by Sean Heary
Brodzinski presented his freshly printed documents in silence. Grasny examined them showing no expression of concern.
“What are you carrying?”
Brodzinski told his story. Not unexpectedly, he was ordered to get down and open the back.
“Two bronze statues of the Motherland’s newest hero,” he said, as the cargo doors swung open.
Seemingly unimpressed by the soles of Stalin’s large bronze feet, the policeman turned his attention to the truck. Brodzinski followed him as he strolled around the vehicle, shining his torch up and down the bodywork as he went.
“The truck’s three months old. You won’t find anything wrong with it.”
“Your side mirror’s broken,” Grasny said, shattering the glass with his patrol baton. “Park over there. I’ll need to conduct a full inspection.”
Brodzinski, familiar with such tactics responded appropriately. “How much?” After a short, cordial negotiation, Brodzinski handed over two hundred dollars and continued on his way.
Two kilometres down the road, Brodzinski pulled off onto the hard shoulder and jumped down. He opened the back and signalled the all clear. Cathy and Rossi wasted no time in climbing out. Cathy looked pale, but insisted she was all right.
This process repeated itself twice more before they reached the outskirts of Orsk.
“Let’s hope this is the last time,” Brodzinski bellowed, sending his two passengers scurrying back into their sarcophagi.
Brodzinski pulled into the siding as ordered by one of the four policemen who were standing in front of the office like roadside whores waiting for a customer. Opening his door, he handed down his documents.
“This is the fourth time I’ve been stopped since Moscow,” he said, appearing annoyed. “Why can’t you guys coordinate yourselves? This costs me time.”
“Officer Salko,” the policeman said, saluting. “Get out of your vehicle.”
“What’s the problem this time?”
“You’ve got a broken side mirror.”
“I do now.”
“Open the back.”
Retelling his well-drilled story, Brodzinski sensed that Salko was after more than the usual fee. His intuition was quickly confirmed.
“Offload the statues,” Salko ordered. “We’ll take them from here.”
Brodzinski’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”
“You’re already in Orenburg. Consider them delivered.”
Brodzinski did his best to laugh it off, but the policeman was serious. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“I’ll make sure they get to the right address,” Salko said, waving the submachine gun slung over his shoulder in Brodzinski’s general direction.
“Look! I understand how the game’s played. I’ve been at this for twenty-three years. The statues have no aesthetic value to you. You plan to sell them as scrap. So let’s do the maths. Two tons of bronze at four thousand dollars a ton – they can’t be worth more than eight thousand dollars.”
The officer nodded. “It’s good we understand each other.”
“So how much do you need to let me do my job?”
“Half their value would be a win-win.”
“Four thousand dollars? That’s absurd,” Brodzinski said, his tone now distinctively aggressive.
“Welcome to the new reality.”
“Why would I ever agree to such an amount?”
“Because you get to keep the statues.”
Brodzinski lit a cigarette and drew deeply as he thought. Then against his better judgement, he agreed. The policeman’s greedy round eyes twitched. Brodzinski sensed he had made a stupid mistake.
Salko tapped his baton on Stalin’s feet. “Doesn’t sound hollow.”
“Should it?”
“No one agrees to such an amount unless they’re smuggling contraband.”
“These statues are a work of art. They’re worth much more than their weight in bronze,” Brodzinski said in a loud voice, trying to warn Cathy and Rossi of the impending danger.
The policeman ignored Brodzinski’s plea. Instead he craned his neck around the corner of the truck and motioned to one of his colleagues to join him.
“Officer Tankov, my friend here has just offered me four thousand dollars to look the other way.”
“What’s he carrying – gold?”
“Two bronze statues of Stalin,” Salko said, laughing as if it were a joke.
“You’re the fourth truck with Stalin statues this month. Not very inventive, are you?”
Salko climbed up onto the truck tray and banged his baton along the full length of Cathy’s hideaway. A betraying dull thud reverberated through the cargo area.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Tankov said. “I was expecting something more like church bells?”
“They’re filled with polyurethane foam to stop water collecting inside.”
“And you’re full of shit,” Tankov scoffed.
“Keep an eye on him while I grab the cutting torch,” Salko said, jumping down from the tray, then heading towards the workshop.
Brodzinski turned to Tankov. “Touch the statues and you’ll have the Ministry of Culture to answer to.”
The policeman burst into laughter. “I suspect Moscow has higher priorities right now. Besides, our next President might revert to the previous view that Stalin was a stain on Russian history. So we would be doing everyone a favour.”
“This is total anarchy.”
“Yes it is. So grab what you can.”
“Then just take the money,” Brodzinski said, reaching into his pocket.
“I’m afraid curiosity has taken hold.”
Brodzinski moved to the side of the truck and lit a cigarette. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Out here we have plenty of time.”
On the path from the workshop, the oxyacetylene welding rig was bogged deep in snow. “Give me a hand,” Salko bellowed.
