by Sean Heary
Krotsky was rattled. Rossi had got under his skin. He couldn’t think straight. It was as though the man from the Vatican had taken a sledgehammer and smashed his reality into tiny pieces.
The ideology he’d believed in when he first joined the KGB’s Office for Active Measures had long gone. Russia was no longer communist. So why was he still caught in the lie? At first he had convinced himself that the collapse of the Soviet Union was temporary. It had failed, not because of the ideology, but because of the frailty of humankind and the incompetence of the Soviet leadership. To have Stalin in charge of such an intellectual undertaking was like putting Genghis Khan in charge of Silicon Valley. The social experiment was doomed to fail from the beginning. There is still time. A new leader could come along with the good of the people in mind. But the people were half the problem. It’s through their apathy that communism failed. And then democracy. The small minority that took part in public life were, on the whole, motivated by greed and seduced by power. They never represented the people, nor did the people represent themselves. Someone else will do it. We were wrong. They screwed us.
Where is the enemy now? He knew they were long gone – if they ever existed – but he always suppressed the thought. So why am I still participating in the lie? he asked himself again. Was it love of the Motherland? He thought it peculiar he didn’t have a better answer.
Slapping both hands on the table, Krotsky stood. He headed to the living room and flopped on the sofa. “I’m no traitor,” he growled to himself. Equally he knew he was not what he’d become. Convinced he could not run even if he wanted to, he thought about early retirement. No one could begrudge him that. He had done his bit. For an instant he felt calmer. Then President Volkov’s news conference flashed through his mind. Maybe he had done his bit too well. The Concordat had brought the world one step closer to nuclear Armageddon. And for what? Not for the good of all, but for the benefit of the few. He had become the antithesis of what he believed in.
Mumbling to himself, Krotsky grabbed his laptop and typed. Within an hour he was asleep. Tomorrow was a working day. And given all that was going on he didn’t want to give anyone a reason to question his commitment to the cause – whatever that might be.
42
Lawrence’s dozing eyes lit up when the grey metal door to Krotsky’s apartment building swung open. A man in an ushanka hat, his face hidden behind a scarf, glanced about as he stepped onto the pavement.
Is that him? Lawrence wasn’t sure. The appearance of a bearded man, from an adjoining alleyway, removed any doubt. Lawrence sunk low behind the wheel as the two men hurried past in turn.
Krotsky removed a glove and dropped it on the snow. He glanced back suddenly as he bent down to pick it up. The FSB tail stood in plain sight. For now, it was only intimidation.
On the opposite side of the road, following at a safe distance, Lawrence pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled. “The target will be with you in four minutes.”
“We’re in position,” Cathy’s voice came down the line.
“By the way, you were right. He’s got a tail. Dark hair, full goatee, and a black leather coat – like a throwback to the Cold War.”
“Can you manage him?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Lawrence said, without hesitation.
“I’ll take that as a maybe.”
Krotsky glanced back over his shoulder as he turned left onto Kutuzovsky Prospect, fifty metres from the Metro entrance. The tail made no attempt to hide. Lawrence quickened his pace. As he drew within a few metres of the FSB ruffian, he sunk his hand into his pocket, and removed a high voltage stun gun, ready to strike.
“Watch where you’re going,” a delivery man shouted, striking Lawrence on the shin with the toe plate of a hand trolley.
Lawrence swore out loud and danced around in pain.
The FSB agent shot him a glance, but quickly returned his gaze to the sea of bobbing heads in front of the Metro entrance. “Out of my way,” he growled, realising he had fallen too far behind. Panic. He charged the crowd, knocking over a scrawny Tajik carrying a canvas bag full of dried fruits and nuts.
“Careful,” the man’s larger companion remonstrated, grabbing the agent by the arm.
“FSB,” the tail snapped, brushing the Tajik aside.
