by M. L. Huie
Once they reached the doorframe, Livy saw nothing but darkness inside the shop. After a minute a light turned on, a small flicker deep in the building.
The two men dragged her through the darkness toward the glow. Maybe this big room had been a shop some time ago. Now it was little more than a husk. Dust covered the floors. Their shoes stirred it up. Livy smelled a combination of mildew, tobacco, and cleaning fluid.
Up ahead, the Gray Man righted an overturned wooden chair and placed it next to a shadeless table lamp, which sat on top of a wooden packing crate.
The two younger Russians sat Livy down on the chair, hard. Cracked Tooth stood behind her. Livy felt the gun at the base of her neck.
No amount of focus on her breathing could take away the overwhelming feeling that this was a place where you took someone to be killed. As clear as that seemed to be, the conclusion made no sense to her. What was this all about? Kostin had said she’d embarrassed the big man in gray, but Livy couldn’t fathom a bruised ego driving him to kill a potential double agent. Had Keller given her fake documents? It didn’t add up. Nothing did right now.
Maybe they just wanted to scare her. More testing. She tried holding on to that thought.
The Gray Man lit another cigarette and gestured toward Sergei. The driver disappeared into the darkness. The big man ignored Livy. He stood, smoking, with one hand on his hip.
A current suddenly sizzled through the ceiling, and a single fluorescent bulb flashed right above them. The light blinked rapidly. So much so, Livy had to close her eyes. The effect was disorientating until the bulb stabilized.
The Gray Man took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and rubbed it out. He barked another command at Sergei. Then he turned his focus on Livy.
The younger Russian hurried back to the entrance to close the door.
The Gray Man pulled out a nasty-looking knife from his jacket pocket. The thick blade had a dark wooden handle with an S-shaped guard. It looked worn along the blade, although the steel looked plenty sharp. He turned it in his hand, as if getting used to its feel, and then placed it down gently on the crate beside the lamp.
Livy recognized a theatrical move when she saw one. The knife represented a threat of torture, which she didn’t care to contemplate just yet.
“You—Bree-tish spy.” The Gray Man’s English fit his mouth as well as his suit fit the rest of him. The words didn’t sound like a question, but Livy answered anyway.
“Yes. That’s right.”
“You work Bree-tish now?”
God, what would happen if she gave the wrong answer to a question she didn’t really understand? If a gun to the back of her head and the threat of a sharp Russian knife hadn’t been enough, the Gray Man’s limited English caught her even more off guard.
“I work for both. The British. And for you.”
The answer didn’t seem to satisfy the Gray Man. He glanced up at Cracked Tooth. The man with the gun stepped away from Livy. Before she could feel a sense of reprieve, the Gray Man picked up the knife. From inside his wrinkled suit, he produced a folded piece of paper that Livy immediately recognized. It was the first set of classified documents she’d handed off in front of Ford’s Theatre.
The Gray Man opened the papers. He shoved them at Livy’s face. “Thees—not real,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“No, you’re wrong. It is.”
“Who geev you thees?”
“I picked it up. At the embassy. The British Embassy.” She tried to think. The knot in her neck throbbed. The humid air in the empty shop was thick with dust. She was alone and wondered if she should have ever trusted anyone on this damned job.
“Where is Major Kostin? He’s my contact.”
The Gray Man smiled and then, Livy believed, started to laugh. The sound began in his chest and rattled—more like a cough than a laugh—then burst from his thick lips, revealing teeth brown from too many noxious cigarettes. He looked around to his two younger comrades as if to say, Isn’t she funny? They didn’t laugh.
The longer this went on, the less Livy liked it.
The Gray Man pulled a handkerchief from his trousers and wiped sweat off his face. He moved closer to Livy, the knife at his side.
“Again. Who—geev—you—thees?” He pushed the document in her face.
“I took it,” Livy said, slowly enunciating each word. “From the British Embassy. I demand to see Major Kostin.”
