City of Ice

by John Farrow

  He had to think about it a minute, roam around in his cage. Any time he looked over at Cinq-Mars he saw that smashed face and the cuts on his head and those determined hawk eyes. “What’s the plan?” he asked him.

  “You go in. We follow. Me and the two boys. I don’t want the bad guys to know we’re coming. I don’t want a hostage situation. I don’t want a quick exit or sudden death if we storm. I don’t want the SWAT cleaning up my shit. I don’t want the Wolverines taking it over and pulling some high-tech glitch. We’re going east of Aldgate, André. Kill or be killed. But we need someone to guide us through that ship. I can’t afford to get lost in there. We need someone to clue us to the situation. We require a point man, André, and for the next five seconds I’m pointing at you.”

  LaPierre crushed another cigarette under his heel.

  “I’ve got no time to spare, André. What’s the word?”

  “Guard on the gate,” LaPierre told him, already reaching for another smoke. “Get me out of this fucking zoo.”

  “Guard!” Cinq-Mars hollered. “On the gate! Prisoner coming out.”

  They drove down a truck-lane with twenty-foot fences on either side topped with barbed wire. At the end of the road they parked.

  “The gate’s behind us,” LaPierre said. “I’ll go through first. You follow.”

  “How do you get in?” Déguire asked him.

  LaPierre held up a key chain on his ring finger.

  Déguire lowered his brooding eyebrows and sucked in his oversized lips, resisting the inclination to stuff the key chain down LaPierre’s throat.

  “All right,” Cinq-Mars reiterated. “You’ve got your phone. You know my number. Board that ship, find out if she’s in there, where she is, and call back to give us the coordinates and the best approach.”

  “I should have a gun, Émile.”

  “Not today. In their eyes you’re suspended, so you’re not carrying a weapon. You’re scared, worried, looking for a way out. They know you left a trail—they made you leave it. See what you can bargain for yourself. Get in, get out, get us the information. We’ll be on your tail. By the time you penetrate, we’ll be onboard ourselves. If you get into trouble, let us know any way you can. Now go.”

  They watched him walk back the way they’d come, his shoulders hunched in the cold, collar up. The pedestrian gate bordered the truck entrance. LaPierre had keys for both, but as they were walking in he naturally used the smaller entrance.

  “I wonder if she’s there,” Déguire pondered.

  “She’s there,” Cinq-Mars revealed. “I was informed. André better not report otherwise.”

  LaPierre went through the gate, leaving the padlock unsnapped.

  “How do you know? Are you telling me they brought her through the main gate?” Mathers asked, incredulous.

  Cinq-Mars shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I called the gatekeeper to double-check. Nobody we care about has been through that way. But that started me thinking. Is there another way in? They brought Santa through the gate and back out again to make things look bad for Kaplonski, not because it was necessary. By keeping that in mind, I realized that they must have other ways in and out.”

  “Then who told you she’s here?” Mathers pressed.

  “Yakushev. The ship’s captain. Do I have his name right?”

  Mathers was feeling unsteady. This seemed murky. “Émile? How far can he be trusted? This could be a trap.”

  “Could be,” he agreed. He looked from one young man to the other. “Both of you, be aware of that possibility at all times.”

  They watched LaPierre turn the corner around a shed, vanishing. Cinq-Mars passed his car keys back to Déguire. “There’s a box in the trunk, bring it up front.”

  He came back carrying a large brown carton. He opened it in the backseat, and on top he found protective vests that were not department issue. Superior quality. It wouldn’t be easy changing into them in the car in the cold.

  “I didn’t want LaPierre to know,” Cinq-Mars said. “We can’t be sure whose side he’s on.”

  Buried under the vests were three Auto Mag .44’s with reloading dies and six boxes of ammunition apiece. “Another surprise,” Cinq-Mars told them.

  “Where’d you get these?” Each was nearly a foot long.

  “A gift. Thirty-five hundred, U.S. Used.”

  “We’re sanctioned?” Mathers felt the weight of the pistol in his hand.

