Golikov pointed to the map. “In addition to the fuel supplies we will have at least one technician at each waypoint. It will appear to be a routine deployment. There will be oil, hydraulic fluid and glycol – and tools. We can also obtain replacement assemblies from Ivanovo and will have transport aircraft standing by.”
Leonov nodded then ran a hand through what was left of his thinning hair. He stood with one hand behind his back and said formally, “Eight months, Comrades.” He looked at both of them and squinted slightly. “Do not let anyone interfere.” The two officers nodded in agreement and he added another warning. “If you are faced with any recalcitrance, any attempt to thwart this mission you must advise me immediately ... there will be no challenges to your orders ... not from anyone.”
He took a few steps and picked up a portfolio from the table. “They are not to interfere,” he said as he opened the seal and removed several envelopes. “In these are directives from Comrade Stalin himself. Should you encounter a challenge from any officer, Commissar or otherwise, present one of these to him and tell the fool that just by opening it he will immediately face a troika. Do not use them lightly, but ... do not hesitate if you believe the mission could be compromised ... and do not explain anything.”
Krylov turned to a sideboard and retrieved three glasses and a decanter. He placed them on the table and poured vodka then passed each of them a glass. With a grim countenance he said, “To Comrade Stalin and the Motherland,” then they gulped down their drinks in unison.
CHAPTER 5
Houston, Texas, 12:30 a.m., Thursday, May 22, 1997
Other than the low buzzing of the parking ramp’s lights, Kirkland’s leather shoes made the only sounds echoing off the walls and floors, but as he approached his Suburban he heard the definitive sound of two car doors opening somewhere nearby and an engine starting on the level below. As he inserted his key in the door he saw the reflection of two large men approaching in the heavily tinted windows. They stopped and stood together near the back corner of the big SUV as he heard a car accelerating toward them.
He looked at the men calmly and said affably, “Hey,” and while they made no immediate moves, Kirkland prepared himself and glanced around. He quickly decided that if they had guns they would have either taken them out or at least shown them but he also figured the time required to unlock and open the door, trigger the drawer to access his automatic and then have it pointed in their direction exceeded any reasonable margin of error.
As the sound of a revving engine came closer he looked at them coolly and asked in his best imitation of a Texan after a few too many drinks, “Duh’ I know y’all?”
A tan Lincoln Town Car sped into view then came to an abrupt halt with tires squealing on the smooth pavement; positioned only a few feet back of the men it effectively blocked his Suburban in place. One of the men raised a hand and waggled a summoning finger then pointed to the Town Car’s rear door.
Kirkland lowered his head slightly, pointed at himself and gave them a ‘who, me?’ kind of smirk then turned the key in the door and unlocked it while he kept his gaze fixed on them.
He staggered slightly for effect and as the men heard the solenoid-bolts of the doors ‘thump’ they took the bait. As the first one rushed at him Kirkland reached out and grabbed the rear passenger door handle and yanked it open just in time for the assailant to run full force into the edge of the heavy door. The impact made the Suburban actually rock slightly and the big man grasped his chest in pain and staggered back and to the side clumsily, forcing his partner to change his own angle of attack.
No longer coming headlong, the second man’s motion was easy to use and amplify. Kirkland seized the off-balance man’s suit coat, leaned back and swung him in an arc, gaining speed then ramming him into the nearest concrete pillar.
As another man was climbing out of the rear passenger side door of the Lincoln, the first attacker was groaning, struggling to roll into a position to get up from the ground when Kirkland kicked his feet out from under him and turned to face the third man. Unlike the other two, this more compact one didn’t come at him with a rush. As he slowly closed the distance he came into a fighting stance and was obviously not fooled by Kirkland’s ‘drunken Texan’ ruse.
They circled slightly then engaged with a series of blows and blocks. After three such encounters it soon became apparent Kirkland was controlling the combat; while seemingly well trained, the man was far too rigid in style and rapidly became predictable as well as frustrated. Kirkland blocked a misguided fist and struck the man in the chest hard enough to crumple him to his knees. But before he dealt the next blow a sharp voice with a strong foreign accent echoed through the parking ramp. “Stop! Do not do that!”
Kirkland turned quickly to see an older and smaller man dressed in a tuxedo, standing just outside of the open back door of the Town Car. The Walther PPK pointed in his direction was small but convincing enough and with one hand Kirkland simply guided his victim down from the semi-upright position and tipped him over onto the ground. He glared at the man holding the gun, noting the little man was nervous and unaccustomed to having his henchmen leave him exposed to this kind of unpleasantness. “Who the heller you,” Kirkland mumbled.
“I am Pavel Silayev. I am a Director of security for the Russian Finance Ministry,” the man said in reasonably good English. “And you are?”
Kirkland let his stance relax considerably but continued eyeing the man sternly. Keeping his semi-inebriated Texas drawl working he asked a little too forcefully, “Director? What the hell security?”
“Director of security for the museum exhibit. And you are?”
Kirkland looked exasperated as he sighed and responded. “A goddamn guest ... I’m professor—”
“A professor?” Silayev interrupted suspiciously as he glanced at his men.
