The Stepping Maze

by Kevin Tumlinson

The visitor booths at Rikers were drab, depressing, but everything Ludlum had come to expect thanks to television and movies. She sat in front of a thick pane of glass in what looked like a beige cubicle, and she waited.

  The man she’d come to see was escorted into the booth by two large and capable-looking guards, and he was guided to his chair. He waited until the guards left, and then reached up with cuffed wrists and took the handset on his side, holding it to his ear.

  Liz did the same.

  “Do I know you?” the man asked, his Russian accent thick enough to sound like a stereotype.

  His name was Ramzan Peskov, a former colonel in Russia’s Morskoy Spetsnaz. He was maybe in his sixties, with grey-to-white hair that spiked in a crazy, unkempt pattern on top of his head. His face was long and wrinkled, his eyes sunken. There was white stubble on his cheeks.

  Beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his orange jumpsuit, there was a hint of a tattoo. Something written in Russian, beneath a detailed depiction of the skulled figure of death bearing an automatic rifle. It was a common mark for members of the Morskoy Spetsnaz.

  Peskov had somehow managed to apply for and receive US citizenship, despite his history. He’d enjoyed good ol’ American freedom for two years, until he’d robbed a liquor store and shot three people, leading to a life sentence without possibility of parole.

  “No,” Ludlum said, shaking her head. “You don’t know me. But I believe we have a friend in common.”

  Peskov studied her and shook his head slowly. “I do not believe this is so.” He started to hang up the receiver.

  Ludlum held up a page from her notebook, with the name Redmond Ryba written in block letters at the top.

  Peskov studied it and brought the phone back to his ear. “Is he in trouble? Has he died?”

  Liz shrugged. “Yes. And no. He’s alive, but he’s definitely in trouble. Or he will be when we find him.”

  Here she was treading on thin ice. She had used her FBI credentials to get in here, but it wouldn’t take much for anyone to determine she wasn’t operating in an official capacity. The wrong question could unravel all of this. She had to play it close.

  “And I suppose you are here to entice me to help you,” Peskov said, his expression curious.

  “I’m here to ask for your help, yes. But I have nothing to offer you. I can’t get you any special favors in here.”

  Peskov chuckled, shaking his head. “You offer no incentive but wish for my help. Very American.”

  “I was thinking it was very Russian,” Ludlum replied, her tone hard. “I may not be able to offer you much incentive, but it wouldn’t be difficult to cause you trouble. The right call to the right person, and your stay here becomes a lot more unpleasant.”

  A bluff. Mostly. She thought she might have enough pull to get someone to harass the guy, if she needed. Beyond that, ethics and resources became limiting factors. Whether she could do it was less relevant than whether she would. And she wasn’t sure of that at all.

  Peskov, of course, had no way to know that. She hoped.

  He studied her for a moment, then laughed again, shaking his head. “I do not believe you. But is ok. This place,” he waved at the walls of the booth but was indicating the prison in general. “There is little to entertain me here. Your American books, they’re so cheerful. And so short. American television,” he rolled his eyes and let loose a stream of curses in Russian. He leaned in then, locking eyes with Ludlum. “What is it that you need? What can I do to assist my old friend, Red Ryba, in finding hell?”

  Liz flipped her notebook to a blank page. “The two of you served together in Afghanistan?”

  Peskov nodded.

  “I’m looking for information about how Ryba works. How he thinks. What can you tell me about this training?”

  Peskov laughed. “His training? It would take years to tell you. We have less than ten minutes.”

  “Give me something I can use as a starting place then,” she said. “A way to figure out how he thinks, so I can track him.”

  “Track him to do what?” Peskov asked, a smirk on his lips.

  Ludlum paused, took a breath, and said, “To bring him to justice.”

  Peskov chuckled, which led to a slight coughing fit. He patted his chest as if looking for a pack of cigarettes that weren’t there. Giving up, he leaned forward and nodded to her hands, then motioned to the wound on the side of her head. “Ryba, he did these things to you?”

