The Domino Game (7 page)

An apprehensive nod. “I’m with you.”

“Good. Now, just in case there is anyone else watching, when you get to the elevators, make sure you wait for one where you will be the only passenger. And remember, there’s a floor indicator panel so it’s important you make at least one other stop on your way up, okay? Now…” A pause from the other end of the line. Vari consulting his watch. “ … we have to move. We’re running late. You ready?”

Nikolai drew a breath. “Ready.”

“Then go, little brother.
Now!”

Nikolai stabbed the call-end button and thumbed the number for the Rossiya’s reception, made the request and waited. From outside the stall he heard the sound of a zipper being pulled; a shuffling of feet then footsteps on tile receding. Two long rings died before the phone was answered. The voice was soft but precise. Pure American. Almost lazy in its self-assurance.

“Who do you want?”

Nikolai hesitated a beat. This was like stepping off a cliff in the dark.

“Am I speaking to…” Which name did he use? “Is that Mikhail Tarkovsky?”

“Who needs to know?”

“My name is Nikolai Aven.”

An unhurried warmth settled over the other man’s tone. “Well hello there, Mr Aven. I’ve been expecting your call. Room 8020, west wing, top level. Why don’t you come on up?”

Nikolai repeated the room number to himself. “Thank you. I will,” he replied, cursing himself immediately. What a stupid thing to say.

He killed the cell phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Flushed the toilet and left the cubicle, tossing a few kopeks into the absent attendant’s bowl on the way out.

The woman had given up on her make-up. Now she too was talking on a cell phone. Calling in for instructions, Nikolai guessed. He walked past her, pretending not to notice, and swung right through the double doors that led to the elevator lobby, hoping to God that Vari knew what he was doing.

He turned the corner and saw the elevators twenty meters ahead; beyond them, strolling towards him, two uniformed security guards, one with his head tilted sideways as he spoke into the microphone pinned to his collar. Was he imagining it or were they staring at him? Nikolai felt a cold surge of anxiety… fear or guilt, he wasn’t sure which. Somehow he managed to hold himself together until ten meters his side of the elevators he and the guards passed. Had one of them nodded or was he imagining it?

Was the woman still following?

He started to turn then caught himself and resisted the urge, pressing ahead until the commotion erupted behind him.

The male voice came first. Abrupt. Commanding. Then a woman’s, shrill and taut in protest, followed by the sounds of a scuffle, more shouting and the staccato squawk of a radio and now he did look back. He couldn’t stop himself. Looked back and stared in dismay at the unfolding spectacle.

The woman from the Metro was pinned face down on the floor, her head twisted, cheek pressed hard against the gray marble, her green eyes blazing as she writhed beneath the bulk of the security guard perched astride her. He held her arms pinned behind her back, his grin widening the more she struggled. His partner stood above them, watching, talking sideways into his radio as he unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt. For a moment it seemed as if the woman was about to surrender, then Nikolai saw her captor’s free hand slide beneath her and into her blouse, clutching and fondling her breast, and she started screaming again, thrashing out blindly with her feet as the handcuffs closed around her wrists. Now the guard’s hand moved down to the side pocket of her pants and slid inside, digging inwards towards her groin then sliding out again, fingers closed around a plastic envelope filled with white powder.

Nikolai glanced around. The traffic in the lobby had turned into a frozen tableau, riveted by the unexpected drama. The security guard shuffled backwards and held the plastic envelope aloft as if it were a trophy, displaying it to whoever might be interested, then pushed himself up from his haunches and started hauling the woman to her feet. She stumbled upright, her pale eyes glaring at Nikolai through the dark tumbling mass of hair that shrouded her face and suddenly he realized what was going on.

He swung back to the elevators. The small group that had been gathered around them a moment before had been lured away by the diversion. An empty car stood waiting, doors open, beckoning with its soft ringing chime. Without looking back Nikolai stepped in. Pressed the button for level eight then, remembering Vari’s instructions, hit four as well. And six for good measure.

The eighth floor lobby was deserted. He followed the signs, padding the long corridor until he came to 8020. Paused, took a breath then rapped twice on the door in quick succession.

The age of the man who opened it was difficult to assess. Mid-forties was Nikolai’s first guess, but then he noticed that the hair was more silver than blond and the lines that creased his face were deeper than they had first appeared and it occurred to him that he may have miscalculated by as much as a decade. His height matched Nikolai’s. The build slim but solid, face, arms and hands richly tanned in a way that looked right with the yellow golf shirt. Everything about him seemed American, except his eyes. The eyes were gray and complex, the color and depth of the Moskva at dawn when it was impossible to even imagine what lay beneath the surface.

