The Moscow Affair

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Nicole wondered if this was part of an act or if they were both simply mean drunks. She smiled with the knowledge that she would be gone well before dinnertime rolled around again. Kat had been right after all. They were dreadful dinner companions.

  Back in the suite, the evening that stretched ahead seemed endless. Her first priority was to get rid of the gun. It was now 8:00 and quite dark. She removed the weapon from the toilet tank, took it out to her deck, and dropped it over the rail. As it disappeared into the dark water, she had an enormous feeling of relief. The cold quickly drove her back inside. She washed her hair and changed into as many layers of clothing as she could. It was going to be freezing out, and this would help her keep warm. She pulled on a black sweater over two cotton turtleneck T-shirts. Two pairs of leggings fit easily under her jeans.

  By the time she was done, it was 9:00 with two hours still to go. There was nothing left to do but sit on the couch and read her book. Then she remembered that Little Dorrit was an e-book on her iPad, which Kolkov had taken. She felt a stab of loss. How could she get through the next three hours with nothing to read?

  She left her suite and went down to the ship’s library to look through a meager collection of worn paperbacks, probably left behind by other passengers. She found a lot of romances and westerns. Among them was a copy of Charles Portis’s True Grit, which she’d enjoyed years before. She took it back to her cabin.

  She was completely absorbed in the book when she heard three slow knocks at the door. She glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was already midnight. She got up and opened the door. Chet stepped inside and quietly closed it. This time he was dressed in the white uniform of the ship’s service staff. It was a size or two too small. Not only were the sleeves and pant legs short, but the shirt was so tight that the fabric gaped between the buttons.

  “Are you ready to leave?” he said.

  “Ready.” She smiled, happy the long wait was over.

  “Brilliant. You’ll need to put these on over your clothes.” He handed her a plastic bag. Inside were a tan jumpsuit and orange vest, just like the workers’ uniforms her targets had worn that morning in Red Square. Nicole put them on over her many other layers of clothing.

  “Huh!” Chet said, after stepping back to take in her appearance. She could see he wasn’t pleased. “I knew you’d need a small size. I guess I didn’t realize you were this—” he paused “—um, small.” Indeed, the pants covered her boots and extra fabric bunched halfway up her legs. The sleeves overhung her hands by a several inches. While she rolled them up, Chet dropped to his knees and rolled the pant legs. When they were done, she put on the vest.

  He looked her over again and shook his head. “Not ideal, but I think we can make it work. You’d best hang back in the shadows once we get to Red Square. Get your coat. It’s freezing outside.”

  She put her coat on over the jumpsuit and many layers of clothing, then followed him out of the suite. He led her to the other side of the ship and opened an unmarked door leading into a stairwell. Instead of the thickly carpeted stairs provided for passengers, these were bare. He put his finger to his lips to indicate they should make as little noise as possible. They climbed down three flights before he stopped on a landing and opened another door. This led to a hallway vibrating with the hum of whatever machinery kept going when the ship was docked.

  Chet stopped and unbuckled the belt of his uniform to let the pants drop to the floor, pulling off his shirt at the same time. Underneath he was wearing the same style jumpsuit and vest he’d given Nicole. Once again, the sleeves and pants were too short. He stuffed the ship’s uniform into a nearby trash bin, then turned to open another door, this one leading outside. The moment he did, a chill wind whipped in, carrying spray from the river. Chet reached out to grab the ladder attached to the side of the boat. He swung onto it, descending a few steps before beckoning Nicole to follow.

  She looked down. In the river, perhaps twenty feet below, was a rowboat with two men inside. She tried to grab the ladder as Chet had done, but it was out of reach. She screwed up her courage and leaned much farther out, hanging onto the doorframe with one hand and grabbing a rung of the ladder with the other. When she let go of the doorframe, she was able to grasp the ladder with both hands. But that was as far as she got. She didn’t have enough strength in her arms to swing around and place her feet on one of the rungs. Chet reached up and grabbed her around the middle. He held on until she was safely mounted on the ladder. He started climbing down, and she followed, her fear of falling somewhat mitigated by the sight of this big man just below, ready to catch her.

