelry over in his hand. The little frog measured mere millimeters in length, but its meaning far exceeded its size. What could be a clearer message than this piece of jewelry?
Blake spotted one of Moscow’s ubiquitous telephone boxes. Quickly crossing the street, he called the police. He knew the truth now: Kate hadn’t gone to visit Novyck. She was his captive. At least, however, he’d found her.
* * *
Hunched out of view in the back seat of their chastniki, Vulcan Krasky and Hector Molina
had also witnessed the taking of Kate Gavrill. Their cab followed Novyck’s sedan to his residence. Then, believing the cleric’s entourage to be temporarily settling in, Krasky ordered their driver to take them to a smallish rock club about a mile away. The drinks were cheap and—when bands weren’t playing—the place was quiet.
“I have associates,” said Krasky, swizzling a jigger of vodka. “We could take Novyck now.”
Molina shook his head. “Patience, mi amigo, patience. There is no need for violence. Besides, bringing in your heavy-handed colleagues would only mean more knives to cut our pie. Remember, we don’t want Novyck, we want the stone and the egg. What does Miss Gavrill want—that is the real question.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think something else is involved. If there weren’t, why wouldn’t she simply turn over the stone in exchange for her freedom?”
“Yes, but then they would kill her.”
“Not likely. Too much fuss. But consider another possibility. What if they already have the stone and the egg? We both believe that she smuggled what she thought was a genuine gem and its Faberge container to New York. Someone clearly switched at least the stone before she left, and fooled her—and, for a time, Blake—with a fake. Who else would be more likely to have done that than Novyck?”
“But why?” Krasky rubbed his chin. He pulled the handkerchief out of his sleeve and mopped his forehead. Embroidered and monogramed, the flimsy bit of cloth managed to be simultaneously delicate and ostentatious. At the moment, however, its main function was as a nervous diversion. As Krasky was becoming painfully aware, even at full-race, his brain simply couldn’t keep pace with Hector Molina’s.
“At the moment I don’t know” Molina replied. “But if, as I suspect, Novyck does possess the stone and egg, there has to be another reason they are keeping the woman alive.”
Vulcan Krasky looked admiringly at his new friend. He had been fortunate to find such a wise partner. In his own way, he deeply regretted that soon he would be forced to dispose of the discerning Latin.
“So,” Molina went on, “my take is this: We want the stone and, if we can get it, the Faberge egg. Novyck wants the stone, the egg, and perhaps something else. Blake wants the most: the stone, the egg, the perhaps something else, and the woman.”
Molina paused, sucking on a piece of ice. “In my experience in life,” he said, “no-one ever gets everything he wants.”
He put both hands on the table and coughed, as if clearing his mind.
“One of us needs to stake out the Novyck house,” Molina said, “and to follow them wherever they take Miss Gavrill. The other needs to follow Blake. Eventually, the two will come together, and so will we. And when that happens, what we have been searching for will be close at hand.”
“And the perhaps something else?” Krasky offered the Latin a rare, thick-lipped smile.
“That too. Perhaps.”
They lifted their glasses and clicked rims. “A drop,” toasted a suddenly patient Krasky, recalling a Russian adage, “hollows out a stone.”
Chapter 52
“But comrade, there is no broken window, no woman matching Miss Gavrill’s description, and no sign anyone has been staying there.”
It had taken more than four hours for the militsiya to search Novyck’s mansion and return. They’d found nothing.
Now Simon sat in a smoky room at Tsvetnoy Bulvar metro station, about two miles from where Kate disappeared and less than two blocks from the Novyck residence. Arlen Mozhaev, head of detectives, was an egg-shaped man in a black suit whose too-large coat artfully draped his paunch but whose sleeves were frayed at the cuffs.
Despite the lack of evidence and his own weariness, Mozhaev—who’d spent most of the night filling out reports—seemed sympathetic. Blake had recently read in the Moscow Times that the militsiya, notoriously corrupt, had hired a western image consultant for a public relations makeover. Mozhaev must have gotten the word. “We are the good guys,” the police officer protested in heavily accented English, hands upturned and outstretched. “Guys like Imre Novyck, they are the very, very bad guys. But does anyone know? Does anyone care?” He and his colleagues were well aware, the officer continued, of Novyck’s criminal connections; they would keep the house under surveillance. But when the detective turned to him and asked why he and Kate had come to Russia, and why Novyck would want to kidnap her, Blake felt uneasy. He gave an evasive reply and found an excuse to leave.
Back at the Imperial Hotel, Blake reviewed his options. With the Bank of England’s deadline just four days away, Novyck must intend to take Kate to London very soon, perhaps within hours. Blake made a brief call to Lt. MacMahon in Marion.