By the time Lawrence made it inside, the tail was already on the escalator heading down to the platform. Lawrence remained calm. He knew the Park Pobedy escalator, at 126 metres long, was not the quickest ride in town. He barged past the queues and jumped the ticket barrier. “Police business,” he called out, holding up his golf club membership.
As Lawrence stepped onto the escalator, he heard two trains departing in quick succession. One city-bound, the other heading out to Mitino. With trains arriving and departing every two minutes, it would be tight.
Elbowing his way past sleepy commuters, the tail made good progress. “Make way, FSB,” he continued to call out.
Lawrence stopped. He was out of position. Below he glimpsed Cathy stepping onto the platform behind Krotsky. She glanced up and mouthed something he didn’t understand. “Push,” she repeated, motioning with both hands. Lawrence nodded, then launched himself into the back of the obese woman dozing on the step below him. The woman let out a yelp as she catapulted into the man in front of her. That was all it took to set off a chain reaction that continued all the way to the bottom.
Screams of terror and pain rang through the station. Inside the glass observation booth, the platform supervisor slammed her fat fist on the red button. The escalator jolted to a halt. Those still standing were thrown forward onto the writhing heap.
Throughout the chaos, Lawrence kept his feet. He stood watching Cathy until she disappeared behind a column. Then movement on the escalator below. Lawrence stood aghast as the leather-clad agent emerged from under two hysterical schoolgirls, who rolled off his back as he rose.
Dazed, the FSB agent looked up at Lawrence blinking, as if taking mental pictures of his face. He then vaulted over the balustrade and slid on his back down the stainless steel divide to the bottom.
“Get out of my way,” the tail thundered, as an impenetrable wall of arriving commuters rushed towards him. He never stood a chance.
Lawrence smiled in relief as Krotsky’s train roared off, presumably with Rossi and Cathy on board. Down below amongst the congestion, his opposite number was already on the phone.
On board the city-bound train, Rossi and Cathy positioned themselves in the front half of the third wagon, close to the master forger.
Krotsky glanced anxiously about the crammed carriage, expecting to see his tail. Instead, he spotted Rossi threading his way towards him.
“There’s a vehicle waiting at the next station,” Rossi said, motioning him to follow.
Krotsky turned his back to move away. There was no room.
Rossi leant in and whispered, “You’re Volkov’s loose end.”
Again silence.
Grabbing Krotsky by the wrist, Rossi pulled him closer. “Good or evil. Choose.”
Rossi’s heart sank as the train slowed, approaching Kievskaya station. In the briefest five minutes of his life, he had failed to convince Krotsky to help. Now it was time to get out before the police sealed off the station. Perhaps after Lawrence’s monumental cock-up, it was already too late?
“Russia’s future is in your hands,” Rossi said, trying one final time.
“Leave me alone,” Krotsky blurted out, drawing sideways glances from passengers.
The doors hissed open and half the carriage piled out. Rossi hesitated. Krotsky was his only lead.
“Out,” Cathy demanded, shoving Rossi onto the platform, just before the waiting horde surged forward to fill the void.
Rossi’s eyes darted about, expecting to see an escalator that would take them to safety. Nothing. “I hope you know th
e way out.”
“We need to change lines,” Cathy said, pulling Rossi along by the hand. “The street exit is via the adjoining Koltsevaya station.”
As they rushed through the station hall towards the connecting passageway, Rossi couldn’t help but glance about. The architecture was impressive. For a split second he forgot where he was. “Is this a Metro or a museum?”
“It was Kruschtschov’s favourite.”
Kievskaya station, named in honour of the Ukrainian capital, was opened in 1954. Featuring columns of beige Ural marble and an arched plastered ceiling, the structure was covered in Soviet-era frescos depicting various aspects of Ukrainian life. Art, history and culture wrapped in propaganda, Cathy always thought.
Rossi nodded. “I can see why.”
“Take a good look, because we’re not coming back.”
Their whimsical chatter abruptly ceased. Ahead stood two policemen scrutinising the faces in the thinning crowd.
