Ivan reappeared. He gave Viktor two sheets of paper and put my wallet on the table … in front of Viktor.
Switching back to English, my host said, “So, you are CEO of auto parts supply company?”
My legend is holding. Good old Rodney. “No. I’m a schoolteacher. My father was the CEO. He died. I’m running the company until we find a CEO who knows the business.”
Viktor gave Ivan a satisfied nod. Mr. Silent-but-deadly withdrew.
“What you want from me, Ricky?”
“Help me find my mother. She’s Russian. She lived in St. Petersburg in 1987. You were there then.”
“Why not go to Russian embassy?”
“My situation is complicated.”
“Make it simple,” ordered Viktor. He was listening, but held the gun steady.
“My father worked in St. Petersburg in 1987. He frequently used the services of a prostitute … the same prostitute. She got pregnant and had a child … me. My father made plans to smuggle me and my mother out of Russia. Someone found out and my father had to leave the country in a hurry. He smuggled me out in a suitcase and promised to return for my mother. The Cold War was in full swing. He couldn’t get back into Russia because of the politics. Even if he could, my mother couldn’t get into the States with a record of prostitution. My father tried for years. He was unsuccessful. Finally, he gave up and married my stepmother. On his deathbed, my father made me promise to find my mother and bring her to the States.”
“What your father doing in St. Petersburg in 1987?”
“He never talked about his work, only about my mother.”
Viktor took a thoughtful drag on his cigar and said, “So, you came looking for a Russian who was pimping flesh in St. Petersburg in 1987?”
“Yes.”
“There’s plenty of old Russian pimps in New York City and it’s closer to your home. Why you don’t go there?”
“I don’t have police contacts there. Even if I did, it would be dangerous to ask about Russian mafia in New York.”
“And not dangerous here?” He thumbed the safety off his pistol.
“Less so. I have friends here.”
“How did you find me?”
“As I said, I have friends here. I told one of them the kind of … experience I was looking for. My friend knows a policeman, who knows someone at Scotland Yard.” I was making up the lies as I went along. “Some money changed hands and I was told that you might be able to help me.”
“Who are these friends?”
“I promised not to reveal their names.”
“Maybe if I shoot Sherri, you tell me?”
If there’s one thing mobsters hate, it’s an informer who gives up his friends. Even if I gave Viktor a phony name, I was a rat, and he might kill us both. If he didn’t kill us for giving up our friends, I doubted he would help me.
“Viktor, I promised my friends that I would not say who helped me—”
Viktor pointed his gun at Sherri’s head.
I put my hand between his gun and Sherri. “Please don’t. We came here for your help. We are not interested in your business or your friends. It’s not in your interest to kill us. If we die or disappear, there’ll be an investigation. It would be a self-inflicted wound. You don’t want that. You don’t need that.”
Viktor kept his gun pointed at Sherri, but his ice-blue eyes shifted to me.
I took that to mean that my argument was making sense to him and pressed on. “People in London know I’m here. Please don’t do this. Help me.”
“Help you find whore from thirty years ago?”
“Help me find my mother!” I faked the anger. “I want to know if she’s alive. If she is, where? I want her address.”
Viktor engaged the safety on the gun and laid the weapon on the table within easy reach. Sherri relaxed.
Thoughtfully, Viktor said, “If your mother is alive, she could be married, have family. Maybe she left St. Petersburg. She could be in another city, another country.”
“Maybe she’s not married,” I countered. “Maybe she’s single or sick. Maybe she’s waited all these years, hoping that my father or her son would come for her.” I leaned across the table. “Viktor, I promised my father, on his deathbed, that I would try to find my mother. Will you help me keep that promise?”
He stared at me for a long time before asking, “What’s in it for me?”
“I can’t pay you and you already have every material comfort. But, if you find my mother, I’ll give you something money can’t buy. I’ll meet your mother for high tea at Fortnum & Mason and tell her what you did for me and my mother. That will make your mother very happy.”
He took his time putting the gun back into the case. “What your mother’s name?”