  “Let’s not get carried away, Bill. Let’s just say that after four cops get blown to the rooftops and back down again nobody’s asking too many questions.” They labored to put on the vests and pull their jackets and coats back on. They jacked mags into the pistols, and it was time to leave. “A word. Six rounds per mag only. Now, ask whatever you want to ask,” Cinq-Mars instructed them. “Now’s the time.”

  Déguire had something. He had such a dark, fore-boding look on his face, a life forged by worry, but Cinq-Mars was used to that now. “Why no backup? I’m not dissenting. I’m just asking.”

  “That’s fair, Alain. Several things. To start with, we have no jurisdiction. That vessel is off limits. Which is another reason it could be a trap—they know I won’t give this up to Wolverines or Mounties. I hate chaos. Which is why I put LaPierre in, to help us with our coordinates but also to fog their air. Also, and this is major, I don’t want to save that woman from the Angels just to serve her back to them on a platter. She was involved in a hit on cops. She gets out of our hands, she’ll be mauled by the system. But that’s nothing. Putting her in jail is no different than turning her over to the Angels, no different than signing her death warrant. She won’t be in jail a week before she’s dead, the Angels will see to it. No. I will not let another kid die. We can’t save Hagop, but I’ll be damned if I let them have this young woman, too. Understand something. I want her out alive. After that I intend to set her free. Her only crime is wanting to be on the side of justice. I don’t usually convict people for that. I sure as hell don’t send them to their deaths.”

  The two younger cops indicated their consent to the terms, knowing that he was right. In prison, the woman would die in a twinkling, assuming that she had made it to trial alive.

  “One more thing you should know. I’m not an idiot. We do have backup. It’s not sanctioned. It’s not official.”

  “What do you mean?” Déguire asked.

  “Friends,” Mathers guessed. “Just like that time with Lajeunesse.”

  “You can’t not trust everybody, Alain,” Cinq-Mars advised him. “You have to trust a few. Remember that when old farts like me aren’t around anymore.”

  “So we got cops behind us?”

  “A couple of Mounties, a couple of SQ, a couple of city boys from the beat. We call ourselves the Wolverettes.” He was wearing a sheepish grin.

  “Anything else we should know?” Mathers asked.

  “East of Aldgate,” Cinq-Mars mentioned as he opened his door.

  “Are you going to tell me what that means, or do I have to die first?”

  “Kill or be killed, Bill, that’s all you need to know for now.”

  They clambered out of the car, big pistols in their overcoats, and headed for the gate at a clip.

  They climbed the gangway, and Cinq-Mars set the pace, not so fast that he’d wear himself out. On deck he was panting. Scanning. He did not speak, and the men followed him toward the fortresslike structure of the wheelhouse over the vessel’s stern. This time they did not ascend the outside but entered by a companionway at deck level, and inside they waited, breathed, listened.

  “Up or down?” Mathers asked.

  “Alain,” Cinq-Mars instructed, “in all situations, watch our back. Bill, you guard our flanks. Keep at least seven eyes open at all times.”

  They went up, climbing the narrow steel steps and moving lightly. The churn of the ship’s systems camouflaged any sound they made, and at the first landing Cinq-Mars knelt to peer around a corner. An empty corridor. He went along it, rejec
ting the stairs at hand to select another set farther up. They ascended into light, into a bright whitewashed chamber, and guarded their eyes. Cinq-Mars led them in the direction of the bow this time, pistol upraised, and took to stairs again.

  Halfway up they heard voices.

  Bent and cautious, they continued along, coming up under the wheelhouse. Cinq-Mars waved his pistol hand to indicate to Mathers to continue on. “Go up,” he whispered. “See if our captain’s there. Don’t be noticed if you can help it.”

  Mathers took the stairs two at a time. The companionway door was open and, crouching, he peered through at different angles, finally poking his head inside once, briefly. Men were talking Russian. He returned, unspotted.

  “No,” he reported. “Two sailors I recognize from our first time through.”

  “The captain’s quarters ought to be close.” They searched their level. Opened doors. In one a sailor was startled in his bunk. “Captain?” Cinq-Mars asked him. “Capitaine?”