“The description?” one of the policemen shouted into his walkie-talkie, as another train arrived.
“Kazakh male. Green field jacket and a Spartak Moskva cap,” a barely audible voice crackled over the line.
“Keep moving. They’re not looking for us,” Cathy said, hurrying past, head down.
43
Across town, Moscow’s main CCTV control floor was hectic. The incident at Park Pobedy ten minutes earlier had all dispatch officers on high alert. More than half the screens on the vast video wall ran live feed from cameras placed in and around the Metro network.
The floor supervisor barked orders from the Command Room overlooking the main floor. In the adjacent CCTV monitoring suite an FSB agent had just arrived and was being briefed by the senior dispatcher.
“There. You see – the woman was pushed,” the dispatcher said, motioning to one of the four screens set in a semi-circle in front of him. “It was no accident.”
“Big bastard,” the FSB agent said. “CIA.”
“And there’s your tail.”
“Where’s the footage of Agent Kvost entering?”
The dispatcher swivelled his chair towards the monitor on his right. The screen was already locked on the tail as he approached the Metro entrance.
“Back it up to Krotsky.”
The dispatcher rewound the recording to the moment Krotsky appeared on Kutuzovsky Prospect.
“Stop – now slow forward,” the FSB agent said, leaning closer to the monitor.
“There’s Krotsky – now Agent Kvost – and the foreigner,” the dispatcher said, pointing at each of them.
“The tall lady that comes into shot here. She seems to be involved. Have you got a shot of Krotsky on the platform? Let’s check if she’s there.”
The dispatcher ran the footage on the third screen.
“There,” the FSB agent blurted out. “That’s her behind Krotsky.”
The dispatcher paused the recording as the lady turned her face towards the camera. With a couple of swirls of his mouse, like magic, he expanded and enhanced the image.
“That’s CIA operative Doherty,” the FSB agent said, his voice gathering intensity. “The Americans just can’t help themselves.”
The dispatcher ran the recording again. “Look here! She’s talking to someone.”
The FSB agent squinted. “Nothing like his passport photo, but by association I bet you that’s Rossi – the cop from the Vatican.”
44
Cathy and Rossi stopped dead. Three policemen stood in the middle of the Koltsevaya platform between them and the only way out.
“In here,” Cathy breathed, pulling Rossi into a small service recess near the connecting passageway.
Rossi glanced at his watch. Ten minutes since entering the Metro. “Surely they’re not already looking for us?”
“If Krotsky’s tail spotted us…”
“Either way, the longer we hang around here, the worse it gets.”
“Here’s our chance,” Cathy said, as another train pulled up.
Like a flock of starlings, the arriving passengers merged and divided without colliding. Half of them moved towards the connecting passageway from where Cathy and Rossi had just come. The rest darted towards the escalator that led to the ticketing hall and the street.
Cathy locked arms with Rossi and melded in with the swarm. “Look casual.”
“Piece of cake,” Rossi said, as they sailed past unnoticed.
The escalator journey to the top was agonisingly slow.
“I feel like I’ve got an AK-47 pointed at my head,” Cathy whispered, fighting the urge to look back.
“Strange thing, adrenaline. That was almost enjoyable,” Rossi said, stepping off the escalator into the ticketing hall.
“Yeah, a real hoot. But let’s not do it again soon.” Grabbing Rossi’s hand, she pulled him towards the swinging glass doors of the street exit.
“Stop,” a penetrating voice came from the side.
Cathy and Rossi kept walking.
The heavyset police sergeant, walkie-talkie crackling in hand, repeated the order in a more aggressive tone. “Stop!”
Cathy turned towards the voice with a confused expression. “Who us?”
“Move to the side,” the sergeant ordered.
“Keep shuffling towards the exit,” Cathy whispered, while nodding politely at the sergeant.
