by Sean Heary
Rudoi didn’t react. He just continued to eye his visitor as he spoke.
In an exaggerated arch through the air, Woodpecker swung the make-up case onto the kitchen table. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A few props.”
“How’s that going to work? By now my mugshot is hanging on the wall of every checkpoint and border crossing in the Russian Federation.”
“You’d think so. You’re a dangerous felon.”
Woodpecker pulled one of the wooden chairs away from the table and positioned it under the shadeless ceiling light. As he did, Rudoi glimpsed his holstered handgun beneath his jacket.
“When you’re standing in front of a case-hardened border guard, you don’t want anything catching his eye.”
“That’s reassuring. But what does it mean?”
“Wigs and FX prosthetics to be avoided at all costs.”
“That doesn’t leave much.”
Woodpecker took a step back and cast a critical eye over Rudoi. “I’ll hazard a guess that the description accompanying your mugshot reads – tall male, thick sandy-coloured hair, grey eyes, clean shaven.”
Rudoi shrugged his shoulders. “Me and a million others.”
“That’s the point.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“I might even give you a little birthmark,” Woodpecker said, examining Rudoi’s forehead.
“Like Gorbachev,” Rudoi scoffed. “That would be ironic. Russians hate him too. We blame him for the collapse of the Soviet Union.”
“Nothing so grand as to be obvious. Large enough to show up in a passport photo, but small enough to go unnoticed in everyday life.”
Woodpecker removed a pair of hairdressing shears from the makeup case and worked on Rudoi’s hair as they spoke. “Do the Russians know about the documents you passed on to Lawrence this morning?”
“What are you talking about?” Rudoi said, knitting his brow. “I was lucky to escape with my life.”
“Someone’s got their wires crossed.”
“Clearly.”
There was a long, thoughtful silence before Woodpecker spoke. “What’s it like being a defector?”
Rudoi’s face grew grim. “What was I meant to do? Stand there and take it like Kutin. No thanks.”
“I couldn’t do it myself,” Woodpecker continued. “Reaching for your gun every time the dog barks. Never knowing when that bullet will come.”
“What’s your point?”
“No point. Just curious.”
Rudoi reached over and picked up the pack of cigarettes on the table. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead, kill yourself,” Woodpecker scoffed. “Might as well, you’re dead anyway. Betraying your deep-cover colleagues; it’s a death sentence. They’ll find you. They always do.”
Rudoi took his time lighting his cigarette. “You trying to cheer me up?”
Woodpecker stood behind Rudoi resting his heavy hands firmly on Rudoi’s shoulder; the sharp tips of the shears brushing against his earlobe. “How many names did you give them?”
“Enough to blow the cover on several key operations.” Rudoi winced and arched his back as if he was expecting the shears to be plunged into his neck.
“Is something wrong?” Woodpecker asked, circling Rudoi as he checked the evenness of the cut.
“I couldn’t help but notice your weapon.”
“Are you afraid of guns?”
“That one I am. It’s a Russian PSS silent pistol. An unusual choice of a weapon for an American agent.”
“A souvenir.”
“If you’re CIA, I’m Chairman Mao.”
Woodpecker sprung backwards and drew the pistol. Rudoi stayed seated.
“Good. This way we can have a grown-up conversation without all the pretence,” Woodpecker said.
Rudoi looked up without emotion. “You must be Timur’s friend?”
“Who did you betray, Agent Rudoi? The names.”
“Why should I cooperate?”
“Because my bag contains instruments of torture that I’m more than willing to use.”
“Crap! This is not my week. Instead of Woodpecker, I get Klaus Barbie.”
“Mikhail, my friend,” Woodpecker said, switching to Russian. “You know our methods better than most. We do what it takes, without mercy.”
“Idik chertu,” Rudoi said, spitting in Woodpecker’s face.
Woodpecker pulled the trigger. A round lodged in the wooden chair between Rudoi’s open legs. “Don’t fuck with me, you traitorous piece of shit. I was up all night and I’m in a terrible mood.”
“You kill me and you don’t get the names, Einstein. Then the European deep-cover programme will be set back twenty years.”
Woodpecker straightened his aim. “That’s why I’ll start by shooting out your kneecaps.”
“That sounds painful,” Rudoi said, popping a yellow capsule into his mouth. Almost instantly, Rudoi collapsed to the floor in convulsions.
“You coward,” Woodpecker cried, dropping to his knees, and shaking Rudoi violently. “Who did you betray?”
“No one,” Rudoi said, plunging the long shaft of the screwdriver deep into Woodpecker’s neck. “That’s the irony of it all.”
Gasping for air, Woodpecker fell to the floor.
No time to hang around. Rudoi flung open the apartment door and bolted down the corridor. He put his weight to the emergency exit. Locked. Not daring to look back, he scrambled across to the lift and pounded on the call button. The sound from the shaft told him that the lift was near. “Open,” Rudoi pleaded, as the lift clunked to a stop in front of him.
“Don’t move,” Woodpecker said in a low, gurgling tone. Bloody shoulder resting on the wall, he lifted his pistol with both hands.