The Gray Man put the document back in his pocket. He leaned down to Livy, his face inches from hers. His breath smelled worse than the musty shop.
“I no bee-leev you, pree-tee girl.” His chuckle rumbled low in his chest.
Livy understood the game now. The big Russian had added those last two words to increase the threat. To make Livy reveal her fear. He smiled, glanced at the other men, then back to her.
Fine, she thought. The hell with it.
She spat hard in his face. And before he could react, she did it again.
The Russian recoiled and wiped the spit with the sleeve of his jacket. As he finished, his left hand swept up and crashed hard into the right side of Livy’s face. His knuckles made full contact just below her eye, nearly knocking her out of the chair. Somehow she held on and didn’t make a sound. The big man’s fist felt like being hit by the grill of a car. Her vision blurred. The Scotch, the disorienting drive, and now this had caught up to her, but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.
She gave herself a quick assessment. Teeth seemed still intact. Her nose bled, but she was lucky it didn’t seem to be broken. Livy waited until the vision in her right eye began to clear, then sat up and looked at the big man.
“I’m working for you, you mangy gobshite,” she said.
The Russian muttered something quietly to the other two men. He started to remove his jacket. The younger ones didn’t move. Livy sensed their anxiety. The Gray Man’s eyes hardened, and he barked the same command. Now the two younger men, stepped back from her. She felt their reluctance.
Livy bit her tongue hard to clear her head. The blow to her cheek had numbed part of her face and fogged her brain. She knew the time for subterfuge was over. This was a fight, and she had to be ready. She needed her wits right now. Needed to think. Her life depended on it.
The Gray Man folded his coat neatly and placed it beside the lamp on the overturned crate. He leered down at her with a look he hadn’t given her before.
They all heard the sound at once. Tires on gravel. Right outside the back door.
The big Russian looked toward the entrance. Listening. Like it was The Shadow on the radio. They heard the tires stop. An engine turned off. A moment. A car door slammed.
The Gray Man nodded at Cracked Tooth. The younger Russian, his automatic in front of him, walked slowly toward the door.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The harsh insistence of the knocks startled them all. Three more came in succession on the metal entrance.
Cracked Tooth stopped in his tracks. The Gray Man hissed something at him.
The knocking stopped. A voice called on the other side of the door, also in Russian.
Cracked Tooth looked back to the older man, his eyes wide. The Gray Man sighed and threw up his hands in frustration. He gestured to the younger man, who hurried to the door, turned the lock, and opened it.
Livy heard the footsteps on the dusty floor before she saw him. Yuri Kostin walked slowly into the pool of light where Livy, the Gray Man, and Sergei stood. Yuri barked something in Russian, and Cracked Tooth quickly relocked the door.
She lifted her eyes to Kostin, but he didn’t return her gaze. The thought that he might have set this whole thing up filled her with more dread than she’d felt in this whole God-awful night.
Kostin’s eyes drifted away from the Gray Man and finally to Livy’s face. Then to the knife and the folded coat on the overturned crate. He spoke softly to the big man, but his tone gave Livy no sense of what he said.
&
nbsp; The big Russian spat on the ground and inched closer to Kostin. His arms spread like a wrestler before a match.
So this was some sort of conflict between the two Russians. Over her? Was that it?
Gesturing at Livy and at himself, the big Russian went on a rant, all of it directed at Kostin. He grabbed his coat from the table and shoved the documents in Kostin’s face. Yuri put one hand on the Gray Man’s fleshy, sweating face and shoved him away.
The air went out of the room. The big man held his ground. The two Russians held eye contact like gunfighters waiting to see who’d make the first move. Of course, it was the Gray Man.
“Schas po ebalu poluchish, kozyol!” he yelled.
The knife flashed in the big man’s hand. He heaved himself forward, charging. His size alone would overwhelm anyone.
