A small dark-haired woman opened the door and asked, “John?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m Katarina, it’s very nice to meet you. Please come in,” she said in Russian. “Andre’s in the kitchen trying to get the monsters to eat.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Taylor said as he entered their home and followed her to the kitchen.
On one side of the kitchen, opposite the stove and refrigerator, was a thin white table pushed against the wall, with chairs evenly spaced around the other three sides. Taylor instantly recognized his friend Andre, slightly older than he remembered, but with the same, or at least a similar, eye patch he’d had when Taylor’s team had finally left the country.
His friend was setting bowls of soup in front of two children. A girl who looked to be about eight with the same dark hair and naturally tanned skin as her mother, and a boy who looked about five with the lighter brown hair of his father.
Andre set the bowls down and looked up as Taylor entered, his face breaking into a giant grin and his one good eye twinkling. He moved the two steps needed to cross from the table to the door and lifted Taylor in a powerful hug.
“My friend, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”
“You could set me down,” Taylor said, still speaking Russian, keeping a scowl on his face but unable to stop the laugh from escaping his throat.
Andre did so and threw an arm over Taylor’s shoulder, turning him to face the children.
“Children, this is the American soldier I told you about,” he said to the two children who ignored their dinner, their interested piqued by the new and unknown. “John, these are my children. This is Yana,” he said, pointing to the girl, “and that is Pavel.”
The girl slid out of her seat and walked to Taylor, looking at him, her eyes the size of saucers, “Is it true you are the bravest soldier ever?”
Taylor looked sideways at his friend, whose impossibly wide grin somehow managed to grow even wider.
“No,” he said, kneeling so he could talk to the girl, “But your father, he was. I’ve never seen a better, braver man in my entire life!”
She looked at her father, a mixture of pride and renewed awe crossing her face.
“Bah,” Andre said, “Don’t listen to him. I will tell you a secret I learned. Americans either tell everyone who will listen they are like a god come down from heaven, or try to pretend they have never done anything worthy of praise.”
The girl seemed somewhat lost, but the look Andre sent made it clear that comment was for him anyway.
“As opposed to Russian men like this one,” his wife said, slapping her husband on the shoulder to move so she could enter the kitchen, “Ready to sing his own praises at a moment’s notice.”
Andre grabbed his wife around the waist as she walked by, and spun her around in a circle, causing the children to laugh as they picked up their father's mood.
“Only when I am not singing yours, my beautiful wife.”
She slapped him on the shoulder, demanding to be put down in between yelps and laughs. He set her on the floor and went to take Yana’s seat while his wife went to the stove.
Picking the girl up and seating her on his lap so she could eat, he said, “But I did not lie. I would not be alive today, if it weren’t for John.”
“You would also still have that eye if I’d moved faster,” Taylor said.
“Bah! No one could have moved fast enough to pull me away from that grenade. None of the rest even tried! They just hid below those rocks,” Andre said, looking at Taylor thoughtfully, before turning to his wife. “He stood, reached over the embankment, and pulled me over the side. A second slower and I would have lost a lot more than my eye.”
Katarina sat a bowl of soup in front of Taylor and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek before going and sitting on the other side of Pavel. The children settled as everyone started eating, the mundanity of it winning out over the newness of their visitor. Both children were quiet through the dinner however, as they were affected by a combination of shyness and being overwhelmed by all the excitement that came with a new guest.
The conversation changed to the proud parents telling Taylor all about their kids and the wonderful things they were doing, Yana had started gymnastics and Pavel was just beginning to learn how to play the piano. They touched very briefly on Andre’s job with the FSB, the organization that replaced the KGB after the fall of the Soviet Union.
Andre was a midlevel investigator, specializing in terrorism, which wasn’t surprising since he had been on the counter-terrorism unit when Taylor had met him. Katarina had been a school teacher, but she had left her job when Yana was born, and continued to be a stay-at-home mom with Pavel. She was considering returning to teaching now that Pavel was old enough to begin school next year.
Taylor could see it in her. She was excellent with the children, using a firm but not overbearing manner with them after dinner to get them off to prepare for bed. Once the children and Katarina had left, Andre pulled out a bottle of vodka, pouring a small glass for each of them.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, handing Taylor a glass of the clear liquid, “we will go to a briefing at the Lubyanka Building with some midlevel bureaucrats and a few people from your embassy to discuss the request from your State Department about the missing girls.”
“I’m not going to hold my breath on that coming to much,” Taylor said, then grimaced as he tossed the liquid that burned its way down his throat.
“You shouldn’t. My government is humoring your State Department, but they looked at what files your people sent, and they saw nothing that made them believe the girls were actually coming here.”