Rudoi swung around in disbelief. Woodpecker looked sunken and weak. But his eyes were sharp and his gun hand steady.
“Where are you hurrying to? We haven’t finished.”
A smile came slowly to Rudoi’s tired face as he raised his hands. “There’s a screwdriver sticking out of your neck. You should get that seen to.”
The lift door, at last, sprung open. Rudoi fought off the urge to dive forward. He could see the colour fading from Woodpecker’s face. He knew it was only a matter of time before his visitor lost consciousness. Patience.
“Step away from the lift,” Woodpecker said, his voice powerless and lacking authority.
Rudoi coiled his body; eyes flashing between the gun and the open lift. Woodpecker was having none of it. A single noiseless round hit Rudoi above the ear. He fell with a thud. Then, as if death wasn’t enough, the lift doors closed and opened on his head.
31
Rossi climbed out of the taxi near the Uzbek restaurant where he had taken lunch. Cathy had mentioned the US Embassy was nearby. He figured it was as good a place as any. Turning his back to the icy wind, Rossi waited for the taxi to disappear.
Disorientated and alone, he descended into a subterranean walkway and crossed to the south side of the busy six-lane avenue. Russian pop music blared out of speakers mounted on the roofs of the shops and restaurants that lined the strip.
He hurried east in the direction of the Kremlin. Best to put some distance between himself and the US Embassy.
Looks promising, Rossi thought, peering through the window of the ‘Petit Café’. It was all but empty, which didn’t say much for the coffee. But it was quiet and commanded an uninterrupted view of the street.
Inside it was warm, with Provençal charm. Petit all right. Rossi counted no more than a dozen tables. He glanced over at the leggy waitress as he hung his coat near the door; too busy flirting with the barista to even turn her head. He sat down by the window facing west and scanned the area where he was dropped of
f.
In front of him was the café’s only other guest – a stylish woman with long swept-back brunette hair, not yet forty. She looked up and smiled softly, as if to say hello, then continued reading one of the fashion magazines that were scattered about the café.
“A double espresso please,” Rossi called to the waitress.
She turned her head back over her shoulder and nodded; then said something to the barista that made them both snigger.
I need to call Cathy, Rossi thought, patting his pockets. A wry smile. He had dropped his phone into the shopping bag of a passer-by as he fled the hotel. It seemed to be a smart thing to do at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Do you speak English?” Rossi asked the waitress when she brought over his coffee.
“Nyet,” she said, shaking her head unapologetically.
“Is there a payphone nearby?”
“Ne-panimiyou.”
“Te-le-phone,” Rossi repeated, gesturing with his hand.
The waitress shrugged her shoulders and moved back to the bar.
“The arrogance of youth and the naivety of beauty,” the brunette said, standing unnoticed at Rossi’s shoulder.
He looked up with a start. “Sorry, I was somewhere else.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” she said, holding out a Swarovski-encrusted smartphone.
No thought of refusing, Rossi snatched at the phone. “You’re so kind. I wouldn’t normally impose, but…”
“Not at all,” she said, returning to her table.
The sound of sirens filled the street as Rossi fished about in his pockets for Cathy’s business card. He gazed nervously at the stream of police vehicles racing past towards the Moscow River. Seems I’m not the only one causing trouble tonight.
Rossi dialled. No answer. His heart sank as Cathy’s voicemail activated. He rang off and dialled again. Voicemail. He left a short message.
“Is everything all right?” the brunette asked, as Rossi handed back the phone.
“She didn’t answer.”
“Maybe your wife didn’t recognise the number?” she said, putting on her fur coat to leave.
Rossi knew a proposition when he heard one. “Regrettably, I’m not married.”
“How fascinating,” she said, tilting her head to one side.
Rossi’s strong primal instinct burst forth. He thought to ask for her number. Then his brain kicked in. This was not the time or the place.
As the door closed behind the brunette, Rossi heard sirens approaching from the east. He hurried to the window. In the distance, three police vehicles escorting a VIP through traffic. Come on Cathy – where the hell are you? Then the café door swung open again. She’s keen, Rossi thought.
“Signor Rossi, I assume?” the brunette said, holding out her phone. “It’s for you.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, taking the phone.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Cathy?”
“I got your message. I’ll be there in two minutes. And keep away from strange Russian ladies.”
Rossi felt an overwhelming sense of relief. “Please hurry,” he said, ending the call.
“You found her?” the brunette said, scribbling her telephone number on a napkin.
“Yes. She’s on her way.”
“Pity,” the brunette said, tucking the napkin into Rossi’s breast pocket.
“Thank you again,” Rossi said with a schoolboy grin as the brunette turned for the exit.
As the door opened, Rossi again heard sirens. But this time the sound was static. “Christ,” he said, staring at a dozen police vehicles, pulling up in front of the Uzbek restaurant.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the waitress looking his way. “Bill please,” he called out, motioning with his hands.
At the exact spot he had exited the taxi, thirty armed policemen had gathered under a street lamp. Dressed in grey trench coats and trooper hats, they were receiving instructions from the officer in charge.
Rossi felt his stomach tighten as half their number vanished down the same subterranean crossing he had used twenty minutes earlier. Within seconds they were on his side of the street. Four, maybe five turned towards the river; the majority headed east in his direction.
