The cell phone rang again.
Cate checked her watch. It was nearly four o’clock. They were driving south on the M4 motorway, nearing the Moscow city limits. For miles they would see no one, then traffic would come to a halt as they came upon a convoy of ten or twelve broken-down trucks, tailpipes spewing exhaust, tires wobbling precariously, lumbering down the center of the road. Jett would steer the Suburban onto the shoulder, negotiate the borderland of waist-deep potholes and basketball-size rocks, until once past the trucks he could reclaim his position on the pavement.
“Leave it,” said Gavallan.
Cate stared at the phone as if it were a bomb. She knew her father. She knew his impatience. He was not a man who allowed “atmospherics” to stand in his way. “No,” she said brusquely, surprised at the force of her reply. “I won’t.”
And before Jett could make a move, she picked up the phone and put it to her ear.
“Da.” It was another woman’s voice, rougher, more unpolished than her own. If it didn’t sound exactly like Tatiana, it didn’t sound like Katya Kirov either.
“Give me Boris,” ordered her father.
“He is busy,” Cate responded.
“Is Gavallan talking?”
“Not yet.”
“Tell Boris to hurry up.”
“Sure.”
“And my daughter…”
“What about her?” Cate stared out the window, willing her soul to become as desolate as the passing countryside.
“Please make it as painless as possible. Surprise her if you can. It is better if she does not know it is coming. As her father, it would please me. It is the least I can do.”
“You are too kind.”
A long silence followed. As Jett stared daggers at her, Cate wondered if she had gone too far, if she’d tipped her hand. Then her father’s voice came back, as focused and self-centered as before. “Have Boris call me as soon as he’s done. I’ve been having a terrible time getting through. The pilot says it’s the aurora borealis acting up this time of year. If there is a problem, have him try me at my hotel. He has the number.”
Cate hung up.
“What did he say?” Gavallan asked.
Cate met his eyes. “He wants Boris to call him when we’re dead.”
Moscow.
Rush hour in the Center. Ten minutes inside the city limits and Gavallan decided it was every third world hellhole he’d ever known. Jakarta. Bangkok. São Paulo. Traffic was snarled. Militiamen stood impotent amid the blaring horns and packed metal, smoking cigarettes. The pollution was choking and oppressive. Inside the narrow urban canyons, the sky was bleached a puke yellow, a swirling sea of grit, garbage, and carbon monoxide. The heat was oppressive. Combined with the noxious smells, the jangling din, the stop-and-go traffic, it left Gavallan off balance and wary.
“There’s the embassy,” said Cate, pointing ahead of them at a large traditional yellow and cream colored building on the right-hand side of the road. “That’s the main building there. But the consular offices are around the corner.”
“Where do I park?”
“You don’t. Just pull over.”
A tall concrete wall painted white surrounded the complex. Entrance was gained through a reinforced gate guarded by two Marine sentries and untold plainclothes security guards. Spotting the Stars and Stripes flying behind the wall, Gavallan pulled into the right lane and cut his speed.
“You ready, pard?” he asked, catching Byrnes’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “When I stop, you skedaddle. Don’t let anyone stop you from getting inside those four walls. They touch you, scream bloody murder.”
“Don’t worry about me. That there is sovereign territory of the United States of America. I’m as good as home.”
Gavallan shifted his gaze to the side-view mirror and the gray Chaika sedan that had been on his tail, precisely three cars behind him, for the last thirty minutes. He looked at the two men inside the car—dark suits, dark glasses, short haircuts, chilling caricatures of the once and future totalitarian state. He looked back at Byrnes, not betraying a thing.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. I want you out of there tomorrow morning.”
“Swissair flight 1915 to Geneva,” Byrnes recited. “Departs at nine-fifteen; arrives ten-fifteen local time.”
They’d gone over the formalities several times already. Byrnes was to ask to see Everett Hudson, the consular officer with whom Gavallan had spoken when he was in San Francisco. He was to explain that he had been kidnapped and to ask for immediate medical attention. Any requests to have him speak with the local police were to be politely but vigorously turned down. The embassy would supply clothing and a place to sleep.
“If they give you any trouble about issuing a new passport overnight, tell them to call the senator.” Gavallan figured his contributions to the winning side had been hefty enough to guarantee him at least one favor. Besides, the senator was a former mayor of San Francisco. It was the least she could do for one of the city’s own.
Byrnes leaned against the door, his fingers gripping the release. “You’re sure about what you’re doing?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s the only way.” Then a lick of pragmatism tempered his confidence and he added in a subdued voice, “You might want to have a word with the defense attaché. Give him some advance warning. I’ll have the other side warmed up and waiting.”
“Just keep it low and slow. Even if we are all buddy-buddy now, remember, you’re not flying the friendly skies of United. And watch out near the Polish border—they scramble on a heartbeat these days.”
“You know, some people might think you’re still my CO.”
Byrnes didn’t smile. His eyes did not flicker. “Good luck.”
Gavallan stopped the car directly in front of the embassy, but only for a second. “Go. Get the hell out of here.”
The passenger door opened and Byrnes was gone, running across the sidewalk to the Marine security guards. Gavallan accelerated. In his rearview mirror, he watched his close friend pass into the compound and disappear from view. It was only then that he voiced his newest suspicions to Cate. “Bad news.”
“Oh?”
Discreetly, he poked a thumb behind him. “We’ve got company.”
60
Mr. Kirov, it is an honor to welcome you to New York and to Black Jet Securities,” boomed Bruce Jay Tustin as he greeted Konstantin Kirov outside the main entrance of 11 Madison Avenue.
“The honor is mine,” said Kirov, climbing from the limousine. Shaking Tustin’s hand, he glanced up at the building, a noble façade of steel and glass. “It’s a privilege to be here.”
“If you don’t mind, let’s get upstairs. We’re in a bit of a hurry. We’ve got a lot of people waiting for the big event.”
“Do I have time to button my jacket?” He was always taken aback by the American ability to be overly polite and unbearably rude at the same time. He followed Tustin through the swinging doors and into the lobby, where Tustin pinned a badge on his jacket and shepherded him past the security desk.
At three-thirty in the afternoon, the lobby was pleasantly busy. A steady stream of men and women churned past Kirov. White, black, mulatto, Asian, Hispanic—as many ethnic mixes as in the former Soviet Union. There was an eagerness to their faces, an alacrity to their step, a forthrightness in their demeanor, that both amazed and frightened him. Such confidence in the world. Such faith that the system would not disappoint. He was sure every one of them held a valid claim on dreams of expensive cars and luxury apartments and vacations in Paris. No doubt they already possessed color televisions, PCs, cellular telephones, digital cameras, Japanese stereos, and closets full of fine clothing, most of which they never wore. They owned refrigerators choked with fresh vegetables, eggs, milk, cheese, leftover Chinese food, soda, and foreign mineral water. Still, they ate out twice a week. They had bank accounts and ATM cards and Swiss watches and cable TV. Many owned automobiles. In short, they had everything. And look at them. Hungry as wolves for more. Bravo!