They stared at one another for a moment across the threshold then the man’s neutral expression broadened into a disarming smile.

“Forgive me for asking, but do you happen to have some ID?”

Nikolai blinked, processing the question. Dropped a hand into his pocket, pulled out the small wallet that contained his FSB shield and ID and flipped it open.

The American reached forward with his left hand and slid the leather case from Nikolai’s grasp, drawing it close, studying the laminated image. Nikolai noticed the unpretentious watch on his wrist, the simple gold wedding band on his third finger. Finally the older man nodded and stepped aside.

“Thank you, Mr Aven. Come in.” He waited for Nikolai to pass then let the door go and held out a hand as the lock engaged. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Hartman.”

7

“Can I get
you some coffee?”

Hartman strolled across the suite, pausing beside a low table to look back. Nikolai’s eyes fell to the silver coffee service; the two fine china cups, linen napkins, silver sugar bowl and plate of delicacies arranged elegantly around it. This was incredible. He was about to commit what was effectively treason and the niceties of the deal were to be negotiated with this complete stranger over coffee and petit fours.

He looked up blankly.

No. Thank you.”

He stepped forward, bypassing Hartman, and made his way across to the window. The room overlooked the southern end of Red Square: St Basil’s to the right, the gold domes of the Kremlin cathedrals rising behind the towering burnt sienna wall that ran down to the Embankment. Below him sightseers ebbed and flowed across the vast open expanse, splashes of color moving against the dark gray cobblestones. Nikolai sensed Hartman’s presence behind him and half turned. The American was smiling the same disarming smile. He inclined his head and Nikolai followed the direction. Below them, perhaps three hundred meters away, a lone figure stood at the edge of the square panning his digital camera in an arc that was about to take in the facade of the Rossiya.

“Call it an abundance of caution,” Hartman reached around Nikolai and tugged the drapes, “but experience has taught me you can never be completely sure who’s on the other side of a lens.” He stepped away, talking across his shoulder. “Which in a roundabout way is why you are here. Correct, Mr Aven?” Hartman’s voice was soft and measured, the tone and inflection similar to that of the American bankers with whom Nikolai had worked. Educated. Assured. Refined, by American standards.

At a guess Hartman was from the east coast – New York, or perhaps somewhere nearby. Nikolai stepped away from the shrouded window and surveyed the suite. It had originally been two rooms, joined recently it seemed in what was probably a hurried response to the demands of the burgeoning Western market. They were standing in what served as the living room. Writing desk, bar and entertainment unit. Twin leather sofas facing off across a coffee table. The American took a place on the sofa that backed the wall and poured himself some coffee, sipping it as though he were alone in the room, taking his time, regarding it, appraising it. After a time he spoke without looking up.

“You managed to dispose of your excess baggage?”

It took Nikolai a moment to compute the meaning. After eight years working for an American company his English was almost perfect, but he still wrestled with the euphemisms. He smiled briefly, more out of politeness than amusement.

“My partner had it taken care of for me.”

Hartman allowed himself a subdued grin. “Vari’s good at that sort of thing. We’ve known one another for quite some time, I suppose he told you. I like Vari. He’s always been straight with me.”

Nikolai considered the words. “Did it ever occur to you, Mr Hartman, that being straight with you probably required him to be deceptive with others?”

Hartman shrugged. “It’s not a perfect world, Mr Aven, you should know that by now. But it’s a free one, more or less.”

Nikolai stared at him a moment. “More for you. Less for us.”

The American smiled, acknowledging the bleak humor. “What I meant was, we make our own choices.”

“Indeed,” Nikolai drew a breath. ‘so I’m learning.” He took the other sofa. Looked at the coffee service then back to Hartman. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“Be my guest,” Hartman gestured. He settled back against the leather cushions and swung one leg across the other, watching Nikolai pour. “So… what do you have, and what’s the price?”

Nikolai flinched. So that was how they regarded him: another Russian hustler looking for his chance. He set the cup down deliberately and regarded the American with a cool stare.