“They wouldn’t. It’s circumstantial at best, since we knew they were originally heading this way before they were transferred off the Petrograd. My gut says they are still coming here, though.”
“I know, and I believe you. While I can’t offer you official support, unless you turn up something I can take to my superiors. I will do what I can to help. I just didn’t want you to get your hopes up about this meeting.”
“I never get my hopes up about a meeting with bureaucrats.”
Andre gave a booming laugh, until Katarina poked her head back in the room and gave him a look that all married men recognize.
He looked at his wife appropriately sheepishly, then said to Taylor, “Direct as always, I see.”
Taylor just shrugged in response.
“They mostly want to make it clear to you that they do not want any trouble. While they’ve agreed to let you continue your investigation here, they plan on keeping you on a tight leash, as you American’s say. After the meeting, however, I have arranged for you to speak to a colleague of mine who has dealt with these types of smugglers before. He believes he could steer you in the right direction.”
“Excellent,” Taylor said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all your help, and your hospitality.”
Andre laid a hand on Taylor’s shoulder and, looking him in the eye, said, “You do not need to thank me, my friend. This does not even begin to clear the debt I owe you.”
“You didn’t need my help, Andre. I don’t think they ever made a grenade that could break through your thick skull.”
Andre laughed again, although at a more appropriate level this time, and slapped Taylor on the shoulder.
“Come, my friend. You are probably exhausted from your flight. Katarina has prepared the spare room for you.”
CHAPTER 7
It took a moment for Taylor to get his bearings when he woke up, an effect he was finding more common over the last year. In the military, while he moved around a lot, army barracks had a comfortable uniformity to them that kept them from ever feeling new. But spending so many nights in hotels, traveling for this case or that, he’d started to find the first minute after he woke disorienting.
The effect this morning was more pronounced, waking in an average room instead of one made sp
ecifically for travelers. Pictures of people he didn’t know were on one wall, a relatively large cross on another, a worn but still cozy blanket pulled over him.
His wits finally about him, Taylor pushed himself out of bed and pulled on clean clothes. He could hear a shower going somewhere in the apartment and found Katarina already dressed, with Pavel at the table eating oatmeal or portage.
“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked cheerfully.
“Just coffee please,” Taylor said
She gestured him to a seat next to the boy, who looked at Taylor, spoon half in his mouth when Taylor sat.
“Good morning,” he said to the young boy, who shyly just nodded.
“Yana has already left for school,” Katarina said, setting down the coffee. “Pavel and I have a big day planned, don’t we?”
The boy nodded.
“What are you doing today, Pavel?” Taylor asked.
“Going to the park. Mamma wants me to hear a man play old music. She says if I practice I can learn to play old music.”
“Stravinsky, dear,” she said, rustling his hair. “Not old.”
Taylor smiled at him. The child had said ‘Strah-riy,' which was one of the more common ways to say something was old. The five-year-old had jumbled the word with the unknown name, switching it the way children sometimes do in every language.
The correction bounced off the child, who went back to eating.
“His piano teacher is having a recital at the park with some of his older students.”
“Hopefully your mother lets you play at the park some too, and not just listen to ‘old’ music,” Taylor said grinning at the boy, who answered with an enthusiastic nod.
“I’m sure we’ll find the time.”
Andre came out, wearing a light brown uniform with rank badges on the shoulders and patches on the sleeves. That was one thing Taylor did remember from his last trip to the country was that people from all walks ended up wearing military-esque uniforms, even if they weren’t in the army, proper.
Russians loved their uniforms.
“Ready?” he said, picking up a briefcase.
“Yeah,” Taylor said. He’d decided to leave his bag at Andre’s home until he figured out the next move.
They took Andre’s car, which had the proper tags for parking, and headed to the ministry, which was a rectangular, extremely official looking building on one corner of Red Square. Andre must have had some juice, since he could get Taylor through security with a temporary badge, only having to go through two security check points on his way to the meeting room on the top floor.
Taylor had been smart enough to stash his gun in Andre’s glove box before coming inside, rightly assuming the Russian security services would not look kindly on an American bringing a loaded firearm into their inner sanctum.
Once off the elevator, Taylor followed Andre through a twisting series of halls until they reached an unlabeled door, which his friend promptly opened. Taylor couldn’t hold back the small smile that creased his lips. The Soviet Union may have gone, but the weird paranoia that kept doors anonymous remained.
Inside, three men stood in a straightforward meeting room, with a single long table surrounded by chairs. There were no screens, no white boards, and no windows. One wore the same military style uniform as Andre, with different insignia he did not recognize, the other two were dressed in what Taylor thought might be stylish suits.
