That Time in Moscow Page 8

“Da. America.” Wolfgang held out a hand, feeling his own eyes sting. There was something about the pain in this man’s face that was so deep and lonely. A man who loved. A man who just wanted to be free, and for the one he loved to be saved.

  “Come with us, Mr. Koslov. You’re safe now.”

  “I wouldn’t be sure of that,” Megan said. She stood next to the window, looking down at the parking lot, then cursed under her breath.

  “What is it?” Wolfgang said.

  “Your buddy’s here.”

  Wolfgang ran to the window.

  Ivan Sidorov climbed out of a car in front of the apartment building, a small army of Russian soldiers close behind.

  11

  Wolfgang hesitated near the door. He wanted to look back out the window and check Ivan’s progress, but it was a pointless maneuver. Somehow, Ivan had found out about Koslov’s association with Sparrow and then tracked down Sparrow’s address. It was quick math and brought with it enough SVR agents to bring down the house.

  “What’s the play?” Megan said.

  Wolfgang shifted, realizing he’d subconsciously expected her to take the lead.

  But no. This is my mess. I’ve got to clean it up.

  “We’ve got to get Koslov to the train. Ivan will expect us to take a plane. We’ll be in Belarus before he realizes what happened.”

  “What about the others?”

  Wolfgang shrugged, hurriedly stripping out of his baggy firefighters’s overalls and gesturing for Megan to do the same. “Edric knows the plan. They’ll meet us in Minsk.”

  Voices boomed from the stairwell, and Wolfgang looked to the door. His mind spun, searching for an option. He could pull the fire alarm, but Ivan wouldn’t be fooled by the same trick twice. Alternatively, he could charge into the hallway and leverage the element of surprise, but surprise was a poor substitute for firepower in the face of half a dozen armed SVR agents.

  The trash chutes.

  Wolfgang remembered the dangling tubes that ran from chutes, down the sides of the building, and into dumpsters outside—a cheap and grimy disposal system.

  “This way! I’ve got an idea.”

  Megan grabbed Koslov by the hand, and the three of them ran to the door, throwing it open and hurrying through without waiting to see if Ivan’s crew had reached the fourth floor. Wolfgang turned to the left, dragging Koslov by the hand as angry Russian voices filled the stairwell behind them.

  If Ivan has a rage problem, it’s probably my fault.

  Wolfgang slid around a corner to the east hallway and immediately saw the uncovered mouth of the trash chute gaping at them like a black hole. It was about eighteen inches wide and framed with sharp, dirty metal.

  Terrific. I’ll need a tetanus shot.

  Wolfgang slid to a stop at the mouth of the chute and beckoned Koslov forward. “Come on, Pascha. Down you go!”

  Koslov’s eyes widened, but then Ivan’s crew reached the fourth floor, and the door to the stairwell blew back on its hinges as they rushed through. That was enough for him, and Koslov allowed Megan and Wolfgang to lift him by the arms and shove him feet-first into the chute. A moment later, he slid out of sight into the dark tube, leaving behind him nothing but the stench of household garbage.

  Wolfgang grabbed Megan by the hand and steadied her as she wrinkled her nose and poked one foot into the chute, then the other. Around the corner, a fist pounded on a door—Sparrow’s door, no doubt—then Wolfgang recognized Ivan’s pissed-off tone demanding entry.

  “Go!” he said.

  Megan wiggled her hips into the chute, then crossed both arms over her chest as though she were a kid at the top of a water slide. Wolfgang gave her a little push, and then she was gone. He lifted one foot and stuck his leg in, then contemplated for the first time exactly what he was about to do. He thought about the mucky inside of the tube, coated with rotting garbage and maybe broken glass. At the bottom—assuming the tube wasn’t jammed and Koslov and Megan weren’t already stuck halfway down—there would be more garbage, and maybe more glass. Maybe a broken bicycle with its handlebars jammed upward, ready to slide between his legs and—

  Sparrow’s door exploded open, and Russians shouted. Wolfgang threw his other leg into the tube and wriggled inside. At six one and a buck eighty, Wolfgang wasn’t a big guy, but he was bigger than Koslov and a lot bigger than Megan. He felt his hips grind into the edges of the chute, and momentary panic clouded his mind. He wriggled farther in, wincing as sharp metal scraped against his pants as it moved across his hip bones.

