The Distant Chase

by Cap Daniels

  The stern, cold expression she wore morphed into what I took to be an almost psychopathic delight when she saw me. Her eyes brightened, and the corners of her mouth turned upward, revealing perfect dimples identical to Anya’s.

  I took a knee in front of the woman and stared at her. The color and shape of the eyes were the same, but there was enough difference for me to know those weren’t eyes fathered by Robert Richter. The tiny gap between her two front teeth was slightly wider than Anya’s, and the skin of her neck and upper chest wasn’t quite as smooth and delicate as it should have been. The differences were subtle, but they were there…until she spoke.

  “Hello, my Chasechka. I knew you would come for me. You are man of honor like knight in armor shining. YA lyublyu tebya, my knight.”

  Hearing her say “I love you” in Anya’s voice, with Anya’s lips, and in that unmistakable accent left me wishing I’d never seen The Ranch where I became an assassin, an operator, a warrior whose path was destined to cross with that of a beautiful Russian agent bent on seduction, infiltration, and deception. I longed in an instant to undo the past six years of my life and return to the baseball field, crouched behind home plate where I belonged—where I was in control.

  “Let’s go!” Clark hefted the woman from the chair and began frog-marching her toward the hangar door. The short chain between her ankles made her strides chopped, leaving her incapable of anything beyond shuffling. The rattling reminded me of the sound a chain-link fence made when I threw baseballs against it as a child.

  The two guards fell in locked step behind Clark and the chained woman. I watched them go, and I tried to imagine what the coming days of my life would hold.

  I heard Penny’s frightened voice in my mind. “I’m afraid you won’t come back to me.” I drove my fist into the cold concrete floor of the hangar and rose to my feet, determined to see it through.

  The guards didn’t follow Clark and Norikova aboard the C-130. Once the door closed, she truly was no longer Israel’s problem.

  The turboprop engines came alive, and the plane began to taxi as Clark strapped Captain Norikova into a nylon webbing seat on the side of the airplane. Her eyes never left mine, and she continued to smile and occasionally licked her lips. Even in her chains and behind the apparent pretense of sensuality, she was hypnotically beautiful, but for one of the few times in my adult life, I knew the truth: She was an imposter dedicated to a philosophy that represented the antithesis of everything I held dear, everything I was willing to die to protect, and everything I truly loved.

  “Come to me, my Chasechka. Touch my face and brush hair like you did before, and I will do for you all things you like.”

  I placed one hand on her shoulder and positioned my face inches from hers. Her breath was hot, and her skin smelled foreign to me. She raised her chin and licked her lips, inviting me to kiss her, but I glared at her with undeniable contempt.

  “Enough,” I said. “No more. I’m taking you home because I have no other choice, but I am not going to play these games with you. I’m not going to listen to your bullshit. And I’m not going to do anything to make this experience enjoyable for you. If you say one more word, you’ll spend the rest of this flight gagged and hooded. Nothing about this is acceptable to me, and if I had my way—like your sister was so fond of saying—I would gut you like pig.”

  The smile she was wearing vanished and was replaced again by the cold stare every Russian girl is apparently required to master by the age of thirteen. Although cold, there was more to her glare than mere insolence. I wanted to know what was happening behind those eyes.

  I took a seat, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

  How can that much hatred exist inside someone so beautiful?

  After several minutes, she looked at me with the innocence of a child. “You are taking me to your home?”

  “What?” I said, unable to hear her over the roar of the engines.

  She spoke louder. “You said you are taking me home. You are taking me to my home or to your home?”

  Finally. A chink in the armor.

  I put on my psychologist’s hat and decided to have a little fun. “What do you think?” I asked.

  She seemed to consider my question. “I think you would not take me to my home in American airplane.”

  “This isn’t an American airplane,” I said. “It belongs to the Israelis.”

  “Why would Israel give to you airplane to take me to Russia?”

  I glanced at my watch, strictly as an act of misdirection. “I didn’t say we were going to Russia.”

  “Is that where I have been? Israel?”

  Oh, this is getting better by the minute.

  “Where did you think you were?”

  She frowned. “I think maybe I was in Turkey, but I never hear Muslim call to prayer. Maybe I think now Israel. Why did your CIA not keep me in United States?”

  It was a good question, but I wasn’t going to give her any useful information.

  “What makes you think the CIA cares about you?” I said.

  I could see her wheels turning. When she made her decision, it was immediately visible in her eyes.

  “I will give to you everything you desire. Tell me what you want, and I will give to you.”

  I feigned intrigue and moved closer. “What can you give me? What do you think I want?”

  “You are young and strong handsome man, and I am beautiful Russian woman. I know how to give to you what every man wants. I can be for only you.”

  I let my eyes roam across her body, and she arched her back, raising her breasts beneath the simple cotton shirt. I let a boyish grin come across my face. “I can have anything I want?”

  “Everything you want, Amerikanec.”

  “And what do I have to give you in return?”

  She raised her hands to the limits of her shackles. “Take from me chains, and take me to your home where I can love you like real man should be loved.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “For you I will do everything,” she hissed.