“Mr. Taylor?” the older gentleman in the suit asked.
Taylor just nodded.
“Excellent. I’m Donald Ellis from the State Department,” the man said, extending a hand and showing a perfectly aligned set of impossibly white teeth.
The other man in the suit, clearly a translator, said the same thing, but in Russian, directed toward the unknown man in the uniform.
It should have amazed Taylor that the State Department would send in someone representing the US interests to negotiate with the Russians, and that person wouldn’t speak any of the country he was stationed in’s language. If he had to guess, he figured Ellis probably knew nothing about Russian culture either.
That was anathema to his SF training, which focused on soldiers learning not just the language, but the culture of the groups they were assigned to. They were taught, repeatedly, understanding and respect were the key to ensuring effective integration or assistance from local allies.
The level of hubris in expecting the country your diplomatic staff served in to deal with you in English, rather than the other way around, was stunning, but not unexpected. He’d seen the same kind of attitude in the Middle East, from both higher-level military and civilian officials sent to ‘rebuild’ the country. They all went in not understanding the region, not understanding the various mixes of cultures and religions, some of which coexisted very poorly together, then expected an easy transition to a functional democracy. It was almost laughable the way they were all surprised when everything went to shit . . . or it would have been, if it hadn’t gotten so many American servicemen killed.
Still, the State Department—or at least the upper levels of it, which existed solely to communicate, and insure US interests, with both allied and hostile nations—couldn’t even be bothered to learn the language.
“And this,” Ellis said, “is Colonel Vasili. He has been assigned to assist us in locating the missing girls.”
Taylor reached across and shook hands with the colonel. He couldn’t help but notice neither the colonel nor Ellis acknowledge Andre’s presence.
“If you will excuse us for one second, Colonel,” Ellis said and after a nod from Vasili, lightly gripped Taylor’s arm and led him to the far side of the room, without the translator.
“I have been working on fixing this mess since it came across my desk yesterday.” He said, his toothy grin replaced by a smirk and his voice dripping with condescension. “I know you got Washington in some sort of tizzy over this, but you’re in the real world now. Please just sit and let me do the talking, so you don’t sink all the work we’ve done to this point.”
Ellis released Taylor’s arm, plastered on his near Cheshire-Cat-level smile, and returned to Vasili and the translator.
“Let’s be seated,” the colonel said in Russian, gesturing at the seats. “We have looked into the history of this ship, the Petrograd, your government forwarded to us. We have reached the company that owns and operates the ship, and they have assured us they were unaware of any illegal activity that was discovered while it was in United States waters. We did additional searches, but found no other record that the Petrograd was scheduled to offload to another ship after it left port.”
‘Because smugglers often file shipping manifests for mid-ocean rendezvous to offload women taken hostage,’ Taylor thought sarcastically but managed to keep from saying that out loud. Barely.
After the translator had finished, Ellis said, “We appreciate your prompt assistance in this matter, Colonel Vasili. And we are working hard on our end to ensure the release of the Petrograd to its owners with as little delay as possible, although not its crew, which must stand trial for their actions, you understand. We understand they still have a schedule to keep, and we wouldn’t want to inconvenience them any more than is necessary.”
Taylor fought the urge to roll his eyes.
“Excellent,” the colonel said. “We have agreed with your State Department’s request to allow you to operate inside the country Mr. Taylor, but I want to be very clear, we do not want any difficulties. While you do enjoy diplomatic immunity, we will expel you from Russia if you step out of line even once. Is that clear?”
Taylor didn’t wait for the translator to finish and replied in Russian.
“I appreciate that, Colonel, and I will try my best to keep from causing you any problems. But those girls are coming to your country. They are either here already, or will be soon. I intend to find them, and don’t plan on letting anything get in my way.”
Ellis’s head whipped around at Taylor so hard,
Taylor thought he might actually hurt himself. His eyes narrowed as he watched Taylor, not missing the hard tone in Taylor’s reply. The translator, not expecting the need to translate for the other American in the room into English, more summarized what Taylor had said than directly translated it.
“So! We understand each other,” Vasili said, ignoring the byplay between the other two men and not breaking contact. “I have no love for the people you will most likely encounter, nor will I weep for them if something should happen to them. But I will not let you upturn my country.”
Taylor nodded and stood, shaking hands with Vasili more firmly now that the two men had each other’s measure. Turning, he headed out of the room with Andre, Ellis and the translator scrambling to catch up. Once the door was closed Ellis gripped Taylor’s arm again, to stop his forward momentum. Taylor looked at the offending hand then back at Ellis, challenge in his eyes.
The Wrong Girl (John Taylor Book 3) Page 10