About Face (45 page)

“Where am I going?”

“Near Red Square is a mall called the TSUM. Across the street is a restaurant called Vogue Café. I'll meet you there in an hour.”

He hangs up.

Talk about feeling out of place. Not being able to read the street signs or billboards is one thing. Not even recognizing the symbols that are in fact the letters of the Russian alphabet is another. As we approach the nucleus of Moscow, traffic is thick. The roads and intersections are like runways, seemingly ten-lanes wide on each side. At some of the intersections I can't see from one corner to the other. The architecture in the heart of Moscow is massive and old, yet wildly eclectic. There are blocky, austere structures that along with the wide roads scream Stalin. There are the famous ornate Orthodox cathedrals. Coming up on Red Square, I can see the colorful, swirling turrets atop the Kremlin, but we veer off and stop in front of a brown, six-story building on Petrovka Street.

“The TSUM,” my driver says.

He points across the street.

“Vogue Café.”

The place even for lunch is a scene, an apparent hotspot for the pretty people—something that doesn't surprise me once I see the ‘Vogue' in Vogue Café is in the same typeface as the magazine with
the same name. The space is clean, stylish, understated Euro-chic. The cream-colored walls, dotted with traditional sconces, are adorned with black-and-white as well as color photos of models from the magazine. The square columns have mirrors up and down them. A fire burns in the fireplace.

Immediately, I see Andreu at a table by himself toward the rear. He looks the same aside from his hair having seriously grayed. Slicing through the eyes on me, I move through the dining room toward him. When I get to his table, I say nothing.

He looks up at me, a forkful of grilled octopus nearing his mouth.

“Can I help you?”

Andreu is dressed tight as always—perfectly tailored navy suit, white, open-collar Purple Label dress shirt underneath, brown leather Gucci shoes and belt.

“Where is she?” I say, Jonah Gray's voice coming out of Ivan Janse's body.

He drops his fork, moves back in his seat.

“What the fuck?”

“Where is she, Andreu?”

He looks me square in the eyes. Processing what's happening, squinting his eyes, he leans toward me.

“Jonah?”

He looks around the room, then back at me.

“How the—holy shit.”

“Let's get to it, Andreu.”

He looks around again.

“I'm alone,” I say, addressing what's clearly on his mind.

He leans back in his chair, and for a third time focuses on me.

He takes out his iPhone, dials a number, and hits ‘”send.” He asks the person on the other end what sounds like a simple question in Russian; I'm guessing if I was followed inside by anyone. Once he receives an answer he says nothing, just ends the call.

“You have what I need?”

“Show me Perry and you'll find out.”

Staring at me, he thinks silently. Then, “
Tee-Pyehr
,” he says casually.

Four well-dressed big dudes, sitting two each at a table close by, stand up and come toward me. Fast. I crack the first to reach me in the jaw. I reach back to grab my gun. All it does is assist one of the guys coming up on my back in restraining me. From behind he grabs my backward-reaching arm as well as my other. Then one of his comrades returns the favor, tagging me across the face. I twist and turn as hard as I can to break free. Diners scatter. Dishes, glasses, and silverware from the surrounding tables go flying. The dude who hit me steps to me again. This time I kick him square in the balls, just as another fist from one of the other guys lands on the other side of my face. Fending them off is a losing cause. Before I know it, my arms still tightly secured behind my back, two of the guys are each grabbing one of my legs and lifting me up.

Andreu stands up. He starts for the exit, his goons following him with me in tow. Just as we cross the threshold out of the restaurant, an Escalade comes screeching to a halt out front. I'm immediately tossed in the back. His goons get in with me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“So, Jonah,” Andreu says from the passenger seat, blowing me off, “this is how it's going to work. We both know
Danish Jubilee Egg
is still in the U.S. Capitol, therefore I'm assuming you've brought me a little present from Pavel Derbyshev. Which you'll need to hand over in order to see Perry. Understood?”

“Fuck off, Andreu. Perry first. Or no deal.”

“Wrong answer.”

One of the goons lands a hard right to my jaw again. Another, sitting on the other side of me, lands a nasty left to my ribs.