The black automatic appeared in Kostin’s hand as if it had always been there. He fired. The blaze from the barrel lit up the room like a firecracker in the night. Livy turned her head from the blinding flash. The big man yelled. When her eyes opened, she saw a red hole in the palm of the Gray Man’s right hand. The knife on the floor.
The big man screamed, holding his bleeding hand. Again, a flash. The man yelped like a dog. Blood poured from his left hand now. Something fell at his feet. Part of an index finger. The big Russian had bullet holes in both hands. His cries crescendoed as he barked at Cracked Tooth.
Kostin advanced on him, the gun now at his side. He placed a hand on the Gray Man’s chest and shoved him hard. His ruined hands useless, the Russian stumbled and fell onto his back. He cried out, guttural and wild, calling to Cracked Tooth for help. But the young Russian stood transfixed by the horror.
Kostin placed his leather wingtip on the Gray Man’s windpipe. He ground his foot into the Adam’s apple. The big Russian gurgled, his legs thrashing at Kostin.
This was what Keller had described. The famous Red Devil of the Eastern Front that so many German prisoners feared.
He had returned.
Speaking very slowly, Kostin gave the Gray Man what sounded like a warning. The big Russian nodded on the floor, struggling for breath.
Kostin leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger.
The moaning ended. The echo of the gunshot receded in the vacant shop, replaced by silence. Yuri Kostin stood over Livy’s tormentor. Smoke curled from the barrel of his gun. The big Russian’s right eye gone in the blast. His mangled hands curled like two great dead spiders.
Livy felt sick. The aftermath of violence—the burning smell, dust in the air, the dead man, the savagery of it all—filled the emptiness.
Kostin gently removed his shoe from the dead man’s throat and turned to the two younger Russians. Cracked Tooth still had his gun but held it by his side. Sergei looked as if he might be ill.
After retrieving the Gray Man’s knife, Kostin spoke to the others. He asked a question. The younger men shook their heads quickly. “Nyet, nyet.”
Kostin gave another order. The younger men didn’t seem to understand. He repeated himself. Slowly. With authority. The two Russians nodded. Sergei walked quickly to the back door. Cracked Tooth knelt over the body and started emptying the Gray Man’s pockets.
Kostin put the gun away. He stepped over to Livy and offered his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea he would take it this far.”
Livy didn’t accept his hand. She stood up on her own. “What the hell just happened?”
“I will explain. Later. But this is not a good place to be now. I need to get you out of here. Please.” He offered her his hand. She could feel his desire to touch her.
Cracked Tooth called for Kostin. He had the classified documents the Gray Man had carried. Kostin put them in his own coat.
“Livy, please,” he said.
Ignoring his hand again, she walked out of the pool of light toward the back door.
Outside, Sergei backed the Ford toward the entrance of the shop. Livy edged around the car, breathing in the night air. Even the humidity felt like a relief after being inside the dirty building. The rush of fresh air made her cough. She tasted dust and chemicals.
Kostin came up behind her, grabbing her by the elbow.
“Take your hands off me,” she said, her voice quiet and assured.
“We have to go. Please just sit in the car and wait. I won’t be long.”
Livy followed him to a gray Dodge coupe parked a few feet away. Kostin opened the door for her. She collapsed into the passenger seat.
“One minute. No more,” Kostin said. He went to close the door.
“Leave it open.”
He did and hurried back into the building.
The night had finally caught up to her. Her right cheek ached. She adjusted the rearview mirror to look at herself. Even in the dim streetlight, she could see a bruise and swelling around the right orbital bone. Apart from the mark on her face, she looked somehow different. Dark creases slanted under her eyes. A corner of her mouth was swollen from the punch. The knot in her neck was hard and sore. She looked and felt like the sort of woman you don’t want to meet in a dark alley.
Still, she’d been damned lucky. Kostin showing up when he did had saved her from a far worse night. That didn’t put her in the mood to be grateful, though. She needed food, aspirin, and to get away from these people.