Through Stalin’s moustache, Rossi had heard enough to know it was time to go. Unclipping the internal latch, he rolled out. Cathy followed – her face a ghostly white. “I need a holiday,” she said.
“Me too. Let’s go to Rome.”
Rossi jumped down and peered between the wheels. He saw the two policemen pulling and pushing at the cutting rig. Brodzinski stood nearby doing everything possible to impede their progress.
Without a sound, Cathy lowered the statue lids then dropped down to join Rossi. They edged along the driver’s side of the Volvo unseen. Rossi held up his hand, stopping short at the front wheel. To his right he spotted a third policeman strolling back to the office counting his plunder.
Ten metres in front of them, the policeman’s victim climbed behind the wheel of his vehicle transporter and fired up the engine. His cargo of eight wrecked SUVs looked to Rossi like the perfect place to hide.
As the truck moved off, they sneaked up from behind and clambered onto the trailer. The transporter bucked and rolled as it built up speed. Balanced precariously on the narrow icy frame, Cathy glanced back at Brodzinski, who threw her a reassuring wink.
“We seem to have got away with it,” Cathy said.
“Will Brodzinski be okay?”
“He’s a big boy. He knows how to take care of himself. Besides, he’s still got a bag full of cash to buy his way out.”
64
“Commandant Waldmann has arrived, Your Eminence,” Monsignor Polak said, standing in the doorway of Cardinal Capelli’s office.
The cardinal, who hadn’t slept since President Volkov’s letter, glanced up. “Show him in.”
“Good news,” Waldmann said, sitting down in front of the cardinal’s desk. “The US Ambassador has confirmed that Inspector General Rossi has recovered the forged Concordat.”
“Thank God,” the cardinal said, clap
ping his hands together once. “And where is he?”
“At this moment, no one’s sure.”
“How’s that?”
“Russia has lapsed into complete chaos – as Your Eminence could imagine. So the CIA decided to smuggle him out before things are brought back under control.”
“Quite right.”
“And along the way,” Waldmann cleared his throat, “they sort of lost him.”
“Lost him? With all their surveillance satellites, drones and goodness knows what else, how on God’s earth could they lose him?”
“Russia’s a big place, Your Eminence,” the Commandant said, instantly regretting his choice of words.
“I don’t need a geography lesson, Commandant.”
“Your Eminence, I meant to say there was an incident close to the Kazakh border. It required Rossi and his partner to abandon their CIA escort and to carry on alone.”
“By partner, you mean the young lady he’s been spending an awful lot of time with lately?”
“Well yes. Agent Catherine Doherty. By all accounts her help has been invaluable. The Vatican should consider honouring her once this matter is resolved.”
“You mean make her a saint?” the cardinal said, looking at Waldmann, expressionless.
“I beg your pardon, Your Eminence.”
Cardinal Capelli broke into a broad smile at the sight of Waldmann’s confused face.
“Very good, Your Eminence,” Waldmann said, discovering for the first time that the cardinal had a sense of humour.
“So what are they doing about it? We can’t have Rossi wandering about in the wilderness.”
“They’re waiting, Your Eminence. As far as the CIA is concerned, Inspector General Rossi and Agent Doherty are on plan.”
“Then we should pray for their safe return.”
“We all are, Your Eminence.”
“I assume the CIA escort is okay?”
“More or less,” the Commandant said.
65
The driver shifted down gears. Rossi kicked open the door of the smashed Cayenne and looked out. “He’s turning into a transport café.”
Cathy checked the GPS device. “We’re eleven kilometres from the rendezvous point.”
“Close enough?”
“On this ride anyway.”
They climbed out onto the icy frame, and one perilous step after another shuffled to the back. On the unlit country road they were invisible to the tired driver. The air brakes hissed, and the twin-deck trailer groaned as the driver swung his truck into the driveway and pulled up next to a refrigerated van.
Hand in hand they jumped down. No one seemed to pay them any attention as they appeared from between the two soaring trucks.
“Supper, or is it breakfast?” Cathy glanced at her watch. One in the morning. They hadn’t eaten since leaving Moscow twenty-eight hours ago.
“Both. I’m starving.”
As they entered the café, Rossi glanced about. Several heads rose indifferently at the sound of the bell hanging above the door, but nobody appeared to give them a second look.
They took a table at the end of the long, narrow café and sat facing one another. Rossi, the more infamous of the two, sat with his back to the door.
“Did anyone reach for their mobile phone?” Rossi asked.
“Not a soul. Thanks to my handiwork, you bear little resemblance to that scrumptious guy in the mugshot the police are circulating. As long as you keep your mouth shut we’ll be okay.”
“Again.”
Rossi fell silent as the waitress approached with a pot of coffee. Cathy ordered scrambled eggs and sausage for both of them, then waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
Rossi smiled. “So what are our options?”
Cathy grabbed the GPS and studied it for a moment. “It’s too far to walk. Besides, we’d stick out like sore thumbs.”
“We could hop another truck.”
“There’s a major junction up ahead,” Cathy said, shaking her head. “We could end up anywhere.”
