Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (30 page)

Moscow

It was the evening rush hour and hundreds of Muscovites worn out after a long day’s work packed the steep escalators serving the Smolenskaya Metro Station. Among them were three people, one of them a tall, strong-looking man in his mid-fifties. He carried a heavy canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder and wore a martyred expression as he patiently shepherded his dod-dering, elderly mother and his equally ancient father off the escalator.

“We’re almost outside, little mother,” he said gently. “Just a little farther now.” He looked back over his shoulder at the older man. “Come now, Papa.

You must do your best to keep up.”

Up at the top, a growing crowd of increasingly unhappy Metro riders were pressing up against the barriers leading to the street, restlessly waiting for a chance to run their magnetic tickets through the machines and leave the station. But most of the ticket-readers were shut down, forcing everyone in the crowd to funnel through the three barriers that were still in service. Exasper-ated murmurs swept through those milling in line when they saw the reason for the slowdown. Squads of gray-coated militiamen were deployed at every entrance and exit. They were busy carefully checking the faces of everyone entering and leaving the Smolenskaya station. From time to time, they pulled people away in ones and twos for closer questioning—often, but not always, lean, dark-haired men or slender and attractive, black-haired women.

After scrutinizing the identity papers of the most recent pair hauled before him, Militia Lieutenant Grigor Pronin tossed the cards back and then waved the worried-looking man and woman away. “Fine,” he growled. “Everything’s fine. Now move along!”

He grimaced. He and his entire unit had been tied up in this ridiculous manhunt for hours, stuck here on pointless, glorified sentry duty on orders from the Kremlin. No Chechen terrorist had ever looked anything like the photographs he had been shown. Meanwhile, he thought bitterly, Moscow’s real criminals must be having a field day—mugging, shoplifting, and stealing cars to their black hearts’ content.

Pronin swung round in irritation at a sudden outbreak of loud cursing and swearing from the barrier. People were pushing and shoving one another near one of the ticket machines. He scowled. What the devil was wrong now? The militia officer stalked closer, angrily laying one hand on his holstered sidearm.

The crowd at the barrier saw him coming and fell silent. Most stepped back a pace or two, leaving three people still gathered around the machine.

One, a tall, silver-haired man, seemed to be trying to gently urge a plump, much-older woman through the narrow opening. Stooped over a cane, an elderly man with long whiskers and dirty, matted white hair leaned heavily against the railing on the other side, feebly motioning the woman on. Two medals pinned to his dirty coat proclaimed him a veteran of The Great Patri-otic War against Fascism.

“What’s the trouble here?” Pronin demanded grimly.

“It’s my mother, sir,” the silver-haired man said apologetically. “She’s having trouble with her ticket. She keeps sticking it in the wrong way round.” He turned back to the woman. “Now see what you’ve done, little mother? The militia have come to see what the fuss is about.”

“Never mind that,” Pronin said brusquely. He reached across the barrier, grabbed the magnetic card from the old woman’s shaking hand, and inserted it himself. The barrier slid aside, allowing her to hobble through, followed soon after by her son. Almost immediately, a horrid odor assailed the militia lieutenant’s nose, a rank, acrid stench that made him gag.

He stepped back, astonished by the smell. “Good God,” he muttered in shock. “What’s that stink?”

The other man shrugged sadly. “I’m afraid it’s her bladder,” he confided.

“She doesn’t have very much control over it these days. I try to get her to change her diaper more often, but she’s very stubborn, you see —much like a little child, really.”

Disgusted, Pronin waved the trio through his waiting men. So that was what old age could be like, he thought darkly. Then he turned back to survey the crowds, already dismissing the depressing incident from his mind.

Once they were safely outside the Metro station, the old woman painfull}

made her way over to a bench and sat down. The two men followed her.

“I swear to God, Oleg,” Fiona Devin muttered crossly to the tall man masquerading as her son. “I’m going to be sick all over myself if I don’t get out of these foul-smelling clothes and all this damned padding … and soon!”

“I am sorry,” Kirov said ruefully. “But it is necessary.” One of his bushy eyebrow s rose in wry amusement. “On the other hand, my dear, you must admit that a bit of vomit would add a very nice touch of authenticity to your disguise.”

