Along the riverbank, this side, some of them were setting up sidewalk shops. Cardboard boxes, mostly, with a piece of plywood on top. Stuff they were selling looked like junk. Used clothing. Books, pictures, odd pieces of furniture. Even empty bottles. Anything to pick up a few extra rubles.
The pathetic sight saddened Lesko, but he kept his mind on it because it helped keep him from thinking about Elena. That she still might die. And if she did, where she goes, he goes. About two minutes behind. Unless he has some names first.
The Lincoln turned left onto Kalinin and again onto Tchaikovsky Street. Lesko could see the embassy flag. Main gate with Marine guards. But first an outer gate with Russian guards. More people setting up sidewalk displays.
“Pitiful, isn't it?” said the army doctor. “It's like America during the Depression. But worse. Much worse.”
Lesko stiffened. “Flowers,” he said.
The driver glanced back at him.
“Right there,” Lesko pointed. “Selling flowers. I want to buy some for my wife.”
“Urn ... I can arrange that from inside, if you like. You can have them sent over.”
“No, those. They're her favorites. I want to buy them myself.”
The driver looked back again, this time at the doctor. Meltzer shrugged and nodded. The driver pulled to the curb. Lesko rolled down his window and called out to the two men who were selling them.
The taller of the two seemed startled. He moved, tentatively, in the direction of the car, but the second man stopped him. He raised a finger toward Lesko, indicating that he should wait. He then reached into the large cardboard box and selected a bouquet that was wrapped in green paper. This he placed across the taller man's arms. He piled two more on top of it and took still another, which he carried himself.
The taller man approached Lesko. The shorter one approached the driver, who was waving him off. He came forward nonetheless. With his thumb, he pinched a carnation from its stem for the driver and another for the second guard. “For lapel,” he said in English. “Makes you look ... what is word? Spiffy. Ladies go crazy for you.”
The driver, amused, took one and passed the other.
“Look what else,” said the flower seller. “Not only carnations.”
The driver turned. He looked into the bouquet the smaller man was holding. He went rigid. The other guard froze as well.
Lesko didn't have to look. He could see the what else in the bouquet that the man on his side was holding. It was the barrel and foresight assembly of what had to be an automatic weapon. Meltzer took a breath and held it. For a long moment, no one moved or spoke.
Lesko, shaking his head, leaned forward. He reached under the jackets of the two civilian guards and relieved them of their pistols. He patted both men down, found one pair of handcuffs and a canister of Mace. These he dropped into the open paper bag and sat back. Meltzer had still not exhaled.
“You're a pisser, you know that?” he said to John Waldo.
70
Bannerman stood in the cockpit, braced, as the Brugg Industries plane made its final approach and landing. He needed to see what was waiting for them.
He spotted Clew's plane from a quarter mile out. Air Force markings. A fighter-bomber from the look of it, modified to carry passengers. Probably one of those command planes designed to stay aloft during a nuclear emergency. Such an aircraft landing at Vnukovo II was still a considerable novelty. Several figures, standing near it, were taking photographs. Others were posing with the American plane as background. Souvenir snapshots. Bannerman had expected ... he didn't know ... a somewhat higher level of excitement.
Closer to the terminal he saw two black Lincoln sedans, one of them a stretch. Behind them, two other sedans, probably KGB Chaikas. Knots of men talking. He could not pick Roger out, but he saw one bald head that might well have been Kaplan's.
Otherwise, not much activity. No troop trucks. No armored car at the far end of their runway, there to make sure he doesn't jump out and make a run for the trees when this thing stops.
He had no such intention. Nor did he have much of a plan. If he was going to be detained, so be it. He could threaten them, of course, but if they decided to call his bluff, he would be obliged to make good on those threats somewhere down the line. Nobody wants that.
It had crossed his mind to borrow some whites and try to slip in with the medical staff. As a group they had emergency clearance. But his face, unlike Miriam's and Avram's, was too well known. Someone would spot him and then the whole group would be held up and scrutinized, possibly at Elena's peril.
