When I came to, the van was rolling to a quiet stop. The driver’s door opened and closed. I heard him walk around to the van’s sliding door. It opened and the driver and the guy with the blackjack dragged me out of the vehicle and into a building. Wormwood Scrubbs came to mind, but I didn’t hear prison sounds.
I estimated there were five people on the snatch team: a driver and the two couples. One couple and the woman in pain had taken off after Jill. That left the driver and a man from one of the couples. So, the odds were just two to one against me, if I didn’t count the blackjack. I might have a chance against two kidnappers, unless there were more in the building.
They didn’t tie me to a chair. They threw me on the floor and emptied my pockets. I could hear my pocket litter being dumped onto a table. Someone went through it while one of the guys from the van kept a foot pressed into my back. I assumed that someone gave a non-verbal signal. Two men picked me up and shoved me into a chair. One of them ripped the bag off my head. I was in the warehouse where my team had gone through the take from Ironside’s office, home, and garage. Ironside, himself, was sitting in a chair facing mine, less than two feet away. The two guys who had dragged me from the van took up positions behind my chair, out of my field of vision.
Ironside peered at me as though he was looking at a strange specimen in biology class. “Max Geller.” He shook his head slowly. “Have you lost your bloody mind?”
That was a rhetorical question. I looked around the room. In the far corner to my right, Tommy Leeds, my contract burglar, sat handcuffed to a chair. He was bruised and his clothes were in disarray. Behind Ironside, a man and woman leaned against the wall with their arms folded. They had positioned themselves for an unobstructed view of me while I answered Ironside’s questions. I didn’t recognize the man, but the woman was definitely Kulik’s make-believe lover and MI6 contact, Sydney Swope-Soames.
Ironside asked, “Why did the CIA have you break into my place? What were you looking for?”
“I didn’t break into your place.” Technically, that was true, but one of the van guys slapped me hard with the blackjack. I saw stars.
Ironside turned and looked at Tommy, who addressed me. “I’m sorry, mate, but I warned you this couldn’t come back to me.”
Again, Ironside asked, “What does the CIA want from me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t work for the Agency anymore.” I figured that would slow the interrogation and give me time to come up with a strategy.
My statement surprised everyone, except Ironside, who didn’t miss a beat. He came right back at me. “Going the plausible denial route, are we?”
“No. I was fired a month ago for writing bad opinions of President Walldrum in an office email. I’m a freelancer, trying to verify the dossier allegations.” That was the truth … almost. It was also consistent with what I told Bogdanovich, and Ironside would have questioned the colonel by then.
My free agent claim did slow things down. Ironside looked over his shoulder at Swope-Soames, who snapped her fingers at the man on the wall. He unholstered his cell phone, went into the office, and closed the door.
Ironside said to me, “So you had Tommy burglarize my place to get my sources?”
“No, Tommy offered the material. He knew what I was doing. He contacted me and said he could provide documents that would help. I didn’t know how he had come by them.”
“He’s a bloody liar!” shouted Tommy.
I was, but Tommy had rolled over on me. Turnabout was fair play. Screw him.
Ironside stayed focused. “How did you find Bogdanovich’s address?”
“Who is Bogdanovich?”
The guy behind my chair hit me hard enough to make my nose bleed.
Ironside gave me his handkerchief. “You visited the defector, Vasili Bogdanovich, and threatened to give him to the SVR. Are you working for the Russians?”
“Of course not. Come on, Jeffrey. We worked the Russians together. Why would you accuse me of being a traitor?”
Swope-Soames came off the wall with ice in her voice. “Enough! We know you’re a traitor because two of our Russian assets were killed almost immediately after talking to you.” She walked over to my chair, the harsh lights bouncing off her black leather jacket, pants, and boots. A black turtleneck sweater completed her sinister attire.
Swope-Soames took over my interrogation. “Bogdanovich told us that you questioned him and threatened to reveal his whereabouts to the Russians, if he didn’t keep silent about it. He didn’t and you burned him.”