“I can’t help with an investigation in Russia,” Lt. MacMahon replied after Blake filled him in on the situation. “But I do have police contacts in London. I’ll call there and tell them to expect you.” After jotting down a few names and numbers, Blake rang off and dialed the UK.
A few minutes later, Blake found himself talking to Detective Robert Hudson, MacMahon’s Scotland Yard connection. Hudson agreed that officers would intercept Kate at Heathrow Airport. They would also look into Novyck’s background through Interpol. Blake sighed with momentary relief. He could think of many reasons he’d rather take on Imre Novyck in London than in Moscow.
#
Chapter 53
Hector Molina concealed his slender form behind a light pole. It had been a humid day and, even in the dark night sky, Molina could see clouds gathering for one of Moscow’s frequent summer showers.
Across the street, emerging from the Hotel Rachka, one of the men who’d abducted Kate Gavrill—Molina had seen him behind the wheel—stepped out for a cigarette. The man stood under a street lamp on Trubnaya Street, about a dozen steps from the hotel entrance.
Molina had watched Imre’s house but not seen any sign of Kate Gavrill. He’d seen this same man leave and return to the house twice. The second time he’d followed him to the Rachka.
“I suppose there’s still a chance they were successful in Kiev,” Molina told Krasky as the latter dropped him off and ordered their taxi to take him to Simon Blake’s hotel. “If so, Blake may also know where the jewel is.”
Molina concentrated on the sidewalk outside the Rachka. Far more likely, he told himself, was that the secret of the gem’s location—perhaps even the stone itself—currently resided directly across the street. Otherwise, why had they taken the trouble to move the woman here?
The man Molina was watching crushed out his cigarette and walked back toward the hotel.
Rain pelted Molina’s forehead. Should he follow him? The Colombian thought about the prize of freedom the stone offered and crossed the pavement, circling to avoid the cones of light painted by street lamps.
Slipping inside the hotel, Molina followed his prey past the dingy elevator; for a smoker, the driver climbed the staircase rapidly. Molina trailed behind. In the stairwell, he slipped off his shoes, hooking them in his fingers until the man turned off at the third floor. Then, in stocking feet, Molina sprinted, catching the door before it closed. He cracked it wide enough to see the man open the door to Room 33. He also heard the lock click behind him.
Molina waited five minutes, then entered the empty corridor.
Something in his own nature, something beyond the stone, propelled him now. Perhaps it was a latent addiction to risk. Perhaps the sheer professional challenge of scaling this castle of cutthroats. His nerves hummed, and an intense focus melded his muscles and mind with a singularity of purpose.
Stepping directly in front of the door, Molina drew a stethoscope from his coat pocket. He placed its rubber cup just below the numerals “33.” Inside, he could hear the steady drone of someone snoring.
Repocketing the stethoscope, he walked to an overstuffed chair opposite the elevator bank. He took off his coat, belt and watch, and stac
ked them neatly on the chair with his shoes.
Emptying his pants pockets, Molina drew out a tiny Allen wrench, what appeared to be a clasp knife and a silk cord, the latter knotted at each end and about three feet long. He draped the cord over his neck like a loose tie. It was his only weapon. Molina’s artistry allowed him to induce unconsciousness rather than death.
Molina crossed the hall and stretched to reach the nearest wall sconce, unscrewing the bulb inside. He retraced his steps, quickly extinguishing the opposite light. In the now darkened corridor, Molina removed his shirt and trousers, stripping to his last garment, a skin-tight nylon body stocking that allowed complete freedom of movement.
The sheer black hosiery clung to his form, as close as Molina could come to the nude state in which he exercised with the bells. It was more than a quirky habit of dress: for what he was about to do, he would need to sense—and control—his body at a near-molecular level.
Molina’s heart raced. It had been a long time since he’d chased a world-class gem. He could almost feel the oxygen rush through his veins. He faced a huge danger. If they awoke, the people inside would kill him. If, on the other hand, the stone were in their possession, it was possible he could snatch the gem in a single stroke. It would mark a great finish, a memorable cap to a memorable career.
From the knife-like clasp, he unfolded a case-hardened, stainless steel pick. It looked like a tapered swizzle stick with a squiggly end. In his other hand, Molina held a small L-shaped hexagonal wrench.
He moved to face the door. If he still had his touch, he’d be inside in less than thirty seconds.
The lock itself was a simple pins-and-tumbler design. Before most luxury hotels switched to plastic cards, Molina had picked hundreds of similar devices. The main components were a series of small pins of varying lengths and a central cylinder slotted with a keyway.
The Romanov Stone Page 22