by Steven Gore
Gage fell silent as Ninchenko directed the driver to break off the chase. He felt a wave of frustration. He’d been reduced to a spectator, watching Matson travel from place to place, powerless to intervene, not even knowing how far along Matson was in the deal.
Then a moment of self-blame. He should’ve prevented Matson from leaving the U.S.-but maybe it wasn’t too late to backtrack. He reached for his cell phone and called Alex Z.
“Did you find out where FedEx delivered the MMIC chips?”
He heard Alex Z yawn before he answered. It was 4 A. M. in San Francisco.
“They dead-ended at a mail drop in Trenton, New Jersey. The receiving company is registered in Delaware, but is owned by a Florida corporation.”
Gage sent Alex Z back to bed, then disconnected. He had his answer about where the chips went: into a maze. And it would take a month of dead ends to get to the other side.
He was still a spectator.
CHAPTER 65
Ninchenko bumped Gage with his elbow as they drove toward the center of Kiev, then pointed up at the building housing the Cabinet of Ministers, a stucco monstrosity resting on granite blocks.
“That,” Ninchenko said, “along with most of Kiev, was leveled by the Nazis during the Great Patriotic War.” He gestured toward the building as they passed by. “The government kept German prisoners for two years after the war was over to rebuild it. As slave laborers. Some of them were just twelve-and thirteen-year-old children forced into the army by the Nazis in the last days of the war.” Gage heard regret in Ninchenko’s voice, as if it was a crime he had failed to prevent. “And not all of them survived.” He shook his head. “I hate even to look at it.”
Instead of turning west toward Independence Square and the apartment, the driver continued north, up a long, curving cobblestone street past the National Philharmonic, a yellow brick building looking to Gage more like a place of commerce than culture. They crested the hill and looked down at the blue Dnepr River and the four-story cruise ships moored for the winter at the Podil embankment terminal.
Gage didn’t mind the ride. He needed to think, and preferred to do it outside the confinement of the apartment.
Ninchenko’s driver wound his way up Castle Hill, then pulled into a space near the Orthodox church at the top. The few trees surrounding the small structure were bare and the parking lot was empty.
“Let’s get out here,” Ninchenko said. “I want to show you something.”
Gage followed Ninchenko to a low wall overlooking the city.
“This is where Kiev was founded,” Ninchenko said. “Not by the tribes living in the area, but by Lithuanian invaders. Ukraine, the word, means nothing more than ‘borderland.’ A gap, a void, an emptiness. One that is usually filled by others.”
A sharp gust blew up from the river. Gage turned up his collar and pulled down on his ushanka to cover the tops of his ears. Ninchenko shivered, then did the same.
“You don’t seem to be particularly proud to be Ukrainian,” Gage said.
“Ukraine is the product of hundreds of years of madness. It’s the Blanche DuBois of Europe, relying always on the kindness of strangers. Strangers gave Ukraine its capital, its industry, its culture, its religion. Russian was even the national language until a few years ago. And the world subconsciously recognizes it. Most people in the West think Kiev is part of Russia. They even refer to it as ‘The Ukraine,’ as if it was merely a region and not a nation.”
“I don’t want to offend you,” Gage said, “but there does seem to be a certain hollowness in Ukraine. I feel it every time I come here. Americans expect a certain depth, maybe a certain weightiness, in this part of the world. Cossacks, plagues, famines, suffering. The kinds of things that create great art and literature.”
“All of that only taught narrow-minded self-interest,” Ninchenko said. “That’s why Ukraine will sell arms to anyone. In fact, ethnic cleansing in the Balkans wouldn’t have been quite so effective without the weapons supplied by Ukraine. Too many Ukrainians live like there’s no tomorrow, and they expect that no one else has the right to.”