All he could really do was try to seem in control of virtually anything that happens. Actually having a measure of control would, of course, be better. But he had none. That's the minus, he thought. The plus is that Roger won't believe it.
Very soon now he would know how Waldo and Lechmann chose to keep themselves busy last night. Show no surprise. Sit tight until Waldo finds a way to make contact. Waldo is likely to spot Miriam, get word to him through her. Miriam and Avram can also free him if it comes to that. All he need do is nod in their direction at the hospital. Roger would not dare keep him from seeing Elena.
And failing that, Carla will be floating around as long as neither Clew nor Kaplan spot her under that wig. She'll be loose with Yuri. Yuri might or might not introduce her to whoever these friends of his are. They might or might not help. The authorities might or might not agree to deliver everyone who had a hand in that shooting or in trying to kill Carla.
If not, the real initiative will start tonight. Whether he's free or not, it won't matter. By tonight, that dozen or so ghosts will be real. Five teams, at least. Anton will have seen to that. To the five teams, add any number of free-lancers because Willem Brugg has posted 100,000 Swiss francs each on Vadim Borovik and Viktor Podolsk. On the chance that Waldo is right—that someone named Arkadi Kulik might have been responsible—Willem is ready to post another 100,000 on him plus 25,000 each on the other five who were at his table.
Bannerman returned to his seat and strapped in. He reminded Susan to fasten her belt. She did not respond.
She had become progressively more withdrawn since her talk with Carla. And, a short while ago, she had flared up at the Swiss surgeon. He had been dismissive and more than a little patronizing when she had questioned him about Elena's condition. Willem Brugg had to separate them. The surgeon did not help matters by asking that, in future, if “the girls want to chat” they should use the lavatory. He's luckier than he knows that Carla didn't hear him.
“Susan . . .” He traced his fingers over her hand. ”I know that I haven't been very attentive.”
She took a breath. “Would you have said that to Carla?”
Uh-oh.
“I'm not so fragile, Bannerman.”
He had meant to fasten her belt for her. Now he was afraid to. But the engines changed pitch and she did it herself.
“Susan . . . John Waldo has been in Moscow for a week. That's why I told you there was no need to send anyone. I didn't lie, exactly. He was already here.”
Silence.
“I'm telling you in case you should see him swinging a mop at the hospital, for example, or in a Russian Army uniform. So you don't forget yourself and call out his name.”
Oh boy, thought Bannerman. He would not have said that to Carla either.
“Ah ... I could have put that in a better way.”
Susan said nothing. She chewed her lip.
“Come on. I'm being a twerp again. Let me have it.”
She shook her head. “I've dumped on you enough this trip. You didn't deserve it. I know you've got a lot on your mind.”
”I guess we all have.”
He meant nothing by that remark. But it seemed to make her stiffen. She turned her face from him. He thought of putting his arm around her. But Molly had once told him, if you have to think about it, it's too late. He reached for her hand instead. She pulled it away.
”I can deal with this,
Paul,” she told him.
”I know you can.”
“No, you don't. I'm a little wired. I'm not myself. But I can deal with this.”
“Um . .. Susan.”
“One question first. Okay?”
“Anything.”
“They say that when you hit back, you hit at random. That's not strictly true, is it?”
”I . . . don't shoot up airports and schoolyards if that's what you're asking.”
“But when you go after someone, he's done something. It's just that you don't worry a whole lot about degree of guilt. The way my father would, for instance.”
“Your father won't. Not this time.”
“But you, though. All you have to say is go kill this one or that one. And they'll do it.”
“Susan . . .”
“No, no. I can deal with this.”
“Susan?” He took her hand. He lowered his voice. “You're pregnant, aren't you?”
She ignored the question. ”I want to be in on this, Paul,” she said. ”I want to be part of it.”