  At the bottom, Chet swung himself to the side so Nicole could get in the boat first. It teetered as she stepped in and sat down, then rocked wildly when Chet got in and settled next to her.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered.

  The two men sitting in the front of the boat started rowing. They passed dozens of sleeping tour ships, which stretched a good quarter mile along the dock. When they passed the last one, the rowers turned the boat toward the shore, which was reinforced with a tall, concrete sea wall. It had a ladder attached, similar to the one on the side of the ship, except this one was much taller, reaching to the top of the wall.

  Chet pointed to the ladder then up, indicating they were going to climb it. She wasn’t sure she could make it, but she climbed on and gamely started up. Chet followed close behind while the oarsmen remained in the boat. Nicole was almost halfway up when she stopped and looked down at Chet.

  “Wait! My arms are giving out. I’ve got to stop a few minutes and rest.”

  He moved up behind her. “Do I have permission to pick you up?”

  “OK,” she said.

  He balanced on the step, freeing his hands to turn her and position her against his chest and shoulder. “You all right?” he said. “I’ll be using my arms on the ladder, so you’ll have to hold onto me with your arms and legs. He waited for her to wrap her legs around his middle, her arms around his neck. The position was awkward and, at the same time, oddly comforting. His body was warm and formed a barrier against the bitter wind.

  “All right?” he said.

  “All right.” Looking down over his shoulder, she could see the rowboat getting smaller, the water farther away. It started to make her dizzy, so she closed her eyes. When they reached the top, he put her down. They were in a narrow space outside the embankment’s safety fence. Chet jumped it, one hand on the rail before helping her over.

  A motorcycle was parked there, with two helmets hanging from the handlebars. Chet handed Nicole one and put on the other. They climbed on the bike, and he took off without turning on his headlight. They left the embankment to ride through the streets. They rode a good while before he stopped and parked the motorcycle behind a large trash bin in an alley.

  “We walk the rest of the way,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave your coat here. Sorry about that. I know how cold it is.”

  As Nicole handed Chet the coat, she noticed he wasn’t wearing anything over his worker’s outfit, even though the wind had been bitterly cold on the water and when they were climbing the wall. Apparently, the cold didn’t make his bones ache the way it did hers. Draping her coat over his arm, he took the bike helmets and hung them back on the handlebars. He opened the storage compartment behind the seat of the motorcycle, pulled out two red construction helmets, and put her coat inside.

  They walked for about twenty minutes. Neither spoke. Nicole was uncomfortable with the silence, but she knew he wouldn’t answer the questions she was dying to ask. Who was he? Where had he grown up? How long had he been a spy? Had he always wanted to do this or was it something he happened into? Was he married? Did his wife know what he did for a living? Even more important, she wanted to ask if he knew Reinhardt and had any idea what had happened to him. Aside from this, she couldn’t imagine what they’d talk about. He seemed like the kind of man who didn’t have much use for small talk, or talking at all, if
he could avoid it.

  At last she spotted Red Square in the distance, well-lit and easily recognizable by the colorful onion domes of the cathedral. When they arrived, three guards with automatic weapons were stationed at the entrance, which was blocked off with traffic barriers.

  “Stay behind me,” Chet instructed. “Let me do the talking and try not to call attention to yourself.” She followed slightly behind him as he approached the guard who seemed to be in charge, the only one in a police uniform.

  Chet pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to the guard, speaking to him in Russian. Nicole was surprised but only for a moment. Since Chet was a British spy working in Russia, of course he’d speak the language. The exchange with the guard was brief. He handed the paper back and waved them in, pushing aside one of the traffic barriers in front of the gate. Chet was now walking slightly behind Nicole, keeping her out of the guards’ sight. Only now did she realize what a problem her size was. They’d never employ a five-feet-one lightweight for the physical demands of construction work.