  Wolfgang pushed and grunted, grabbing the inside of the chute and pulling himself until his hips slid inside. Both of his feet were in the clear now, kicking against the inside of the chute, but the metal mouth now ground against his elbows.

  His eyes watered, and he twisted. Then he heard another shout and looked to his left to see Ivan burst around the corner.

  The big Russian paused mid-step as their gazes met. Ivan’s eyes blazed with fury, and his face flushed red, then he shouted something in Russian and lunged forward, reaching for his gun.

  Wolfgang grinned and winked, then jammed his elbows against his ribcage and dropped through the chute. The dirty inside of the tube smacked against his sides, but there wasn’t time to worry about glass or tetanus or whether Megan was trapped beneath him. He hurtled downward like a bullet, his butt riding along the bottom of the tube and only partially slowing his descent. The sound of shouting Russians faded away, and then his feet hit something soft and bright light flashed in his eyes.

  Wolfgang crumpled into the dumpster, where black trash bags surrounded him on all sides. Megan clambered over the bags and held out a hand, shouting something about guns.

  Pistol shots rang from overhead, and Wolfgang scrambled over the trash. He climbed to the top of the mound, then rolled over the side of the dumpster and landed on concrete as bullets smacked into the dumpster, ringing like cowbells. His knees hit first, then his hands. Megan yanked him up by the collar and pushed him forward, then the three of them broke out across the parking lot in a mad dash for life.

  He ran like he hadn’t run since he was a kid, blasting through the hills and trees of West Virginia. He imagined his bare feet pounding over rocks and sticks without pause, the thick callouses on his soles protecting him. As a kid, he’d often imagined he was running for his life—not in West Virginia, but in the Amazon jungle or the deserts of South Africa.

  Or the streets of a big city, someplace far away.

  Be careful what you wish for, fool.

  The team hurtled through the parking lot and didn’t bother looking for the ambulance. Edric and the others were either long gone or already in Russian Federal custody. Either way, Wolfgang had to get Koslov out of the country.

  “How far to the train station?” he shouted.

  “Two miles. Let’s move!” Megan led the way around another corner and across a narrow Russian street. Koslov ran between them, already panting and glancing over his shoulder every few seconds as if a pack of wolves was right on his heels.

  Not far from the truth.

  “Katya?” Koslov managed between pants. “Katya?”

  Wolfgang felt a strange weight descend on his chest. He saw Sparrow again, lying on her back in the Russian detention cell, choking for air as her deteriorated lungs finally gave out. He wondered what her final thoughts were and if she thought of Pascha the way he thought of her now.

  “Run, Koslov!” Wolfgang said, placing a hand on his shoulder and urging him forward. Each step against the concrete shot waves of pain up his knees, and his head throbbed, but he didn’t dare look over his shoulder. He just followed Megan, winding in and out of alleyways and backstreets.

  Wolfgang didn’t hear the wail of Russian sirens behind him, but the SVR wouldn’t use police cars or helicopters. They would use generic black sedans and silenced pistols, ready to assassinate them as presumed terrorists.

  He stole a glance at the passing rooftops, recalling the first time he’
d encountered Ivan in an apartment building in Paris when Ivan was armed with a silenced sniper rifle. Did he have a rifle now? Had he somehow circled ahead of them and was even now sighting down the barrel of his weapon, watching as his targets crashed toward him in single file?

  An ideal setup for a sniper. Three quick presses of the trigger, and we all bite the dust.

  “Left turn!” Megan snapped, jerking them suddenly into an alley.

  Wolfgang smelled grease and fried pork and felt a sudden craving for egg rolls. As they crashed forward, he realized they were passing behind a Chinese restaurant, and Russian shouts reverberated through the open back door.

  They’re close.

  Koslov flagged, leaning forward and holding his side.

  Wolfgang pushed him, feeling his own irresistible desire to cave to the pain in his legs and the burning in his chest. “Keep going, Koslov!”