“Your part is to control your father because you're the only one who can. Susan, are you going to have a child?”
A hesitation. A choosing of words. ”A godchild. Elena asked me.”
“I'm sure she did. But. . .”
At this, at “I'm sure she did,” there was a flash of Susan's eyes. As before, it meant nothing. Just something you say. But it drew a searching look. First at him and then at Carla, who was leaning across seats, looking down at the Moscow suburbs. Anger now. Carla must have felt it. She turned. Their eyes met. Carla, barely perceptibly, shook her head. Denial. Her eyes moved to his. They, too, flashed at him. A question. An accusation. Another threat.
And Bannerman knew.
Endometriosis. Elena's age. Risky pregnancy. Last chance. Godmother. Bannerman knew. He didn't want to, but he knew.
He feigned annoyance; tried misdirection.
“Don't look at Carla. If I'm going to be a father, it's between you and me.”
Her face softened. A hint of relief. Another message, Susan to Carla. It's okay. All clear, I think.
“Susan? Am I?”
“That's one of the things I'm deciding,” she told him.
71
Captain Levin was at home.
He had been told to go back there, stay there, speak to no one.
For three hours they had questioned him.
You were relieved, Captain, last night at eleven. What did you do after that? And after that? And then what?
I did my job. There was a gang war last night—or didn't you notice?
Never mind that now. Did you talk to the Americans who came from the embassy? We know that you did. What did you tell them? Did you talk to reporters? What did CNN pay you?
The American thug. This Lesko. Why did you not arrest him? He had a pistol and he used it. Even without it, he murdered two men that we know of and yet you let him go off to the hospital, unguarded, and you took your time making a report. Except to the Americans.
Alexei. That's not a Jewish name. Why isn't your name Yehudi or Abie? Better yet Moses because it's his law that you follow. God knows, you don't follow Russian law.
Nor, of course, did they.
He found out later that although they had no right, they had impounded the militia car that he used. They were seen vacuuming it out. They impounded his logbook, his notebook, and the files from his desk. They did tests on his hands to see if he had fired a gun. What did they think? That it was he who fired from that flower van?
It was four in the morning when he found out what they were really looking for. Some maniac had shot up #2 Lubyanka. From a blue Volga like the militia uses. What policeman would be so contemptuous? they asked. You don't have to look very far. Ask the Jew, Levin, who seems to have been everywhere tonight. He's the insolent bastard who called from GUM and told us to come pick up our garbage.
His telephone rang. He ignored it. They would certainly be listening and he was too tired to watch his words. His wife was off to work, his children off to school. All he wanted to do was sleep until they got home. Then, after supper, he and his wife would finally have that conversation that he'd been avoiding. Is this what we want for our children? Will they ever feel like citizens in their own country? Is there any hope here for any of us?
The ringing stopped, then started again. It seemed louder than before. It might be his wife. He knew that she was worried about him. He picked up and said his name.
“Alexei. Are you dressed?”
His sergeant. “I'm just going to bed.”
“Not yet, you're not. Be outside in five minutes. I have a surprise.”
“Boris . ..” It was not the sergeant's name, but he would get the idea. “I've been suspended.”
”I know. And fuck them. You hear me, you guys? Fuck you.”
Levin winced. “Boris, go home. Go sleep it off.”
“Fuck them because you're a hero, Alexei. You were right all the time. The canisters. They were right where you said we would find them and don't give me any modesty. Downstairs in five minutes.”
The sergeant slammed the phone down before he could speak.
Levin stood for a moment, blinking stupidly. Canisters? I was right? About what? What canisters?
He hung up on his end and walked to the basin where he splashed cold water on his face. He tried to think.
Since midnight, he knew, his sergeant had been busy. Running from one shooting to another, one bombing to another. Revenge attacks by what's left of the Lubertsy Brigade on what's left of the Chicago Brigade. Other brigades, other mafias, moving in to pick at the carcass. A feeding frenzy. Stealing the Kerensky trucks. Looting the Kerensky warehouses and . . .
