The Domino Game (11 page)

Hartman stopped what he was doing and looked up.

“News for you, pal. I don’t work for you. I never worked for you. And you know what?” He slammed the last desk drawer, scooped up a handful of papers and the half empty pack of cigarettes. “I don’t work under anyone anymore, because I just fucking quit!”

10

I’m sorry…
Even
in Russian the message was the same. Jack Hartman thumbed the cell phone number again, came up with the same recorded voice.

The person you wish to contact is out of
range.

Wrong!

Nikolai Aven was within range. Totally within range and that was the whole problem!

Hartman checked the number again. Definitely the one Aven had given him, so why the hell wasn’t he answering?

He glanced around the apartment he’d been allocated on his arrival back in Moscow six weeks before, across the mound of still unpacked cartons corralled into the living room corner. At least he hadn’t wasted his time putting it all away. All he had to do now was pack his bags, call the Embassy removalist and leave – and he would. But not quite yet. He might have told Powell he was quitting but that was just theatre. Until he did it officially, through channels, he was still Moscow Chief of Station and as long as he was, fuck the
POLITICAL ISSUES.
He was going to play this his way.

There was no point in trying to argue the toss on Aven with Langley; he’d been around long enough to know that.

By now Tom Gaines and Allan Bennel, the DDO, would be feeling guilty as hell –the Deputy Director and Director as well, probably – but once State and the Administration had got in on the act, forget it! Bennel, the DDCI and the Director would have already argued their case: the proposition that Aven’s material and the knowledge he would bring with him could be of enormous value in developing strategies to deal with the advancing Russian threat. But that’s all it was: a proposition. The Company was still trying to convince the Administration that there actually
was
a threat, and that it needed to be taken seriously while, meantime, Ambassador Malcolm Powell had gotten there before them, stringing up his system of tripwires and alarms to ensure he got an early warning of any operation that might get in the way of his own agenda. Presuming, of course, it was Powell’s agenda. Presuming he wasn’t just carrying out orders.

Hartman poured himself a scotch from the bottle of J&B on the kitchen counter and walked across to the window, considering options. The apartment complex lay at the edge of the Embassy compound. To the south-west, the Russian White House shimmered above the edge of the Moskva River. Beyond it, on the opposite bank, the towering Soviet-gothic Hotel Ukraine stood bathed in golden light, its thrusting spire piercing the blue-black night.

He drank and swallowed.

He should never have come back. He was tired of all this bullshit and duplicity. For almost thirty years he’d managed to put up with it, driven on by the crazy notion that
right
would eventually prevail, but it never did. Every now and then
right
won a round, but that was as far as it went.

He’d come to the CIA straight out of college, eyes wide open, after the fiascos of Budapest and Cuba and the hanging question over Kennedy’s assassination, so he knew what he was getting into. But he’d come in with optimism and kept the faith. Maintained the belief that they could make a difference, and they could… if they were just left the hell alone to get on with what they were good at!

But they never were left alone. There was always interference. Always the other agendas. The
POLITICAL ISSUES
that crawled across the path like scorpions forcing procrastination and delay, necessitating diversions and concessions.

It was inevitable that, over time, his idealism had begun to crumble but he kept on anyway, because by then he knew that to stop would be to admit defeat. Then suddenly Nance was gone, and what was left of his optimism just evaporated.

In the past he’d been able to justify the compromises by convincing himself that something more important was always at stake, but that didn’t cut any longer. At some indeterminate point over the last year he had tripped over the understanding that there was nothing more important than how you acted today.

He took another mouthful of scotch, holding it, letting the alcohol deaden his taste, swallowing, consulting his glass. Which was why he wasn’t going to stand by and let this happen.

Without Langley behind him there was no way he would be able to come good on the promises he’d made to Nikolai Aven, but there was still the thread of a chance he may be able to pull the guy and his family out of the fire. If he could get Aven and his evidence back to the States they
had
to listen.
Had
to give him protection. Either that or they’d be watching the whole goddamned story on prime time TV. In fact, if it went that way, by the time the media auction was over, Aven would be able to afford his own private army.

