The Domino Game (12 page)

“So you need a car, a driver and passports. And you need it all arranged within … ” he glanced at his watch, “four and a half hours?”

“Can you do it?” Hartman’s question was unapologetically blunt.

Vari studied him for a beat then nodded slowly. “I could do it, you know that. But I have two questions.”

Hartman watched him. “And those are?”

Vari looked down, toying with his glass. “Given what you led me to believe you were trying to achieve, it seems strange that your superiors are not running with this.”

Hartman shook his head. “That wasn’t a question.”

The Russian’s eyes flicked up sharply. “I’m getting to the question.” He leaned closer. “How much did you tell your people about your exit plan for Nikolai?”

Hartman had been playing distractedly with the bottle of scotch, turning it back and forth between his fingers. His hand came to rest.

“Too much,” he answered impassively.

Vari’s gaze fell back to his glass. “I see.”

Hartman let a moment pass. “And the second question?”

The Russian’s eyes flicked up.” You know the second question.”

Hartman met them without flinching. “Where does this leave you? It’s a hard game, Vari, you know that. You’ve been playing it a long time. When I made our arrangements I made them in good faith. I didn’t count on this happening. Whether the Company keeps you on after I’m gone is going to be up to whoever takes my place.”

Vari’s lips bent in a humorless smile. He turned aside, his eyes following the dark shadow of a barge sliding by on the river. His heavy torso rocked slowly as he spoke.

“Like you say, I know the game.” He hooked a glance back to Hartman. “Niko is my partner. I’m on your payroll. You do this and how long do you think it’s going to be before your people work out I was involved? They’ll never touch me again, you know that. They might be dumb, but they’re not completely stupid.” The other man’s silence was the only confirmation he needed. His eyes trailed back to the river. “Neither are mine.”

Hartman pondered the final words.

“That’s something you must have thought about before you sent Aven across to me.”

Vari spun back, his eyes flashing.

“Of course I thought about it! This morning I had a way out. If my rowboat started sinking I had you to throw me a line, but now what? Now you’ve jumped off the fucking wharf yourself!”

Hartman couldn’t think of a credible response. Instead he let it go. Hooked back to the point. “Just tell me. Are you going to help or not? Yes or no, it’s that simple.”

Vari swung aside again, peering into the darkness, shaking his head.

“You know as well as I do, nothing in Russia is that simple. Every decision has its consequences. The question is whether you survive them.”

The barge had moved on, leaving a trail of fractured reflections from the lights of the Embankment rippling in its wake. Hartman watched as the Russian stared into the shimmering black surface of the river until the broken scales of light settled back into pattern and place. Finally Vari drew a breath and turned back again, his dark eyes locking fast on Hartman’s.

“But then you know I am a survivor, don’t you? You are counting on the fact that even with all the risks I will put my balls on the line for you and Nikolai and still manage to survive as well, because you think you know me. You think that’s the kind of person I am.”

The call came at one fifteen.

There had been no point trying to sleep. They were together on the living room couch, Nikolai propped in the corner, Natalia half leaning, half lying against him, an arm wrapped around his waist, the other pressed against his chest. When she heard the shrill beep she bounced upright in a single movement and came to rest staring at him as he swung the receiver to his ear.

“We’re on.” Hartman’s voice. He breathed a sigh of relief at the words. “There’ve been a few minor changes.”

Nikolai was instantly alert. “What changes?” Natalia looked at him.

Hartman overrode the question. “Nothing you need to worry about; I’ll explain when I get there. But I need you ready earlier. Four, not five.”

Nikolai looked at Natalia as he spoke. “All right. Four a.m. We’ll be ready.”

“Good.” Hartman answered. “One other thing,” he paused. “I still need to see the tapes first. You understand?”

Nikolai turned his head to the phone. “They’re here, don’t worry. The downstairs door to the building is kept locked. When you arrive ring the buzzer beside my name. I’ll come down for you.” He paused. “This is definite? You’re still coming?”

“I’ll be there,” Hartman answered. “You have my word.”

11

On the first
ring Vitaly Kolbasov stirred and shifted a fraction, the hand that had been thrown back across his face stretching aside and travelling downwards until it came to rest on the slender thigh draped across his groin. His lips began to curl in a smile, then the low chirping tone came again and dragged him awake. He shook his head tightly against the pillow and turned to look at the bedside clock. The digital figures swam in a muted red blur for a moment then fell into focus.

Two fifteen.

By the time the third ring came he was wide awake and furious. The last thirty hours had been absolute shit. It had begun with the frantic damage control audit at
ZAVOSET
as he and Ivankov tried to determine what the hell was missing and what to do about it. After that he’d had to deal with Gilmanov. Not personally, of course, but he’d still had to arrange the details and then set up and manage the watch on Aven. It had been close to midnight by the time he’d finally arrived home and by then he’d been awake for over forty hours. He was desperate for sleep but he needed release even more, so he’d had the girls brought around to help uncork the pressure and they’d worked on him for an hour and a half before he’d finally zeroed out a little before two. Now, just fifteen minutes later, the world was screaming for him again.