Kirkland huffed in disdain. “Huh! Hell, yes ... and I’ve taken down bigger steers,” he bragged ignorantly, only hoping to make the right impression. “Wha’d you say y’all were?” with an almost good-natured tone.
The Russian was somewhat confused but didn’t show it. “Your purpose in examining the exhibits tonight was what?”
After a couple of breaths a slow smile formed and Kirkland’s glare waned. He chuckled and said, “God damn, man ... have you seen her?” He let that sink in for a few seconds then added, “Y’all are blowing this way the hell outta purporshun mister ... whas yername?”
“Sill-aye-ev,” the Russian pronounced irritably. “Of course I have seen her,” he added as it dawned on him what this enigma of an American might be trying to imply. The belligerent fool is after the woman!
“Oh ... okay ... but guess what ... you’re not in Russia Mr. Sillyoff. You’re in goddamn Texas, U-S-of-fuckin’-A.” He gestured at the gun and said, “And I have some serious doubts y’all have a permit for that little thing ... and, and you know what ... you know what, Mr. Sillyoff ... you and the three stooges here ... y’all can spend the night in a jail cell for all I care. And, and ... you know what ... you know what else? I can make that happen, too. We’ll have y’all on a plane back to Russia before ... before lunch.”
Silayev looked at the Texas license plate on the vehicle and realized the man he was confronting might actually be someone who could put him in a very uncomfortable position. He turned into the car and said something in Russian to the driver.
As he did Kirkland instantly closed the distance between them and deftly stripped the small pistol from the man’s hand.
Before he could even turn around or cry out Silayev felt himself unceremoniously shoved into the back seat with Kirkland looming above him.
Kirkland found the drawl made it easy to sound menacing. “One of your boys over there has at least one or two broken ribs ... y’all trust me on this one ... I heard it. He probably needs a visit to the hospital. Now ... now ya see – lucky for him there’s one right around the corner.”
Kirkland withdrew from the door, walked for
ward to the driver’s window and tapped on it with the gun. The electric window went down and Kirkland leaned over slightly, smiled and pointed forward. The bulky driver put the car in gear and pulled forward without taking his eyes off the gun as Kirkland walked along-side, waving him forward until there was room to back his Suburban out. He slapped the roof of the car and it abruptly stopped. “Prevaskahdnee,” Kirkland praised.
Excellent ? Silayev asked himself. He speaks Russian? How is that?
One of the men was helping his injured partner into a standing position as Kirkland climbed into the Suburban then turned and pointed at the big man’s chest. “Careful,” he warned. “A punctured lung is a really bad thing.”
When the door didn’t close immediately Silayev wondered what the man was doing but decided against moving. He began to see and hear the ammunition go bouncing across the concrete then saw the man come around the corner of the vehicle wearing white gloves and holding the gun.
Kirkland approached the car and worked the action, letting the last chambered round fall to the ground. As he kicked it away beneath another vehicle he slipped the clip back in and tossed the gun onto the seat beside Silayev then held up a piece of tape that had fingerprints on it. Without a trace of inebriation he announced, “In the true spirit of international good will ... I won’t be mentioning this little incident to the Sheriff ... y’all have a nice night,” he said then casually sauntered back to the Suburban and climbed in.
As Kirkland drove off toward the exit ramp, Silayev ordered the driver to help the other men into the car then got into the front seat and took out his own cell phone.
- # -
After pulling out of the ramp and heading east on Binz street Kirkland dialed Catherine Cruz. “Do you know a Russian by the name of Silayev? Pavel Silayev?” Kirkland calmly asked, then heard the alarm in her voice as she said an unladylike word in Spanish and chastised herself at some length for not making the Russian security team aware of the special after-hours access to the exhibit pieces.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “This is all my fault. I’m really sorry, Michael, I just assumed Matt would have cleared it with them.”
With some concern about what he might have done to complicate her life Kirkland decided not to explain the encounter in the parking ramp in any detail. “He’s an unpleasant sort but I think I persuaded him we posed no risk to the exhibit.”
“I am so sorry—”
“Don’t be,” he interrupted then quickly changed the subject by reminding her of their upcoming Friday dinner.
In a way she was glad he wasn’t there to see her reaction. An eagerness she hadn’t felt in years made her take a deep breath and sigh. “See you Friday – good night,” she said then heard him say ‘good night’. Before she could blurt out an invitation she might later regret she disconnected the call.
- # -
Kirkland crossed over the 288 freeway and turned north toward the heart of Houston then swung southeast on I-45. Four miles past the exit to Hobby he turned east onto the Sam Houston Parkway and almost immediately exited to Galveston Road toward Ellington field. Minutes later the Suburban was concealed in the cargo hold of his plane but a tantalizing historical puzzle – and especially Catherine Cruz – were still on his mind.
- # -
Silayev seethed but managed to maintain his air of confidence as he paced in the drive area outside the hospital’s emergency room entrance and explained his version of the results of the evening’s investigative pursuit to his immediate superior, Dr. Abel Kurtz.