His gray eyes travelled right to left and back again, evaluating, following the course of his thoughts. And what could they do to him, to Jack Hartman? His lips creased in a wry smile.

Nothing.
That was the answer.

There was nothing they could do to him because it wouldn’t be him telling the story. If Aven thought it appropriate to mention him – mention how he’d taken his information to the CIA Moscow Chief, who had made a commitment to help him, then sold him out – all Hartman had to do was condemn himself and those who were pulling the strings by honoring the terms of his contract and saying nothing. When the reporters chased him down the street with their cameras and their questions –
Mr Hartman, is it true you work for the CIA? Did Nikolai Aven come to you in Moscow for help? Is it true that you recently resigned, and if so, why?
– he needed only to give the one damning answer: “
No
comment
.”

He stared pensively into the Moscow night. It would work. He’d have to be careful. To keep his distance and not let anything slip that might embarrass the DDCI or the Director, but if he could do that, it would work.

In fact, if he could do that, the Company would end up winning. He could see it now. The Director sitting upright and aloof through the long, tense White House post-mortems that would follow the breaking story, eloquent without even speaking.
If you had listened to us
…
if you had done what we suggested and advised… you wouldn’t be in this mess. And, what’s more, you know
it.

Maybe – just maybe – the ensuing public outcry would be enough to trigger a policy re-think. Whatever the
POLITICAL ISSUES,
it was a fair call that the American public wasn’t going to be impressed to learn of their Government’s tacit support for the fraudulent and corrupt conduct of Russian politicians and businessmen. Maybe that might be sufficient embarrassment to cause the President and his advisers to take stock and change direction. To start them thinking about whether people like Malcolm Powell and his friends were assets, or liabilities.

So… Hartman drew a breath and finished his scotch. That was the way he was going to play it. Hardball.

Three lives into two suitcases. In the end Nikolai had been surprised at how easy it had been.

He zipped the bag and looked around, his eyes settling on the cell phone that lay where he’d left it, on the bedside table. Eleven thirty and Hartman still hadn’t called. Something was wrong. His focus narrowed, closing in on the small plastic bead that should have been glowing green, but wasn’t. How the Christ…

He sidestepped the bed and picked up the receiver, staring at its face.

“Shit!”

Natalia appeared in the doorway, clutching a bundle of Larisa’s clothes. She saw the expression on his face and froze.

“What? What is it?”

Nikolai chewed his lip. He flicked the handset open, stared at it, hit the power button and the green bead beeped to life. He closed his eyes and let out a groan, answering without looking up.

“It’s been turned off.” He dragged his free hand across his face, trying to work out how the hell it could have happened.” I came in. Put it down on the coffee table…”

Natalia’s gaze shifted to the black plastic rectangle locked in his fingers.

“Larisa…” She breathed their daughter’s name with a soft realization. Nikolai looked up and their eyes met. “she was playing with Boris and her dolls. She must have…” She stopped mid-sentence and began shaking her head. “I wasn’t watching.”

Nikolai exhaled a defeated sigh. “Neither was I.” For Natalia’s sake he forced a smile. “It’s not your fault. I should have checked.” He turned aside, casting his eyes around the room, searching for the leather jacket he’d been wearing when he’d met Hartman at the Rossiya. Found it thrown across the chair in the corner and reached it in three steps, digging into the side pocket, retrieving the scrap of Rossiya paper that carried the American’s number, reading it and thumbing the digits into the keypad. Natalia watched for a moment then stepped around him to the other side of the bed, pressing the bundle of clothes into the one still-open bag and zipping it shut. She looked up and saw the frown on her husband’s face.

“Engaged.” He cleared the call and tried again. Stared at Natalia and shook his head.

The Embassy driver pulled the black Buick into the tiny parking lot, wedging it into the end slot, beside a rust-bored Lada. Hartman nodded to him.

“An hour. No more.”