Leaning hunched over on his cane, Jon Smith tried hard not to laugh. The glued-on theatrical whiskers and wig he was wearing itched abominably, but at least his coat and worn trousers were only stained with machine oil and ground-in dirt and not anything worse. Fiona, swaddled in layers to make her look fat and then stuffed into horribly soiled garments, had it a lot worse.

Smith noticed other shoppers and pedestrians giving them a wide berth, quickly walking away with wrinkled noses and averted eyes. Even in the open air, the smells emanating from them were still pungent. He nodded. These get-ups, uncomfortable and demeaning though they were, were proving remarkably effective.

“Come, Fiona,” Kirov urged. “We’re almost there. It’s only a hundred meters or so farther on, just down that next little side street.”

Still grumbling under her breath, Fiona forced herself back onto her feet, which were stuffed into boots that were at least a size too small for her, and shuffled off in the direction Kirov indicated. Together they hobbled and limped east along the Ulitsa Arbat and turned into an alley lined with small shops selling books, new and used clothing, perfumes, and antiques.

Patiently, the Russian led them to a narrow door halfway down the alley.

Next to the door, a dirty window displayed a poorly lit selection of antique samovars, matryoshka dolls, lacquer boxes and bowls, crystal, Soviet-era porcelain, and old lamps. Faded gold lettering above the window read ANTIKVAZ-AVIABARI.

If anything, the tiny shop behind the door was even more of a jumble, full of items heaped together on dusty shelves and counters without any apparent rhyme or reason. There were replicas of famous religious icons, Red Army belt buckles and fleece-lined fabric tanker’s helmets, gold-plated candle sticks, chipped China tea sets, costume jewelry, and framed and faded Soviet propaganda posters.

When they came in, the proprietor, a large, ponderous man with just a fringe of curly gray hair around his bald pate, looked up from the cracked teacup he was gluing back together. His dark eyes brightened at the sight of Kirov and he came lumbering around the counter to greet them.

“Oleg!” he boomed, in a baritone voice that carried the hint of a Georgian accent. “I assume these are the friends of whom you spoke on the phone?”

Kirov nodded coolly. “They are.” He turned to Fiona and Smith. “And this overfed villain is Lado Iashvili, the self-described bane of Moscow’s legitimate antique dealers.”

“What the general here says is very true,” Iashvili admitted with a tolerant shrug. He grinned widely, revealing a worn set of tobacco-stained teeth. “But then I have my poor living to make, and they have theirs, eh? We each prosper in our own way.”

“So I hear,” Kirov agreed.

“But now to business, correct?” Iashvili said expansively. “Do not worry, Oleg. I think you and your friends will be very pleased by the quality of my merchandise.”

“Will we?” Fiona said carefully, eyeing the clutter around them with barely concealed disdain.

Iashvili chuckled. “Ah, Babushka, there you misunderstand the nature of my business.” He waved a dismissive hand at the bric-a-brac scattered around his shop. “These things are largely for show. They are only a hobby, something to deceive the curious policeman or the occasional nosy tax inspector.

Come! I will show you my true passion!”

With that, the burly Georgian swung round and ushered them through another door at the back of his shop. It opened into a storeroom piled high with the same mix of genuine antiques and useless junk. Off in the far corner, a steep flight of stairs led down into the basement. This staircase ended at a locked steel door.

Iashvili unlocked the door and pushed it open with an extravagant, sweeping gesture. “Take a look for yourselves,” he said grandly. “Here you see my studio, the little temple of my art.”

Smith and Fiona stared around them in wonder. They were standing in a large, brightly lit chamber. It was filled with expensive photography equipment, computers, several different types of color laser printers and photo-copiers, engraving machines, and rack upon rack containing what appeared to be almost every imaginable kind of paper, inks, and chemicals used to artificially age documents. One whole side of the room was set up as a photo studio, complete with different backdrops, a wash basin with soap, shampoos, and towels, and a privacy screen.

With another broad grin, the Georgian patted himself on the chest.

“Speaking with all due modesty, of course, I, Lado Iashvili, am the very best in my chosen profession — certainly in Moscow, and perhaps in all of Russia. The general here understands this fact, which is why he has brought you to me.”