Ninchenko pointed north. “You know what’s just up that way?” Gage’s gaze followed Ninchenko’s arm toward treed, rolling hills. “Chernobyl. One hundred kilometers. A wind in this direction would’ve brought radiation to Kiev in two hours. You know how long it took the government to warn the people of Kiev about the nuclear accident? Two weeks. And you know what the government sent to the contaminated people in the zone? Red wine and instructions to wash their floors. Five hundred thousand people were evacuated, but not until they were fully bathed in the fallout and condemned to death.”
Ninchenko turned toward Gage. “But we didn’t come here to discuss history and literature and culture.”
Gage smiled. “I think we did.”
Ninchenko shrugged, not at all embarrassed to have been found out. “Apparently I’m not as subtle as I thought.”
“I get your point: Matson needs to be stopped before he turns over the technology.”
“But you came here to do more than that.”
“I think I may be trying to do too many things. Clear my friend. Recover the money. Expose Gravilov. Stop the sale. And snagging Matson would be the linchpin for doing it all.” Gage shook his head slowly. “There isn’t time to do everything.”
“What is there time to do?”
Gage turned toward Ninchenko. He not only wanted to hear Ninchenko’s answer, he wanted to see it-for the city tour could end in the infamous State Security dungeon.
“How much of a risk are you willing to take?” Gage asked.
Ninchenko kept his eyes locked on Gage’s, but pointed once again toward Chernobyl. “My older brother was a police officer. Among the first on the scene of the fire.” His eyes moistened and his voice quivered, but he didn’t look away. “He died within hours.” Ninchenko tilted his head at the church. “We had his memorial here. You know what my mother asked the government representative? She asked him what was the half-life of grief-and he just turned away, pretending he hadn’t heard her.”
A gust of wind rattled the frozen leaves at their feet.
Only then did Ninchenko glance away, back toward the Cabinet of Ministers in the distance. “I despise those people as much as they despise us.” He then folded his arms across his chest. “What do you need?”
“You have a place I can stash Matson?” Ninchenko didn’t flinch at Gage’s words. “We need to grab him, Alla, and whatever he brought with him.”
“And then what?”
“Get them out of Ukraine.”
Ninchenko’s gaze swept north and west. “Poland, Russia. Too hard to cross the borders.”
“We need to get him to a NATO country,” Gage said.
“Romania or Hungary or Slovakia. But those are also difficult borders.”
“What about Istanbul? By boat across the Black Sea from Odessa.”
“I’ll see if Slava is willing to set it up.”
Ninchenko made the call as they drove down the hill.
“He agrees,” Ninchenko said, after he disconnected. “But says that we better snatch them tonight. He just found out that they made plane reservations to Dnepropetrovsk tomorrow morning. Hadeon Alexandervich owns an electronics factory there. Slava thinks that’s where they’re going to test the devices. He wants Matson stopped before that happens.”
“He wants Matson stopped? I thought politics was just a form of business to him.”
“Remember what I said about Ukrainians being the Jews of the Soviet Union? Slava isn’t a figurative Jew, he’s an actual one. Aboveground, he travels on an Israeli passport, and he doesn’t want any more weapons falling into the hands of Israel’s enemies.”
Ninchenko dropped Gage off at the apartment. He packed a few things to take on the boat, then made a cup of tea and imagined Faith lying in bed, on his side, where she always slept when he was away. He called their home number and pictured her reaching over to pick up the
handset.
She answered on the first ring. “Graham?”
“How do you always know?”
She laughed. “When you’re in love, the ring sounds different.”
“You okay?”
“Other than worrying about you, I’m fine.”
“No need to worry. I’m almost done, but I’ll be traveling for a few days through an area without cell service.”
“Going where?”
“I better not say.”
He thought for a moment, searching for a way to reduce the uncertainty he knew she felt. “You recall what I had delivered to Jack in the hospital?”
“Let me think…in the hospital…” She laughed again.
He smiled to himself as they both said the word silently to themselves: Turkey.
CHAPTER 66
I think they finally made up,” Gage said to Ninchenko, as Matson and Alla walked arm-in-arm from the entrance of the Lesya Palace Hotel to the waiting Mercedes. “It’s a good thing. I wasn’t looking forward to them squabbling all the way to Istanbul.”