“I don’t know any Bogdanovich.”
“We have digital video and voice recordings of you and a female companion interrogating Bogdanovich at his home in Dumfries.”
I didn’t think so. If they had recordings, they would have played them for me to cut through my bullshit. She was bluffing. I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did you know that Bogdanovich and his daughter were attacked with a military-grade nerve agent last night? That’s a Russian trademark hit.”
The guy with the cell phone returned to the room and nodded “yes” to Swope-Soames. Someone had verified my departure from the CIA.
“What do you know about Boris Kulik?” she asked.
“Never heard of him.”
“Really? Kulik was our London-based asset at the Russian Embassy, was being the relevant word. Thursday, last, your escaped dinner companion lured me away from my meeting with Kulik, allowing you to interrogate him in the hotel suite. You threatened to expose him to the Russians if he revealed your conversation. A few days later, he was recalled to Moscow, briefly tortured, and executed at Lubyanka Prison. Are you seeing the pattern we see? You threaten. People you threaten refuse to do your bidding. You give them up to the Russians. They die.”
She craned her neck in my direction. “I want to know how many other MI6 assets you’ve compromised and how you identified them. I want to know right now. If you and friend, Tommy”—she shot him a glance—“do not give me what I want this night, both of you are going to vanish without a trace.”
She looked over my shoulder and raised her chin. The blackjack hit the side of my head so hard I heard an explosion, but it wasn’t my head exploding.
Besides the loading dock door, the warehouse had two exterior doors, one at either end of the building. Both exploded inward simultaneously. I dropped to the floor. My first thoughts were: Here comes the cavalry! Good old Sherri!
Two masked men ran into the room through each entrance. They weren’t Sherri’s cavalry, because they were firing Russian PP-09-01 submachine guns with integrated silencers. The teams moved into the room, firing their weapons in short bursts. When the shooting stopped, they had taken down everyone but me and Tommy. He had broken free from one arm of his chair. Tommy must have figured he was a goner, because he swung the remains of his chair at the nearest gunman. The guy dropped him with two chest shots. As the shooter was putting a third bullet into Tommy’s head, another member of the hit crew screamed, in Russian, “No, you idiot! We wanted him alive!”
They wanted me alive, too. For the second time that night, someone dropped a bag over my head, while another someone flex-cuffed my hands. Then, two guys grabbed my arms and pushed me outside. The night air hit me and we took a few steps. Then, I heard a quick succession of “thunk-splat-scream” noises. It sounded like people were getting shot with silenced weapons. The men on either side released my arms and I heard their bodies hit the pavement. I followed them down to avoid the gunfire. A few seconds later, someone stood me up and ripped the bag off my head. It was Jill Rucker.
She smiled. “I just shot somebody. Now, all I have to do to complete my internship is speak Russian, and kick your ass, nyet?”
Jill cut off my flex cuffs and hustled me away from the warehouse to a stand of trees concealing our Mercedes sedan and the phony DSL truck. Behind us, I could hear muffled shots and shouts as my cavalry tidied up the Russians.
Minutes late
r, the “heavy metal band” came running. The four of them sped away in the truck. Tony-D took the wheel of the Mercedes and blasted us out of the trees. Over his shoulder he said, with disgust, “One of the damned Russians got away, but we got photos of the others.”
“Any survivors?” I asked.
“Not now,” replied Tony-D.
“How did you find me?”
Tony-D explained. “Nick was shadowing you and Jill, as planned. When the kidnappers grabbed you, Nick followed them. Jill got away and alerted the team. Nick called and told us they were holding you in the warehouse. We came to the rescue, but the Russians were already there, surrounding the building. We let them go in.”
“They could’ve killed me.”
“They didn’t,” was Tony-D’s matter-of-fact reply.
“Where’s Sherri?”
“She’s moving us out of our hotels and taking our bags to the airport.”
“What’s the plan?”
