One minute later he was outside the house, back at the far side retrieving his weapon. He could still hear shrieks coming up through the coal chute. He almost felt pity until he thought about Elena. And Leo. And that kid, Valentin, who tried to protect them.
Two minutes after that, he was two streets away. On one of Zhukovka's main arteries. Sitting in a hedge, sipping one of the beers, waiting for Lechmann to make his next pass. Getting there was a little bit dicey because the sun was almost up and here's this bum walking through Zhukovkawith his pants on inside out, a bundle of swag under one arm, and a laser-scoped Heckler & Koch in the other. But no one saw.
He used the time to decide how he would tell Lechmann about his next idea.
Lechmann, he knew, will shit when he hears it.
But not for long. Only until he finds out he's rich.
68
Kaplan almost felt sorry for Clew.
They're no sooner airborne than Clew began briefing him on the way to handle Bannerman. He trusts you, Irwin. He'll listen to you. Make him understand what's at stake here. Make sure he sees the big picture.
Wonderful.
The big picture, of course, has to do with the missing party funds. What's at stake here is nothing less than the economic viability of the former Soviet Union. It goes under and we have massive bread riots. Revolution. Anarchy. The hard-liners come back and it's the end of the democratic experiment. Except now we see ultranationalism. Ethnic hatred. Former republics nuking each other. It spreads. Before you know it we have instant global warming.
“So, Paul... now you understand, right? Except for this, Roger would have told you about Aldo Corsini.”
“Sure, Irwin. The big picture. Now it's all clear.”
This was fucking ridiculous.
“Roger . . . Bannerman's friends have been hit. He's going to hit back. It's as simple as that.”
“Not if you do your job, Irwin.”
“Roger ... get some sleep.”
The trouble with people in State, guys like Roger, most diplomats, is that after a while they don't know their own bullshit from substance anymore.
The substance is that they really do want to find that money. There's a presidential directive to that effect. Work with the Russians. Track it. Seize it if it's in our jurisdiction. But this is the same Washington, lest we forget, that couldn't even track the savings-and-loan money.
Still, let's say they do find some of it. They'll give it back, but they'll also find a way to make political hay out of it. Maybe, as even Fuller admits, the President will then cut American aid by a like amount and look like a hero for doing it. Or he leaves the aid in place if Russia agrees to sell off its resources to corporate America at bargain-basement rates. Who knows? In politics it's nothing for nothing. Just don't tell me, and certainly not Bannerman, that we're working for world peace here.
Anyway, most of that money is long gone and the Russians have Gorbachev to thank for it. Only a month before that coup attempt he signed a decree authorizing private investment of Communist-party funds. The top guys all knew that the old system was ending. The party was discredited, members quitting by the millions. But Gorbachev, sincerely or otherwise, still believed that the party could reform itself and was, in any case, the only bureaucracy they had. But the party, he said, might have to cool it for a while. Hide the money just in case.
Gotcha, boss.
We'll hide it so deep even you won't find it. If there's one thing we learned from the capitalists, it's how not to leave a paper trail. Meanwhile, one financial magazine estimates that there are now 15,000 millionaires in the former Soviet Union, less than 600 of whom made their fortunes legally.
Clew does try to sleep but not for long.
Five times in the first two hours, he goes to the cockpit to take a call on the scrambler. The calls are all from Fuller, usually with the Moscow embassy on the other line. For the most part, they were updates. Another bombing, another shooting. By the last call, Clew is a dishrag. To hear Fuller tell it, half of Moscow was in flames.
The first call, a half hour into their flight, was a confirmation that the three dead shooters were Moscow thugs—a gang called the Chicago Brigade—rumored to have ties to the KGB, specifically to this General Borovik again. Lesko killed one of them. Bare hands. The others were shot to death by persons unknown.
Persons unknown were having a busy night. By the second call, they had attacked, in force, a meat-packing plant that this Chicago Brigade is known to use as a base. Several dead. All known gang members. Several other hangouts, apartments, garages have been attacked in rapid succession. This might be a reprisal for the restaurant ambush, but it's more likely the work of a rival gang seizing the chance to finish them off. Clew wants to believe the latter, because if it's not a rival gang it has to be Bannerman's people.
This, he decides, is impossible. Bannerman was stuck on a plane, denied any contact with the ground. Even with access to a phone there was no way he could get agents in Moscow that quickly. Unless they were there already. As bodyguards. Those first two persons unknown just might have been bodyguards, but if so, why did they hit and run?
The next call, someone has shot up KGB headquarters. No real damage except to KGB pride. It had the look of a message. An act of defiance. This one leaves him speechless. No way, he says, would a criminal gang pull a stunt like that. It wouldn't be worth the heat. Anyway, witnesses say the shots came from a police car. Kaplan offered no opinion.
Then comes the worst call. Fuller also reads him a fax. It's from Anton Zivic to somebody—person unknown again—who is already in Moscow. This fax says Bannerman's on his way. It also says that Bannerman has a whole fucking army in Moscow and it gives them a two-name hit list. One is the name Grassi gave. The other is this Borovik who Fuller mentioned.