“We going to do this my way?” Andreu asks.

Bluffing, I have no choice but to stick this out.

“No Perry, no dealing. Last time I say it.”

The fists keep coming.

I have no idea where we're going.

What I do know is the ride there is going to be brutal.

M
OSCOW
, R
USSIA
2013

My eyes open. My head snaps back from the smelling salts. My vision adjusts to my surroundings. I rack my pounding brain to recall what happened, where I am. My chest is tight. My heart, too big for its cavity. Every muscle in my body aches. I'm naked. The air is frigid. I try to move. My arms are handcuffed behind the chair. I am strapped so tightly I can feel the blood trickling down my wrists. My legs are equally overpowered. I look down. There is an iron cuff around each ankle. They, too, are shackled together.

The room—a cold, dank basement of some sort—finally comes into focus. The windowless walls are made of large, gray bricks. Thin, jagged streams of dirty water snake down them resembling human veins. The low ceiling, also gray and coated with dripping moisture is made from the same solid stone under my feet. The space is poorly lit; a single dim lightbulb is all that shines from above. In the far corner, where the wall meets the ceiling, is a single, small basement window a body couldn't even squeeze through. Aside from me, and the clouds that appear and disappear in front of my face with each breath, the room appears empty. All I hear are
my thoughts and the occasional droplet of water falling from above if it manages to hit a puddle.

I could have been here ten minutes or ten days. I have no idea. Just as I ask myself why I feel so alone—even though someone has awakened me—I hear steps behind me. They are hard steps, shoes hitting rock. Each is slow, deliberate. Out of the corner of my right eye, a shadow enters my field of vision. I turn to look. The pain in my neck is excruciating. Just as I move my lips to speak, a crushing fist blasts through my jaw. Immediately, I feel the devastation. I have bitten off a piece of the side of my tongue. It swirls in my mouth with shards of ruptured teeth and blood. I spit out the absurd stew, the chunky goop hitting the floor with a splat. It feels like a bomb exploded in my mouth. My eyelids are heavy. They only want to close. My soul only wants to shut down. Maybe even die.

A hand from behind reaches over me and grabs my chin like a vice, pulling it back as far as it will go. I groan in agony. My eyes stare at the ceiling. A drop of filthy water hits me dead center on my forehead. Seconds later, my torturer's blue eyes meet mine from no more than two inches above.

“
Gereed om te spreken
?
Of jullie nog denken jullie wipen enigerlei handeling held?
”

What language is that? I think, his spittle spraying my skin. And why do I understand it? Given my restrained circumstances, my reflexes still function, and I attempt to shake my head. As I do, my assailant repeats himself. This time I hear it in English …

“You ready to speak? Or you still think you're some kind of action hero?”

… As I recall why I now process everything I hear in two languages.

He gently traces my face with his fingertips, like a blind man seeing something for the first time.

“My God, Jonah. Look at you …”

My thoughts are distorted, but I recognize the voice. Andreu Zhamovsky, my dear half-brother. My head slowly bobs back up.
Then in an instant, bright, beautiful colors flash across my mind. There are jewels—splendid green emeralds, luscious red rubies. There is gold, silver. Subconsciously or consciously, I can't be sure, I squint from their sheer brilliance. I look forward. I could swear
Danish Jubilee Egg
, the one of the eight missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs I had been saddled with years earlier in New York City, is suspended in midair. I think of how I had kept it—a true, rare treasure—out of harm's way. I smile.

“I have something you want, Jonah. And we both know what you have to give me first to get it.”

My mouth fills with blood again. Instead of spitting it out, afraid of the ensuing pain from such force, I part my lips and gently push the deep red liquid down the front of me. Its warmth feels strangely comforting against my raw chin, my freezing chest.

Shoes on rock, the pacing footsteps behind me have restarted. Only now there are more than one pair.

“You're hard-nosed, Jonah. A real animal, you know that?”

I don't answer. Someone slaps the back of my head.

“You going to answer me, mister?”

