Red Horseman

by Stephen Coonts

  How far would these men go?

  How far had they already gone?

  Yakolev: “I serve Russia!” A uniform for a patriot or a bloody rag to hide a tyrant’s nakedness?

  Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes with a start. It was Tarkington, holding a finger to his lips for silence. He seized Jake’s arm and nodded toward the hall door, which was partially open. His lips moved, a silent word: “Come.”

  When they were in the hallway Toad eased the door shut behind them until it clicked, then led Jake down the hall. He passed Jake his pistol, which was sheathed in its shoulder holster. The gun had been under the pillow in Jake’s bedroom, and Toad had retrieved it before he woke the boss.

  “Yocke has an outside call,” he whispered. “The senior chief stalled and told her he’s trying to find him. When we get back to the switchboard he’ll ring the phone. Yocke’s in there, isn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh.” Jake glanced at his watch. Almost two in the morning.

  Toad broke into a trot.

  “Is it her?” Jake wanted to know.

  “I didn’t hear her voice. But I got this feeling.” After all, Toad thought, how many women could there be in Moscow who want to talk to Jack Yocke?

  When the two officers came through the door, Senior Chief Dan Holley flipped a switch on the switchboard. “Still there, ma’am?” he asked. Then he said, “He’s staying with some folks. I’ll ring now.” Then he toggled the switch again and handed the headset to Jake Grafton.

  “The mike won’t work, but you’ll hear everything.”

  Jake donned the headset and listened to the ringing. The telephone in the apartment was in the small living room and Yocke was probably asleep, so this was probably going to take a moment.

  The phone rang and rang.

  Oh, damn. Two nights ago when Yocke arrived at the embassy, he had told him not to answer the phone. What if he doesn’t?

  Toad and the senior chief were watching. More ringing.

  C’mon, Jack. You’re supposed to be a curious reporter!

  “It’s ringing,” Jake told his audience. And then the door opened and Spiro Dalworth slipped into the room. Jake had had Spiro, Toad and the senior chief alternating shifts on this switchboard since Captain Collins gave his approval. The regular operator supervised and gave them directions, but the navy men listened to the voice of every caller and waited for someone to ask for Jack Yocke.

  Now it had happened.

  Ten rings. Eleven. Dammit, Jack! Answer the phone!

  “Hello.” Yocke was still half asleep.

  “Jack?” A woman’s voice. An American woman. Was it her?

  “I think so.” He sounded almost petulant.

  “This is Shirley Ross. I’m glad I reached you. I tried half the hotels in town and was about to give up when I thought of the embassy.”

  “Hmm. What time is it?”

  “It’s late I know, but I just had to talk to you.”

  “Glad you called.” Yocke’s voice was crisp and alert. He was wide awake now. “How are you weathering the riot?”

  “I heard about your story,” she gushed. “I’m so thrilled! It’s so important that people know the truth.” She was laying it on too thick, Jake Grafton thought, and he bit his lip. “I never thought you would get it,” she finished.

  “Luck.”

  “And… I don’t know just how to say this, but… I didn’t think you had the courage to write it.”

  “Balls like a bull. What’s on your mind tonight, Shirley?”

  “There’s more. A lot more. They’re counting on the fact that no one will ask the right people the right questions.”

  Yocke merely grunted.

  “They’re playing for keeps, and they don’t really care who gets hurt.”

  “Shirley, I’ll never get inside that place, even if anyone inside would talk to me, which they won’t. Oh, I could do some follow-up on the guys who followed orders and got arrested—when they get out of the can—if they ever get out—but the story has hit the wall. These things happen.”

  “It’s something else.”

  Silence as Yocke digested it.

  When the silence had gone on too long, she said, “Something really important…”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The Rizhsky subway station.”

  “Gimme a fact, Shirley. One little fact and the promise that you know more.”

  “Have I lied to you?”

  “Jesus! How many times have I heard that line! Yeah, baby, I love you no shit.” Yocke sighed audibly. “A subway station. Are the subways still running?”

