by Unknown
“This is not true,” Baretsky insisted.
“I think it is,” Yuri said.
Baretsky hesitated a second, then reached under his jacket with his right hand. It froze there. Yuri noticed he was looking down at something.
“Do it, please,” Joshua said.
Yuri looked at Joshua’s left hand, to see what Baretsky was looking at. Joshua was holding a large silver and black pistol.
Baretsky’s right hand withdrew from his jacket and he held both hands in the open with the fingers spread apart. Yuri could see they were trembling.
“Kill him,” Nikita demanded. “He deserves nothing less.”
“Not yet,” Joshua said. Yuri was relieved. He did not want to see a man die, especially not in the house in which he’d grown up. “Maybe he can tell us where Valeria is.” Yuri turned to Josh. He had not thought of that.
However, a defiant smirk appeared on Baretsky’s face. “Why should I? You’re going to kill me whether I do or not.” Joshua shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” The smug grin dropped from Baretsky’s face.
“She’s at the train yard south of here. Mironov has her locked in one of the rooms.”
They were all quiet for a second. This information satisfied Yuri. Was it enough for Joshua?
Nikita stepped forward and grabbed the pistol from Joshua’s 274
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hand. Baretsky’s eyes grew wide with fear. Nikita pointed the gun at him and fired three times. Yuri squeezed his eyes shut and cringed. The shots echoed like thunder in the small room, ringing in his ears. He heard a crash and opened his eyes.
The force of the bullets had slammed Baretsky back against the door. His arms had flown out and knocked over a lamp. Three large, red holes stained the front of his shirt. His wide eyes stared back at them as his body slumped to the floor. The bullets went through his body and punched jagged holes in the thick wooden door. His body left a trail of smeared blood on it.
Nikita hefted the American’s pistol in his hand. His lower lip stuck out in a manner of discriminatory approval.
“A good gun,” he said, and slapped it back into Joshua’s open palm. “Now we can get on with business.” Yuri stared at Baretsky’s dead body. He had never seen a man killed. He also never knew a man who deserved it more, except maybe one, and he had the woman he loved locked in a room at the train yard.
From the other side of the door came running footsteps and shouted voices. Nikita’s men came to make sure their boss was all right. Yuri felt a surge of pride. He knew the sight of the traitor’s dead body would renew their commitment to him. They tried to open the door, but Baretsky’s body blocked it. Yuri looked at his brother. Nikita didn’t care. He had a broad grin and was offering the American a glass of vodka. Yuri smiled himself. Everything was going to be all right.
The uniform itched like hell. Josh wondered how long it had been kept in that musty closet. Kurchenko told him it was a stolen uniform, but stolen from who? Stalin?
He sat in the backseat of a tiny taxi, trying not to shift too much and give away his discomfort. Under the uniform he wore his shoulder holster and the Smith & Wesson. His right shoulder had been rewrapped at the Israeli airbase medical facility. It was now so tight he could hardly raise his arm at all. They did an excellent job of stitching up the wound in his forearm and warned Change of Heart
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him to rest for a few days, but of course he couldn’t do that.
Kurchenko had been able to provide a uniform that almost fit, but it was the guys at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow who impressed Josh the most. Getting to the train yards in a Communist uniform was one thing. To get past the gate, he needed identification. The Embassy guys were able to make perfectly forged papers for him in less than an hour.
Josh decided to have the taxi drop him off about a block from the entrance to the train yard. He hoped to be less conspicuous if he walked in. Hell, Kurchenko offered to drive him in his own Zil limousine to make everyone assume he was important. Josh had to be careful to turn him down without offending him. If he were to arrive in a limo, Mironov would have him shot before he got out of the car.
The small taxi bounced on the rough streets. Josh was surprised by how much the city had changed since his last visit.
Moscow looked more like a metropolitan city in the American Midwest than the oppressive military stronghold it had become under Soviet rule. All around was the evidence of a growing economy: billboards with Nike ads, neon signs, office buildings and shopping malls. The Sadovoye Koltso, or Garden Circle, that ringed the city was like a modern American freeway with heavy traffic and homeless people on the underpasses. The weather had not changed, though. It was still gray like the steel coat that once cloaked this nation for seventy years.
The taxi crossed Kutuzovsky Prospekt and passed Lubayanka Square, the former headquarters for the KGB. The trip through downtown Moscow made Josh nostalgic. On his left they passed the Bolshoi Theater. Ahead was the Russian State Library where he once met that beautiful young woman from Moscow University. Over the apartment buildings he could see the domes of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, being reconstructed virtually from dust.
Even though Moscow showed signs of resurgence, it was a delicate growth. Corruption was still rampant among the city’s leaders, and mafia families like the Kurchenko’s vied for power 276
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and control. The Russian Democracy showed promise, but it was a fragile promise that could crumble under pressure. Mironov intended to apply that pressure from within. Josh had to make sure that didn’t happen.
His mind began to wander and he remembered the events of the last few days. His nervous excitement faded as he remembered the Warthog pilot who did not make it back and about Aaron, who died of his burns at the hospital. To him, these men were heroes. They gave their lives to help him finish this mission. He couldn’t let them down.