“Tatyana Kedrova.” I gave him her last known address, according to Bogdanovich.
CHAPTER 13
AFTER A TENSE few minutes with Viktor and his gun, Ivan untied Sherri and removed her gag. Viktor apologized for his caution and sent us back to my hotel in his Rolls. On the way, Sherri filled me in on what happened between the time I left her with Viktor’s mother and our meeting with Viktor’s gun on the yacht.
Sherri told me that Ma Lukovskaya was sympathetic to my quest for my fictional mother, but suspicious. That was probably due to her history with the Russian security services and the Russian mob. Leaving Sherri at the tea table for a trip to the ladies’ room, Ma Lukovskaya called Viktor for advice. Viktor responded with assistance. When Sherri and Ma left tea time, a couple of hoods took them in hand and escorted them to Viktor’s yacht. Ma Lukovskaya got to explain my plight to her doting son. Sherri was cross-examined about me and invited to spend the night on the yacht—or else. Viktor was a gentleman, but when Sherri explained that I was a friend, not her lover, he tried to hit on her. She declined. Next day, enter me, in Viktor’s Rolls, for dinner and deception. Tying and gagging Sherri was more to intimidate me than to restrain her. In the end, Viktor was satisfied that we were not a threat, we went home, and it appeared that my first engagement with the Russian mob was a success.
* * *
While Viktor was trying to locate Tatyana Kedrova, I kept Jill Rucker in the dark about him and busy working on the Baltic cruise. Now, I had to find a way to interview Boris Kulik, MI6’s mole at the Russian Embassy, without alerting the Russians or the Brits. To make that task more complicated, I couldn’t tell my team—Sherri and her four-man heavy metal band—that they were interfering with a MI6 asset who might already be under surveillance. I did have to tell them enough to get the job done, but not the whole truth. So, I met the team in Sherri’s hotel room and gave them the MI6 cover story.
“This man is your target.” I showed a photograph of Kulik that Rodney had provided. “Call him Romeo. He’s having an affair with this woman.” I showed Rodney’s photo of the secretary. “Call her Juliet. They meet the same day, every week, and have lunch or sex at this hotel.” I provided the name and address.
“Their routine is predictable. If there’s no sex on the menu, she waits for him in the hotel dining room. They hold hands. They eat, kiss, and go their separate ways.” What I couldn’t tell them was that when they hold hands, Romeo might slip Juliet a thumb drive of Russian secret documents.
I continued the briefing. “If sex is on the lunch menu, Juliet reserves a room in advance, arrives first to check in, and leaves a key at the desk for Romeo. If she’s not in the dining room when he arrives, Romeo collects his key from the desk and goes to Juliet’s room for sex.”
I didn’t tell the team that, according to Rodney, instead of secretary and sex, MI6 is waiting in the adjourning room. Kulik gives them the documents or a thumb drive, and they debrief him. After an hour or so, Kulik and the secretary come down, arm-in-arm, gazing at each other with loving satisfaction, and go back to work.
“I need an hour with Romeo in that hotel without anyone knowing, especially Juliet.”
“Why the hotel?” asked Tony Davila, the leader of
Sherri’s heavy metal band. He was “Tony-D” to our team because we had another gun named Tony. “Why not snatch him and go somewhere else for a quiet hour’s chat?”
“Because,” I said, “he has a tight schedule and high profile. It has to be the hotel.”
Sherri asked, “What’s the game plan?”
“I want the team to set up a static surveillance at the hotel and verify their routine. Then, on a day Juliet doesn’t make a room reservation for a tryst, we have to trick her out of the hotel, reserve a room ourselves, and lure Romeo up to the boudoir where I can talk to him. Your job is to confirm their routine and tell me how we can pull this off.”
Sherri nodded an okay, but she was staring at Juliet’s photograph. “This is a lousy picture. She’s wearing that big hat, probably a wig, and oversized sunglasses. She doesn’t want to be recognized.” Sherri said, “Tony-D, see if you can get a better shot of her. Let’s see what she really looks like.”