  Jake Grafton’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t thought she could pull it off.

  “Amazingly enough, yes. An hour from now. Come alone. And be careful.”

  “Where is that, anyway?” Yocke asked, but she had already hung up.

  Jake pulled off the headset and tossed it on the table.

  Geez, she calls on the local phone system, which is only working because it’s the middle of the night, and she tells him where to meet her! She might as well have put it in the newspaper. So it’ll be Judith Farrell, Jack Yocke and enough KGB agents to arrest the Presidium.

  “She told him he had courage,” Jake reported to the little group. “He told her he had balls like a bull.”

  Toad Tarkington grinned broadly.

  She’ll meet him on the way. Or someone will. That’s the way she’ll work it. She just wants him out on the street and moving in the right direction. That means she’ll probably pick him up quick, not long after he leaves the embassy.

  “She set up a meet at the Rizhsky subway station,” Grafton told his audience. He rubbed his face to ease his fatigue. “As curious as Yocke is, it’s hard to see how the sucker lived this long. Unbelievable.”

  He had three guys plus Yocke. No radios. Clandestine surveillance in a foreign city was Judith Farrell’s game, her profession, how she lived—none of his people had any training or experience, including Jake.

  “Okay,” Jake said finally. “Toad, go see how many of those rioters are still outside and figure out how we can get out of here without getting beaten to death. Then get back here quick. Spiro, go get Yocke. Senior Chief, go find the marine captain and get a couple more pistols, three M-16s, four of those infrared binoculars, and some ammo. Go.” He shooed them out.

  There was no way he could trap Judith Farrell. He was going to have to send Yocke out into the streets and pray that Farrell found him before the KGB did, and that the reporter could somehow convince Farrell to play the game Jake’s way.

  “Amateur night in Moscow,” he muttered disgustedly.

  The switchboard lights were blinking again. Jake went into the office next door to find the regular operator and ask him to return to the board.

  14

  Jake was in the empty office next to the switchboard when Toad Tarkington returned. “Looks pretty deserted out there, Admiral, all things considered. A few people gawking at the bodies but that’s about it.”

  “They haven’t picked up the bodies?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any Russian cops around?”

  “Not a one in sight. They split early this morning.”

  “Go get a car. Open the gate and bring it into the compound. No, get two cars. Go.”

  Toad went. One of his great virtues was that he never had to be told anything twice. Nor did he ask foolish questions or want directions clarified. He just grabbed the ball and ran with it.

  Spiro Dalworth came in leading Jack Yocke, who looked grim.

  “Go help the chief with the maps and weapons,” Jake told the lieutenant, who closed the door behind him.

  Yocke glanced at his watch. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Sit down.”

  Yocke did so. “Dalworth said you wanted to see me.”

  Jake just nodded. Yocke was wearing jeans, moderately dirty tennis shoes, and a nondescript sweater. Jake dimly recalled seeing Tarkingto
n in that sweater a few days ago. Yocke must have helped himself. He still looked as American as a ball park hot dog. Jake Grafton pulled out the lower drawer of the desk he was sitting behind and parked his feet on it. A muffled report of a gun penetrated into the room. Jake closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.

  “Admiral,” Yocke began impatiently, “I really—”

  “How long do you think you’ll last out there before the KGB picks you up?”

  Jack Yocke’s face first showed surprise, then darkened into anger. “You were listening! Damned if I will—”

  “Shut up!” Grafton’s voice cracked like a whip. He softened it a little and continued, “You aren’t naive enough to think it’s possible to have a private conversation on a telephone in this country, are you? They tell me that sometimes there are so many eavesdroppers on the line that there isn’t enough juice left to ring your phone.”

  Yocke leaped to his feet, grabbed a bound report off the desk and hurled it against the far wall. He planted his feet in front of the desk where Jake sat and glowered down at the admiral. “I’m about fed up to here with this cra—”

  “Sit down and we’ll talk this over.” Jake nodded at the chair Yocke had vacated.

