Murder in Foggy Bottom (15 page)

Minutes later, he arrived at a juncture where the road swung hard left and began its ascent up the heavily forested hill. He downshifted to gain traction and torque, but couldn’t gain speed because of the road’s rain-filled holes, and the rocks. A glance behind: The Mercedes, too, had started up the craggy incline. They’ll never keep up with me, Baumann thought as he continued to shift gears in response to the terrain. But as he swerved right to avoid a large boulder that blocked half of the road, the truck’s rear wheels lost their grip and skidded left off the road and backward down a shallow incline, stopping with a jolt against a large Douglas fir. The impact dazed Baumann for a moment, and he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut against it. The sound of a vehicle on the road thirty feet above brought his head up. He reached beneath his seat and yanked open a flap of fabric held tight against the seat with strips of Velcro, creating a compartment. His right hand came up with two small items that he shoved into the flap pockets of his fatigues, then with an Ingram MAC-10 machine gun, with limited accuracy over any distance, but capable of gruesome results at close range. This model was a forty-five-caliber version that could fire nine hundred rounds a minute, fifteen bullets a second.

Baumann opened the door and rolled out, hitting the ground as the first shot from the thirty-thirty-caliber rifle hit a rock with a loud ping a foot from his head. He looked up the slope and saw the two men, permanent members of Zachary Jasper’s sect, standing on the road, weapons aimed at him. Another shot, this from the sawed-off nine-millimeter, tore bark from the tree beside him.

Baumann crawled military style, propelled by his elbows, until reaching a sharp, ten-foot drop-off. He glanced back; the men had started down after him, widening the distance between them to maneuver him into a crossfire. He allowed himself to slip over the lip of the drop-off and slid down to a muddy ravine. He scrambled to his feet, slipped to his knees, then pulled himself up to firmer ground and quickly moved through a grove of saplings in the direction of the assailant with the thirty-thirty, who suddenly appeared at the top of the drop-off. Baumann brought the MAC-10 up into firing position and squeezed the trigger, sending a dozen bullets into the man’s midsection, tearing it open, the shots clustered together as though the victim had been a target on a firing range. He’d been leaning forward, searching the forest for Baumann, when the fusillade hit. He pitched forward, the thirty-thirty preceding him, spun in the air, and tumbled to Baumann’s feet, his mouth wide open as though to protest what was happening, his torso almost torn in half by the salvo from the MAC-10.

Baumann straightened as he heard the second man call for his partner. The voice came from behind, the opposite direction. Using trees as handholds, Baumann hauled himself up the embankment, reached the crest, and crouched behind a large rock. He saw nothing . . . until two birds suddenly flew out of a bush, and Baumann saw what had sent them into flight. The second man had darted from the bush and behind a tree. He called again for his partner; Baumann sensed from the voice that he was scared, on the verge of panic. Let him make the next move, he told himself, the MAC-10 cradled in his right hand, ready for use. He remained in that frozen position, not allowing the perspiration running down his face to cause him to move, controlling his heavy breathing, eyes unblinkingly fixed on the bush, waiting, waiting . . .

The Heckler & Koch semiautomatic assault rifle came into view first, followed by the tentative steps of its owner from behind the bush. Baumann’s eyes widened as the man approached where he lay, head swiveling in search of his colleague. When he was no more than ten feet away, Baumann slowly reached down, picked up a stone, and, when his assailant looked away, tossed it in an arc directly behind his foe, who spun around and started shooting at the sound. Baumann sprung from behind the rock and tackled the shooter, propelling his weapon and hat into the air, and pitching him face-first onto the ground. Baumann brought his hand back and slammed the ammo clip of the MAC-10 into the side of the fallen man’s head, did it again, and again, until there was no movement beneath him. Now allowing his breath to flow naturally, and wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he searched his unconscious enemy for keys, picked up the assault rifle, and struggled up the incline to the road. He looked into the Mercedes. The keys were on the seat. Smiling, he slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove up the winding, rutted road until reaching the summit, then down to where the road joined the two-lane highway. He pushed the aged Mercedes to its limit, roaring past the few, slower-moving vehicles he encountered, until reaching the small town of Blaine and the intersection of Route 5, which he took south until a little more than an hour later, when he reached the northern fringes of Seattle. He pulled into the parking lot of a sporting goods and clothing store, bought jeans, a belt, a lightweight plaid shirt, white athletic socks, and a pair of moccasins, changed into his purchases in a changing room, transferred what he’d been carrying in his old clothing to the new, paid, left, and drove to Sea-Tac, Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. He checked the departure board. Good! A flight to Washington’s Dulles Airport was scheduled to leave in two hours. He bought a first-class ticket with a credit card, went to the airline’s VIP club, settled in a corner away from other passengers, and placed a call. It was almost noon in Seattle, three o’clock in Washington, DC.