  They reached the end of the alley, and Megan held up a fist. They all ground to a halt, and Wolfgang panted for air as Megan stepped out of the alley and cast a quick glance each way. Then she beckoned for them to follow her to the right.

  The blocks faded into a pounding mixture of pedestrians and muddy snow. They dashed across one street after another, narrowly avoiding collisions with cars as horns blared and Russians shouted. Wolfgang wanted to count his steps and speculate on how much farther they had to run, but he couldn’t spare the energy. Ivan could be a mile behind, or only a few yards, and Wolfgang doubted that his fourth encounter with the irate SVR officer would go as favorably as the first three.

  “There!” Megan pointed to a tall, square building with a glass face, only two hundred yards distant.

  Pedestrians milled about outside as taxicabs pulled to and from the curb. Wolfgang couldn’t read the Cyrillic lettering mounted to the top of the building, but he prayed Megan was right.

  Wolfgang patted Koslov on the back. “Almost there, Koslov. Keep moving!”

  The exhausted scientist stumbled and coughed, and Megan slowed a little. They couldn’t simply barge into the train station without drawing attention, and Wolfgang wondered suddenly if there would be customs or security to process through. He knew that many European countries, specifically those in the European Union, allowed for open travel between countries without the fuss of immigration or customs, but Russia wasn’t a member of the EU, and neither was Belarus.

  No time to worry about it now.

  Megan held the door, and they slid inside, Koslov still panting like a winded elephant. The train station’s main lobby was immense, crowded with pedestrians and rolling suitcases, and noisy enough to drown out both Koslov’s gasping and Wolfgang’s quiet remarks.

  “You have the tickets?”

  Megan nodded. “The train for Minsk leaves in ten minutes. Make Koslov hurry.”

  She hurried across the room to the ticket counter and presented her phone with three digital tickets queued up and ready to go. There was a brief hesitation from the ticket clerk, and he glanced toward Wolfgang and Koslov, then motioned toward a rail line and resumed staring at his cell phone.

  Megan beckoned them on, and they wound their way across the lobby, down an escalator, through a set of glass doors, and onto the main platform of the station. The warmth of the train lobby vanished as the air filled with the screech of metal on metal and a chorus of shouts from conductors and travelers. Trains sat at random on multiple tracks, sheltered by a giant glass dome laden with snow. Megan glanced at her ticket, then scanned the trains. She pointed at one, and they hurried forward again. Koslov held his side, and Wolfgang glanced over his shoulder.

  There was no sign of Ivan. Not yet.

  Megan slid to a stop at the entrance of a car, where a disheveled conductor dressed in a thick woolen coat was busy scanning digital tickets with a plastic gun. Megan presented her phone again, then motioned to Koslov and Wolfgang. The conductor shrugged.

  “Stay here,” Wolfgang whispered.

  Koslov looked up, panic shining in his eyes. Wolfgang gave his arm a squeeze, then hurried across the platform. Mounted against the wall twenty yards away was a small, blue metal box emblazoned with the gold emblem of the Pochta Rossii—the Russian mail service.

  Wolfgang dug the envelope out of his pocket and felt to ensure that the flash drive was inside. He hesitated a moment.

  What if Ivan is one of them?

  He held the envelope and rubbed the bulge of the thumb drive.

  He’s not. I just know.

  Wolfgang slid the envelope into the mailbox, then ran back to the train. The conductor waved him in with an impatient grunt, and Wolfgang hurried down the aisle. Megan sat in the back of the car, holding a newspaper over her face while Koslov sat next to her, chewing his fingernails. He saw Wolfgang and started to speak, but Megan grabbed his arm and shot Wolfgang a frantic look over the top of the paper. Wolfgang turned to his right and looked through the train window.

  Ivan Sidorov barreled down the platform toward the train.

  Without stopping to think, Wolfgang sat down on a bench seat and turned his back to the window, bending down and pretending to tie his shoe. Shouts rang out from the platform as the train’s doors slid shut. Wolfgang heard Ivan’s now-familiar voice demanding answers from a transit employee on the platform. He looked over his shoulder and saw Ivan holding out an iPad with photos of Wolfgang displayed on the screen. The employee gave it only a casual glance, then shrugged and walked away as the train lurched forward.