  “Will you answer one question for me?”

  “What is question, Chasechka?”

  “Why did you kill Dr. Richter in the hospital?”

  Her lips parted, and she tilted her head as if she had no idea what I was talking about. “This is why you are angry with me? This is why I am prisoner?”

  “No,” I said softly, “you’re in chains for an entirely different reason. No one but me cares why you killed Dr. Richter.”

  “For you, this is important question,” she said.

  “Yes, for me, it’s the only important question.”

  “He died death of lonely man, but I did not kill him. Only for him deception, not killing. For you this is sad?”

  “Yes, for me, it’s very sad.”

  “I am not his killer, but I can take from you sadness and give to you great joy, if only you will remove chains.”

  I inched nearer until our noses were almost touching and my lips were close to hers. She inhaled, and her eyes gently closed.

  I whispered, “There’s just one problem. I already have a beautiful woman who’ll do everything for me, and she’s not a Russian spy who gets off on pretending to be her half sister. Oh, and by the way, your half sister is far more beautiful than you. It’s too bad about your toe. The chains stay on, and you will go wherever I take you, Russian.”

  She glared at me through squinted eyes and spat in my face. I didn’t flinch. I licked her spittle from my lips and kissed her forehead. “Close, but definitely not Anya.”

  She growled like an animal and bucked against her restraints. I watched her with an amused grin on my face and wondered what her life in Moscow would be like. Would her SVR career be over, or would she be heralded as a hero of the Foreign Service? Her lineage as the daughter of a former senior Communist Party official would probably make her life a little more comfortable than most, but spending weeks in shackles at the hands of Israelis, and n
ow Amerikantsov, would leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “What was that all about?” asked Clark as I settled into a seat near his.

  “I was just planting a few seeds.”

  “It looked like you were about to plant more than a few seeds.”

  “No, it’s just entertaining to see how far she’s willing to push her game.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “You know what happens when you play with fire.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I do. It makes pretty sparks in the air.”

  “Oh, from where I was sitting, there were sparks, all right.”

  I turned to check on our prisoner, who was still tugging at her restraints.

  “She sure looks a lot like Anya, doesn’t she?” I said.

  “Yeah, she does. Right down to the missing toe. You gotta hand it to those Russians—they are committed.”

  “That one needs to be committed to the psych ward.”

  “I think maybe that’s what the Kremlin is—one big psych ward.”

  “You may be on to something there.”

  We watched Norikova finally relax after trying to pull free of her restraints.

  Clark continued staring at our prisoner. “As difficult as this operation is, she’s going to keep making it harder.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted, “but if we can get to Norikov without getting ourselves captured, shot, or worse, I think he’ll do anything to get his daughter back.”

  “Oh, we’ll get to him,” he said. “I’m far more concerned about getting back out of there than getting in. It’s not like we’re just going to waltz right up to a former senior party official, announce that we have his daughter chained to a post in Latvia, and then sashay our way back out. He’ll want to keep one of us under his thumb until his daughter is safely back in Red Square.”

  “No chance,” I said. “Neither of us is staying behind, no matter what Norikov demands. We go in together, and we come out together.”

  Clark closed his eyes, and his nostrils flared. “You have to consider the probability of that choice being taken from us. We’ll have the upper hand for a tiny window of time, but if we do anything to let that window close before we’re ready, it’s going to turn into a Moscow shit show.”

  Chapter 14

  The Norwegian

  “Do you have any idea what vild khaye means?”

  Clark pushed his eyebrows together. “What on earth makes you think I’d know that?”

  “Because you’re my owl,” I said.

  “Your owl? What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you read Winnie-the-Pooh when you were a kid? Owl is Pooh’s knowing friend. That’s you, my knowing friend.”

  He shook his head. “There’s quite a bit wrong with you.”

  “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re Eeyore. Anyway, I’m going up to talk to the pilots. I’ll be right back. Don’t let Red Sonja jump out, and don’t get within kissing distance. I doubt you have the wherewithal to say no.”

  I headed toward the cockpit, and Norikova said, “YA dolzhen idti v vannuyu.”

  I eyed the nylon webbing seat she was sitting in and had an idea. “Sure, no problem. I’ll be right back.”

  A plastic trash can was connected to the forward bulkhead. I pulled the bag from the can and removed a yellow bungee cord.

  Kneeling in front of Norikova, I slid the can beneath her seat, grabbed the waistline of her pants, and pulled them down to her mid-thigh. “Next time, ask in English with the word please somewhere in the request. Got it?”

  I made my way to the cockpit and tapped on the door. “Hey, it’s Chase. Can I come in?”

  “Sure, sure, come on up,” the captain said. “I’m Micha, and this is my first officer, Daniel.”

  “Thanks. What time do you expect to land in Helsinki?”

  “We will be making a stop in Frankfurt for fuel, and then it’s three hours to Helsinki.”

  I scanned the instrument panel for the fuel gauges but soon gave up. “Don’t we have the range to make Helsinki from Tel-Aviv?”

  “We would have the range if we flew direct, but our orders were to not overfly Russian airspace,” said Micha.