Warehouses.
The sergeant must have found something in one of the warehouses. Wants him to get the credit for it. But what is packed in canisters? Sausage meat would have him so excited? Tea?
Levin reached for his coat.
In five minutes, now four, he would find out how he became such a hero.
72
The Brugg Industries plane had barely touched down when two trucks came racing across the tarmac.
They were military trucks, but they were behaving strangely. As the aircraft taxied toward the terminal they followed behind, weaving, almost playfully, the way dogs run to welcome their master.
One pulled ahead and Bannerman saw the reason. Soldiers were driving, but in the rear, under the canvas, he saw only white coats. Doctors, technicians, hospital orderlies. Several were waving, grinning. They seemed greatly excited.
When the cargo bay opened a few minutes later, some scrambled aboard and others formed lines to start passing the boxes. Susan among them, pitching in.
One doctor, a woman, was beside herself. She darted from crate to crate, carton to carton, touching them, gently, as if they were living things.
Two uniformed customs officials arrived. Shouting angrily, pushing the woman aside, they told all the white coats to stay back. Get away from the cargo. Go wait in the terminal. The woman turned on them, her finger pointing, fire in her eyes. “Don't dare,” she seemed to be saying. “Put your hands on this, you thieves, and I'll break your necks.”
Bannerman watched this exchange from the main cabin door. It had been retracted; the ramp was in place. He saw Yuri down below, Carla with him. Yuri beckoned to the soldiers who had come with the trucks. A brief huddle, they nodded knowingly, then each put a hand against the chest of a customs official. “You heard her,” they must have been saying. “Find something else to steal.”
One official tried bluster. Outraged authority or outraged innocence. He demanded the names of the soldiers. But all this time, the eyes of the other man caressed certain of the cartons. Those eyes removed all doubt. One soldier drew his sidearm and aimed it at the crotch of the senior official. He became jelly. Both men turned on their heels.
The woman doctor was a schoolgirl again. She began asking questions, on
e after another, her voice rising each time. Bannerman saw Avram pick up the manifest. He was nodding his head, saying “Da ” to every question she asked. His finger was no more than halfway down the manifest before Bannerman saw that the doctor was weeping. Another was hugging her. Still another was doing a dance. Of the rest, some were crying, the others beaming.
”I brought more than they asked for,” said Willem Brugg, who was watching at Bannerman's side. ”I told them that if Elena lives, they can keep all of it. I will leave it in any event. That hospital has nothing.”
So Bannerman had gathered.
There were cartons of painkilling drugs, antibiotics, even whole blood packed in coolers. It was treasure. Priceless. Those who were crying, he imagined, were thinking of patients, perhaps relatives, whose suffering could now be relieved. As for the army trucks, Willem had been told to expect them, he said. One of the doctors had a son who was a colonel. Without reliable guards, he told Bannerman, half of the shipment would disappear inside the terminal. What remained would be hijacked before it reached the hospital.
”I will go with the first truck,” he said. “You might as well try to come with me. If they stop you, you're no worse off.”
Bannerman didn't answer at first. He was watching Yuri and Carla. They were walking toward the terminal building some sixty yards away. Yuri kept himself between Carla and the small knot of Americans, to his right, who had separated from their Russian counterparts and were now approaching the plane.
Among them, though not in the lead, was Roger Clew. Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. It struck Banner-man that he had a defeated look about him. In contrast, there was Irwin Kaplan. Kaplan had been born with a defeated look, which only a fool took at face value; but now he was the one with the confident bounce to his step. It was good to see Kaplan.
“Take Susan,” he said, “but I'll stay. I've got to reach an understanding with this bunch. Better now than later.”
A third black Chaika, not seen until now, appeared rounding the terminal off to Bannerman's left. It was moving slowly and it seemed to be headed toward Yuri. Yuri saw it. He nudged Carla. They kept walking.
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