He levered the door and climbed out, feeling the chill river air biting through his lightweight jacket. His eyes swept across the car park, past the building, settling on the huge, dark shadow that loomed from the opposite bank of the Moskva, a kilometer or so to the north: the new Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer, rising like a phoenix from the site where Stalin had once planned to construct his massive Palace of the Soviets. It was to have been a showplace. The tallest building in the world, capped, for good measure, by a massive one hundred meter high statue of Lenin. How the mighty had fallen, Hartman reflected. In the end it had been just another communist dream that had come to nothing.

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and started across the car park.

Hartman closed the door behind him and scanned the nearly empty room. To his right, behind what passed for a bar, a gaunt, silver-haired man with sharp features polished a glass on his apron. They exchanged faint nods and Hartman’s gaze wandered on, settling on a figure seated alone at a table by the window. Their eyes met, recognition exchanged, and Hartman started forward.

As he approached Vari Vlasenko kicked back the chair opposite. Hartman slipped into it and drew it to the table. Vari’s eyes held his as he reached forward and pushed the uncapped bottle across the rough, varnish-bathed timber. Hartman looked at the bottle a moment and shook his head.

“No thanks.”

Vari shrugged. Drew it back again and topped up his own glass.

“So…” he took a sip of liquor.” You want to tell me what this is about?”

Hartman nodded slowly. His eyes drifted to the half-empty plate of cold
khachapuri –
cheese-filled breads – at Vari’s elbow. How long was it since he’d eaten? He couldn’t remember. He looked up.

“Head office knocked back the application.” He held Vari’s gaze. “
Political
issues
.”

Vari studied him for a long moment.

“You’ve told Niko?”

Hartman drew a breath. “Can’t reach him. His cell’s turned off and I can’t take the risk of calling on his house line.”

The Russian watched him, saying nothing. Hartman’s steel-colored eyes zeroed in tight, matching his tone.

“I’m not prepared to accept their answer.”

Vari’s eyebrows lifted, compressing his forehead into a band of furrows. He glanced aside, peering out the window at the rippling black surface of the river. “You must believe it’s time for a change of career.” He looked back and caught Hartman’s dull smile.

“Maybe I do.” He paused. “Aven is depending on me. I’m not going to let him down. If I can get him out of here and back to the States they’re going to
have
to pick him up. Either that or I’ll arrange for him to go public with everything.” He paused again, giving Vari time to consider the supposition. “But I can’t do it within my system. That’s why I need help.”

Vari blinked slowly, his response non-committal. “How?”

Hartman edged his chair in closer to the table.

“I’m supposed to meet him at his apartment at five a.m. I check the tapes, make sure everything is as represented and, if it is, I call in a car and move them out right away. The three of them.”

Vari lifted his glass to his lips. “And all that performance about St Petersburg and Novgorod… going out through Finland?”

Hartman didn’t flinch. “A blind.”

Vari tipped his head. “I thought so.” He took a drink. “And you told him to tell me that story. Why was that? Because you didn’t believe you could trust me.”

Hartman remained silent.

A smile creased Vari’s features. “But now you do.”

Hartman’s eyes fell to the table, then lifted.

“So…” Vari Vlasenko took a deep breath. “As a matter of interest, how were you going to do it?”

They regarded one another for a long moment before Hartman spoke.

“Straight back to the Embassy compound. Mid-morning I start firing out black glass sedans in different directions. M10 to St Petersburg; M9 to Riga; Ml to Minsk in Belarus. The one with Aven and his family takes the M20 to Kiev. I have a Beechcraft charter on standby at Borispol Airport. It takes them to Bucharest in Romania and my guys pick them up there and process them on through Rome and back to the States.”

Vari allowed a smile of approval. “And Ivankov’s people wouldn’t have known which way he was going.”

Hartman gave a shrug. “They had a one in four chance. They might have got lucky but our odds were good. Anyway, it wouldn’t have mattered. Aven and his family would have been papered up as diplomats and I had the Ukrainian SBU on standby for security support once they reached the border.”

The Russian nodded slowly. “How much of that plumbing could you still use?”

Hartman exhaled. “I could hold the charter… cancel it and reinstate it privately. I’ve got people in Turkey who owe me favors. I can get someone up to Bucharest to take care of them then pull them out on my personal account through Istanbul.” He watched as Vari ran his appraisal.