  “I guess there’s some wisdom in that because of our passenger. Oh, that reminds me. Can you tell me what vild khaye means?”

  Both pilots burst into laughter.

  Micha asked, “Did someone use that word to describe your prisoner?”

  “She’s not my prisoner,” I said, “but, yes, those are the words they used.”

  “I would say it is quite appropriate. Vild khaye means…ah, in English, maybe…wild animal.”

  I had to hand it to them. Those Israelis had an interesting sense of humor.

  “I’d have to agree. How long before we land in Frankfurt?”

  “Just over an hour,” Daniel said.

  I left the cockpit and made my way back through the cargo hold. Norikova was right where I’d left her with the plastic trash can still in place.

  “I am sorry, Chasechka. I will speak only English. Is humiliating like this. Please let me go to bathroom.”

  “Don’t call me that name,” I ordered. “You can call me sir or Chase, but nothing else. You went to great lengths to humiliate me and my government, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m all out of sympathy.”

  An obvious wave of anger came across her face, but she held her tongue. When she’d made use of the plastic can, I repositioned her pants back where they’d been and returned to my seat near Clark.

  “We’ll be on the ground in Frankfurt in less than an hour for gas, and then on to Helsinki.”

  Clark motioned toward Norikova with his chin. “What was that all about?”

  “She demanded in Russian that I let her go to the can. Instead, I brought the can to her. I think she now understands that we’re going to communicate in English, and that she’s going to stop making demands.”

  Clark chuckled. “I doubt that.”

  I glanced back across the empty space of the cargo plane and into the defiant eyes of SVR Captain Ekaterina Norikova. “I doubt the Israelis showed her a great deal of compassion.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but the Israelis weren’t in love with her half sister, who happens to look nearly identical to her. Are you sure you’re not taking some of that hostility out on the wrong sister?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted, “but I can’t think of any reason why she’d deserve any compassion from me or anyone else.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but cruelty for cruelty’s sake accomplishes little.”

  “Is that some ancient Buddhist wisdom?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s something my father told me when I was eight. I’d shot a mockingbird with my BB gun.”

  I tried to imagine Clark Johnson, Green Beret, at eight years old.

  * * *

  Late October in Frankfurt, Germany, is no time to be standing on an airport tarmac with a sat-phone pressed to one’s ear.

  When the connection was finally complete, Skipper came on the line. “Oh, hey, Chase. How are things in Germany?”

  “It’s cold and windy, and I hate it. How are things going there?”

  “It’s seventy-five and beautiful,” she said with a sarcastic giggle.

  “We’ve got Norikova, and we should be in Helsinki in less than four hours. Is the boat still good to go?”

  “It is, but there may be a little problem in Riga.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. We don’t have much room for things to go wrong. What’s up?”

  “The babysitter has turned up missing. I haven’t heard from him in like almost a whole day.”

  Skipper and Ginger had arranged for a Frenchman, who’d been a legionnaire, to sit on Norikova while Clark and I hitched a ride on the overnight train to Moscow.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and squinted to fight off the headache that had suddenly taken root in my skull. Clark was again frog-marching Norikova from the plane with his boots on
her formerly bare feet. I watched her close her eyes and inhale the frigid air.

  How can anyone enjoy air this cold?

  “Okay, so what’s the backup plan if we can’t find Frenchy?” I asked.

  “We’re working on that,” Skipper said, “but if all else fails, we may have to turn to the Agency.”

  “The Agency?” The area consumed by my headache expanded. “The CIA isn’t going to help us. They don’t want their fingerprints anywhere near this.”

  “Well, that’s not completely true. We had to turn to them already. The meeting with Rabin wouldn’t have happened without them. They have a vested interest in this going well, so they’re gonna play ball with us as long as bodies don’t start piling up.”

  “I can’t promise that’s not going to happen,” I said, more than a little unhappy that she and Ginger had involved the CIA.

  “Keep in mind that about two hours after you get on that train, you’ll be inside Russia without a visa or an invitation. You can’t afford to start turning breathing bodies into corpses. It’ll be hard enough to get you out if you stay clean, and practically impossible if you don’t.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that Norikova isn’t remotely cooperative, and that’s making everything harder than it should be. I know we could’ve trusted Pierre, or whatever his name is, to keep her quiet and still. I don’t have the same faith in the Agency boys.”

  “I know, but like the crazy Norwegian at the marina says, you gotta work with whatcha got.”

  There was a guy named Bob who’d been insane enough to buy a fifty-foot sailboat in Nova Scotia and sail it back to the Gulf of Mexico by himself. I think he was from Boston or somewhere up there, and he had a lot of fun spouting wisdom in his Beantown accent from beneath his nine-pound mustache. He spent a few nights in the marina in St. Augustine telling us grand stories of his glory days, and he and Clark struck up a quick friendship because of their similar military experience. Bob was a Green Beret in Vietnam and had the battle scars to prove it. Skipper started calling him “the Norwegian” for some reason, and the moniker just stuck.

  “Yeah, well, how about you work with what you’ve got and find the Frenchman? I’ll call you from Helsinki.”