“She wants the team out of London tonight. We’ll take the chartered jet and drop you and Jill in Stockholm. The rest of us will take the charter from Stockholm to an airport in Eastern Europe.” He was vague for Jill’s ears. “Sherri and I will fly commercial to Moscow. The rest of the team will fly the charter to the States. By the time the Brits and Russians figure out they’re after the same crew, we’ll be vapor.”
CHAPTER 16
AT HEATHROW AIRPORT, our team boarded the executive jet Sherri had chartered and we took off for Stockholm. We were in close quarters, but there wasn’t much talk. The warehouse shootout and escape made all of us murderers or accomplices. After Stockholm, we were going our separate ways for different purposes. No one needed to know more about the man or woman next to him than he did already.
Stockholm was colder than London, but, thankfully, there was no police heat awaiting us when we arrived. After we pulled into the hangar, I took Sherri aside.
“Thanks for Plan B. Sorry you got involved with the rough stuff.”
She shrugged. “We’ve been here before with the Russians, but interfering with MI6 … That worries me.”
“It’s too late for worry. I have some tasks for you.” I gave her the sat phone Rodney had loaned me for emergencies. “Send this and my computer back to the States with one of your guys. I don’t think they’ll help us in Russia.” I added, “Tony-D took mug shots of the Russian-speakers who grabbed me from MI6. Before my computer leaves for the States, use it to send those photos to Rodney for IDs.”
“Who’s Rodney?”
“The guy who emailed us background on Bogdanovich. Also, I need you to confirm my meeting with Rodney. It’s scheduled for three days from now, early morning, at the Café Kinsky near the cruise terminal in Tallinn, Estonia.” Tallinn was the first stop on our cruise and the last one before St. Petersburg. “Tell him to call me on the cruise ship if there’s a change.”
“More?”
“Do a background check on Jill Rucker … and I still need one on Bowen. Bring whatever you have on them to Moscow.
“Last task. When you get to Moscow, remember to contact the Omega Group. Ask if they can find us a safe house and the people on that witness list I gave you.”
“Won’t they check with Ironside?”
“He bought it when the Russians hit the warehouse.”
Sherri looked worried. “How reliable is the skinny on this Omega Group? I don’t want hard time in Lubyanka Prison any more than I wanted it in Wormwood Scrubs.”
“I got it from a MI6 asset, but be careful. He’s dead and the FSB has a talent for infiltrating opposition organizations.”
The worried look didn’t vanish. Sherri said, “Max, you shouldn’t use your hotel reservation here. MI6 might pick it up. Let me send Nick to town with you. He didn’t leave a paper trail in London. He’ll pay for a room in his name. You and Jill can hole up there until your cruise sails for St. Petersburg.”
Jill, Nick, and I took a cab into Stockholm. Nick got us into a hotel near the cruise terminal. Exhausted, Jill and I collapsed on our beds as soon as we got to the room. It was the letdown that followed the adrenaline high of my kidnapping and rescue.
During the next thirty-six hours, we kept a low profile: no mission discussions, no unnecessary interaction with hotel staff, all meals consumed away from the hotel, and everything paid for in cash. Otherwise, we stayed in the room and read novels or Russian grammar books to brush up on our language skills.
Eighteen hours into this routine, I was bored and in need of conversation and information. Propped up against the headboard of my bed, Jill against hers, I asked, “Did you tell Bowen you were going to Russia with me?”
Jill looked up from her Russian language novel. “Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Don’t go.”
“Why?”
“He said I could support you better from London.”
I suggested another reason. “What he meant was, if I asked you for support and you had to call him to arrange it, the Russians could trace your call to his doorstep.”
“I’m sure that was on his mind.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I was going to Russia with you, posing as your wife, and I wanted hazardous duty pay.”
“Hazardous duty pay because of the Russians or me?”
“Both.” She didn’t smile.
I laughed. “Did he give you instructions?”