Hartman pursed his lips a moment then responded with a diffident smile. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessarily blunt. Let’s start again. Vari told me that you have a wife and a small daughter and that as a result of the situation you find yourself in you have concerns for their safety as well as your own.” He paused, meeting Nikolai’s gaze. “For what it’s worth, Mr Aven, he also told me that you are the most principled person he has ever known.”

Nikolai’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “A questionable description, I would have thought, for someone who is prepared to trade what he knows to a foreign power. But then given the kind of company Vari keeps, one could argue that his judgment is probably of dubious merit.”

The implication wasn’t lost on the American. He laughed lightly to himself and the creases that radiated from the corners of his mouth etched deeper. Nikolai studied him, trying to measure what lay beyond the expressionless, river-gray eyes. He knew nothing about this stranger but either he had to take the chance and trust him, or get up and walk out of this room right now. He let go a resigned breath and stayed where he was.

Hartman seemed to be reading his thoughts. He held his smile and played the timing, letting a membrane of tenuous trust settle between them before speaking again.

“So, how much do you know about me, Mr Aven?”

“Not much. Only what Vari has told me. That you were CIA, of course. That he met you in 1981, when you were first stationed here in Moscow, and that over the next few years you and he built up something of a… I suppose
relationship
is the appropriate word. And then you were transferred back to the United States and he had no further contact with you until he bumped into you in the Arbat a few weeks ago.” Nikolai paused, considering what he had just said, wondering who had bumped into whom and whether the meeting had really been accidental. “Apparently you told him that you have come back to take up a new posting as
Political Officer
with the Embassy.”

Hartman let the sarcasm of the emphasis glide past. “That’s pretty much it.”

Nikolai gave a considered nod. Looked aside for a second then back to the American. “Vari believes you may be able to suggest how I should deal with my…
situation,
as you put it.”

Hartman gave a non-committal shrug. “Maybe.” He leaned forward and poured more coffee. “I don’t know yet, but then that’s why we’re here, so why don’t you tell me about it? Your situation.”

Nikolai drew a breath and flicked his hands apart. “So, where should I start? With myself? My background, perhaps?”

Hartman tossed his head lightly. “That’s not necessary. We know all we need to know about you.”

The casual assurance of the response struck Nikolai with an unexpected jolt. It was barely two hours since Vari had made his call, so whatever Hartman knew about him must have been assembled and absorbed within that short time. That meant it must have already been on file somewhere before that, available for instant access. It occurred to Nikolai that a dimension of his life had been stolen without his knowledge. An image rose within his mind: nameless people in dimly lit rooms, industriously compiling details, notes and opinions regarding his family, his friends, his work, his loyalties. Poring, uninvited, over photographs of Natalia and Larisa and himself. Photographs they had never even been aware had been taken. Hartman’s words replayed in his mind:
you can never be completely sure who’s on the other side of a lens.
The American’s voice drew him back from his thoughts.

“Why don’t we start from when you began to take an interest in Ivankov?”

Nikolai looked up sharply. Another jolt. Hadn’t he and Vari agreed that no names should be used on the telephone? Hartman read his expression.

“I don’t mean to surprise you, but we were already aware of your interest in Mr Ivankov.”

Nikolai stared back at him in blank astonishment. “How?”

Hartman’s shoulders rose and fell. “It’s our job to watch people who watch other people.”

Could this be real, Nikolai wondered? Or had he somehow tumbled through the looking glass?

“So then,” Hartman’s soft, even tone scribed a line through his dismay, “how about we get started?”

Ten minutes was all it took. A remarkably short time, it seemed to Nikolai, to explain the series of events that had bounced his world from its axis. At times he noticed Hartman studying him with a curious intensity, while at others the American appeared totally detached, more interested in his coffee. When Nikolai finished he fell silent, waiting for Hartman to speak, but the older man said nothing. Just extended an open hand in Nikolai’s direction. Nikolai took the meaning and reached inside his jacket, drawing the folded transcripts from his pocket. He began to hand them across, then stopped.

“They’re in Russian.”

Hartman drew a pair of reading glasses from a leg pocket in his chinos and gave a lazy shrug. “Russian’s fine.” Followed it up with a brief, unassuming smile. “I read Russian.” He leaned forward and slid the papers from Nikolai’s grasp, straightened them along their fold, set the glasses on his nose and sat back on the sofa, starting to read.