  The man gestured with his thumb. As an after-thought he came out in his underwear to either challenge him or offer further instruction, but spotting the weapons, he retreated, shutting the cabin door.

  Cinq-Mars turned full circle in the narrow passageway and leaned against the bulkhead. Gestured with his chin. He had located the captain’s quarters. He and Déguire waited on either side of the door, and Mathers formally knocked.

  Captain Vaclev Yakushev answered. He was wearing the same dull sweater with a larger hole now in one elbow that he’d had on when they’d first met. Cinq-Mars was again taken by how short he was, and believed that he must be tough to have endured in his profession despite his size. His gray-and-black beard had grown out more fully. The captain looked first at Mathers, at his pistol held low, then at the two men on either side of him. He invited them in by holding the door open and waving with his free hand.

  He’d been expecting them. On his bunk he’d spread plans of his ship, both a side view and an overhead. “Here,” he pointed, “is the girl. She’s down deep.” He pulled the side view across and ran his finger down the different levels, indicating the way of passage to the bowels of the ship.

  Cinq-Mars stopped following the man’s finger and looked into his eyes instead. “Why?” he asked him.

  “I gave the girl my word. She would not be killed on my ship. I did not know they would bring her back here. I do not honor these men.”

  Mathers was looking across at his sergeant-detective curiously.

  “Go ahead, Bill,” Cinq-Mars invited.

  “Captain, I was wondering what happened to your accent. Nobody learns English that fast.”

  They supposed that the slight softening at the corners of his mouth was his impression of a smile. “Old KGB trick,” the captain explained, reverting to the accent again. “If enemy believe you speak only with accent, they not recognize you when you speak like them.”

  “You weren’t conscripted for this fight, were you, Captain?” Cinq-Mars considered.

  The captain agreed. “I was not. This is not honorable.”

  The cell phone rang at that moment, and Cinq-Mars answered. “Hello?”

  “The Fifth of March, I presume,” the voice said in impeccable English. A great roaring racket in the background made him difficult to decipher.

  “Who’s this?”

  “We haven’t had the pleasure. Some of your friends call me the Czar. Your friend LaPierre wants to have a word. I’ll put him on.”

  First the racket grew louder, then a man screamed into Cinq-Mars’s ear.

  “André? André?”

  The horrible screaming lapsed, then resumed again.

  The English voice said, “Welcome aboard, M-Five. Feel like cutting a deal? Give me a call.”

  The connection was terminated.

  Cinq-Mars stood with the phone at his ear.

  “Émile?” Mathers prodded.

  Finally he put the phone in his pocket. “Study the map,” he commanded, and his tone was pure rage. “Memorize what you can.”

  The three men took twenty seconds to study the ship’s plan, then departed the cabin, working their way down into the hold of the ship.

  For Cinq-Mars the decision was simple. Whether the captain had dispatched them to the depths of the stern, where crew quarters ran off the engine and systems’ rooms, in order to trap them there or whether he had given them specific directions to help save Julia, that was the place they had to be. Ambush or rescue, he could not avoid the seventeenth level belowdecks on the Russian freighter. They took an elevator down fourteen levels, then walked down stairs the rest of the way. There they entered a labyrinth of corridors and rooms, where the steady throb of the ship’s works echoed off steel bulkheads. There they took a step, paused, paused again, and ventured another step forward.

  Cinq-Mars carried his left elbow at the level of his chin, his hand resting on his upper right arm. On the elbow he supported his opposite fist, clutching the Auto Mag perched on its side, the barrel running across the biceps. His arms protected him from shots to the face, the bulletproof vest shielded his chest. For every stride, he moved his left foot forward, a short stride, then brought his right foot to his left heel and bent the knee, shifting his weight. Behind him, Mathers adopted the regulation police stance, both hands on his pistol, walking on the balls of his feet so that, if hit, he’d fall on his face and be able to keep firing. Déguire carried his handgun at the level of his eyes, pointed up, his arms bent, and stepped sideways, crablike, eyes moving both forward and back.

