The Kremlin Phoenix (14 page)

What result?

She ignored his question. “Your
only hope – our only hope – is for Russia to join the free nations, not oppose
them, to keep the technological advantage with the free world, to preserve a
global balance.”

Craig wondered if her prediction
could possibly be true.
But that hasn’t happened yet? Right? So how do you
know changing my time makes the future better?

“Trust me, it couldn’t be worse.”
Mariena said. “Now please do what I ask.”

Craig gazed at her holographic
image thoughtfully, trying to imagine what Mariena’s world could possibly be
like.

She glanced to her left. “Are we
still transmitting?” A moment later, she turned back towards the window. “Can
you hear me?”

Yes.

“Will you help us?”

Who are you?

When her accomplices read out his
question, she said, “We’re . . . the last chance of making the world right
again. Humanity dies with us, or lives with you.”

Craig swallowed. It sounded
crazy, but then he’d never spoken to a hologram from the future before, and
that seemed crazy too.

 
How long have I got?

She waited while her accomplices
checked his date and time of death.

“Our records show your time of
death is in . . . seven minutes.”

“Seven minutes!” Craig said aloud,
shocked.

A shadow obscured the crack of
light between the door and the floor, moving as the handle turned. When the
lock caught the door, the clicking of a lock pick jiggling the tumblers sounded.
Craig realized seven minutes was long enough to break into the room, to force
him at gunpoint to transfer the money and to kill him!

“Are you transferring the money?”
Mariena asked

Craig jumped to his feet, knowing
there was now only one way out of the room. He pushed open the window, grabbed
the computer and climbed out onto the narrow, fourth floor ledge. The door lock
clicked open behind him as he pushed the window closed and started sliding his
feet along the narrow stonework.

Inside his room, the door opened,
but was caught by the metal loop. Nogorev threw his shoulder against it,
tearing the securing bolt from the door frame. He stepped inside, seeing a
woman standing with her back to him, the same woman he’d seen in Romano’s
restaurant.

“Where is Craig Balard?” Nogorev demanded,
leveling his gun at her.

She seemed to ignore him, saying,
“Craig, can you hear me?”

Nogorev approached. “Answer me!” When
she didn’t answer, he fired a single shot into the back of her head. The bullet
passed harmlessly through the hologram and shattered the window beyond and
startling Craig outside. Nogorev swept his gun through the hologram curiously,
then stepped through Mariena’s image, and opened the window.

Craig inched away to his right,
glancing down apprehensively at the alley bordered by low tenement houses. He
was an arm’s length from the corner of the building when he glanced back to the
window. Nogorev locked a withering stare on him. For a moment, Craig was mesmerized
by those eyes, then he continued edging towards the corner again.

“Come back, and I’ll let you live!”
Nogorev promised, still hoping to recover the MLI master list which he now knew
was missing from the files he’d taken from Goldstein.

Seven minutes
, Craig remembered, certain Nogorev would never let him live. He
glanced down, and for a moment vertigo gripped him, then he looked up, clearing
his head.

Nogorev aimed his silenced pistol
at Craig. “Last chance.”

“Kill me, and you’ll never get
the money,” Craig yelled as he felt his way around the corner with one hand.

“Then no one will get it,” Nogorev
said.

Craig pivoted on one foot and
lunged around the corner of the wall. He fell off the ledge as Nogorev fired, feeling
the blast of air as the bullet flashed passed his head. His fingertips caught
the stone edge as he dropped Nikki’s computer and swung around the corner, out
of Nogorev’s sight. The laptop spun away from the building and shattered on the
path below as Craig clawed his way along the ledge to a rusting drain pipe running
down the side of the building. He hooked a leg around the pipe and slid
haltingly down towards the third floor ledge. With one foot on the stonework, he
kicked in the nearest window and dived into a room, unoccupied except for a
single suit case by the bed. Craig ran out into the hall, where a middle aged
maid was guiding a linen trolley out of the elevator a short distance away.