  “Yes,” she said, deciding that honesty was the best policy here. “He abducted me. Bound my hands with wire. Slammed my head against a doorframe. Then he sent his brother to …” she wasn’t entirely sure about this part. “To take care of me. And I killed him.”

  Peskov’s eyes widened, and he laughed, a loud bark. “You killed the brother of Red Ryba?”

  She nodded.

  “And now you wish to bring him to justice. For his crimes,” he said, waving again at her injuries.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Peskov nodded. “My advice is to leave this. If he has not already come for you, then he has decided you acted honorably. He does not blame you for his brother’s death.”

  She thought about this. She hadn’t even considered that Ryba might come after her again. Which, as she considered it, was a strange thing. Why wouldn’t he? She had killed his brother. She had escaped from the confines he’d personally placed on her. She was a loose thread. Wouldn’t he want to take care of that?

  But Peskov’s words made sense, and they opened up another possibility she hadn’t considered.

  “He doesn’t blame me,” she said slowly. “Then … who would he blame?”

  Peskov shrugged. A buzzer sounded, and the door opened behind him. Two guards stepped into the room. Peskov ignored them for a moment, holding the phone to his ear and saying in a deliberate tone, “Red Ryba will seek out the one he feels is responsible for his brother’s death. You wish to find him? He will be wherever he can have access to this person.”

  The guards barked orders at him, and Peskov shouted back in Russian, dropping the receiver to the table top.

  Liz, still holding her phone, watched as Peskov was guided back through the door, on his way back to his cell. She hung up the phone, and sat back, staring at the notebook that still lay open and face-up on her table.

  Who would Ryba hold responsible for his brother’s death, if not her?

  It took only seconds.

  She snapped her notebook closed and raced back to the front desk, retrieved her things, and left Rikers as quickly as possible.

  24

  TARGET LOCATION

  The target building was surrounded, but from the look of it, no one could ever guess.

  Kotler was impressed by the level of secrecy and camouflage. Denzel’s people were laced throughout the neighborhood, in vans and empty office spaces, on rooftops and on the streets themselves. From what he could overhear from Coben and the FBI liaison, everyone Kotler saw out in the open was a part of this sting, and there were dozens more agents hidden out of sight.

  They were in the front room of a closed storefront only a block from the center of everyone’s attention. The windows were boarded, preventing anyone from seeing inside. Lights, tables, and chairs had been brought in, setting up temporary office space for the agents.

  Coben finished with the liaison and turned to Kotler. “Are you armed?”

  Kotler blinked. “No one ever asks me that,” he said. Then frowned. “But no.”

  Coben called over one of the field agents and asked that Kotler be brought a vest and a sidearm.

  “Roland never lets me have a gun,” Kotler smiled.

  “You’re not a child,” Coben said. “And I’ve seen your training record. You’re a crack shot.”

  Kotler shrugged. “On a shooting range, sure.”

  “You qualified with one of the tightest groupings in your class,” Coben said. “Impressive.”

  Kotler felt a bit flattered but realized this was likely all
part of the same game. Coben was demonstrating more knowledge of Kotler’s past. More manipulation.

  The field agent returned with a vest and a weapon, and Kotler donned these quickly as he followed Coben into another room.

  “What exactly is my role here?” Kotler asked. The room they’d entered was filled with communications and surveillance equipment. Agents wearing headsets were communicating with men and women in strategic positions all around the target building. On one monitor Kotler could see that the building of interest was a multi-story warehouse, with offices occupying the top floors. There was no sign on the front of the building, but it seemed to be in active use, not abandoned.

  “Wait,” Kotler said, stopping in front of the monitor. Coben moved on, and Kotler snagged the agent’s arm. “Wait!”

  Coben turned and gave him a steady look. Kotler held firm. “That building … it’s an active business.”