Aaron’s request still bothered him. He thought he did the right thing, but in doing so, had he betrayed Aaron’s trust? Aaron asked Josh to give him an honorable death and Josh denied it.
He saw no honor in shooting his friend to give him the benefit of a dignified death. He did the right thing, didn’t he? Josh still didn’t know.
That made him remember the Iraqi terrorist, and he squirmed with discomfort. The Israelis gave him hell for sparing the man’s life. Walt chewed him out as well. Josh wanted to tell them he didn’t have the heart to kill a harmless old man who was scared and injured, but he kept his mouth shut.
They were right, of course. The terrorist who was allowed to live would tell his story, and it would not look good for the world to find out the Mossad and Naval Intelligence teamed up on a covert invasion into Iraq. The fact that the man had been brought back to Israel only served to further implicate them in the matter.
He couldn’t have done worse if he tried. The old man was a loose end and it was unprofessional of him to be so careless.
Caroline was pretty mad at him and that probably hurt the most.
Why didn’t he just kill the man? Because he was hurt and he was scared. He probably deserved to die and probably would, anyway, but Josh couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was getting weak as he got older.
Maybe he should get out. Maybe it was time. He had some money saved. Maybe he should start his own business. He always Change of Heart
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loved restoring classic cars. Maybe he could make a living at it.
Who was he kidding? At the first sign of trouble, Walt would call him and Josh would be right there, ready to take on whatever the bad guys had to dish out. He was condemned to this fate.
He asked for it and he got it. There was no getting around it.
Then he thought of Valeria and sighed. He had a change of heart for her. He had misjudged her. She was acting in her own self interest, but not for the reasons he assumed. She acted out of love, and she was willing to do whatever she had to in order to keep that love. He respected that.
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He also hated her for it. If she had been up front and honest with him in the first place, he wouldn’t have had to go through half the stuff he did in Tokyo. Like getting hit by the bus. Besides, he wanted to fall in love with her.
The taxi slowed and stopped at a corner. The driver announced the names of the streets. Josh gave him a handful of rubles, hoping it was enough, and got out.
It was dusk. A light summer breeze touched his face. He was alone on this deserted street, and he was nervous. There was only one way into the section of the train yard run by the Communists, and that was through the front gate. If he had the luxury of more time he might have scouted for a less obvious approach. As it was, the front door would have to do.
This was what made him so nervous. In order to get through the gate he had to convince whatever guards he might find that he belonged there. More than likely, considering Mironov’s uncanny luck in Tokyo, they were probably waiting for Joshua McGowan to try to get in. But would they be expecting an unfamiliar officer from Novosibirsk? Hopefully not. Josh started toward the train yard.
The yard itself was a sprawling complex of buildings and rail lines. Hundreds of railway engines and cars were coming or going or just parked. Here and there were men in dirty, greasy shirts and overalls. None of them seemed to notice him. Josh figured they chose not to because of the uniform he wore.
By the time he crossed the dozens of sets of rails and waited 278
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for the huge trains to pass, it was dark. He found the front gate just ahead.
There was no sign over the gate indicating it as the entrance to the Communist stronghold, not that he expected one. The gate was an opening in the tall fence topped with razor wire surrounding a collection of buildings, which was stuck in the corner of the huge yard. The gate was big enough to let trucks in and out. A single yellow and black striped bar blocked access and a single bright light illuminated a tiny guard shack just inside the fence. From about a hundred yards away, Josh could see one man inside. Within the compound itself, there appeared to be little activity. Josh continued toward the gate. Either they were laying an ambush for him, or they were off looking in the wrong place.
The guard in the shack appeared bored. As he got closer, Josh realized the guard was just a kid who didn’t look old enough to shave. He looked up and watched Josh approach.
“Good evening,” Josh said when he stopped at the open window of the shack.
He consciously made his voice deeper and spoke in a more guttural tone. Kurchenko warned him about that. He said his Russian was excellent, but he spoke like a woman.
“Good evening, sir,” the kid said with a curt salute.
He wore the uniform of a corporal. His chest was bare of medals except for the name badge which identified him as Kosolovev.
“What may I do for you?”
Josh had touched up his story on the ride over and decided to stick with it.
“I am on leave from my post in Novosibirsk and hoped to reacquaint myself with my comrades.” Corporal Kosolovev nodded as he listened, but didn’t seem too interested in the story. Josh was glad for that.
“May I see your papers, sir?”
Josh decided to defer to his authority. Kosolovev had no real power, but if he felt empowered, he might be less likely to Change of Heart
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cause trouble. He took a wad of papers from the pocket of the uniform jacket with his left hand, trying not to draw attention to his stiff right arm, and handed them to the corporal. Kosolovev unfolded and studied each page like they were the notes for his physics final.
“Has Moscow been this warm all summer?” Josh said.
Kosolovev nodded. “Most of the summer. We have had a good deal of rain.”
He flipped through every page in the stack. Josh knew they were flawless. The guys at the Embassy did an exceptional job, right down to the forged signatures and forged Aeroflot passes which could actually be checked.