“Steal a couple of pushbikes?” Rossi smirked. “I’m quite an accomplished cyclist I’ll have you know.”
Cathy sat forward. An idea had popped into her head. “Look around. We’re invisible. No one’s looking for us this far from Moscow. I’ll get the waitress to call us a cab.”
Fifteen minutes later the taxi pulled up in front of the café entrance. Cathy paid the bill, and they exited without fuss.
“You Hannah?” the clean-cut young driver asked, looking Cathy up and down.
“V aeroport, pozhaluysta.” Cathy jumped in the back and slid over, making room for Rossi directly behind the driver; hidden and out of sight.
The driver swung the taxi around and drove south.
“The airport?” Rossi mouthed.
Cathy nodded. “Trust me,” she whispered.
“Where are you flying to?”
“Home,” Cathy answered coldly, not wanting to get caught up in a chatty conversation.
“Where’s that?” the driver persisted, eyeing Cathy closely in the rear-view mirror.
“Stockholm.”
“I thought I detected a slight accent,” the driver said. “What on earth are you doing in Orsk? Not everyone’s first choice of travel destination.”
“Shooting a film.”
The driver stretched over and removed something from the glove compartment. “You’re an actress then? I thought I recognised your face.”
“I’m not that famous. It’s a small part,” Cathy said, following his gaze in the rear-view mirror.
“What’s it called? I might go see it.”
“It’s an English language film. The studio’s not planning to release it in Russian – you speak English?”
“Not a word, unfortunately. If I could, I’d be in Moscow working for one of those greedy multinationals earning the big mani.”
“Pity – the producer’s looking for extras.”
The driver nodded as he adjusted his rear-view mirror onto Rossi’s face. He immediately fell silent. For the next couple of kilometres he drove noticeably slower.
Cathy watched suspiciously as the driver glanced down several times at the empty passenger seat and then in the mirror at Rossi. She craned her neck to check what he was looking at, but without success.
66
“I don’t care what the Ministry says. Get me on a plane out of here,” Chief James screamed at his personal assistant.
“It’s almost midnight, Chief. Everyone’s gone home,” the PA said.
“Bullshit. After what happened last night, no one’s sleeping.”
Chief James was furious. He’d been summoned to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia to brief the top brass, but with the country on total lockdown, he couldn’t secure approval to fly. To further raise his angst, the only two people with full knowledge of the circumstances leading up to the Olympisky assassinations were missing in action.
Lawrence entered the chief’s office as his PA left. “I’ve spoken with the US Ambassador. She said she’d try to speak to the Russian Foreign Minister – but there were no guarantees.”
“Tell her to tell Foreign Minister Potapov that if I don’t get clearance within the hour, then Washington will destroy every Russian city between St Petersburg and Vladivostok with a barrage of intercontinental nuclear missiles.”
“I’m not sure that’s a proportional response, Chief,” Lawrence said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And besides, I doubt whether the ambassador would be willing to say that.”
“Then what the hell do you suggest?”
“Excluding the nuclear option, we can ask Langley to contact the Secretary of State for help.”
“You’re right. I�
�ll try to contact Langley now.”
Lawrence walked out of the door with a grin on his face.
67
The lights of the airport now visible across the dark, windswept steppes, Rossi wondered what on earth Cathy was thinking. Every airport in the country would be crawling with armed police. Why walk into a hornet’s nest?
Turning onto the deserted airport approach road, Cathy discerned fear in the driver’s prying eyes. She realised this could mean only one thing. “Stop the car,” she said, holding her pistol to his head.
Rossi stared at Cathy in stunned disbelief. What the hell is she doing?
Without protest, the driver pulled onto the hard shoulder. It was almost as though he had been expecting it.
Cathy leant forward and grabbed the clipboard that was lying face down on the front passenger seat. She turned it towards Rossi. “He knows who we are.”
Rossi recoiled in horror at the sight of their faces on the FSB wanted poster. “Christ. What do we do now?”
“Send the FSB a new photo. I look terrible.”
“I’m serious.”
Holding her pistol to the back of his head, Cathy persuaded the driver to unlock his phone and hand it over. “Damn,” she said. “He texted taxi dispatch five minutes ago.”
“We need to turn around. Find somewhere else to cross,” Rossi said, gazing out of the back window, as if he was expecting the police to arrive any moment.
“Everything’s set up for Orsk. If we abort now, we could end up stranded. So unless we absolutely have to, we stay on plan.”
“But why play chicken at the airport?”
“We’re not. The airport’s a reference point. Chosen because the north-south runway runs right up to the Kazakh border. By following the peripheral fence south, we can’t help but find Billy. It’s dumb-proof.”
“For me?”
Cathy smiled.
“Incidentally, what do we do with the driver?”
“We kill him,” Cathy said in Russian.
Rossi guessed what Cathy had said by the driver’s reaction. Masking a smile, he pulled the Russian from behind the wheel and dragged him round the back.