Then she thought about Margot. How many times in the last few years had men threatened her in just such a way? Was it constant? A way of life?
Livy exhaled and considered her character, the double agent. She’d play this for all it was worth. The brush with death—she’d use it to milk Kostin’s sympathy and feelings for her so that she could bring this whole thing to the quickest possible conclusion.
Voices pierced the night behind her. She turned to see Kostin and the two other Russians standing behind the open trunk of the Ford sedan. She saw them discuss something; then Livy heard grunting. A great weight crashed into the trunk. The car briefly sagged in the rear. If it’d been a Marx Brothers picture, it would’ve been funny. The trunk slammed shut. Kostin spoke quietly to the younger men and then hurried toward his car.
He got in, wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Finally, he looked at her.
“How bad did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine. Just sore.”
“I am … so sorry. I did not know Gennady would ever …” He let the sentence trail off as the Ford took off a bit too fast, spinning its wheels as it fishtailed away from the building.
The Russian put his arm around her and leaned in. Close enough to kiss her. He didn’t, though. His fingers grazed her bruised cheek. The gesture felt sincere, intimate.
“You’re supposed to take care of your sources, aren’t you?” she said. “Not hang them out to dry.”
“Livy, I was so angry when I found out. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if—” He stopped himself. “We have to leave here. Now. Go somewhere safe.”
“What’s going to happen with … with that man? Won’t the police be coming?”
“I’ve handled it all, Livy. No police. Nothing for you to worry about. You’re not in danger anymore.”
“I want to go back to my hotel.”
Kostin threw his head back and sighed. The explosion of anger and violence she’d seen inside still had a grip on him. “Yes. Yes. All right.” He started the car and took off.
“Then, I need to know what the hell that was all about.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kostin spoke quickly as they drove. “Gennady—that was his name—has always hated me. Even during the war. Never trusted me. I don’t know why. Maybe he was jealous. But he wanted to prove me wrong about you. He said I did not see clearly, yes? Because it was you. As I said, always jealous that one.”
Kostin slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “I should have known he would do something like this. I never thought—I have people at the embassy loyal to me. They warned me. Said he had come for you. I knew he wou
ld take you there. We have used that place before. Tonight changes things. For us, Livy. There are those still loyal to Gennady. They will be suspicious, even though they knew what sort of man he was.”
He put a hand in his hair as his shoulders sagged. Kostin looked every bit his age now. “During the war, we seemed united. As Russians. Now, we just tear each other apart. If I am to make this work, Livy, I need your help.”
She kept up the injured woman act, terrified after the experience. Not exactly a tough role to play, considering. She sat back, eyes half closed, listening. “What the hell else do you want?” Her voice tired, slurred. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”
“I know. I know. But we must be even more cautious now, yes? My position might—I do not know—might change.”
“What does that mean?”
“Gennady is dead,” he snapped. “To some this will look more like a fight over a woman than over an agent.”
“Is that what it is?”
He stared ahead, driving slowly. Kostin didn’t speak again for several minutes. Then: “Let me take you somewhere? Tonight. We have houses here.”
Livy felt numb from what she’d just been through, but Kostin’s words jolted her. “No, my things are at the hotel. I have work tomorrow,” she said, sounding more than a little frantic. This wasn’t acting now. She needed respite.
“I cannot take the risk of driving you to your hotel.”
Livy knew this might be the last time she would ever see Yuri Kostin. He’d killed a colleague. A man with allies. The Russian might disappear or be shipped off to Moscow in the middle of the night. That idea cut through the fog of drink, exhaustion, and fear that still clouded her head. Her own comfort would have to wait. The job was at hand, and she’d come too damned far to allow it to get away from her.
“I need something, Yuri,” she said, leaning up and turning to him. “I need something from all this. There is just as much risk with what I’ve done. Your friend back there might have killed me tonight. So, now I need you to help me. Do you understand? Or this ends tonight.”