“Why do you think the Iranians killed him? Do you have any proof?” I wondered whether Ariel knew something I didn't.
“If they didn't, then who did?” she retorted.
“There could be any number of bad guys. The Colombians, for example. Aren't they the people who kidnapped you?” It seemed clear, in the end, that Ariel knew nothing about her father's murder.
“I thought of that,” said Ariel, “but they killed my father in the street. If they wanted any documents from him, they'd have kidnapped him like they did me. Besides, the Colombians weren't necessarily working for the cartel; they could have been working for the Iranians.”
“Well,” I said, “criminals act under different logic than yours or mine. Everything is possible.” She had a point though, I conceded.
“Anyway, I was convinced that that was what my father had wanted me to do by leaving me the file and the letter with the materials lists. So I decided to go to Moscow to try to meet with his contacts; they could tell me about the sale of the nuclear materials to the Iranians. Nuclear materials are familiar territory for me.”
“So what did you do?”
“There was one name, Igor Zurbayev, with a Moscow address and a telephone number in the file that my father left me. I called him and arranged to meet him in Moscow.”
“For what purpose? Were you going to buy the nuclear materials and give them to the Iranians?” I said in disbelief. “The whole thing doesn't make sense to me.” I was beginning to tire a bit. It was all crazy and stupid. There must be a different agenda here — Ariel could not be that irresponsible.
Ariel looked at me and saw my expression. “I know I was foolish,” she said. “I stood to gain nothing, but I was so angry I wanted to take just another step, complete the information in the file and then expose the Iranian nuclear efforts as well as the Soviets who were helping them. I would give it to the media or the Mossad. I haven't made up my mind yet. Now that my father is gone and there is no need to strike a deal with the Americans, I could still give the file to the Mossad. Israel would know what to do with it.”
I wanted to put a lid on that. I'd heard enough and didn't want to sound too critical, so I moved on.
“You made travel arrangements through Oplatka Travel. Why did you choose them?”
“You know everything,” said Ariel smiling. “I found their receipt in the file my father had left me.”
“So did you meet Igor Zurbayev in Moscow?”
“I called him several times, but as much as I could understand from the woman who answered his phone in Russian, he was away. I gave her my name, but I'm not sure she understood much of what I said. So I met my scientists for one day and then just toured Moscow waiting to be contacted. Finally, I was able to speak to someone at that number who spoke a little English and I repeated my message to Igor. Today someone made contact with me while I was out on a tour, but I haven't met Igor yet.”
“How did they know where to find you?”
“They called at the hotel yesterday and asked me to take the tour today. So I did.”
Now I was getting nervous. Ariel was dipping her unprotected hand into a snake pit. It was only a question of time before she would be bitten. What she was doing was amateurish and dangerous. Any number of groups could be behind Igor: rogue Soviet scientists or members of the military. It could also be entrapment by the KGB trying to apprehend the culprits. Whichever group Igor belonged to, Ariel did not belong with him, particularly when her story was so illogical that it made me suspicious.
“By the way, did you mention to Guttmacher the file your father gave you or the second letter?”
“No. Just the first letter, why do you ask?”
“So Guttmacher didn't know you were going to Moscow to continue with your father's project?”
“I did tell him, and said I'd be at the Cosmos Hotel and that I'd be in contact with him when I returned.”
I had heard enough to realize that danger was no longer just a possibility, it was imminent.
“You're in over your head now,” I said decisively. “You must leave Moscow immediately. I'll come with you. Now! On the first flight out.”
“You're frightening me. What do you know that I don't?”
“Lots. I'm going to my room to pack my stuff, please stay here.”
I ran to my room and opened the door. Everything looked intact.
There was a knock on the door. I knew who it was. “And about time,” I thought, as I went to answer the knock. Two guys were standing outside.
“Are you Dan Gordon?” asked one of them in the most stereotypical Brooklyn accent I've ever heard.
“Who are you?” I asked, just to keep up the charade.
“Charles asked us to see if you need help. I'm Brandon and this is my partner Sean.”
“I need to leave Moscow immediately with my companion. Just let me pack up and we'll leave. She's in room 1405; let me call her first.”
I picked up the phone and called Ariel's new room.
“Ariel, I'm sending a friend of mine to bring you over to my room. I'm packing, and we should leave immediately.”
“OK,” said Ariel. “I didn't know you had friends in Moscow. Are they from the Office?” She was surprised.
“I have friends everywhere. You just need to know where to look.”
I turned to Hart's men. “One of you should go to her new room and bring her over here. There was an attempt to kidnap her today. We don't know who is responsible, and finding out who's behind it is, in fact, second priority until we leave Moscow safely. Things are getting too warm around here — even for Moscow in the fall. Please avoid all her questions; she doesn't really know who I am. Just bring her here safely.”
Sean said, “I'll go,” and left the room.
I had to call an airline for the first flight out but decided it'd be too risky to leave traces. I emptied the closets and changed my bloodstained shirt for a clean one. I put all my clothes into my duffel bag and zipped it up. Sean returned with Ariel. I looked at her face. She was pale and confused. It was all moving a bit too fast for her.