Rossi gave Cathy a nudge and motioned with a tip of the head towards the exit. Two responding officers had entered the ticketing hall from outside. Then as if they had walked into a trap, the three policemen from below appeared at the top of the escalator, guns raised. “Let’s see you talk your way out of this.”
“Lock the exits,” the sergeant barked.
Cathy scanned the hall for options. Nothing. “Is there a problem, Sergeant?” she asked, with an unmistakable note of annoyance.
“Sergeant Timchenkov,” he said, stepping forward and saluting. “Your documents, please.”
As Cathy wasted time in her handbag, the ticketing hall filled with passengers arriving from below.
“Documents,” the sergeant repeated, one eye on Rossi.
Cathy shook her head and tutted. “Now isn’t that a nuisance. I’m afraid I’ve left them in the hotel.”
“Wait here,” the sergeant said, putting the walkie-talkie to his ear.
By now the ticketing hall was clogged. The throng rotated around a central point. Cathy and Rossi found themselves drifting towards the blocked exit.
“Move the crowd on,” the sergeant screamed.
“Where to?” one of the officers called back. “You told us to lock the doors.”
“I said nothing of the sort. Open them you imbecile.”
The locks released and the two officers stepped aside. Commuters waiting outside shoved forward like a rugby scrum. The crush was unbearable. An old lady fell to the floor, then another.
“I’m suffocating,” came a faint voice.
“My daughter – where’s my daughter,” a mother cried.
“Stop the escalators,” Timchenkov yelled furiously, as the passengers arriving from below piled onto one another like bales of hay. “Are you all idiots?”
Amidst the mayhem, Cathy and Rossi rode the wave towards the exit.
“Tuck in behind me,” Rossi said.
Putting his shoulder to the crowd, Rossi heaved. Crack! The swinging doors gave way. Next thing he knew, he was face down on the pavement amongst the metal and glass – with Cathy on top of him.
“Run!” Cathy yelled, shaking herself off. She led Rossi across the square to a white Subaru parked on the side of the road.
“Not quite what you were expecting,” Cathy said, firing up the engine.
Rossi smiled. “Krotsky’s more complicated than I thought.”
Cathy hit the accelerator and fish
tailed the Subaru down an icy side street. “A Russian-Jewish KGB agent. You don’t get more complicated than that.”
“Maybe I should drive?”
“In your dreams. This is Moscow, not Monza,” Cathy said. “Besides, I haven’t forgiven you for those horrible things you said to me last night.”
“That’s no reason to kill me.”
“Isn’t it?” Cathy said, tearing towards the first intersection. “Now watch and learn.”
“I prefer to keep my eyes closed, if you don’t mind.”
Cathy turned the wheel slightly left and hit the brakes. The Subaru slid sideways, facing away from the right-hand turn. She then flicked the wheel right and went hard on the throttle, slingshotting the Subaru around the corner. At the very next intersection, she repeated the manoeuvre, only this time, to the left.
“That’s not my fault,” she insisted, glancing back at the wing mirror from a new BMW bouncing along the road.
“Sì. The parked car moved.”
Cathy opened a window. The sound of police sirens built around them.
“Sounds like they’re setting up a perimeter,” Rossi said. “Do we have a plan?”
“The CIA always has a plan.”
“Good.” He paused then added, “as long as it doesn’t involve the Metro.”
“You worry too much, Enzo. Everything’s under control.”
For the next couple of blocks, Cathy drove less conspicuously. “This looks like it,” she said, turning into the driveway of a disused foundry.
At the rear of the property inside a workshop, Special Agent Brodzinski jumped out of a late-model ambulance as Cathy drove in.
“Bene! This almost makes up for the shitty morning. I’ve always wanted to ride in an ambulance,” Rossi said, with childish enthusiasm.
They greeted each other briskly and got straight to business.
“Inspector General,” Brodzinski said. “You’re the patient. So if you don’t mind, jump in the back and lie on the trolley.”