Mister. I grin in my near delirium. The word, even for a second, returns me to my youth. Returns me somewhere safe. As if my minutes on this earth truly may be numbered.

“Mister, I ain't a boy, no, I'm a man,” I push out, my voice weak, “and I believe in the promised land.”

Andreu sighs.

“You surprise me, Jonah. And you disappoint me. A simple exchange is all it takes for us both to be happy. Instead, it seems you've accepted your unfortunate fate. Scripture?”

“Springsteen, you fucking coward.” I utter through clenched teeth, some fight left in me yet. “Why don't you uncuff me and face me like a man.”

The pacing stops. Silence. After a few seconds Andreu speaks again.

“This is your last chance, Jonah. Either give me what it is I
want, or you leave this room—this world—without what you came for.”

This is bad. I know it. But even though I'm rocking all this on a bluff, risking one of the most important things in the world to me at this very moment, I know in my gut it's the right move. Not just because I have no other choice. Because Andreu wants what he thinks I can give him all too much.

“This, actually, is your last chance,” I respond. “You're a lying, deceptive, disgraceful soul. You can't be trusted. You first show me you have what I came all this way for. You don't like it? Drop fucking dead. You and that black-hearted excuse of a human being you call Mother.”

Footsteps come rushing up behind me. They don't sound like the ones I'm associating with Andreu; it must be whoever's with him. I open my eyes as wide as I can. Just as I do my chin is grabbed and yanked back again. In one swift motion a vodka-soaked rag is crammed into my mouth. The burning of my torn-up flesh is off the charts. A guttural scream pours from my lungs only to be muffled. My nose immediately clicks into overdrive. My nostrils flare as they hungrily draw in air.

“You're a fucking dead man, Jonah Gray. Today. In this room. You're about to die a brutal death.”

He's bluffing.

He's got to be.

A clear plastic bag is pulled over my head. Trying to move is of no use. I simply can't. My heart is racing so fast I think it might explode. The unmistakable scratching sound of duct tape pulling away from its roll fills the room, though I can barely hear it. The plastic is thick. The noise seems distant. The tape is being wrapped around my neck, securing the bag to my skin. Moments later, breathing my own warm, recycled breath solely through my nose, the bag starts crumpling in and out. It won't be long until I'm dead.

He's bluffing.

He's got to be.

I'm trapped. All of the things I have ever done, warranted or not, have caught up to me. A tear forms in my right eye and gently rolls down my cheek.

Slowly, Andreu walks around and faces me. He's wearing a perfectly tailored black pinstriped suit with a white, open-collar button-down underneath, no tie. An enormous, mountain of a man accompanies him. His friend is wearing expensive gray pants, equally expensive black, leather shoes, and a white, skin-tight, cotton tank top. His head is the size of a boulder, each feature from his rounded nose to pointy ears, huge. He has a slight underbite, his front teeth roll white chewing gum like knuckles kneading pizza dough. His massive, chiseled arms and shoulders are covered with black hair so thick it is like fur. Without a word, he holds up a safety pin. For what seems like an eternity they both just stand there, taunting me. My ragged breathing begins slowing, I can feel myself fading. He drops the pin to the floor and approaches me. Then he buries the sole of his right foot in my face so hard I can feel the bridge of my nose, the orbits of my eyes crumbling.

My heart. It's … it's … what's happening?

I fall backward. The back of my head cracks against the gray rock.

Blackness.

I start to regain my sight. It's like being on an airplane and trying to see through the clouds while you're ascending. I see the ceiling above. It looks to be speckled with beads of moisture. I can't keep my eyes focused on anything because, though still shackled, I'm violently bouncing around the floor.

“What the fuck is he doing? Is that a seizure?”

I want to clutch at, grab my chest. The pain is so severe, like an elephant is sitting on me. My chest is reaching for the sky as quickly as my back is slamming on the cold floor. Too much caffeine, too much Life Fuel, too fast.

“Please! Help him! Help him!”

Is … is that—

I'm so hazy. My mind is playing with me.

“Please!” I hear again.

Perry?

“He's having a heart attack or something! Please!”