He tossed back the gray silk sheet, pushed the thigh away and rolled to his side, reaching across the second body, his fingers feeling the darkness for the telephone. He found it halfway through the fourth ring and pulled it back, hauling himself upright between the two still slumbering figures.

“Yes?” he snapped.

Marat Ivankov responded with sarcastic patience.

“I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, Vitaly.”

Kolbasov rewound. “No. No. Not at all.” He shuffled back further against the headboard. The bodies either side of him were stirring now, coming slowly awake. He swung his pale legs sideways, across the younger of the two girls, bringing himself to his feet at the side of the bed. Without looking back he walked the phone across to the living room. “What is it, Marat? What can I do?” His tone was focused now. Kolbasov passed through the doorway and ran his free hand across to the light switch.

Ivankov’s voice was precise. “You recall the fallback arrangements we discussed yesterday? Stephasin and Aven?”

Kolbasov blinked, searching for the file in his brain. Fallback arrangements. Stephasin… Aven. He squeezed his eyes, trying to concentrate through the residual haze of the vodka and cocaine. He thought he heard Ivankov sigh softly in frustration, then it came to him. He had it.

“The fallback arrangements. Of course.”

Ivankov continued. “Listen carefully, Vitaly. We need to activate them, now. I want you to contact Stephasin immediately. Track him down wherever he is and tell him the FSB has a rogue agent and that it is essential that he acts right away. Tell him I have received information that Nikolai Aven has been trying to negotiate a deal with the Americans. That he has offered to defect and provide them with sensitive classified material, the disclosure of which would be seriously detrimental to the state’s interests. Do you have that, Vitaly?”

Kolbasov stared at the receiver. Aven trying to defect? What the hell was Ivankov talking about? He nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, I have it.”

“Good. Now get to it, Vitaly. Tell Stephasin he has to act before five a.m. After that he may be too late. I’m at my home. Call me back when you’ve spoken to him. I’ll be waiting.”

The line went dead. Kolbasov lowered the receiver and turned back to the bedroom. The younger girl was standing in the doorway, watching him. Her eyes were blinking, trying to find focus, and she was swaying slightly. He supposed it was the effect of the drugs since it had apparently been her first time. Her older sister appeared behind her, barely sixteen herself, but already she had the poise of a woman twice her age. And the experience. She paused for a moment regarding Vitaly with an expression he found difficult to place, then she took the younger girl by her shoulders and steered her gently back towards the bed.

The address Vari Vlasenko had given him was for a laneway off Tverskaya Ulitsa, not far from Pushkin Square. Hartman missed it the first time and had to backtrack. Eventually he found the ancient white-on-blue street sign fixed high on the facade of the corner building and drew the map from the pocket of his windbreaker, comparing the Cyrillic text.

They’d left the riverside bar just before one, Hartman waiting until they were alone outside in the shadow of the building portico before handing over the thick yellow envelope.

“There’s five thousand cash there. Personal funds. You may need more. If you do just tell me.”

Vari took the package and weighed it in his hand. “This is enough. You forget, my friend, you can buy a life in this town for five hundred.” He slipped the envelope into his pocket, took out a notepad and pen and leaned towards the light, scratching a quick fine drawing, scribbling an address beneath it. He tore off the page and handed it to the American as if it were a receipt.

“Be here, at this place, at three thirty, okay?”

Hartman took the paper, studied it and nodded. Behind them a car slowed from the Embankment and turned into the lot and for a moment they were caught together in the sweep of its headlights. Hartman threw a quick glance across his shoulder then turned back, fixing on Vari’s coal black eyes. He nodded again.

No need to say anything. That was the way the game was played.

When he got back to his apartment the light on the answering machine was blinking in the darkness. He crossed to it and hit the play button, listening to the electronic voice.

You have two
messages.

He stabbed the button again and stood over the machine as they played.

The first was time-stamped ten after ten. It was Tom Gaines in Virginia, his voice cool and businesslike as usual.

Jack. Call
me.

The second had come in at eleven fifty. Same voice but now sounding quite different. Clipped and tense. The tone of someone instinctively aware that a situation has begun to slip inexorably out of control.

Jack? You there? Pick up if you are. What’s going on Jack? We’ve had a call from State; they’ve had a call from the Ambassador. You got a problem, Jack? Talk to
me.

Hartman hit the erase button and checked his watch. Supposed it wouldn’t be long before Gaines called again.