“Wait!” he yelled, running as the
elevator doors started to close.

The maid stuck out her hand, catching
the door.

“Thanks,” he said, as he stepped
inside.

Craig rode the elevator down to
the lobby. When the doors clanked open, he peered warily out. Finding the lobby
occupied by only a few guests and the concierge, he walked to the front door
and slipped quietly out, then hurried along the sidewalk towards the alley
where the computer had shattered. Just as he reached it, Nogorev burst out of
the hotel’s back door and looked up at the wall searching for clues as to where
his quarry had gone. Nogorev started towards the back street behind the hotel,
not seeing Craig behind him, who turned and ran across the street. The
detectives watching the hotel, radioed their first sighting of Craig as dodged
through traffic. A small delivery van screeched to avoid hitting him, blasting
its horn in protest. Nogorev stopped and looked back toward the noise, breaking
into a sprint the moment he saw Craig darting through the traffic.

Damn, he’s fast!
Craig realized as he ran into another street, knocking people aside
in reckless panic, while near the hotel, the detectives climbed out of their
car and started after them both, already far behind.

Nogorev raced between people and
cars with the speed of an athlete, then Craig turned sharply across the road
again, and headed towards an Underground station as more horns honked angrily
at him. At the Underground entrance, Craig glanced over his shoulder without
slowing, seeing Nogorev was closing rapidly.

I’m no match for him!
Craig realized as he leapt down the stairs two at a time, tripped
and rolled to the bottom, knocking two men over as he fell. Craig’s head
glanced off the last step, then all three hit the bottom together. Dazed, he
stumbled to his feet as Nogorev appeared at the top of stairs and took aim.

One of the men Craig had knocked
down jumped to his feet in a fury. “What do you think you’re doing, you stupid
bastard!” the man yelled, throwing a roundhouse punch at Craig’s jaw as Nogorev
fired.

The punch knocked Craig down as
the bullet struck the angry man’s shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground.
A woman screamed as blood smeared the man’s shirt and the shrill call of police
whistles sounded from inside the station as two policemen ran toward the
stairs. Craig blinked stars from his eyes as he stumbled away, out of Nogorev’s
sight. He tumbled over the turnstiles without a ticket, then ran to the nearest
platform. Behind him, people rushed to help the wounded man as the police
arrived.

“He shot me! That bastard shot
me!” yelled the injured man from the foot of the stairs.

Nogorev holstered his gun inside
his jacket as more police came running, and slipped away into the crowd.

On the platform, Craig stumbled into
the nearest carriage, not caring where the train was going. Other passengers
watched him collapse onto a seat, breathing heavily and holding his throbbing
head. The doors closed and slowly, the train pulled away from the platform.
More than seven minutes had passed, and he was still alive.

More importantly, the timeline
reset again.

* * * *

Inspector McGuire sat in his office in
New Scotland Yard studying a report analyzing Craig’s internet usage when
Corman and Harriman entered. He handed them each copies of the report. “Balard
made no calls from his hotel room, but he made good use of the room’s wifi service.”

Harriman glanced at the list of
websites Craig had logged into. “They’re all banks?”

Corman skimmed the report
quickly, then whistled slowly. “That crazy son of a bitch! He did it!”

“Did what?” McGuire asked.

Corman picked up the Inspector’s
telephone. “I’ve got to make a call. Do you mind?” he asked, already dialing.

“Help yourself,” McGuire said, certain
that it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d refused.

When the call connected, Corman said,
“584236. I need a list of electronic funds transfers in the last twenty four
hours from the following banks,” he said, then read aloud the names on McGuire’s
list. “Only the big ones . . . and the destinations if you can get them.”
Corman looked up at Harriman and McGuire, who watched with interest.

“There are millions of transfers every
day,” McGuire said. “Finding any money Balard transferred will be like looking
for a needle in a haystack.”