“You didn't tell me that your friend was an American,” she said in Hebrew.
“Let's go.” I said; I didn't think I had to explain any further.
“Guys,” I said at the elevator, “why don't you take our things with you and bring your car to the front. I don't want to be seen leaving the hotel with baggage. We'll leave without checking out.”
“What about the bill?” asked Ariel.
“Don't worry about that. I'll leave money with my friends here,” I said. “After we take off, they'll settle up.”
It all went smoothly. Sean and Brandon walked out, Ariel and I followed. When we saw a Pontiac Grand Am pull up, we got into the backseat and we were on the way to Sheremetyevo, with Brandon behind the wheel.
“How far are we from the airport?” asked Ariel.
“It's twenty miles to the airport,” said Sean. “With the current traffic conditions I expect that we'll be there in forty minutes or so.”
As we entered Prospekt Mira Street just outside the hotel, going northeast, I looked back. I did not like the sight. “Brandon,” I said, “we have company. Backup from the Office?” I used the code name that would let Ariel continue to think I was with the Mossad.
“No,” he answered.
“Do you recognize them?” asked Sean in a cool voice.
“No, their headlights are blinding me, but they have been behind us for about five minutes.”
“Let me see,” said Brandon and changed lanes. The car behind us did the same.
“It could be the Soviet police,” said Sean, “and in that case we have nothing to worry about.” Nonetheless the tension was palpable.
Brandon looked at the rearview mirror again. “They don't look like police to me. Soviet police can't afford to buy a black Mercedes.”
“Radio the Office and alert them to the situation,” said Brandon, and Sean pulled out a two-way
radio and reported it. Brandon changed lanes again and the followers’ car was again on our tail.
“There are three of them,” said Brandon, after looking back through the side mirror. “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts, we are about to take off.” The Pontiac's engine roared as Brandon accelerated; we were pulled back by the velocity. Ariel squeezed my arm. I took my hand and held hers. “We'll be in the airport soon,” I said.
A red Mercedes appeared from nowhere and came dangerously close to us on our left. A man in the front seat signaled to us to pull over; his gestures and expression were not friendly. Brandon ignored him. The red Mercedes broadsided our car from the left, ramming us over to the right lane. We barely escaped colliding with a light truck.
“Son of a bitch,” said Brandon. “I'll show you what high-risk driving is” and pulled hard to the left just as the red Mercedes was trying to pass us, pushing it to the divider. The screeching metal of the collision between the metal barrier and the red Mercedes sent sparks into the air. The black Mercedes, which had been on our tail throughout, accelerated and tried to rear-end us.
“Sean, get your gun,” said Brandon, “and radio the office that we are under attack.” Sean pulled out a short barrel .38, opened the side window, turned around, and fired one shot at the black Mercedes behind us, hitting its radiator, which immediately spewed white steam. He fired another shot, blasting their windshield into a million pieces. The noise created by the wind blowing through the open window prevented me from hearing the barrage of gunfire aimed at us. It hit the rear window, shattering it, covering me and Ariel with glass fragments. I bent down and pulled Ariel to the floor, seeking cover.
“Give me a gun,” I shouted. Sean handed me a .38.I raised myself and through the splintered rear window shot the driver of the black Mercedes directly behind us. I could see his face take the hit and his head drop on the wheel. The black Mercedes lost control and rolled over the divider.
“Hold on,” said Sean in his cool voice, “we're getting into Moscow Ring Road in about one minute. Let's get the other son of a bitch before we make the turn — it'll be more difficult to shake them once we are on the highways with its heavy traffic.” Passing cars were doing their best to avoid this gunplay, scrambling to get out of the way.
The red Mercedes was still on our left, again trying to broadside us but failing each time due to Brandon's skilled maneuvering.
“Let me get him,” I said, “he's on my side.” I opened the left side window and shot at the driver but I missed and hit only the right door. Brandon swiveled our car to avoid being smashed by the Mercedes.
“Slow down,” I shouted, “slow down!”
“Why? Are you hurt?” asked Sean.
“No, just slow down and let him pass us a bit, I can get a better shot.” Brandon slowed and I finally got a good look at the passengers of the Mercedes. They were all light-brown-skinned men in their thirties. One of them in the backseat was aiming a shotgun at me. “Goodbye,” I said, and pulled the trigger, hitting him in the neck. I saw a gush of blood flooding his chest. I pulled the trigger again at the passenger next to the driver, but missed.
“Hold on, I'm making a sharp turn to the left,” shouted Brandon as we entered the expressway. I looked back; the red Mercedes was still after us. I aimed hard, holding the .38 with both hands, and squeezed; that was my last chance, and it was also the Mercedes driver's last minute on earth as the bullet hit his forehead. The Mercedes collided into a passing eighteen-wheeler and burst into flames.
“Let's get the hell out of here,” said Brandon, as we merged into the hectic traffic.
“Are you OK?” I asked Ariel, pulling her up from the car's floor. She was confused and shaken. “Yes,” she mumbled and cuddled into my arms. “Just hold me.”
I put my arm around her. “Do you know who these guys are?” asked Sean.