Rossi watched in horror as they paired off, then with weapons raised stormed into the first half-dozen establishments. Terrified patrons flooded onto Novy Arbat. The commotion brought the waitress and the barista to the window.
“They’re looking for someone,” the barista said, in accented English, turning to Rossi.
“Really?” Rossi said, smiling, more surprised by the fact the young man spoke English than by his ridiculously obvious observation.
“Look,” the barista cried, “they’re coming our way.”
Time to go. Rossi rose abruptly and grabbed his coat.
“Be careful out there. The Moscow police like to use their guns.”
“That’s reassuring.” Rossi reached for the door then stopped. “I’m parked out the back. Do you have a service entrance?”
“I wish,” the barista said, too wide-eyed to suspect that the well-dressed man in his café was the fugitive at the centre of the manhunt.
“Pity. It’s a bit of a hike.”
Rossi scurried east without looking back. In front of him a glass door swung open and a small group of diners came onto the street. Rossi caught the reflection of a tall man in a fur hat approaching quickly from behind.
“Inspector General Rossi,” came a faint voice.
Friend or foe? Rossi ran.
“Stop! Where are you going?”
Between buildings, Rossi spotted the halo of a street lamp at the end of a roofed passageway. He pivoted towards the opening. But his leather-soled shoes refused to follow. “Christ,” Rossi cried out as his feet flew out from under him. Landing with a thump, he came to rest against a giant fibreglass Mexican promoting the ‘Hat Dance Cantina’. Dazed and winded, Rossi lay motionless, unable to move.
“Are you Rossi?” the man enquired, grabbing him by the arm.
Rossi tried to break free, but he wasn’t up to it.
“Come with me,” the man insisted, pulling Rossi to his feet.
“Release me,” Rossi said, his speech slurred. “I have full diplomatic status.”
“CIA, Special Agent Lawrence. Can you walk?”
“I’m fine,” Rossi said relieved, his legs collapsing under him.
Lawrence took Rossi’s weight. “Let’s get out of here before you’re spotted.”
Blurry-eyed, Rossi glanced back at the ‘Petit Café’. On the pavement the waitress and the barista were talking to three portly policemen. “It’s too late.”
“I doubt it,” Lawrence said. “Look at the size of those guys. They’re more likely to go inside for a piece of cake than chase after you.”
Rossi’s head throbbed and his ears rang as he followed Lawrence through the passageway and out onto the back lanes of Arbat. The sight of Cathy sitting behind the wheel of the Escalade lifted his spirits.
“Who phoned for a cab?” Cathy called out as they approached.
“I told you trouble would come to me,” Rossi said, climbing delicately into the back.
“Were you spotted?” Cathy asked, hitting the accelerator pedal hard.
Torment. Rossi felt an invisible hand reach inside his skull and squeeze his brain. Frantically his fingers danced about in his pockets searching for his painkillers.
“Possibly,” Lawrence answered.
Cathy glanced at Rossi in the rear-view mirror. “What happened to you this time?”
With one hand, Rossi threw a couple of painkillers into his mouth. With the other he held a bloody handkerchief to the back of his head. “I ran into a big Mexican.”
Cathy laughed. “A little accident-prone, aren’t you?”
The vehicle fell white-knuckled silent as Cathy raced the heavy SUV down a narrow icy road and through an intersection without even a tap on the brake.
“You’ve done this before,” Rossi said.
“Holidays on my uncle’s farm in Wisconsin. We used to go ice racing on the nearby lakes during winter.”
“Summer wouldn’t work.”
“It was before my mother died. I must have been twelve or thirteen. Jeez, it was fun.”
“What was she like?”
Cathy looked straight ahead. “She was an angel. I miss her so much.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I came home from school one day and found her hanging from the ceiling,” Cathy said, her voice brittle.
An uncomfortable silence.
Rossi kept glancing back over his shoulder expecting to see a response. After a while he stopped looking. “What happened to the police?”
“I told you. They’re eating cake,” Lawrence said.
Suddenly Cathy hit the brakes and skidded the Escalade to a halt. “The road’s closed.” She leant forward and scanned the area.
The traffic on the Boulevard Ring was building in both directions. To the right a lone policeman stood in the middle of the Prechistenka Ulitsa intersection waving a black-and-white baton. Quickly the streets grew eerily silent. Rossi looked about anxiously. He couldn’t quite understand why only he looked nervous. Then the faint sound of sirens drifted in from the direction of the Kremlin.
“Is this all for me?”
Cathy smiled at Rossi in the rear-view mirror. “I hate to disappoint you. It’s the President’s motorcade.”
Rossi blew out a short tense breath. “Trust me, I’m not disappointed.”
The shrill of the sirens from the accompanying armoured vehicles grew louder as the convoy climbed towards Kropotkinskaya.
“This area will be at a standstill for hours,” Cathy said.
Through the bare poplar trees running down the centre of Gogolevsky Boulevard, Rossi watched as the motorcade sped through the intersection. Blue flashing lights appeared and disappeared between the stationary traffic as they went.