Frankel made no sign he was aware of surveillance. But having glimpsed it once, he saw other signs. A woman loitered in one gallery when he entered and stayed when he left. Among the members of the guided tour that moved from room to room, there was a mottled face that was too hard and unblinking to be believable as a normal gallery visitor.
Was he spooking himself? That was the trouble with operating far from home, at the end of a long string of false names and meetings: You began to see shadows even when they weren’t there.
When Frankel exited the Tretyakov in the afternoon sun, he sat down on a bench and composed a BlackBerry message to The Hit Parade’s dummy address, using veiled language. “I may have competition for the Moscow account. I’m hoping they will give up, so I can relax and enjoy my evening. Let me know if you have any business tips.” But after a minute’s deliberation, he deleted the message, rather than send it. Gertz would think he was a pussy. And what could they do to help him, anyway?
Frankel walked toward the Moscow River, not too fast, and then along the banks to the Kamenny Bridge. He crossed into Red Square, pausing at St. Basil’s Cathedral, and then at Lenin’s Tomb. The marble facade of the tomb looked dirty, as if it hadn’t been polished since 1989. He couldn’t see anyone now, but in a big open space like this, surveillance was so much harder to detect. He walked down the narrow footpaths of the Alexandrovsky Gardens and then back along those same walkways through the square and toward the Tverskaya Street.
He saw faces that looked familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. Even in the chill of the late afternoon, as the sun disappeared behind the low clouds, he was sweating.
He crossed the square to Tverskaya Street and walked half a block to the grand old facade of the National Hotel. It was a fine building, with salmon-pink brick interlaid with white all the way up to its crenellated roof. Under an awning stood the front door, gleaming wood with polished brass handles, framed by stone carvings of flowers and grapes. Standing guard was a doorman in his summer uniform, hat and vest.
As Frankel moved toward the entrance, the doorman stopped him and asked if he was a guest. There was a private function that evening, he said. No visitors.
Frankel needed to get away. This was the wrong place to be. He heard commotion in the hotel lobby and a throng of people pushed out the door toward the noisy arcade of the street.
Just outside the hotel entrance stood a man with a shock of black hair, chewing on one of his fingernails as his eyes fixed on Frankel. He looked like a proper Moscow gangster, with a pin-striped suit and pair of thick, black-framed sunglasses. He was moving toward Frankel now, pointing to a car parked along Tverskaya Street with the door opened, motioning for him to get in. Two more men were approaching from behind.
The man shouted out something to Frankel. He spoke with an accent, so it was hard for passersby to understand what he was saying. The Moscow News reported the next day, quoting people who had been on the sidewalk, that he said “addition,” or perhaps “rendition.” But that made no sense. The other papers said he had just growled out a curse.
Frankel lunged away and sprinted up Tverskaya. The black-haired tough followed him, and then another man, faster and stronger, who was gaining ground. The boulevard was crowded with early evening shoppers. Frankel weaved among them: Nobody would fire a gun into such a crowd; there were too many people.
Frankel looked back and saw the two men following close behind. He was too obvious, shirttails out, arms churning. He tripped on a loose brick as he headed up the street, and he stumbled for a moment. Even if they didn’t shoot, this was a sure path to disaster. If he kept running amid this crowd, the police would arrest him even if his other pursuers peeled away. He would be busted either way.
He saw an opening to his left, Nitinsky Street, and peeled off toward it. The two men followed. As Frankel ran up the street, he saw a third man coming toward him to block his escape. He ducked into a dark alley that was lined with trash bins from the neighboring buildings.
The police found Frankel’s body in the alleyway a little after six p.m. He had struggled when his pursuers tried to drag him off, people in offices and apartments above told reporters. As he tried to flee, he was shot point-blank, three bullets, a silencer on the gun.
The newspapers described two of the killers: dark features, swarthy, they all but announced they were from Chechnya. But like so many crimes in the new Russia, this one remained unsolved. The assassins disappeared into the lawless second city of the capital, where they owned the police. The spokesman for the Moscow prosecutor’s office said it looked like the work of the Chechen mafia, but people always said that about unsolved crimes.
17
Jeffrey Gertz was watching Morning Joe in the bathroom, trimming his beard and wondering what jacket to wear, when he heard the news bulletin that an American businessman had been shot in Moscow. They didn’t give a name, and it didn’t occur to him that the victim might be one of his own people. Gertz had just returned to Los Angeles from Washington the night before, and was thinking mainly about whether to go to Las Vegas that weekend. As he was dressing, the phone rang. It was Albert, the new watch officer in Studio City. There was a hitch in his throat, and he had to cough before he could speak.
“Sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Director.” He had only been in the job a few days and addressed Gertz as if he were a cabinet secretary.
“What is it, Albert? I’m getting dressed.”
“An American has been shot in Moscow. It’s on the wires. Mr. Rossetti thinks he may be one of ours. He said you would want to be informed.”
“I just saw that story on television. That’s our guy? What the hell?”
Gertz was unsteady for a moment, and sat down on the leather bench in his dressing room. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, but it fell away. He muttered, more to himself than to the watch officer.
“Christ, it must be Frankel.”
“Roger that, sir. The embassy has someone at the morgue. The Russians have ID’d the victim as Alan Frankel, birthplace Denver, date of birth May twenty-sixth, 1980. His business cards say he runs an ad agency in Amsterdam named Kiosks Unlimited. Headquarters called Mr. Rossetti a few minutes ago, and he called me. I checked. All that information matches our operational files. What should I do?”
“Nothing. Wait for me. Don’t talk to Headquarters until I’m there. And don’t talk to Mr. Rossetti, either. He’s not your boss, damn it.”
There was a pause on the other end. The watch officer wasn’t sure what he was allowed to say.
“People are kind of upset here, Director. We’ve gotten two messages from the field already, asking what’s up. What should I tell them?”
“Tell them I’m on my way in. Tell everyone to chill out for a few minutes. This may not be what we think it is. No messages to anyone until I get there.”
“Yes, Director.”
Gertz felt better giving an order, even if it was just to shut up and sit tight. He thought a moment. The story was moving so fast, he needed to backstop the cover right away.
“One more thing,” said Gertz. “Call Tommy Arden in Support and tell him to make sure someone in Europe is answering the Kiosks Unlimited phone in Amsterdam. This person should confirm Frankel’s cover biography, but that’s it. Express shock, grief, ‘How could anyone have done this to Mr. Frankel,’ et cetera. Do that now, and tell people to stay cool. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Gertz finished dressing, a plain blue blazer instead of the summer-weight plaid he’d been planning, and a tie, too. He stood for a moment staring out the window, trying to collect his thoughts.