The secretary in Sydney Wingate’s office in the J. Edgar Hoover building answered the secured line. “This is Mrs. Wales,” she said.

“I need Wingate,” Baumann said. “It’s Scope.”

She went to the open office door and said to the special agent behind the desk, Sydney Wingate, the Elephant Man, “Scope on the SCI line.” She backed away and closed the door as Wingate picked up the secured extension on his desk.

“Scope?”

“Yes. They blew my cover. I’m heading back.”

“When?”

“Now.” He gave the details of the flight.

“You’re bringing what you have with you?”

“Affirmative. I’ve got it all.”

“Come directly here.”

“Okay.”

“Skip” Traxler, known to Zachary Jasper as Billy Baumann—known to his handlers at FBI headquarters in Washington as “Scope”—hung up, went to a restaurant in the main terminal, where he had shrimp bisque, a salad, crusty French bread, and a local microbrewery beer, bought a paperback novel at a bookstore for the flight, and read in the departure lounge until his flight was called.

18

That Night
Moscow

Pauling was glad Lerner had chosen the Anchor restaurant in the Palace Hotel because it featured American-style seafood dishes. He’d never become especially fond of Russian food during his seven years in Moscow, although the caviar was to his liking, and there were certain lamb dishes he enjoyed at the better restaurants. He’d learned early in his assignment not to order chicken: “The Russian method of slaughtering chickens is starvation,” his American embassy friends often said.

Lerner was enjoying a scotch when Pauling joined him at a corner table as far removed from the dining room’s bustle as possible. Pauling was served a Bloody Mary, which he raised in a toast: “Good to be with you again, Bill.”

“The feeling is mutual, of course. Did you have a pleasant afternoon?”

“Very. I don’t know why the Russians insist on cramming enough furniture for two rooms into one, but the bed’s comfortable, and the shower actually delivers hot water. I took a nap.”

“A sure sign of aging.”

Pauling laughed and shook his head. “I’ve always enjoyed naps, short ones, twenty-minute battery chargers.”

“I used to enjoy naps, but now I’m afraid I’ll miss something,” Lerner said in his soft, measured voice. “Our titular leader, Secretary Rock, is in town.”

“So I’ve read.”

“She impresses me. Her name is apt.”

“A no-nonsense lady. I met her once. She looks you in the eye and doesn’t let go. Where’s Elena?”

“She’ll join us shortly. You haven’t made plans for after dinner, have you?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ve arranged a meeting.”

Pauling’s eyebrows went up. “You aren’t trying to find me female companionship, are you?”

“No, Max, I gave up pimping when I gave up naps, at least pimping for Americans. I think you’ll find the meeting useful.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to it.”

Lerner looked beyond Pauling to see Elena Alekseyevna crossing the dining room in their direction. He stood, kissed her on the cheek, and said, nodding at Pauling, “Recognize this stranger, Elena?”

She broke into a wide smile as Pauling stood, grasped her hands, and kissed her on both cheeks. “You look wonderful, Elena.”

“Thank you, Max. You look fine, too.”

“Don’t flatter him,” Lerner said, holding out a chair for her. “He naps now.”

Elena looked quizzically at Pauling.

“Ignore him,” Pauling said. “Come on, catch me up on what you’ve been doing since I left—and be sure to include how my leaving devastated everyone.”

They chatted about many things over the caviar, and the
zhulienn
, a small casserole of mushrooms and sour cream served in individual metal dishes, and the Dover sole flown in from England. When cups of strong, black coffee had been served to accompany vanilla
morozhenoe—
Pauling had forgotten how good Russian ice cream was—Elena said she had to leave.