“Depends how big the needle is,”
Corman replied, then straightened as the person at the other end came back on
the line. “No, only very large amounts . . . Yes, that sounds like one!  . . . Trace
it if you can.”

“Are you going to tell us what’s
going on?” Harriman asked.

Corman smiled incredulously. “That
no nothing, wet behind the ears, punk lawyer, just pulled off the biggest heist
in history! And seriously pissed off some very nasty people.” He sobered. “Which
means he’s the deadest man walking on the face of the Earth! God help him.”

* * * *

Veniamin Zhurav lived in a small
cottage on the outskirts of London, almost in the style of an English country
gentleman. He had an inconsequential, embassy job, giving him a modest income and
ensuring an even more modest pension. He’d failed to notice the man in the
creased suit follow him from the Russian Embassy to the train, then tail him
all the way home. He flipped the catch on the gate in front of his house,
collected his mail and strolled toward his front door, unaware the man caught the
gate behind him. When Zhurav unlocked the door and stepped into the entrance
hall, the man slipped in behind him, and pressed the cold steel of a knife
against the diplomat’s throat.

“Don’t move!” Craig ordered.

It was a common carving knife he’d
bought from a supermarket, but to Zhurav, it felt like cold death. “What do you
want?”

“Do you know who the head spy is,
in your embassy?”

It was never publicized who the SVR
members were, but most people had their suspicions. “No,” he lied.

Craig pressed the blade firmly
against Zhurav’s throat. “Do you know someone who does?”

“Why?” Zhurav asked, realizing he
was not this man’s target.

“I want you to give them a
message. Tell them I have the MLI money – all of it. If they want it back, my
price is the file on Colonel Jack Balard, US Air Force.” Craig had no intention
of giving them the money, but he was desperate. Valentina didn’t have his
father’s file, and couldn’t access it. His only option was to bluff the people
who did have it. “You got that? Repeat it.”

“Yes. You took money. You give it
back for file on Colonel Jack Balard, US Air Force,” Zhurav mumbled nervously. “But,
why would we have such a file?”

“You’ve got it. Now give me your
direct phone number?”

“My number?” Zhurav stammered. “I
don’t know anything about this. I’m not a field agent, I’m just an
administrator.”

“Good, I picked the right man.” Craig
had been watching the Russian Embassy, looking for the meekest bureaucrat to contact
for several hours before Zhurav had appeared. “Today’s your lucky day. I deal
with you only, no one else. Give me your card. Now!”

“In my pocket,” Zhurav said fragilely,
then slowly pulled his wallet out and retrieved a small white embossed card,
which he passed over his shoulder to Craig. The attaché’s name and number were
written in English on one side and Cyrillic on the other.

“Veniamin Zhurav,” Craig said,
sounding out the name. “I’ll call you tomorrow. If you don’t have what I want,
I’ll disappear, and no one will ever find me – or the money – again! Do you
understand?”

“Yes.”

“Call them tonight. Tell them.” Craig
took a step toward the door. “I’m leaving now. Count to a hundred before you
move.”

Zhurav swallowed, then took a
breath. “Adin . . . dva . . . tri . . . chitiri . . . pyat . . .”

Craig slipped out of the front
door, slid the carving knife into his coat, and hurried off into the dark
toward the train station.

* * * *

The Russian embassy car idled in The
Mall, parked alongside St James Park with its indicator light blinking. Zhurav
sat nervously in the back seat with his brief case on his knees. He’d immediately
passed on Craig’s message to the appropriate Embassy authorities, triggering a
flood of signals between Moscow and London that continued late into the night. Nogorev
had taken control of Zhurav shortly before dawn, monitoring his calls and
telling him what to say when Craig had called to set up a meeting. Craig had
chosen to make the exchange in front of Buckingham Palace because it was one of
the most highly guarded locations in Britain, and if the exchange went badly,
he could call for help from an army of security people.