Tony-D called my attention to another problem. “You said static surveillance. If you want to get Juliet out of the hotel, you need to know what buttons to push. We need to follow her and find something that would make her stand Romeo up.”
That was risky, but it had to be done. “Okay, but be aware that both Romeo and Juliet are married. Either of their spouses might suspect the affair and have private investigators following them. If you spot any surveillance, break off.” I was really concerned about Russian or MI6 tails. The PI story was my way of alerting and protecting Sherri’s team.
* * *
Now, I had two pokers in the fire: Viktor-and-St. Petersburg, and the Romeo-and-Juliet surveillance. If I got lucky—or unlucky—both leads would take me to Russia. It was time to figure out how to get into that country without getting caught. I turned to the annoying Jill Rucker, who had been researching Baltic cruises.
At her request, we met in her room—which was nicer than mine—her rationale being, “I don’t want to drag all this cruise stuff down to your room.”
When I arrived, Jill poured us each a double scotch, my favorite brand. Coincidence? I believe in the Easter Bunny, too.
Jill suggested, “Let’s look at our options.” She directed me to a table where I expected to find piles of cruise brochures, because, she had said, “I don’t want to drag all the stuff down to your room.” The stuff was one brochure. I gave her a quizzical glance.
She smiled. “The scotch was here in my room.” Without skipping a beat Jill added, “Almost no one cruises the Baltic in winter, Max. The only cruise I found was for academics during the school holidays.”
“What’s the itinerary?”
“It originates in Stockholm and terminates in Southampton.”
“Ports of call?”
“Seven, but the one you’re interested in is St. Petersburg, three days, two nights.”
“How many passengers aboard?”
“About a thousand, and the ship has vacancies. Are we going to take a cruise?”
“Maybe.” That depended on Viktor Lukovsky. “Do you have a problem with us traveling as a married couple?”
“Business or pleasure?” She gave me a seductive smile.
“Strictly business.”
“Too bad.” She looked me up and down, took a drink of scotch, and licked her lower lip. “What’s our mission?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
“Do you want me to make a reservation for us?”
“Yes, for Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dolby.”
“Do you have passports for the happy couple?”
“I’ll take care of it. Get yourself a set of passport photos.”
“Then what?”
“Buy warmer clothes and a good pair of boots. Russia is cold this time of year.”
Jill went to the living room, flopped into a chair, and crossed her legs. “Sit a while, Max. Since we’re going to travel as a couple, we should get to know each other. We might be questioned by the Russian police. They could ask you, ‘What’s your wife’s favorite color?’ or ‘What kind of underwear does she like?’ How would you answer?” She smiled mischievously.
I laughed. “I’d say that your favorite color is green, for money, and that you like your underwear off. Good night, Jill.”
Following Rodney’s instructions for setting up a meeting, I left a sealed message with the hotel concierge: Are there any tickets left for tomorrow’s performance? Then, I went to bed and dreamed of the tantalizing Jill Rucker and my ladylove back in D.C., Claudia. Freud would have had an orgasm interpreting that dream.
* * *
The next morning, I got Jill out of bed. Over breakfast in the hotel restaurant, we made a list of what we would need in Russia. We were at the stores when they opened and returned to the hotel in time for lunch. There was a note from Rodney: Pick up your tickets at the same place, 2 p.m.
I told Jill I was going to meet someone who would help us with the Russia cruise. Because I have a suspicious nature, I also called Sherri to set a trap. While Sherri was getting into place, Jill and I dressed in our Russia tour clothes and took photographs of each other. I made prints at the hotel business center, dropped a few other items into a zippered pouch, and headed for my rendezvous with Rodney.
It was a cold walk to Trafalgar Square, but a good way to flush a tail. When I was halfway to my destination, I called Sherri on the mini-mike clipped to my scarf.
“Are you there?”
Sherri’s voice came through my earpiece, “A block-and-a-half behind you.”
“See anything?”