“So soon?” Pauling said.

“Yes. I have an early meeting tomorrow, and unlike you, Max, I didn’t have time to nap today.”

Pauling laughed and stood. “Wonderful seeing you again, Elena. I hope we can do this again many times.”

“We’ll make a point of it.” She kissed Lerner on the lips, glanced about the dining room, and left the table.

“Beautiful as ever,” Pauling said, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she navigated the tables and disappeared from view. Elena Alekseyevna was more handsome than beautiful, Pauling knew: tall and sturdy, chiseled features, minimal makeup, and salt-and-pepper hair worn short, businesslike. She usually wore tailored suits, as she had that night, befitting her middle-level position at the Central Bank.

When the two men had resumed their seats and ordered more coffee, Pauling discerned an unmistakable sadness in Lerner’s eyes. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“I envy you. She’s a fine woman.”

“That she is.” Lerner made a show of drawing a deep breath, sitting up straight, and smiling. “Let’s finish up, Max, and go take a bath.”

Pauling hadn’t cultivated a liking for
banyas,
Russian public baths, which were as much a part of the national culture as borscht and vodka. He’d been to them a dozen times when living in Moscow, always at a Russian’s invitation. Most deal meetings had taken place in hard-currency bars and restaurants owned by organized crime, or secluded rendezvous points on the docks, or in dachas, summer country homes popular with those city dwellers who could afford second homes, which included the political elite, plus stars of movies, organized crime, and crooked business.

But this night it was the baths, the Sandunov Sauna, one of the city’s most popular.

“You don’t have to come in with me,” Pauling told Lerner as they approached the building on Neglinniy Pereulok. “Tell me who the guy is and go catch up with Elena.”

“Oh, no, Max, wouldn’t miss it. Things have been dull since you left. Besides, this gentleman is comfortable with me. We’ve—” He laughed. “We’ve bonded.”

“This is the banker?”

“Yes. I originally called him just to ask whether he’d consider meeting a friend of mine. That’s you, Max. But when he said tonight was convenient for him, I thought you’d want to take advantage of it.”

Lerner paid the admission fee and they were directed to a changing room, where they handed their valuables to an attendant, who asked whether they’d brought bathing suits, towels, shampoo, and sandals.

“Nyet,”
Lerner answered.

The attendant assigned them small, curtained changing rooms and handed them the necessities they’d neglected to bring, including plastic robes. Each was also given a
venik
, a bundle of birch twigs with which to hit themselves, allegedly to get the blood flowing. They changed and met outside their cubicles.

“We shouldn’t be here on full stomachs,” Lerner said.

“Yeah, I remember,” Pauling replied, feeling silly in his outfit.

“And no more than five minutes at a time in the sauna. Hate to have you pass out on me.”

“Worry about yourself. Where are we meeting this guy you’ve bonded with?”

“The sauna. Ready?”

“Sure.”

The sauna, a large room with three tiers of benches— the bottom level was the least hot—contained a dozen towel-clad men. Pauling’s dislike of Russian saunas came back to him—the steam, the heat, the smell of aftershave lotion and toilet water and perspiration permeating the room as it sweated out of the bodies.
Bodies,
he thought as he and Lerner went to an empty space on the lowest bench, next to an overweight man smoking a long, thick, black cigar. Fat bodies, Russian bodies, expanded by all that grain and sugar and fats and oils and potatoes and greasy meat; what was the statistic? Russians have a 70 percent higher caloric consumption than Americans, and America wasn’t a poster nation for svelte.

“Lerner,” the fat man with the cigar said.

“Mr. Miziyano,” Lerner said, extending his hand, which the banker shook halfheartedly. “Let me introduce you to my friend, Pauling.”

Miziyano scrutinized Pauling before saying,
“Zdrastvuti.”
Pauling returned the noncommittal greeting.

“So, Yuri, things are well?”