The corporal folded the papers and handed them to Josh.
“Welcome to Moscow, Captain Dazhyatchkaya,” he said.
“Thank you, Corporal,” Josh said with a smile.
He put the papers back in the pocket of the uniform jacket and walked into the compound. That was easy enough. There had to be a big snag in this job somewhere. No doubt it would hit him at the worst possible time.
Valeria Konstantinova had stared at the chair and the table since it was still light. An idea formulated in her head, but she wasn’t sure she could pull it off. And if it worked, what would she do then? How could she hope to get out of this place? There was only one way to find out, she decided.
The small window set high in the wall was blocked by bars, so there was no real way she could get out, but that wouldn’t matter if she could be convincing enough for a few minutes. She put her ear to the door and heard the guard clear his throat on the other side. She couldn’t resist a brief smile. She had successfully done things like this to men so many times in the past.
Valeria pushed the table to the wall beneath the window. She untucked the silk shirt she bought in Tokyo, and messed up her hair. It took a minute to figure out exactly what she wanted to do, then she picked up the chair. She was shaking with nervousness.
If this worked, she would probably never have to do anything like 280
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it again.
She threw the chair against the table and jumped, slamming her feet on the floor to make as loud a thump as she could. The chair crashed against the table and clattered on the floor. She got down on the floor, laying on her back with her legs spread.
For an added touch, she pulled the shirt up a little to expose her belly.
She heard a key in the lock, and the door opened. The guard, a kind of stupid looking man, stood with his hand on the knob, looking down at her. Valeria tried to look as vulnerable and piti-able as she could. His eyes went from the table to the window to the chair and back to her, and she saw the light of understanding come into his eyes. She was glad. She was afraid he might be as dense as a rock.
“What happened?” he said, coming into the room.
“I fell,” Valeria said.
He left the door open. She wasn’t sure if that would be all right. If somebody else walked by or even stopped to help ...
He bent down beside her. She put on a scared, hurt expression.
“Are you hurt?” he said.
He sounded tender and concerned, but she could see he was looking at her chest and bare belly. Perfect. She could own this man.
“My ankle.”
A little sob came into her voice and she was proud of her acting.
His hands moved down to her ankle. She could see the desire etched on his face. He put his hands around her left ankle. His fingers rubbed her warm skin. She breathed hard, pushing her chest out. He swallowed hard. She imagined he must have a dry mouth.
“The other one,” she breathed when his hands were halfway up to her calf.
His hands moved to her right ankle. She screamed. His hands jerked back. He was breathing hard now, staring at her Change of Heart
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with apprehension and excitement.
“I think it’s broken,” he said.
“Dear God,” Valeria moaned. She glanced at his belt. He had a pistol in a holster on his hip. She held her arms out. “Could you carry me to the bed?”
His eyes widened. Like an obedient servant, he scooped her up in his arms. Valeria put one arm around his neck and reached down for the pistol with the other hand. He carried her the few steps to the bed. As he set her down, he looked into her eyes and she smiled. He smiled back.
She touched his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Why?”
She swung the pistol as hard as she could to the side of his head. It connected with a whack, like a hammer pounding a nail into a board. The guard’s knees buckled and he dropped, holding himself up on the edge of the bed. Valeria was am
azed by his strength. She hit him again. He dropped to his knees, but was still trying to get up. She stood up on the bed and brought the butt of the pistol down on the top of his head with both hands.
He collapsed on his face.
She still had it.
She pressed her fingers to his neck. He still had a pulse. He would wake up with a concussion, but she wanted to make sure he didn’t alert anyone before she had a chance to get away. She took the belt from his pants and tied his hands behind his back to the leg of the bed.
She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her jeans and went out, shutting off the light and locking the door. The hallway was quiet, and dark at one end. It was late and everyone must have gone home. Now she had to figure out how to get out of this place without someone spotting her. She took the heavy pistol from the waist of her jeans. The thought of actually killing someone gave her chills. Could she do it if she had to? Yes. She knew in her heart she would not hesitate to use it if anyone tried to stop her.
The dark end of the hall would have provided safe cover, but she was sure any exit she found that way would most likely 282
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be locked. She started off in the direction of the lit end, walking quickly but quietly, listening for anyone else’s footsteps. She peeked around each corner, expecting to see a guard or a janitor, but saw no one.
She came to a large, deserted office room with many desks.
A light was on in a side office and the door was open a crack.
Beyond it down the hallway was a glass door that led outside. To get to it, she had to get past the occupied office undetected.
She crouched and moved across the large, open space, using the desks for cover. As she got closer to the side office, she heard voices from inside, and kept the pistol up, ready to shoot anyone who came out.
Just a few more seconds. She inched along with her back against the wall opposite the open office door. It was only open a couple of inches. Valeria was unable to see the men inside, but when she heard one of them laugh, she stopped.
It was Mironov. Her blood chilled. He was one she would not hesitate to kill. This was an opportunity to do just that. If she opened that door she might be able to kill him before he could react. Then she would be rid of him forever.