  Wolfgang grinned and looked away, leaning back against the glass. A moment later, the wheels of the train caught on the tracks, and they slid out of the station in a rush. Wolfgang’s last view of Ivan was of the big Russian throwing the iPad at one of his companions, then turning toward the escalator like a raging bull, once again thwarted.

  The train shook as it gained speed, and Wolfgang turned to Megan. She lowered the paper over her lap and glanced at the fading train station, then turned to Wolfgang. Megan grinned, then broke into a soft chuckle. Wolfgang joined her and leaned back in the seat. For a moment, they just laughed as though they were swapping some sort of old inside joke. Wolfgang still felt cold from the bite of the Russian wind, but in the warmth of Megan’s laugh, his numb fingers and aching legs didn’t matter anymore. For the moment . . . all was well.

  And then Koslov leaned forward, his eyes wide and strained, and whispered the word that brought that moment to an end. “Katya?”

  12

  It took nine hours to reach Minsk. Most of those hours were traveled in silence as Koslov held his face in his hands and cried. He didn’t shake, and he didn’t make a sound, but tears streamed down his face as Wolfgang and Megan sat in heavy silence, each avoiding the other’s gaze.

  Wolfgang wondered if he could have saved Katya. Maybe if they had bumped their timeline up and he reached the detention facility sooner. Maybe if he spent less time talking with Ivan, or less time arguing with the team back in the hotel. If he could’ve gotten to Katya sooner, before the stress and panic overwhelmed her weakened body…

  There was no way to know, and there never would be. Katya was a casualty of war—not a war against Russia, or even a war against the anarchist terrorist—Katya was a casualty of war against the darker side of life. The side of life that brought curses like diseases and illness and bad hospitals and no money. That was a war as old as humanity, and it would take many more casualties in Wolfgang’s life alone.

  But that didn’t make her loss any easier to bear.

  At Minsk, a CIA contact waited for Koslov. The man wore jeans and tennis shoes with a Tampa Bay Lightning hat and a college kid’s backpack. He beckoned to Koslov at the edge of the platform, and the broken scientist turned to Wolfgang. His eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark bags. There was no spirit left in his body. No desire for life. But he nodded at Wolfgang once and said again, “America?”

  Wolfgang nodded. “America.”

  Koslov looked up at the sky, visible from the roofless outdoor platform. He nodded again
, and to Wolfgang’s surprise, he said in broken English, “Katya would have liked America.”

  Then Pascha Koslov followed the kid with the backpack, never looking back.

  A taxi cab waited for Megan and Wolfgang at the train station, as they expected it to. Edric knew what time the train from Moscow would arrive, and he would have dispatched the cab to pick them up and bring them to whatever private airfield SPIRE’s Gulfstream G550 waited at.

  They climbed into the back of the worn car, relieved to find it warm, and sat in silence as the driver wound them through the darkened city, then turned toward the outskirts. Wolfgang stared down at his hands, feeling suddenly exhausted and sad. He could still see the haunted loneliness in Koslov’s eyes. It was a look he would never forget.

  What must that feel like . . .

  Megan’s gaze was fixated out the window, staring up at the starlit sky with bright eyes that were tired but so alive. So bright.

  She has to know. I can’t risk losing her without her knowing how I feel.

  Wolfgang ran his tongue across his lips, searching for the words, but he couldn’t think of any.

  How do you tell a person that they keep you awake at night? That you wonder what their favorite color is, and that you want to dance with them in some quiet place, far away, under a sky that isn’t so cold and dark? How do you tell a person . . . everything?

  “How did you know?” Megan said.

  Wolfgang looked up. “Know what?”

  “You said Sparrow had cystic fibrosis, and the tag proved it. But the tag was printed in Russian, and we didn’t translate it until later. How did you know?”

  Wolfgang winced and looked back at his hands. He wished he’d spoken a little sooner—asked her what her favorite color was, or where she was from, or how she liked her coffee.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Wolfgang swallowed. “My sister has it.”

  “You have a sister?”

  Wolfgang hesitated and then decided to just tell her. It was a secret he was weary of bearing alone.