  When Yocke was back in his chair, Jake continued. “You’re a good reporter, Jack. Somewhere deep inside that polished chrome Post ego I think you really do give a teeny-tiny damn about the people you write about. But, honest to God, when are you going to see that you are in about ten miles over your head?”

  Yocke merely stared at the admiral.

  “I want you to keep your date with Shirley Ross. We’re going to help you.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you. The U.S. government wants to help little ol’ me, praise the Lord! I don’t know whether to shout hosannas or just let the pee tickle down my leg.” He took a long deep breath and exhaled slowly while he examined his hands. Finally he said, “What do you think she wants to talk to me about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Yocke thought that over. “Her name isn’t Shirley Ross, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you level with me, Jake?”

  “I am leveling with you,” Jake Grafton said, the soul of reason. “The truth is that you can’t tell the wrong people what you don’t know. I suggest you take a little comfort from that fact. There are people in Russia who could make a stone sing—they’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “Boy, they’d be wasting their talents on this kid. You still haven’t even told me why you want me to go out there tonight. For some strange reason I have this sneaky suspicion it ain’t got nothing to do with writing stories for the Washington Post.”

  “I want to have a private chat with Shirley Ross. You’re going to get her for me.”

  Jack Yocke didn’t reply. He worried a fingernail and glanced at Jake Grafton from time to time, but he had nothing more to say.

  Senior Chief Holley and Spiro Dalworth returned carrying maps and guns. Jake Grafton selected a map of the city and spread it out on the desk. Then Toad came breezing in. “Cars are ready,” he announced and glanced at Yocke, who ignored him.

  “Gather around.” Jake leaned over the map. He pointed out the embassy and the Rizhsky subway station, which was a transfer point for the adjoining train station.

  “The first assumption is that the KGB listened to the call. They monitor all calls to the embassy. Shirley Ross knows that. So she will have to pick Jack up before he gets to the rendezvous. Now there are two ways to figure the KGB—either they think Shirley and Jack are who they seem, two neophytes playing games, so they merely go to the subway station and wait for them to arrive, or they figure that these are two pros and the meet will occur on the way, so they try to follow Jack from the embassy. My guess is they’ll play it both ways, try to follow Jack and have people at the station, just in case.”

  “Third possibility, sir,” Toad said. “Maybe they’ll think the subway station was just a blind and the meet is on for someplace else.”

  “So they follow Jack,” the admiral said. He looked at the reporter. “The second assumption is that they really want Shirley. Want her alive or dead. You’re just bait.” Jake Grafton shrugged. “I may be wrong. They may try to grab you as soon as they lay eyes on you. Are you in?”

  “Want her alive or dead? Why?”

  Jake thought about it. How much could he tell Yocke? “By this stage of the game the folks in Dzerzhinsky Square may have gotten an inkling or two that Ms. Ross is the source of some of their painful difficulties.”

  Yocke’s face was flushed. “You’ve assumed all along that I was going to help you. I haven’t decided.”

  Jake Grafton had had enough. “Don’t get pissy with me, kid. You’ve got ten seconds to decide. Yes or no.”

  The pistols that the senior chief had put on the desk were 9mm automatics. Jake picked one up, popped out the magazine and reached for a box of cartridges on the desk.

  “Why do you want Shirley?” Yocke asked.

  Jake Grafton’s open palm descended onto the desk with a vicious smack. “In or out?” he snarled.

  “Fuck! I’m in.”

  “We’ll meet you here.” He stabbed his finger at the map and everyone bent over to look. “It’s that park on the south bank of the Moskva River where the statues are, about four hundred yards east of the entrance to Gorky Park.” He looked at the reporter. “You’re going to have to find it in the dark. Study this map carefully. When Shirley picks you up, you bring her here. If you’re followed there will probably be shooting. I want Shirley Ross alive and uninjured. She’s your responsibility.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to meet you?”