Clew almost chokes on this one. He can't figure out how Zivic could have set it up. Five teams plus team leaders sounds like at least a dozen operatives. From where? Recruited locally? He especially can't figure how Zivic knows all he knows.
”Because I told him,” said Kaplan
“You what?
”I gave him those names. Sue me.”
“Do you realize what you've done?”
”I told Willem Brugg, too.”
Clew is apoplectic but he gets a grip on himself. Now he knows why Brugg sprang Bannerman. He wants to know what Zivic said and whether he seemed to know any of this already. But nothing for nothing. First Clew has to say who this Borovik is, and no bullshit.
No bullshit is against Clew's nature, but he does open up. He can't help it, because he doesn't know how much Zivic filled in already. He says Borovik is a major player in this smuggling thing. He says there's also a personal thing between Borovik and Bannerman. It goes back eight or nine years to when Clew was still running Bannerman. He tells the story.
Now ... if Bannerman is scary before you get this mental picture of him hacking some guy's head off, this makes you want to pull a gun on the pilot and tell him to turn this sucker around. Clew also tells about John Waldo torching KGB headquarters in Leningrad. Partway through, his mouth goes slack. This is because it dawns on him that shooting up Moscow Center sounds a lot like torching Leningrad Center.
This leads to the realization that Waldo must be in Moscow. Zivic had to send the fax to someone, right? Wait a second . ..
“Roger . . . How did Fuller get that fax?”
”I don't know. Intercepted it, I guess.”
‘Then they have a number. They know where it was sent.”
He shook his head. “He said they couldn't track it.”
Kaplan did not pursue the subject. He had an idea, however, that if Fuller got his hands on a fax from Zivic, Zivic wanted him to have it. Besides, who ever heard of communicating with a field agent by fax?
Okay, why would Zivic do that? Part bluff, maybe. It's a warning that says don't fuck with Bannerman when he lands, because we have a dozen people there who are going to make it very costly if
you do.
But why does he name the two targets? Doesn't that warn them off? Kaplan could think of two possible answers. One, it's another bluff, to make Fuller think he knows more than he does. Two, they were already dead by the time he got that fax.
Then comes the most recent call to Roger. The one he's taking now. He's shaking his head again. Big sigh. He hands the headset to the flight engineer and comes shuffling back like it's the last mile.
Borovik, he says, has been kidnapped from his home. Two guards got shot. Not critically. They could talk. They claim they tried to stop it. Two men driving a Chaika plus a backup shooter covering them. Conflicting reports from other witnesses. They say the guards are full of shit about trying to stop it and they're even lying about the kidnappers' car, which happened to be a Zil.
It gets worse, says Clew. Remember Zivic's fax? Guess what. Now CNN has a copy. No, not from Zivic. They say some Russian walked in off the street a half hour ago and sold it to them. Yes, he's reliable, and yes, they know it's genuine. He was on hand when the fax came in and he was also an eyewitness to the restaurant shooting. The witness says it was another guy, one Arkadi Kulik, who set up the hit and he claims to know why. He has further information about Kulik and: Borovik, but he wants big bucks for it. CNN-Moscow is awaiting approval from Atlanta. Meanwhile, they got a description out of him of the two who picked up the fax after he copied it. Two women, late thirties, tall and slender, both brunettes, British accents.
Clew gets hung up on this last part. Doesn't sound like anyone he knows, or that Bannerman has ever used. Besides, Bannerman likes to mix nationalities. Must be disinformation. The informant is protecting his sources. Maybe, come to think of it, the whole thing is disinformation. Including Zivic's fax.
“Roger
“Give me a second. I need to think.”
“No. Don't think. If you do, you might make a decision. Guaranteed, it will be the wrong decision.”
Clew held his temper. “Irwin ... If you don't have anything constructive to offer ...”
“You want constructive? Constructive would be instead of trying to stop Bannerman from screwing up your grand strategy, you should have gone to him in the first place.”
“And said what? Go find the party treasury for us?”
“No, not for starters. For starters, you'd say, 'I know I've been an asshole but would you do me a favor for old times' sake?’ You'd say, ‘We've got about a thousand intelligence agents, lawyers, and accountants trying to trace all this money. So far, we're having about the same luck we had trying to find the Marcos money and the Duvalier money but now, suddenly, we think we have two solid leads to maybe a chunk of it.’ ”
“Corsini and Grassi? They're small-fry, Irwin.”
“But if you did that, Carla Benedict might not be dead and Bannerman wouldn't be blaming us, me included, for not leveling about Corsini.”
Clew looked away. “No one could have foreseen . . .”
“See that? That's my point. You didn't have to foresee. All you had to do was level. Whatever Bannerman thinks of you, his first concern would have been Carla. He'd want to know everything about Corsini, which would have taken him about two hours.”
“You're overestimating him. He called me about Corsini, remember?”
“And by then it was too late. You should have called him.
If you were straight with him, he would have called Grassi just like I did. Grassi leveled up to a point, but can you see him trying to bullshit Bannerman?”