  Tonight the workers were concentrated at the far end, where they were putting the finishing touches on bleachers that were almost complete. This area was lit by powerful lights sitting on the cobblestone pavement. The rest of the square was in deep shadow. A couple of guards seemed to be patrolling the perimeter. At the moment, the guards were on the opposite side of the square from Chet and Nicole. The rest of the security crew seemed to be stationed at the square’s many entrances, where blockades had been set up to keep people out. For the moment, the rest of the unfinished bleachers and the grandstand were deserted and unlit except for the glow reflecting from the spotlights.

  “All right, now show me where it is,” Chet said.

  Nicole led him to the front of the grandstand, went around to the side, and lifted the heavy draped fabric covering the area underneath. He followed her into the pitch dark of the stand’s underside. As soon as they were both in, he pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and clicked it on. The beam wandered along the inner supports until it rested on the opposite side where something covered with a tarp formed an uneven pyramid. They both headed toward it. Chet lifted the tarp, revealing a pile of cinderblocks, one on top of the other. On the ground in front of it was a metal toolbox. Chet leaned in close to examine it. Nicole did the same. Three cables extended from the back of the box, running under the pyramid of blocks. Nicole backed off when Chet got on his hands and knees and lowered his head to listen.

  “Is it ticking?” Nicole said.

  Chet looked up quickly as if he’d forgotten she was there. He held his finger to his lips to shush her and shook his head. He stood, covered the blocks with the tarp, and the beam of his flashlight led them back to where they’d entered. He stuck his head out to make sure it was safe to leave then beckoned Nicole to follow. He led her toward the wall in back of the grandstand.

  About a dozen steps ahead of her, he reached the rear of the grandstand and was about to turn and disappear behind it when a voice rang out “Stoy!” Chet waved Nicole back and started to run. She slunk into the shadows. Two guards, shouting for him to stop, were in close pursuit. As they ran, a shot rang out and, after a few seconds, two more. She could hear running footsteps getting fainter until they faded completely.

  Nicole hoped this meant he’d gotten away, but she had no way of knowing. She decided not to follow the route he’d taken along the back of the grandstand. If it wasn’t closely watched before, it would be now. She returned to the square, wondering what to do. It would be impossible to leave by any route other than the one she and Chet had entered. All the other exits were barricaded and guarded. She headed toward the front entrance, sticking to the shadows.

  The guards were still stationed outside. She waited a good ten minutes before a group of a dozen workers came along, apparently finished for the night and intending to leave by the front gate. She attached herself to them, taking long strides to keep up. When they reached the street, she slipped into the grounds of a large building and waited for her companions to disappear down the road before turning and making a wide detour around Red Square’s entrance. She headed back the way she and Chet had come.

  She normally had a good sense of direction, but in this foreign city, in the middle of the night, she wasn’t sure she could find her way back to the motorcycle. The streets, filled with office buildings, were deserted. They looked familiar only in the sense that, with a few exceptions, they all looked alike. She kept going, convinced she was lost until she spotted the alley with the trash bin. The motorcycle was still there, helmets dangling from the handlebars. Chet hadn’t told her what to do if they ran into trouble, but it made sense to return to this spot. If he escaped, he’d come here. If not, she’d wait until morning and take a cab back to the ship.

  She got her coat out of the bike’s storage compartment and put it on. She sent an urgent message through her new watch, explaining that they’d run into trouble leaving Red Square. The watch didn’t flash when she was done the way her other one had. She wondered if the message had been received. But this watch was a completely different model. Perhaps it didn’t have that feature.

  She was shaking and not just from the cold. She was terrified that Chet might be bleeding to death on the street somewhere. One thing she knew beyond all doubt: explosives had been planted beneath the speakers’ stand in Red Square, and someone had to disarm them before Victory Day, which was only four days away.

