Black Ghosts (20 page)

The hotel's Russkaya Chainaya restaurant boasted traditional Russian cuisine, as well as a selection of Western dishes, including omelets and hamburgers. The smell of cooking in the place was appetizing, even if the dishes they were presented with were far less so. Natalie ordered traditional Russian dishes: fish soup, rasstegai pies, and a small bottle of Georgian wine. Edward was more careful. Tomorrow was his rendezvous at the Grave of the Unknown Soldier, and the last thing he wanted was a bad stomach. He stuck to buns and butter and some cooked vegetables.

After dinner they returned to their suite. Natalie settled down with her paperback, but Edward was too restless to sit still. He prowled around the suite, looking out the window, checking his watch, waiting for eleven to come around. At last it was time.

“You'll be okay?” said Natalie.

“No problem.” He took the elevator down to the ground floor and went directly into the washroom, where a man was standing by the mirror, trimming his beard with a small, thin pair of scissors.

“Smythe?” said Edward, taking care to get the pronunciation right.

“End cubicle,” the man said quickly.

Edward went down the row of tan painted doors, opened the last one and shut himself inside. He heard the door of the next cubicle being locked.

“Money,” said Smythe.

Edward put his hand, clutching a fistful of fifties, through the gap between the cubicle wall and the floor.

“All right,” said Smythe's voice. “Here.”

As soon as he saw the pistol, Edward loosened his grasp on the bills. They were quickly removed from his hand. The toilet flushed, and Smythe left the washroom. Edward gave him a couple of minutes, then went back upstairs.

Natalie was in bed already. Edward sat by the small table and took the gun apart. It was not enough to have a gun; he had to make sure it would work. Then, satisfied it was all in order, he placed it under the pillow and got in beside her.

 

 

 

The Federal Express office was located on Kalanchovskaya Street, not far from the Ostrovsky Theater. Edward picked up the parcel first thing in the morning. The waybill described the contents as “documents.” In fact, the parcel consisted of a large carton filled with books, as Edward confirmed when he got it back to the Hotel Metropole. He searched a couple of paperback volumes before he found what he was looking for: a large book in which the inside pages had been cut a square hollow, large enough to conceal two thick piles of bank notes. In that book alone, there were two hundred bills worth one hundred each.

The parcel contained a total of over forty books, all but the first few of which contained similar hidden compartments. Edward counted the bills with satisfaction. All in all, Larry had sent him nearly half a million dollars.

Edward put some of the money into an attaché case. The rest he placed in a special belt he had brought with him for this purpose, which he then strapped around his waist, beneath his shirt and pants. It made him look a little overweight around the middle, but he wasn't worried about that. He was more concerned that the money might not be enough. He still had only a vague idea of what he would spend it on, but he was certain that none of the items that were likely to wind up on his shopping list would come cheap.

He and Natalie put their coats on and went down into the street. It was a fine day, and their destination was not far off, so they decided to walk.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, at the foot of the Kremlin's Armory Tower, south of the large square at the end of Karl Marx Avenue, appears humble enough at first glance. But as you come closer to it you realize its impact: a large granite platform with a slightly sunken section, in the middle of which an eternal flame burns at the center of a five-pointed bronze star with an inscription in Russian. Closer to the wall, behind the star, is a large granite sarcophagus draped with the Soviet flag in polished brass, and a larger-than-life Russian helmet with the star emblazoned on its front. Behind the sarcophagus, on each side of which stands a ceremonial guard, is a row of pine trees glowing green against the red stone of the Kremlin wall, over which tower the yellow walls of the former Arsenal Building.

Occasionally someone stopped and placed a bouquet of flowers at the foot of the inscription. Edward knew the look in their eyes; he had seen it many times at marble and granite pillars where names were not marked. There was the hope and the frustration of not being sure, which differed from the agony of those who knew all too well where their dear ones rested.

Edward looked at his watch. The rendezvous was set for eleven; it was two minutes to. Arm in arm with Natalie, he stood in front of the brown granite tomb. Together they looked like any tourists, except maybe for the copy of the Phoenix Gazette sticking out of Edward's coat pocket.

A woman walked up and laid a bouquet of red tulips among the others at foot of the tomb. She stood there for a minute and looked at the effect, then stooped again and moved it a little closer to where Edward was standing. “Toriste?”

He nodded.

“You speak English?” she asked.

Edward nodded again.

“Such beautiful flowers, yes?” she said, standing again, smiling. Edward nodded indifferently, wishing she would go away.

“You see here,” said the woman, pointing to the inscription on the granite tombstone. “You know what says? I will translate.” And she read: “‘Your name is unknown, what you have done is immortal.' Beautiful, yes?” Edward nodded again, trying to walk the fine line between keeping his distance and being outright rude to the woman. At last, as if sensing that these tourists were not friendly, she walked away. Edward looked at his watch again. It was one minute past eleven. If something was going to happen, it would happen now. Edward watched the second hand ticking on his watch, then his eye was caught by the white card that was attached to the bouquet the woman had left. On it was written one word:
Larry.

Edward bent down and busied himself with untying and retying his shoelace. Before standing up, he palmed the white card. Written on the other side were the words:
Restaurant. Hotel Intourist. Alone.

Edward slipped the card into his pocket. Natalie had not noticed a thing. He waited for a couple more minutes, then he looked at his watch again. “I don't like the way this is turning out. Something's wrong. Go back to the hotel and wait for me there. If you don't hear from me within three hours, leave the hotel. Contact Larry, he'll get you out of here.” He handed her the attaché case. “There's at least a hundred and fifty grand in there. Use it if you need it.”

“What happened? Why the sudden change?”

“I don't know, it's just a hunch. But I want you to be safe. I'll probably be back shortly. It's just a precaution. Don't argue with me. Please, just do as I say.”