“Da.”
He struggled to his feet from the low bench and waved for Lerner and Pauling to follow him. They left the sauna and went to a small room with a table and four chairs. A bottle of vodka in a bucket of ice, and four glasses, sat in the table’s center. Miziyano barked an order at an attendant for food to be brought to the room. The men sat, and Miziyano poured their drinks.
“Na
zdrovia,”
he said, raising his glass.

“Yes, cheers,” Lerner said.

They made small talk until a platter of snacks had been delivered. Once the attendant had left and shut the door, the corpulent Russian banker said, “So, your friend here, Mr. Pauling, is interested in missiles.”

“Certain missiles,” Pauling said.

“Yes, certain missiles,” Miziyano repeated. “The ones that shot down your planes.”

“Those missiles,” said Pauling.

Miziyano grimaced, finished his vodka, and refilled his glass, not bothering to offer to do the same for Lerner and Pauling. “A dreadful thing what happened to your airplanes, Mr. Pauling. Tragic. My heart was sickened when I read about it.”

Lerner glanced at Pauling, who he knew didn’t have much patience with self-serving rhetoric.

“What do you know about those missiles, Mr. Miziyano?” Pauling asked.

A shocked expression crossed the Russian’s broad face, and he placed his hands on his chest. “What do
I
know about these missiles? You insult me.”

Pauling smiled. “Not my intention, sir,” he said, “but I understand we’re here with you because you
do
know something—or
someone
who might know.”

Miziyano shrugged and transferred food from the platter to his mouth. “I know many people,” he said, “and they know many things.”

Pauling stood up, as if to go. Lerner said to the Russian, “Maybe this isn’t a good time to discuss this, my friend.”

Miziyano smiled and gestured to the room. “What better time? I would be willing to introduce you to a gentleman who might be able to shed some light on this matter, these missiles.”

“
Might
be able to?” Pauling said.

Miziyano nodded and ate again, took a swig of his vodka. “Come, come, drink up,” he said.

“When can we meet this gentleman who might know something about the missiles?” Pauling asked, sitting down, and wincing against the heat of the vodka as it slid down his throat.

“A day? A week? I will let you know. Of course, he will have to be compensated for his time, huh?”

“Of course,” Lerner said.

“How much?” Pauling asked, his voice now with an edge.

Another shrug from the Russian banker. “Let’s talk in round numbers. Your government is very anxious to find out about these missiles. I am right?”

“Yes, you are right,” Lerner said.

“Well, then, the information—if this gentleman is willing to provide it—will cost dearly.”

“Round numbers,” Pauling said.

“For the gentleman who provides to you the information? Two hundred thousand, although I am not certain if that would be his price. For me?” A low, guttural laugh. “My friend Lerner and I can talk about that at a later date.”

Pauling started to say something sharp but Lerner cut him off. “A good starting point, my friend. You’ll call?”

“
Da.
Good to see you, Lerner. Always a pleasure.” He ignored Pauling.

“A shower, then home?” Lerner said to Pauling.

Miziyano laughed. “Shower? The baths, Lerner, always the baths.”

They left the room, ignored his advice and showered, dressed, and walked up the street. There was a fine mist in the air creating halos around street lamps as they walked in silence until reaching a Metro stop.

“I’ll leave you here, Max.”

“We can share a cab.”

“No, I prefer the Metro. Almost as good as Washington’s, clearly superior to New York’s. Join me, Max?”

“No. I’ll enjoy a walk. Bill, I assume coming up with a million bucks isn’t a problem.”

“No problem at all. The entire budget of the United States is at our disposal. So to speak.”

“Good night, Bill. Thanks for the sauna.”

“My pleasure.”

Lerner took a few steps down into the Metro station when Pauling stopped him. “Bill, do you think our fat friend played a role in selling those missiles to the bastards who used them?”

“Possibly. Money was involved, and he is, after all, in the money business.”

“So he collects from both ends.”

Lerner came back up the two steps. “Max, shelve your feelings. I’ve opened the door for you. Now you can hobnob with your people and get to the bottom of it.”

“ ‘My people’?”

“The criminal types to whom our fat banker friend owes his Mercedes and fancy dacha, his whores, and his pinky rings. Large, weren’t they?”

Pauling smiled. “I didn’t see his girlfriends. Go catch your train, Bill. I’ll see you in the morning.”