  “Make sure she does. Tell her anything you want.”

  Jack Yocke looked from face to face. He swallowed once. “I don’t get paid anywhere near enough to do this shit.”

  “When this is over we’ll get you a tattoo.”

  Toad Tarkington slapped Yocke on the back. “Relax, Jack. Everybody has to contribute their mite. And under our enlightened system of government you only have to die once. That’s right in the Bill of Rights along with all the freedoms—freedom of religion, freedom of the press, freedom of sexual satisfaction, freedom from ex-wives, free—”

  “Kiss my ass, you silly son of a bitch.”

  “Do this right and I’ll kiss your ass at high noon on the front steps of the Washington Post.”

  “I want a story out of this,” Yocke told Grafton.

  “You know the rules,” the admiral replied mildly. “If and when I say.”

  Jack Yocke bit his lip. He was going to write a story about this whether Jake Grafton liked it or not. Grafton knew damn well who Shirley Ross was—probably an American agent: he had known from the moment Yocke first mentioned her name. And Grafton didn’t even cheep. And Tarkington—always with the smart mouth and shit-eating grin because he knows something you don’t. Yocke’s slow burn began to sizzle.

  Jesus, what if that story she gave him about the Soviet Square killings wasn’t true? Could it have been a setup? The possibilities swirled in Yocke’s mind as he examined the admiral through narrowed eyes. He looked at the nose a touch too big, the short salt-and-pepper hair, the cold gray eyes. Grafton could have set it up! Sure.

  Say Shirley’s story was all true except for the identity of the person who made the telephone call to the KGB agents. Say the agents thought they were talking to Demodov and it wasn’t really him. What if Demodov was the fall guy? What if Demodov’s denial was true?

  Was Jake Grafton capable of a stunt like that?

  Like what? Faking the phone call to set up Kolokoltsev? Or killing that neo-nazi and his aides? Kolokoltsev was no great loss to anybody. In fact, his demise was one of the few bright spots in a Russia trying to come to grips with a sordid past and an uncertain future. That bigoted demagogue…was …

  Staring at the admiral now, Jack Yocke felt the cool hard shape of truth as rigid as steel. Jake Grafton was capa
ble of doing whatever he thought was right. God help the poor bastard who wandered into the way! Jake Graf—

  “You want a gun?” Jake was holding out an automatic. Dalworth and the senior chief were loading M-16s.

  The reporter stared at the pistol, his train of thought broken. A gun. He shook his head. “If I get caught with a gun the Post will fire me.”

  Toad was incredulous. “I knew civilian jobs were hard to get, but… You’d rather be dead than unemployed?”

  “If I’m unarmed they may not shoot me. Killing reporters is damn poor PR. Sooner or later they’ll get tired of feeding me and ship me home to the bony bosom of my editor.”

  Jake Grafton shrugged and tossed the pistol on the table. “Your choice.”

  “And I thought you’d decided to get into the game,” Toad Tarkington said.

  “Been a lot of reporters buried because they knew too much,” the senior chief remarked.

  Yocke flipped a hand in acknowledgment but refused to change his mind.

  Jack Yocke walked out of the embassy with nothing but his passport in one pocket and a wad of rubles in another. He had studied the map for fifteen minutes and thought he knew where he was going. He had exactly six minutes to make the subway station rendezvous and there was no way. He had pointed out to Grafton that he was going to be very late, but the admiral said, “They’ll wait for you,” and made him take the time to study the map carefully.

  He scurried out the main gate past the bodies lying in the street, pathetic little piles of rags with all the life smashed out. His course inadvertently took him by the body of the woman incinerated by her own Molotov cocktail. He tried not to look, looked anyway and almost vomited.

  Moscow was not lit up like an American or European city. Occasional weak streetlights enlivened the gloom and gave enough light to see, but they offered little comfort.

  Yocke wasn’t alone on the street. People were watching from doorways and alleys, people staying well under cover. Yet they made no move to interfere with him. There was no traffic at all.