Gravilov’s enforcer, Razor, trailed Matson in a security car. Ninchenko’s driver followed them from two blocks behind and let the other two surveillance cars work the perimeter.
Matson’s driver wound his way east, northeast, then northwest to Artema Street, a mixed-use boulevard of offices, apartments, restaurants, and car dealerships.
Gage’s cell phone rang as they drove. It was Slava.
“I talk to Alla Petrovna father in Budapest,” Slava said. “He say he not have daughter. What you call disown. Look like she follow in father business, but not follow father.”
“Maybe it’s genetic. She must have a crook chromosome.”
Ninchenko chuckled.
“What chrome zome?” Slava asked.
“I’ll have Ninchenko explain it later.”
“Maybe American humor not translate.”
“Afraid not. Is everything ready for the happy couple?”
“ Da. Nice room. No view.”
Ninchenko’s driver pulled over as they approached the end of Artema Street, then pointed toward the Madison Restaurant, a casual New York-style steakhouse and bar. Matson and Alla were walking in. Razor had parked his car on a street to the west of the building, and Matson’s Mercedes had swung in behind.
Gage directed the driver to position the van on the opposite side of Artema, with a view of the entrance and the long row of restaurant windows. Ninchenko then ordered his two chase cars to bracket Razor’s and the Mercedes, ready to freeze them in place while Gage and Ninchenko grabbed Matson and Alla as they left the restaurant.
“Are they too close?” Gage asked Ninchenko, tilting his head toward the chase cars.
“No. Many of the patrons bring security. Razor’ll think our men are merely comrades suffering in the cold while the bosses eat in comfort. He’s too arrogant for his own good. He shouldn’t have let himself get boxed in.”
Ninchenko handed binoculars to Gage.
Gage scanned the restaurant interior. Matson and Alla sat in an oversized leather booth in the wood-paneled restaurant. Down lighting from recessed ceiling coffers illuminated their table.
A wine steward approached to take Matson’s order, then entered the glassed-in circular wine vault. He made his selection, then returned to Matson’s table.
Matson swirled the wine, then tasted it and nodded.
“Matson thinks he’s a real charmer, a debonair man about town,” Gage said. “Look at his little pinky sticking out, like a society matron…He looks ridiculous.”
The wine steward filled Alla’s glass, then added to Matson’s.
Gage watched Alla’s face brighten as she reached across the table to clink glasses. She smiled, then slid around the table so that she was next to Matson and her back was to Gage.
The waiter approached to take their dinner orders and moved Alla’s place setting. She lowered her menu as if to defer ordering to Matson, then reached her arm through Matson’s and snuggled close.
“Suppertime,” Ninchenko said, retrieving a bag from the floorboard and handing Gage a sausage sandwich and a Coke.
After Matson and Alla’s dessert dishes were removed, Ninchenko signaled his chase cars. The four occupants exited the Ladas, two taking positions against the building out of the wind and lighting cigarettes, while the others simply stretched, then stamped their feet on the icy grass, their breath rising in swirling clouds that quickly condensed into invisibility. One walked up to Razor’s window and offered him a cigarette. Another approached Matson’s driver, holding out a flask of vodka.
Alla gave Matson a light kiss on the cheek, then walked toward the far left rear corner of the dining room and disappeared down a hallway leading to the restrooms. Matson left the table and followed the same route. A minute later Alla reappeared. She glanced toward the empty booth as she walked toward the coatroom. She retrieved a black, fur-collared overcoat, then walked toward the entrance.
Gage lost sight of her when she passed on the opposite side of the reception station, then spotted her again as she descended the concrete front steps. She looked toward Razor and the Mercedes, but Ninchenko’s men blocked her view. She then walked behind a large fountain near the entrance.
“Tell your men to stand by until Matson comes outside,” Gage said. “And get them out of here fast. We don’t want Razor thinking there’s anything left to fight over.”