  “Yes,” Coben said. “The top floors are rented out to business tenants.”

  “There are civilians in there, then?”

  “Yes,” Coben repeated. “We’re taking precautions to ensure their safety.”

  Kotler looked from Coben to the monitor, and back again. “And what precautions are those?”

  “We have this handled, Dr. Kotler,” Coben said, then turned and resumed walking to the back of the room.

  Kotler suddenly wondered why he needed a gun. Or a vest.

  They were going to raid the building, that much was clear. What was it Coben thought they’d find in there, besides the manuscript?

  Something was off, and Kotler couldn’t quite work out what it was. It worried him.

  He joined Coben and several other agents in the back of the room, which had become the command center of the operation. Kotler didn’t recognize anyone in the room, and assumed they must also be NSA agents. No introductions were made.

  They were huddled in various conversations, consulting a wall of displays, satellite imagery, and POV footage from agent body cams. Kotler checked the clip from his weapon, then cleared the chamber and engaged the safety. He attached the holster at his side. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. He also wasn’t especially keen on trying out the efficiency of the bulletproof vest.

  Coben finally left the others and pulled Kotler aside. “There are two teams of ten going in from the front and back. The primary target is on the top floor. Support will surround the building, and we have snipers on the rooftops in every direction. I want you to go in with Team Bravo.”

  Kotler blinked. “You want me in the building? On the raid?”

  “We think we’ve narrowed down the location of the manuscript, and I want you there to verify authenticity.”

  Kotler thought about this. “And what else?”

  “That’s it,” Coben said. “Put eyes on it, retrieve it, and the men will back you out of there.”

  “I could verify that from here, after retrieval,” Kotler said. “So there’s something else happening.”

  Coben studied him, then nodded. “You’re right. There is. And it’s classified.”

  “So classified that you need to send me in there under a pretext,” Kotler said. “And endanger the lives of civilians on those other floors.”

  He watched Coben’s features, inscrutable as ever, then shook his head. He unbuckled the vest, tearing away Velcro and pulling the whole thing off over his head.

  “What are you doing?” Coben asked, calmly but deliberately.

  “I’m not sure what the end game is, but I’m done playing blind. Whatever is inside this building, I need to know about it before I go in. You’re risking my life and the lives of the people inside, without so much as giving me a reason.” He tossed the vest on the floor and handed his sidearm to a passing agent. He started to walk to the door they’d used to enter.

  Coben reached out and put a firm hand on his arm.

  “You’re going to want to go in there,” he said.

  Kotler stopped, looking Coben in the eye. “Why?” he asked.

  Coben glanced around the room, making sure no one was listening. He took the sidearm back from the agent and nodded for the man to move on.

  He turned to Kotler, offering the weapon. Kotler made no move to take it.

  Coben shook his head, dropping the weapon to his side and meeting Kotler’s gaze. “Because,” he said, “your brother is in there.”

  He waited for the news to register, and held the weapon out one last time. “Now do you want the gun?”

  25

  FBI OFFICES, MANHATTAN

  “He’s been pulled into the raid on Lee Patterson’s last known location,” Denzel said over the phone.

  Ludlum was halfway to FBI headquarters, in the back of a taxi, and stopped dead by traffic. The tension was tempting her to get out and sprint the rest of the way. “I think Red Ryba may be after him,” she said, knowing that this would raise the inevitable question …

  “How would you know that?”

  She sighed. “It’s going to be hard to explain, but I’ve talked to someone who knows Ryba. Someone he served with, in the Morskoy Spetsnaz.”

  “The who-what now?” Denzel asked.

  “Russian military. Kind of the Russian version of the Navy Seals. Ryba was an agent who went freelance, and …”

  “Liz,” Denzel said calmly. “Have you been investigating Red Ryba while off duty?”

  She swallowed, nodding, and then said aloud, “I have, yes. And I’ve discovered some things.”