“Grassi would have tried to .. ”
He didn't finish. Even Clew, Kaplan realized, did not believe what he was starting to say. True, Grassi might have tried to tap-dance. But Bannerman would have laid those dead gray eyes on him and said, “If this touches me…or mine…”
Grassi would have given up his mother.
Roger had drifted off. He awoke to see Kaplan removing the headset, emerging from the cockpit, a strange expression on his face.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Over the Baltic, coming up on Riga. Touchdown's in about forty minutes. Fuller says the Brugg plane's about an hour behind us.”
“That was Fuller? Why didn't you wake me?”
”I called him.”
Clew rubbed his eyes. “Ah... are you going to tell me why?”
Kaplan nodded. “This is out of control, Roger. It's no good holding Bannerman. If we give him some room, maybe he can contain it.”
Clew made a face. “Yeah, well ... the Russians might have something to say about that, Irwin.”
“Maybe it's in their interest. If they're straight, maybe they even come out ahead.”
“Irwin . . . what did you say to Fuller?”
“That I'm with Bannerman. This once, this one time, I'm with Bannerman.”
69
It was full daylight before Lesko left the hospital.
The army doctor, Meltzer, had given him five minutes to dress. That was before he had his clothing brought in and Meltzer saw its condition. Pockets were torn, one sleeve was ripped loose at the shoulder, all of it was stained with blood. Elena's, Valentin's, a little of his own. His Bally shoes had vanished during the night.
He sat with Elena until a change of clothing could be brought to him. It took three hours. Some problem finding his luggage. He didn't care. Nor did anyone come to arrest him. Nor was he surprised. Meltzer, the embassy, they weren't interested in protecting him. They wanted him out of circulation.
He spoke to Elena constantly. His voice, if she could hear it, would be all that was familiar to her here. All that could comfort and encourage her.
He told her about Meltzer, that they'd probably sent a doctor rather than an embassy official because he was less likely to throw a doctor out the window, especially one that had kept her alive until her cousin and this new surgeon could get there. Supposed to be the top guy. Fix you up in no time.
He told her all that he knew of what else was happening. Which wasn't much. That subject exhausted, he told her that he'd been learning German. That it was to be a surprise. For a while, he spoke to her in German, even counting to a hundred, until he exhausted his knowledge of that language as well.
He told her that he had other surprises for her. That he was studying to become a hairdresser. And that he was studying interpretive dance. And that while she was sleeping he had a tattoo artist come in and tattoo his face across her chest because he knew she'd really like that but was probably too shy to say so.
Nothing.
No reaction. Just that one finger.
“David?”
“She can hear you.”
“How do you know?”
”1 just do. She can hear you.”
They brought the clothing, most of it, and most of his toiletries. He took a quick shower, shaved under it, and dressed in a dark suit and tie that Elena had picked out for him in Zurich. She said he looked like a banker in it. Or a handsome diplomat. What he looked like, he knew, was a bouncer in a better class of gin mill, but . . . eye of the beholder. He returned to her bed, asked her how he looked. She told him he should comb his hair. She said a hairdresser should be his own best advertisement. She said this in his mind. It wasn't her, really. But it was what she would have said. If she could.
They drove him to the embassy in the Lincoln. Two guards in front, himself and Doctor Meltzer in the rear. On his lap, he held a paper bag containing Elena's personal effects. Her purse, her rings, her other jewelry. The amber necklace was there. He pulled it out and found the piece with that little insect in it. He remembered how it had pleased her. Tears started to well up again. He had to put it away.
To the right of the Lincoln was the Moscow River. Lesko was gazing across it, staring into the distance, mostly so that Meltzer couldn't see his face.
“Your friends have had a busy night,” the doctor said dryly.
Lesko stirred. “What?”
“Over there.” He pointed. “That smoke.”
Lesko hadn't eve
n noticed. But now he saw. Thick black smoke way off in the distance. A fire out of control. Two fires. Maybe three.
“I'm supposed to know who set those?”
“You'd tell me, of course, if you did.”
Lesko shrugged. “What else happened?”
The doctor told him. Drive-by shootings, other fires, someone trying to shoot a few KGB generals through their office windows. In his mind, for some reason, he pictured John Waldo. His mind added the flower truck. It was careening through Moscow, back doors wide open, Waldo in the back throwing Molotov cocktails at every building whose design offended him.
But he didn't believe it. No one man, or two, did all that. Besides, if Waldo was going to torch anything, it would probably be that building up ahead.
Lesko gestured with his chin. “What's that place?”
“The big building? That's the Hotel Ukraine. The embassy is just this side of the river from it.”
Lesko nodded without comment. But he remembered what Waldo had said about it. The Ukraine. It was one of five brown kitschy buildings just like it, same style, scattered around Moscow. Stalin wedding cakes, they call them. Huge and ugly. The hammer and sickle on every spire, every flat surface, every cornice. And you wouldn't believe, Waldo told him, what they tore down to put up that pile of shit.
Yeah, thought Lesko. That's where Waldo would have started.
The traffic was getting busy. More people on foot, carrying briefcases, empty shopping bags. Monday morning. Back-to-work day.
Bannerman's Promise Page 42