“The paymaster”—Jill Rucker—“has been on your tail since you left the hotel.”
“Anyone with her?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Let’s check. I’m going into that movie theater up ahead. Let me know if she’s working with a team.”
I purchased a ticket, went directly to a fire exit door, and waited.
Sherri said, “She didn’t talk to anyone. She bought a ticket and followed you in.”
“Pick me up at the far side exit.” I pushed the door open and walked into the street.
Sherri radioed that she saw me. A few blocks closer to the Square, she called again. “You lost your tail at the theater. Looks like she was working alone.”
“Okay. Break off. See you at the hotel.”
Rodney picked me up at the Nelson Monument. To my happy surprise, we passed up the open-air tour bus and took a taxi to a safe house.
After we filled our brandy-laced coffee cups, Rodney said, “So, why are we here?”
“I’m going to Russia.” I gave him Jill Rucker’s photos. “She needs a passport to travel as my wife, Mrs. Dolby. I also want a set of fake FSB credentials for each of us and the items on this list.” Rodney took the list from me and looked down his nose at it.
“What’s your plan?”
“We’re taking a Baltic cruise.” I gave him a brochure with the cruise details. “When we get to St. Petersburg, we’re going to slip away from our shore tour and track down a source.” I handed Rodney photos of what we would be wearing when we left the ship. “We need body doubles to replace us for the three days and two nights we’re in St. Petersburg, and for the remainder of the cruise.”
“Why do you need replacements after you leave St. Petersburg?”
“We’re not returning to the cruise ship. We’re going on to Moscow.” Rodney set his coffee mug aside and laced his fingers over his vest. “Now that I know what you want, let’s talk about what I want. I want to know what you got from Kulik and your mobster.”
“No, you don’t. You’re asking about progress. What you want—what you need—is product. You’ll get the sources and their statements when I have them.” I could have told him that I had nothing from Kulik or Viktor, but why twist his little brain.
Rodney was annoyed. “I get what I want or you don’t get the documents.”
I reminded him of CIA procedures. “One day soon, Langley is going to strap you to a polygraph
machine. When that day comes, the less you know about what I did and how, the better it will be for you.”
Rodney knew I was right, but he didn’t like it. “You’d better deliver.”
* * *
After my meeting with Rodney, we waited: waited for Viktor Lukovsky to find Tatyana Kedrova, waited for Rodney to deliver our cruise documents, waited for an opportunity to interrogate Boris Kulik. At the end of the second week of surveillance, it looked like we were going to get a shot at Kulik. Sherri called me and the team, minus Jill Rucker, to a meeting in her hotel room. Tony-D briefed us.
“Last week, Romeo and Juliet had lunch. This week, they had a nooner.” He turned to me. “If what you told us about their schedule is accurate, they should have lunch at their next meeting. That looks like a good time to corner Romeo for a talk.”
Sherri, who had left the planning to her surveillance team, asked Tony-D, “Have you found a way to get Juliet away from the hotel before Romeo shows for lunch?”
“We think this will work.” Tony-D explained the plan and ended by suggesting to me, “When Juliet arrives at the hotel, Sherri should be the one who tells her Romeo isn’t coming. She might get suspicious if a man makes the approach.”
“That makes sense,” Sherri agreed, “but I still don’t know what Juliet looks like without her disguise. Did you get a good photo of her?”
“We did.” Tony-D handed Sherri a head-and-shoulders shot of the secretary, without her hat and sunglasses. Juliet was sitting at a table in the hotel restaurant. Sherri looked at me. There was concern in her eyes.
“Okay,” I said to the team. “Good job. Sherri and I need to discuss the plan. Take a thirty-minute break in the lobby bar.”
When the team had gone, I asked Sherri, “What’s wrong?”
“You tell me.” She was confused and angry. “Juliet is no secretary. She’s MI6. Her name is Sydney Swope-Soames. I met her at a security conference a couple of years ago. Why are we interfering with a MI6 operation? Who is Romeo? What have you gotten us into, Max?”
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