“Okay. If I'm not in the hotel I'll be at my apartment.”

“That might not be smart. They might still have it under surveillance.”

“I mean if you don't come back right away. For now I'll wait for you at the hotel. Don't worry, I can take care of myself. You just watch out. Don't be a hero, okay?” She flicked her fingers at the monument. “This is what heroes get—a hole in the ground.” She looked into his eyes. There was a strength in her look.

“Okay. If you don't hear from me soon, don't hang around. Get the hell out of this place.”

She leaned over and kissed his lips. “I love you,” she said and turned to walk away. He had nothing to tell her, nothing that would sound as clear as her statement.

Sokolov had the tinted window of his car rolled down a couple of inches. He waited until the woman who had come with the American walked away. Then, once he was sure his target was moving in the direction of the hotel as instructed, he ordered his driver to head to their second position. As he passed by the Hotel Intourist, he signaled a man waiting outside. The signal meant the target's on the way and all is clear.

Sokolov had to come up with the card trick at the last minute. He had no idea who the woman was, and he wasn't about to find out during the operation. As Rogov had said to him over and over again, do not compromise your plan and you minimize your risk.

 

Edward walked through the Alexandrovsky Gardens, across the Square to Gorky Street. He soon identified the Hotel Intourist and went inside to find the restaurant. The menu was posted on a board outside, and he stood there reading it for a minute or two. A man approached and stood by him. “See anything that whets your appetite?”

“Not really,” Edward replied truthfully.

“There is a bakery on Pushkin Street. Perhaps you'll find what you're looking for there.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Left on Gorky,” said the man, pointing at the main entrance. “Take the first right, then the first left. It'll be on your right.” Then he turned away as if they had never met and wandered off into the restaurant.

Edward followed the directions. He knew they were testing to see if he was bringing a tail with him or leading his contact into a trap. The method was well known and used by every intelligence agency worth its salt, and yet it was foolproof. The counter-surveillance team would consist of at least five people and two cars, as well as whomever he was to meet with. The fact that they were taking precautions made him feel better; if this were a trap, none of it would be necessary.

Edward walked at an easy pace, trying to look inconspicuous. The buildings along Pushkin Street were all quite anonymous, with few signs to say what they were, not that he could have read the signs had there been any. He wondered how easy it was going to be to find a bakery. He thought he should be looking for a shop with a line of people outside. Weren't Russians supposed to have to line up for everything? But there were no lines of people anywhere in sight. He kept walking.

In the end it was the smell that gave it away. He was passing a blank storefront when he caught the unmistakable aroma of fresh-baked bread, which reminded him tantalizingly of the bistro in Utah. He stopped, looked in the building's darkened windows and saw rows of desks with office staff seated at them. He glanced up and down the street. A couple of doors back the way he had come, he saw someone staring at him. From the man's intense expression, it was obvious that this was Edward's contact. He slowly walked up to him.

“Looking for what?” the man asked.

“A bakery.”

“The bakery is closed today. But I can recommend another one, by the statue of Prince Dologurky in Soviet Square.” The man pointed up the street, in the direction Edward had been walking. “Take the first left, then turn right on Gorky Street.” Abruptly the man turned and walked away. Soon Edward was back on Gorky Street, heading north toward Soviet Square. Cars sped past on his left. He was vaguely aware of a car that had slowed at the curb behind him. A statue came into view, of a man bearing a shield and riding on a horse. That must be Prince Dologurky, he thought.

Suddenly things started happening very quickly. The car which had been trailing him overtook him, then slowed to a halt five feet ahead. The rear passenger door opened and a large man got out. Holding the door open, he gestured to Edward to enter. At that moment, another man walking behind Edward caught up with him and, pressing him in the back, guided him to the car. As he bent to enter, Edward felt himself being expertly frisked. Then he felt the man's hand on his head, pushing him quickly and efficiently into the car's back seat. He found himself seated next to a tall, thin man on the far side, and then the man who had frisked him got in beside him. The one holding the door slammed it shut and jumped into the front passenger seat. The car gathered speed. The entire capture, as they call it in trade lingo, had taken five seconds or less, and it would have taken a trained observer to notice that it was anything more than just a question of offering a friend a ride.

Edward recognized the technique. He had done it many times and had filled just about every one of the team's positions, including that of host—which in this case must be the role of the tall, slim man on his left. The man who had climbed in after Edward held a gun to his ribs. He said something in Russian to the slim man.

“He asks that you put your hands where he can see them. He said you're wearing some sort of belt. And that you have, or rather had, a gun.”

“It's a money belt.”

More words were exchanged in Russian, and the gun stopped pressing against him. The slim man extended his hand. “My name is Sokolov. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Larry.”

Edward shook the proffered hand, wondering in a flash if he should reveal his true identity. He decided he would. If this Sokolov was on his side, then he should know who he was dealing with. If not, then Edward was already dead.

“Larry couldn't make it. My name is Edward.”

“Da, da,” the man said, nodding. “I learned from our friend Mr. Donoven that you had taken Larry's place.”

“Did you kill Donoven?” Edward asked, unsure whether the mention of the man's name was a veiled threat of some kind.

“No, one of my associates in the CG did.”

“So you are with the Black Ghosts?”

“Indeed, indeed I am. I am a colonel in the armored divisions and my emergency posting is with the Black Ghosts.” Then he lapsed into silence.

Edward tried to fathom what this silence meant. Was there a hint of wistfulness in the colonel's voice, indicating that he was less than happy with his role in the Black Ghosts? Or did he remain silent simply because there is nothing much to say to a man who is already dead? Playing for time, Edward said he nearly hadn't made the rendezvous because of almost missing his contact at the bakery. “I was looking for people lining up for their bread,” he said.