“You are definitely a gifted forger,” Kirov agreed tersely. He shot a glance at Smith and Fiona. “In the old days, the KGB held a monopoly on Iashvili’s rather unique services. But now that he’s branched out into the private sector, he has proved himself quite the entrepreneur.”

The Georgian nodded matter-of-factly. “I do have a wide range of clients,”

he admitted. “Those who would like to leave their unfortunate pasts behind for any number of reasons have learned to rely on me for help.”

“Including members of the Mafiya?” Fiona guessed. Her face was expressionless, but Smith could hear the anger in her voice. She had no love for anyone who aided members of Moscow’s criminal underworld.

Iashvili shrugged. “Who knows? It may be so. But I never ask awkward questions of those who pay me.” He smiled drily. “For that, I think you two should be grateful, eh?”

Fiona looked back at Kirov. “How far can we trust this man?” she asked bluntly.

The Russian smiled coldly. “Quite far, actually. First, because he is a man whose livelihood depends entirely on his reputation for absolute discretion.

And second, because he values his own skin.” He turned toward Iashvili. “You know what will happen if news of the work you’re going to do for my friends leaks out?”

For the first time, the effusive Georgian seemed at a loss for words. His fleshy face turned pale. “You will kill me, Oleg.”

“So I will, Lado,” Kirov said quietly. “Or, if I could not, there are others who would do it for me. In either case, your death would not be quick. Do you understand me?”

Iashvili nervously licked his lips. He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I understand.”

Satisfied, Kirov dumped the canvas duffel bag he was carrying on a nearby table and began quickly removing items from it. Within moments, the table was covered with shoes and sets of clean, stylish clothing in sizes that would fit the two Americans, different-colored wigs and hairpieces, dyes, and a kit containing other items that would help them alter their appearance in any one of several ways.

“And you still want all of the documents we discussed earlier?” Iashvili asked tentatively, watching the growing piles of clothing and gear through narrowed eyes.

Kirov nodded. “My friends will need new foreign passports … Swedish, I think. Also, photocopies of appropriate business visas and immigration cards—ones issued at St. Petersburg would probably be best. Plus, they’ll need paperwork confirming their employment by the World Health Organization.

They’ll also want a set of local identity papers as a fallback, documents with good, solid Russian names on them. Will any of that present a problem?”

The Georgian shook his head rapidly, beginning to recover his customary poise. “Not a bit,” he promised.

“How long will you need?”

Iashvili shrugged. “Three hours. Maybe four at the outside.”

“And the price?” Kirov asked.

“One million rubles,” the other man said flatly. “In cash.”

Smith whistled softly. At the present rate of exchange, that came to more than thirty thousand U.S. dollars. Still, it was probably a fair price for the high-grade forged papers he and Fiona Devin would need if they were stopped at a militia checkpoint.

Kirov shrugged. “Very well. Half now.” He pulled a large stack of Russian bank notes out of the duffel bag and handed them to Iashvili. “And half later, when the work is finished to my friends’ satisfaction.”

While the suddenly much-happier Georgian forger took the money upstairs for safekeeping, Kirov spoke quietly to Smith and Fiona. “Join me when Iashvili is done here. The rest of his money is in the bag,” he said. “Ill wait for

you in the bar in the Hotel Belgrade, just on this side of the Borodinsky Bridge.” He grinned at them. “With luck, of course, I won’t recognize either of you.”

“You’re not staying?” Fiona asked in surprise.

Kirov shook his head regretfully. “I have a rendezvous I must keep,” he explained softly. “A private meeting with another old friend. A man who may have some of the answers we need.”

“An old friend in uniform?” Smith guessed.

“Perhaps from time to time, Jon,” the other man agreed with a slight smile.

“Though senior officers in the Federal Security Service often prefer a simple business suit for social occasions.”

It was well after ten at night when Smith and Fiona Devin entered the Lobby Bar at the Hotel Belgrade, but the place was still hopping. Men and women in business attire, mostly Russians, though with a scattering of foreigners, occupied most of the booths and tables or stood elbow-to-elbow at the bar. Soft jazz played in the background, but the music was almost completely drowned out by the clamor of loud conversation. Although the Belgrade was a big, boxy hotel without much architectural charm, its convenient location, close to the Metro and the Arbat, and its reasonable prices kept its occupancy rates high even in the winter.