A senior Director of the State Diamond Fund and the one official Kremlin representative accompanying the Romanov treasure exhibit, Kurtz was determined to avoid any hint of further controversy. The political fallout was already unpleasant and the recent all-too-public events in Washington, D.C. hadn’t won any friends at home. And while Silayev was not his first choice to lead the security detachment, he was at least experienced in American engagements and had handled the debacle in Washington reasonably well. For the time being he was willing to accept the man’s explanation of the minimal impact of the potential security breach.
Silayev didn’t mention the fact that at least one of his men would be off duty for several days as a result of the encounter in the parking ramp and when Kurtz asked who the man in the museum with the curator had been Silayev realized to his chagrin that he had not obtained any identification. “He claims to be a professor; Ms. Cruz will know – I am confident his interest appears to be in her.”
He held the phone away from his ear for a moment while being scolded for the second time that evening. It was bad enough that he hadn’t been aware of the impromptu examination until after the pair had left the museum; now he had to face the fact that he and his men hadn’t accomplished the basic task of discovering who the man really was.
In his defense Silayev assured the doctor that the security guards had been fully involved during the man’s examination of the items. And of course there was the fact that nothing was missing; nothing ever left the guard’s sight. He suggested the video tapes be reviewed in the morning to prove it. “Yes, Doctor ... I agree ... We can resolve this in the morning ... Yes,” he said then the call ended.
Gnawing at Silayev even more than the embarrassment of having three of his men taken out of action was the fact that the man had taken fingerprints from his clandestinely acquired handgun. Deportation for having it in his possession would be rapid – but worse, would jeopardize the elaborate covert plan he was part of. This man is very dangerous, he told himself.
CHAPTER 6
The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997
Despite the long and late hours of the previous day, Catherine Cruz arrived at the museum a few minutes before 8:30. Wearing glasses instead of the contacts that had been in too many hours and with her hair knotted and held by chopsticks behind her head, she looked almost librarian-ish. The evening’s long stint in formal wear and heels also meant the order of the day was comfort - black jeans, a simple yellow silk blouse and penny-loafers.
After using her credential and typing in her code to clear the secured employee entrance she moved into the intersection of corridors and turned toward her office where her visibly concerned assistant nearly ran into her.
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” Shannon Liu gushed in an anxious whisper. She put a hand to her chest and took a breath then exhaled as she moved to Catherine’s side and began walking with her down the corridor. “Matt and the Russians are in his office with the security—”
“He what?” Catherine asked. The look of distress she saw made her stop walking. Her assistant started to mouth some words and Catherine tipped her head slightly. “What’s going on?” Doing her best to be casual she started walking again. “I need some coffee—”
“The a ... the man last night, the man you let examine—”
“His name is Kirkland,” she interrupted instructively avoiding the temptation to make the obvious point that it was done with Matt Dunlap’s as well as Alex Calder’s approval.
“No, that’s just it, Catherine—”
“It’s what?” she almost demanded and stopped again as she suddenly realized her assistant of just three months had never used her first name until this moment. She instantly regretted her petulant attitude; this was another woman trying to reach her as a woman, not just a colleague or employee.
The now embarrassed assistant sighed and looked away, then bit her lip for a second. “The guy you left with. He isn’t – they can’t find him on the guest list.”
Trying not to appear shocked, the first thing Catherine forced herself to say was still blunt. “That’s impossible.” She saw the all-to-understanding look on Shannon’s face and it did nothing to quell the emotions that were beginning to roil through her. She tried to hide any hint that she might have been tricked or used as she started walking again. If she hadn’t kept her anger under control she would have spat out the w
ords, but her tone was sufficiently icy to get the point across. “Un-frickin believable! I go out to dinner with a man – and now it’s everybody’s business!” She then realized her boss was probably as annoyed as she was. “What did Matt say?” she asked.
Shannon looked resigned to her fate of being the messenger of bad tidings. “Just to have you come up when you can ... they’re in the main conference room.”
Catherine wanted to off-handedly respond with, ‘He’s a professor, for God sakes,’ but decided to save that for Silayev who she figured was luridly imagining her evening and thinking she had been tricked into being just another vulnerable, stupid woman in a game played by men. Unfortunately, doubt was now beginning to intrude on her self-assurance and the feeling she might have been taken advantage of was making her gut twinge.
Adding to her discomfort was the worry now nibbling at the edges around her image of the man she had been so intensely attracted to; it was not the only time she let a first impression send her off on a path that ended badly.
Some years ago she had ignored fleeting hints of common sense after falling in love and marrying a man who turned out to be little more than a good-looking, convincing con artist with a penchant for luring people into investment and tax-dodging schemes. The millions he made in a very short period of time bought them a home that was extravagant even by Houston standards. With it came a live-in cook, two housekeepers, a five-car garage and choices of vehicles to drive at her whim that ranged from a lithe little Porsche Boxster to a gargantuan AM General Hummer. While her husband would have preferred a private jet, because of her fear of small planes it meant they travelled in first-class wherever they went – and they had travelled frequently. They also entertained on trips on their sixty-foot sailing schooner harbored at the Galveston Yacht basin.
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