  They crossed a catwalk.

  The three men moved from light into shadow, the ship’s pulse reverberating through their shoes. At a corridor they conferred. Mathers was the most positive of their position, insisting that he possessed a good memory of the plan, and they followed his suggestion. This deep, it was hard to know which direction was forward, which aft. They moved on.

  Mathers had chosen well. The corridor that ran across the beam of the boat would lead to a network of staterooms, supply rooms, gear rooms, and repair facilities. Down one of these the young woman, supposedly, was being held.

  They listened, but nothing was to be heard save the racket of generators and the hollow thrum of hot-air ducts. Cinq-Mars continued forward, Mathers behind, Déguire trailing.

  They moved on, and Cinq-Mars signaled for a huddle. “I’m going up on the run. Hang back. Start creating space between us.”

  He jogged ahead, and the younger cops covered him. They watched him stop at a corridor, check it, then cross and wait for them. Mathers came up next, then Déguire. Each took a peek, and no one had to mention that once in the narrow corridor they would have less visual range, and less room to maneuver. No tributary corridors were available for them to flee to in case of an ambush. They’d be sitting ducks.

  “Bill, take the point,” Cinq-Mars ordered. “Alain—”

  “—the rear,” Déguire concluded, the crease in his brow tightly knit.

  “Each room gets checked.”

  Slowly they worked their way down. Cinq-Mars swung every door open and investigated the cavity within. Halfway down, Mathers tapped his shoulder. The blank edge of a newspaper had been torn away and stuck to the door. On it was written, “Welcome, M5.”

  Cinq-Mars signaled both men to guard the corridor in opposite directions. He backed them farther away from the door in case it blew. He believed the steel door would provide him with adequate protection, but to open it, he squatted low. His two colleagues alternated between glancing at him and protecting their flank. Cinq-Mars reached for the door lever. Tugged it down. It yielded without igniting a blast. He opened the door a fraction. Felt no trigger, no line. Then he shoved it open so hard and fast that it banged against a wall inside and he held out his free hand to keep it from bouncing back. Cinq-Mars aimed his pistol and his shoulders recoiled, then he appeared to slump forward and he landed on his knees. Mathers cried, “Émile!” and turned toward him and Déguire shouted, “Bill! Down!” and fire
d and Mathers, on his belly, looked back and saw behind him a huge Hell’s Angel fall with a shotgun in his hands.

  “Run it down!” Cinq-Mars instructed them, bent way forward. They didn’t know what had happened to him. The two young cops jogged swiftly to opposite ends of the corridor and checked their situation. Both signaled all clear. Déguire checked on his victim and found no pulse. The pistol had fired more quickly than anything he’d ever handled. He’d hit him four times, minimum. The man bled through the mouth, and through exit wounds in his back. “Walk it up!” Cinq-Mars called to them. The cops returned to him, stepping backwards all the way, pistols at the ready. Cinq-Mars had recovered to his knees, and they looked to see what had made him fall.

  Sergeant-Detective André LaPierre hung in the doorway, his head no higher than a man’s chest. The beanpole of a man had been cut low, his legs sheered off above the knees by the bloodied chain saw on the floor behind him.

  “Get him down,” Cinq-Mars ordered. “He’s still alive.” He guarded the corridor while the men unwrapped chain and lowered the unconscious man to the blood-soaked floor. Both men were managing, but the moment he saw the sawed-off portions of legs in a corner Mathers puked his guts. Cinq-Mars was on the phone, urgent and whispering. “Medics. Seventeenth level belowdecks, the stern. Find the captain or anybody else to guide you down. Bring them on the run, full body protection. Otherwise, stay out. I want surround sound. I want full SWAT support on the perimeter. Get it now. Out.

  “Bill,” Cinq-Mars said in part to chase him out of there, “get blankets. Back the way we came. There’re bunks in some of the rooms.”

  Mathers followed orders, although in the first cabin the memory made him heave again. He wiped his mouth and face on one sheet and snatched the blankets off the other beds. He came back on the double, with Cinq-Mars and Déguire providing cover.