Now it was Nikolai’s turn to study him. He watched as the American scanned the lines without expression, placing each finished page face down on the cushion beside him. Every so often he would pause and go back, pick up the previous sheet and run a finger down the text until he found what he was looking for, then nod to himself, replace the page and continue on. When he reached the end of the first transcript he glanced up at Nikolai for a moment, his gray eyes giving away nothing, then poured himself more coffee and returned to his reading. The second document took longer than the first. Eventually he came to the last page, read it, turned it over and placed it face down, on top of the others. For what must have been a minute he sat silently, contemplating the carpet. Finally he lowered his glasses and looked up, his eyes fixing on Nikolai’s.

“Interesting material, Mr Aven.” He picked up the sheaf of papers and leaned forward, stacking them evenly on the edge of the table. “And you say these are exact transcripts of the two videotapes you have in your possession?”

Nikolai nodded.

Hartman drew the transcripts back and set them down again on the cushion beside him. Nikolai noticed the proprietorial assumption. The American took his time folding away his glasses then looked up with a forced smile.

“So, Nikolai. What
do
you want?”

Nikolai blinked. What
did
he want? Everything was happening so fast he had no idea.

Safety for Larisa and Natalia, of course, but beyond that… His head began turning, sweeping slowly from side to side. “I honestly don’t know.” He stared at the American. “Since it would seem I am in your hands and you are more experienced at these things, perhaps you can tell me. What should I be asking for?”

Hartman regarded him strangely for a moment, as if the guilelessness of the question had somehow unsettled him. Why was that, Nikolai wondered. A conflict of interest or a test of integrity? He noticed the way Hartman’s right hand had settled across his left, shielding it. The way the thumb and forefinger had begun toying with the gold wedding band, twisting it back and forth. Finally the American broke his hands apart and pulled a breath.

“Okay, I’ll tell you.” He leaned forward, his expression suddenly grim, the soft, even voice exchanged for a tone as sharp as a razor. “
You want to get the fuck out of here, Nikolai
. Before you and your wife and kid are drowned in this godforsaken sewer!”

The unexpected intensity of Hartman’s answer stunned Nikolai. He stared back, grappling for a response.

“But this is
my country
.” Even as he spoke he realized how trite his own words sounded.

Hartman tossed his head dismissively.

“Wrong, son. It’s
their
country.” His tone twisted with sarcasm. “It’s changed hands. Maybe you missed it? People like Ivankov and Stephasin and Patrushev own it now and you know what? And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” He watched as Nikolai’s gaze drifted aside. “Forget about the idealism, the only sane thing you can do is to use whatever leverage you’ve got to get yourself and your family out of here before it’s too late. You can’t beat them, Nikolai.” Nikolai’s eyes swung back, meeting his. “the truth is, no one can beat them. Not here, anyway.”

His tone softened. “Let me tell you something, Nikolai. Organized crime in any country is a mirror of its society. The only way it can be controlled is by the will and ability of government, so ask yourself: what the hell hope is there here?” He left the question hanging.

“I’m not a pessimist by nature, but just take a look at your history. Okay, life under the tsars may not have been that great, but then back in 1917, when Nicholas abdicated, Russia was almost on its way to democracy, then along comes Lenin and screws everything. The only way Lenin and his pals could cling to power was by institutionalizing terror, so that’s exactly what they did. They made criminality the accepted way of life. Then Lenin dies and Stalin steps in, and over the next three decades he manages to advance it to an art form. Hell, you know the numbers, Nikolai. More than thirty
million
sent to the gulags, six million in the two years between ‘36 and ‘38 alone. Imagine it! And this guy was on
our
side against Hitler, can you believe it? And while we’re talking about Stalin, how about his side-kick, Beria? There’s another world-class crazy.”

Nikolai listened with a blank expression. Lavrenty Beria had come from Georgia, an architectural student who had gone on to find his niche in the Chekha before Stalin saw his potential and made him head of the NKVD. Like Stalin, Beria had been intelligent, cunning, depraved and totally ruthless. Together they had left a chilling legacy that helped explain why even today the Georgians were still the most feared of all the ethnic criminal groups. In between running Stalin’s purges and the A-bomb program Beria got his kicks by personally supervising hundreds, if not thousands, of murders and entertaining himself with an endless stream of young girls plucked at random from the streets. In the end even Stalin had come to regard him as a threat, probably too late since, by coincidence, Beria had been the last person to see Stalin alive the night he suffered what was supposedly his fatal stroke. In the confusion that followed Beria had seized control only to be deposed by Khrushchev a few months later and unceremoniously executed in a basement room of the Lubyanka.