This time, she smiled mischievously. “He told me that I was just your make-believe wife and not to sleep with you. He said you had enough problems at home already.”
“And you said … ?”
“I hung up.” Jill went back to her novel.
I went to wondering how Bowen knew that Claudia and I were having problems … and why he told Jill.
* * *
The next noon, we took a cab to the Stockholm cruise terminal. With only carry-on luggage, we quickly processed aboard our ship, along with a thousand other passengers. Our roomy balcony cabin had double beds, a Jill Rucker request. We unpacked and settled down to enjoy a bottle of champagne, provided by the thoughtful staff. A few hours later, we sailed into a gloomy Baltic evening. Our Russian adventure had begun.
As in the Stockholm hotel, we maintained a low profile, keeping to our cabin and taking meals at the buffet. Our goal was that passengers and staff would have only a vague recollection of us after we jumped ship in St. Petersburg. Our first night on the water was the Stockholm-to-Tallinn run. After dinner, we read in our cabin until boredom overtook us again.
Jill broke the silence. “Lawyers make lousy domestic partners, Max. They work long hours and they speak a language designed to confuse us mortals.”
“How did you know my girlfriend was a lawyer?”
“You talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“How do you know, if you’re asleep?”
“I record all activities in my bedroom.”
Jill laughed. “Got any hot footage? I’ll post it on the Internet and make you a star.”
“What makes you think I’m not already a star in my little world?”
“According to Bowen, you and your lady lawyer aren’t getting along. Most couples fight about money and sex. Which is it with you two?”
That was none of her business, but I wasn’t going to say sex was a problem. “I lost my job last month.”
“Well,” she said, “if your lawyer leaves you, you won’t have trouble finding a replacement. You’re smart, fit, and good-looking.”
I’m also going to be ten million dollars richer in a few weeks and I have a finely tuned bullshit detector, Ms. Rucker, but do continue.
She didn’t. Instead, she announced, “I’m going to take a shower.”
The running shower provided soothing background noise while I studied a street map of St. Petersburg, located Tatyana Kedrova’s house, and checked a city guidebook for transportation and communications. I was using the documents to plot possible escape r
outes—if we needed them—when the shower noise ceased along with my interest in planning. My cruise hormones kicked in and I began to imagine Jill Rucker toweling her tanned, athletic body.
I didn’t have long to imagine. The bathroom door opened and Jill walked out, naked from head to waist. She wore a towel, knotted below her navel, that covered her from hips to ankles. She hadn’t dried herself completely and little droplets of water clung tantalizingly to her flesh, especially her lovely breasts.
I was sitting on the side of my bed facing Jill’s. She sat down facing me across the short distance between us defined by the nightstand. She undid the knot and smoothed the towel out under her, presumably to keep her naked, damp bottom from wetting the bed. She gave me a silent, “So?” with raised eyebrows.
I watched as she bent over to clip her toenails. Her breasts were tight orbs that hardly moved as she leaned forward. Water droplets slid down from her shoulders, ran to her nipples, and plopped onto the carpet. I believe I counted them as I thought, This is going to be one long freakin’ night.
After clipping all ten toenails, Jill sat up, crossed her legs, leaned back on her hands, and looked at me. She wasn’t a bit put off by my eyes playing over her body. Maybe it was black belt confidence.
“How would you rate our chances of coming out of this in one piece—make that two pieces?” She gave me a little smile.
“Honestly, if I was a betting man, I’d bet on the other side.”
“Why?”
“Too many maybes. Maybe we find the people we’re looking for. Maybe they won’t talk to us. Maybe the Russian mob or Russian police will get us.”
She nodded her understanding. “Tomorrow night is prep for combat and rest?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, since this is our last free night, let’s not waste it.” Jill Rucker got up from her bed and stood in front of me. I was looking into her navel and smelling the residue of shower gel on her body. She pulled the map from my hand and pushed me over backward on my bed. My prediction came true. It turned into one long, long night. No complaints.
The President’s Dossier Page 10