Ninchenko gave the order as Gage looked toward the restaurant window. Matson had not yet returned from the restroom. A slight motion caught Gage’s eyes.
“She’s running! She’s running!” Gage yelled at their driver and pointed at Alla fleeing across Artema, and then said to Ninchenko, “Razor hasn’t noticed yet. Have your men keep him diverted.”
Gage fixed his eyes on Alla as their driver pulled away from the curb.
“What should we do about Matson?” Ninchenko asked.
“Nothing yet,” Gage said. He pointed at Ninchenko’s phone. “Keep your guy on the line and reporting what Matson does.”
They followed Alla as she cut south, then slipped into a small residential street running southeast. Gage lost sight of her until their driver looped around the block to cut her off, but she was already beyond them.
Ninchenko held his phone tight to his ear, then said, “Matson is back at the table, waiting for his credit card receipt.” He then pointed at Alla. “She’s fast.”
“One of our surveillance people in London said she was a jogger,” Gage said. “But how the devil did she know we were here?”
Gage felt anger rise within as he turned toward Ninchenko. “Did one of your people sell us out?”
“I don’t know-but we will know in a couple of minutes.”
“I don’t want her hurt. Leave it up to me.”
Alla slowed as she approached a group of theatergoers strolling toward the Zoloti Vorota Theatre, mixing into the crowd to conceal herself and catch her breath. The driver pulled over until she separated and began scampering farther south.
Ninchenko raised his hand as he listened on the phone. “Matson is walking toward the coatrack.” He looked at Gage. “What should we do?”
“Have someone go in pretending to be a friend of Alla’s from her hometown. Say she walked down to his apartment to say hello to his wife. She’ll be back in ten minutes. Have him buy Matson a drink in the bar.”
Ninchenko passed on the order as Alla cut onto a side street angling northeast.
“She’s heading back toward Artema,” Ninchenko said. “Lots of places to escape into. Apartments, stores, even embassies.”
“We better get her now.”
The driver sped up until he was ten yards beyond her, then cut into a blind alley to block her way. Gage and Ninchenko leaped out and grabbed her just as her feet slipped from under her when she tried to stop on the icy sidewalk.
Alla struggled against them, squirming, kicking, trying to shake free by wiggling out of her coat. She then went
limp. Ninchenko smiled at Gage, but instead of loosening his grip, held her even more firmly, turning her coat into a straitjacket.
“Let me go!” she yelled in Ukrainian. “Let me go.”
Ninchenko covered her mouth. Gage pointed down the shadowed alley, and Ninchenko dragged her to the end. The driver backed in and then walked around to the rear of the van to tie her hands. They lowered the tailgate and sat her down.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Ninchenko said. “If we were, you’d be gagged and hooded. We just want you to answer some questions about Stuart Matson.”
Alla’s eyes flashed, then she nodded and he removed his hand.
“Who are you running from?”
“Everyone.”
“Who’s everyone?” Gage asked.
“Shit,” Alla spat out, her face red not only from exertion, but now from anger. “Another fucking American.”
“That’s not an answer. You were just kissing an American ten minutes ago.”
“That’s nothing. I would’ve gone down on a toad to get that bastard.”
Gage glanced toward Ninchenko. “I think I made a mistake about her.”
Alla kicked at Gage, who skipped back a step. “You bet you did. Wait until my father gets ahold of you.”
“From what I hear Petrov Tarasov doesn’t have a daughter anymore.”
“Who are you?”
“Graham Gage. I’m a private investigator from San Francisco.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Not Matson’s,” Gage said. “He’s trying to frame a friend of mine and I’m here to stop him. Where were you heading?”
“The U.S. embassy.”
“A little late in the day.”
“So what. They’ll open the door for me.”
Gage shook his head. “Not over a lovers’ quarrel.”
“It’s worse than that,” she said.
“How much worse?”
Alla shrugged. “How do I know you won’t send me back?”
“You can trust me on that. I’m not letting you go at all. Tomorrow you’ll be on a slow boat to Istanbul.”