  Suddenly, Chet appeared, running at top speed. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. As he hopped on the motorcycle, his breath was coming in short gasps.

  “Get on,” he said, tossing aside the helmets hanging from the handlebar. Nicole climbed on and wrapped her arms around him. “Let me know if you see a black car,” he said as the bike roared to life.

  They’d just gone a short distance when a black car came careening around a corner several blocks behind them. “I think that’s them,” Nicole said. Chet took a quick turn onto a cross street, skidding across a public square.

  The black car followed. The motorcycle was still in motion when gun shots rang out. The bike stopped abruptly, causing Nicole to tumble off and land painfully on the cement. Chet planted his feet on the ground and stood there a moment before collapsing. Both he and the motorcycle landed on the pavement. The car’s doors slammed as two men got out. Nicole, her body protesting, rolled sideways. She managed to crawl behind a statue of a man on a horse. She peeked around it and watched the men approach Chet. They bent over him and exchanged comments, probably discussing whether he might be still alive. One of them knelt down and passed his hand over Chet’s face to see if he was breathing. He stood up and shook his head. The pair walked back to their car and drove off.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Nicole hurried over to Chet. She placed her hand on his carotid artery but couldn’t find a pulse. She’d almost given up when she felt it, so faint it was barely detectable. She checked to see where he’d been shot. The side of his jumpsuit was soaked with blood. She located the source and tried to remember what her first aid class had taught her about pressure points. She decided where the best spot might be and pressed it with one hand while awkwardly fumbling through his pockets with the other. She located a phone and pulled it out. It took her a moment to remember that 103 was the Russian equivalent of 911. She punched in the numbers. While it rang, she tucked the phone under her chin so she could put pressure on Chet’s wound with both hands.

  When the operator answered in Russian, Nicole kept repeating the word English until someone came on with a rudimentary command of the language.

  “Name?” he said.

  “Sally Holmes” was the first thing that came to her, the name of the rose in a container on her condo’s balcony. When he asked for the location of the victim, she looked around. No street name was in sight, but a distinctive-looking building across the street—a two-story brick with ornately decorated arched windows—was flying the French flag.

 
; She made an educated guess. “He’s in front of the building across from the French Embassy.” When she was sure the person on the other end understood, she let the phone drop onto the pavement and waited—still pressing Chet’s wound—until she heard a siren. As it approached, she got up and, ignoring the pain of her bruises and scraped knees, dashed for a stairwell that led to a basement entrance of the building behind them. She climbed far enough down to be of sight but still able to rise on her toes and see what was happening. She prayed the paramedics had gotten to him in time and that they were halfway competent.

  She regretted leaving the burner phone behind. That had been a mistake. Kolkov had her phone, and she knew she’d be needing one soon.

  The ambulance came, and the paramedics loaded Chet inside. One of them spotted the phone lying on the pavement and picked it up. She was relieved when they hooked Chet up to a drip. That meant he was still holding on. Maybe they could save him.

  It was freezing in the stairwell. She tried to send another message with her watch, but it seemed completely dead this time. Then she remembered falling off the motorcycle. The impact must have broken it. There was nothing she could do but wait, shivering, until the first hint of dawn. As soon as it was barely light, she walked back toward Red Square. She didn’t have to go far before she was able to flag down a cab.

  When she arrived at Queen of the Volga, it was early. Fortunately, access through the other ships was already open. Her coat had splotches of Chet’s blood on it, but no one seemed to notice or care. She went immediately to her suite. Still shivering from the cold, she took off the ruined coat and put it in the hamper. Only then did she look at the watch. Sure enough, the crystal was shattered and a piece was missing. The watch said 2:00 a.m., but the clock on the credenza said it was 6:30.

  With her watch broken, how would she get in touch with Chet’s team to let them know what had happened? Even if he pulled through and regained consciousness, he’d be stuck in the hospital. It was unlikely he’d have the means of contacting his people.