  There was silence for a beat from Denzel’s end. Then, “Tell me.”

  She gave him the details she’d uncovered, glancing up from time to time to see if the cabby was listening. He appeared to be absorbed in whatever talk radio show was blaring from the speakers. She kept her voice low anyway, tilting her head down to keep the conversation as private as possible.

  When she’d given Denzel everything she had, he replied, “Get here as soon as you can. There’s more happening that you’re not aware of.”

  “Like what?” Ludlum asked.

  “Ryba stole his brother’s motorcycle from the city impound. One security guard is dead, and another is critically injured. But he made a mistake.” Denzel took a breath. “We got his face on camera,” Denzel said. “We can positively link him to everything.”

  Ludlum took a sharp breath, then looked with increasing anxiety at the jammed lanes of traffic. She took some cash out of her bag and threw it into the cabbie’s lap. He looked over his shoulder, surprised, as she popped the door open and took to the sidewalk.

  “I’m on my way,” she said, and started to run.

  Denzel met Ludlum just as she was entering FBI headquarters. It was clear that he’d been waiting for her, outside of security. “Come with me,” he said, motioning for her to follow.

  She kept pace with him to the parking garage, and stood beside him, panting slightly, as they rode the elevator to where he was parked.

  “You ok?” he asked, concerned.

  “Ran here,” she panted. “Nine blocks.”

  He shook his head, and as the elevator opened, they were once again on the move.

  “So where are we going?” Ludlum asked.

  “To warn Kotler,” he said. “I can’t get him on the phone. The whole team is on a complete communications blackout. I think they’re moving on Patterson and the manuscript.”

  “You’re not worried we’ll get in the way?”

  “I’m worried they don’t have all the information they need.” They came to his car, and he unlocked it with the remote. They climbed in, and Ludlum had barely tucked her bag under her feet and buckled her seatbelt before they were passing under the gate arm of the garage.

  “We have about fifteen minutes until we get there,” Denzel said. “Tell me everything you’ve uncovered.”

  She nodded and began telling him all the details, referring to her notebook when she needed to. “It never occurred to me that he might be out for revenge,” she said. “Dumb. I just didn’t
think of it.”

  Denzel shook his head. “I should have considered it. I was too busy focusing on Patterson, and then this weirdness with Agent Coben.”

  “Who?” Ludlum asked.

  Now it was Denzel’s turn to explain.

  “You called in the NSA?”

  “No choice,” Denzel replied. “But it didn’t go quite the way I expected. Agent Coben took over, which is fine. I saw that coming. But then he wanted Kotler with him on it, and that seems unusual to me.”

  “Why would the NSA need an anthropologist on a raid?”

  “Kotler has an … eclectic background,” Denzel said. “Coben seems to know everything about him.”

  “More than I know, that’s for sure,” Ludlum said.

  Denzel shot her a side glance.

  She shook her head, recovering quickly. “We aren’t just racing to tell Kotler about Ryba, are we?” she asked. “You’re using this as an excuse.”

  Denzel said nothing but stared straight ahead, navigating through traffic at a pace that Ludlum thought was a little fast.

  He was in a hurry. He was worried.

  So was she.

  26

  TARGET LOCATION

  Kotler hung back as the Beta team breached the rear door of the building.

  This was a warehouse level, with only a few offices, mostly for the workers. Their entrance caused a stir, but several agents rushed in to secure the floor and escort everyone to a safe location. They would stay in the building, for now, where they were easier to corral. The warehouse floor would become a holding area.

  Luckily it was getting late, and most people had left for the evening. There were only a handful of people in the building at this hour.

  The ten agents of Beta team rushed to the stairs, with Kotler in tow.

  Several flights later Kotler wished he had a better cardio routine, but he managed to keep up.

  They arrived on the target floor and left two guards at the stairwell door as the rest went up one more flight.

  The radio earpiece Kotler was wearing came to life.