“I can only guess, she was being watched by several different groups. I can't tell you who our pursuers were, but I do know we need to leave immediately before another smart-ass pops up from nowhere.”
Sean radioed the office and tersely reported the events, keeping his cool.
“I'm sorry to leave you with the mess,” I said.
“Don't worry,” said Sean. “We'll clean it up.”
I handed the gun back to Sean. “Thanks!”
“Nice shots,” said Brandon in appreciation, “Where did you learn to shoot so well?”
“I'm a hunter,” I said, “I hunt a lot.” I didn't mention that my usual prey was money launderers, not animals, and that I hunted them with my brain, not with my gun. Ariel was still cradled in my arms. I wanted it to last, but we saw the glittering lights of the airport approaching.
“Which airline?” asked Sean.
“I don't know yet; let's go to the main departure area. I want to take the first flight out, preferably to Germany, but any other major European city will do.”
“I'll come with you into the terminal,” said Brandon, as Sean brought the car to the curb.
“Go ahead, I'll join you in a minute,” said Sean. “I'll get rid of this car first. Be careful, others could be waiting for you here.”
We entered the departure hall and I looked at the big board. It was 8:15 P.M., and the next flight out was British Airways 875 to London leaving at 9:35 P.M. No further precaution was necessary; the place was full of police in uniform and probably just as many in plainclothes. If word of a highway chase came to their attention we'd have a lot of explaining to do; we'd miss the flight, and I'd miss the break-in to Guttmacher's bank. I could not allow that. We needed to hurry; in this case, even the rigid Soviet bureaucracy might move quickly enough to stop us.
I ran to the British Airways counter, bought two one-way tickets to Munich via London's Heathrow, and checked in our luggage. I'd fight the bean counters in Washington later over the extra ticket. I held Ariel by her hand and rushed to passport control. Brandon joined Sean as they stood at a distance waiting for us to clear through the police passport inspection.
“Did you get rid of the car?” I asked Brandon.
“Yes, I dumped it. It won't lead to us; the registration is under the name of a nonexistent person. But I don't think it'll get to that. I left it in an area that car scavengers love. In one hour it'll be taken apart as if it never existed. As far as we're concerned, this entire incident never happened.”
I stepped forward with Ariel to the passport-control counter, manned by a grim-faced Soviet officer wearing green military uniform. “Are you family?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “She is my friend and she is not feeling well, and she does not speak Russian or English, so I'm here to help.”
“Very nice of you,” he said without the smile I expected. “Step back.”
Ariel remained standing before his counter and signaled me that it'd be OK.
A few minutes later, which felt like eternity, I heard the sound of stamping and Ariel walked away to the gate. I approached the counter. The officer raised his head and looked at my face, which was losing its blood supply fast. He said nothing. He flipped through my passport and looked at some papers on his counter that I could not see.
“Please step aside,” he finally said and buzzed a button. That I saw. Two men in plainclothes approached me. “Please come with us,” they said firmly.
“Why? Have I done something wrong?” I asked, hoping they couldn't hear the tremble in my voice. They did not answer. I was led to a side room. “Sit down,” said one of the men in an unexpectedly polite tone and pointed at a metal chair next to an empty desk. I sat on the chair. I saw my duffel bag in the corner of the room. I'm in deep shit, I thought.
“Can you explain that?” asked the man as he showed me my bloodstained shirt. “Airport security discovered it in your luggage.”
I needed to come up with a quick explanation or I was doomed. “Oh, that,” I said, showing them how relieved I was, and I was indeed. “There was a car accident on my way here; you must have h
eard about it, I was in a car just behind it. A car collided with a huge truck on the Moscow Ring Road and I rushed to help the injured. It was a terrible scene, I'm glad I could help until the ambulance came, and then I had to leave because I didn't want to miss my flight. I hope the passengers were all right; when I left they were in an awful shape.” My interrogator went to the phone in the corner and dialed a number. Moments later he returned and said something in a Russian dialect I did not understand to the other guy.
“OK,” he said, “your story about the accident checks out. It was nice of you to help a stranger. Are you a doctor?”
“No, but I was a Boy Scout and took some courses in first aid.” I'll never know how I came up with that one.
They handed me back my passport and escorted me to the gate. Ariel was at the gate when they announced last call for our flight. When she saw me her face lit up. It was all worth it, I thought.
Five minutes later we were seated in the cabin of the Boeing 747, just like a couple of tourists. “Was there a problem?” she asked.
“No, just routine bureaucracy,” I said. Ariel squeezed my arm. “I'm always nervous during takeoff,” she said apologetically, and smiled.
The plane left the gate and taxied to the runway, moving faster and faster until it abruptly stopped. I saw two stewardesses running to the front of the aircraft. My heart was beating fast again. Had they found out who I was and tied me to the shooting? I looked out through the window. There was no activity around the plane and no explanation from the cockpit as to why we'd stopped. Ariel didn't seem to notice my concern. A few passengers got up from their seats to look through the windows. “Please sit down,” said the stewards politely but firmly. I thought I should tell Ariel to call David Stone in Washington and inform him of my forthcoming arrest. I wrote down David's name and number.
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