The address Vari had given him was walking distance from the compound. That meant he had two hours to kill before he had to leave. There were calls to make to Kiev, Bucharest and Istanbul but they could wait until he knew Aven and his family were safely on their way. So, what to do? He thought about calling Kelly but decided against it. The last thing he needed now was to have to fake enthusiasm for his daughter’s choice of husband.

The clenching in his gut came along right after that thought. Apprehension for Kelly, he wondered? Maybe. Or maybe it was fear for Aven and his wife and kid. Maybe even fear for himself.

Then, as if in answer, he heard Nance’s voice, her frustration as clear as if she had been there with him.

How long is it since you ate, Jack? How long since you had a decent meal? Darling you have to look after yourself. You’re on your own
now.

He couldn’t help the grim smile.

On your own
now.

Dear Nance, how true that was.

He walked across to the freezer and threw back the door. Okay. So what would be a good choice for a last supper?

He left by the side gate a little before three, exchanging nods with the lone Marine Guard, wondering what the guy was thinking. A spook on his way to some clandestine rendezvous, or just a bored, middle-aged staffer who couldn’t sleep, heading out to look for some action?

How things had changed. If he’d tried cruising the streets alone at three a.m. fifteen years ago, odds were he would have been bundled into the back seat of a passing sedan and spent the rest of the night answering questions in Dzerzhinsky Square. But the world had moved on and Moscow was a different place now. Almost civilized. No more threatening – or less – than any other city in Europe.

As if to illustrate the point, as he neared Tverskaya a battered police Lada trawled past, the cop in the passenger seat regarding him for a moment then throwing him a lazy wave. Hartman raised a hand in acknowledgment and continued, taking a right at the corner, heading back along the broad Soviet-style avenue towards the Kremlin, passing darkened shopfronts where travel agents and computer showrooms now occupied buildings that had lain derelict a decade before, stepping through the waves of light and music that pulsed across the pavement from the doorways of the clubs and bars.

When he found the lane on the second pass he slipped into it and carried on a hundred meters until he came to what he was looking for.

The massive wooden gates filled an opening between the rear of a bakery and an old stone building that looked as though it may once have been a stable. The green paint that coated them was cracked and peeling, showered in the dull glow of a single overhead security light and daubed with a white number above a crude intercom. Hartman checked the number, pressed the buzzer and waited. A moment passed before he heard the sound of footsteps, then he felt the timber vibrate as a heavy iron latch scraped back in its mounting and the gates began to swing slowly inwards.

As their arc widened Hartman saw the form of a black Mercedes saloon, crouching low to the cobbled surface of the yard inside, facing out to the street, then Vari appeared on the right and came forward to greet him, leaving a second figure behind in the shadows. He stepped around the vehicle and tossed a nod across his shoulder.

“This should do, I think.”

Hartman’s eyes drifted from Vari to the Mercedes, appraising it. Taking in the black tinted glass, the widened alloy wheels, the low-profile tires. What he saw was enough.

“It should.” His eyes tracked back. “How about the driver. As good as the car?”

Vari cocked his head to the side and the figure behind him stepped forward from the darkness. “His name is Roman. He used to drive for Yeltsin before that became too boring.”

Hartman turned towards the second man. Early thirties, he guessed. Middling height. Black trousers, gray shirt, expensive black leather jacket and shoes. Lean but muscular with razor-cut blond hair and features to match. A face of tempered steel. Their eyes met and a silent acknowledgment passed between them. It occurred to Hartman that the car and driver seemed a perfect match. He wondered where Vari had found them but knew better than to ask. He touched the Russian’s elbow and steered him aside, speaking English, in a low voice.

“You’re certain you can trust him?”

The look he received made the question redundant. Hartman pulled a breath, nodded. “Passports?”

Vari dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out two small red booklets.

“It was a rush job so they’re not perfect.” He flicked them open to the photo pages. “The picture of Niko is genuine; I found it in the office files. The woman…” he studied the second image and grimaced, uncertain. “She was the best we could do. My cobbler has a photo archive. I had to pick the closest I could.” Hartman took the passports and examined them in the shallow light while Vari produced a folded paper. “A travel document for the little girl.” He handed it to Hartman. “These shoes will fit them well enough for Ukraine and Turkey but beyond that,” he grimaced again, shrugged, “I’m not so sure.”

Hartman slipped the passports and folded paper into his jacket pocket. “That’s okay. I can handle it from there. How about the money. Enough?”

“Enough. I could give you change,” Vari he tipped his head towards the waiting driver, “but I thought it might be a good investment to hold some back as a performance bonus.”

Hartman gave a tight nod. Switched subject. “How much does he know?”

Vari shrugged. “As little as he needs to. Address. Number of passengers. Destination.”

The answer passed. “He’s armed?”

The Russian blinked slowly. “What do you think?”

Hartman turned back. Raised his arm and tipped his watch to the light.

Three forty-five.

He drew a breath. “Time to go.”

Vari hesitated, pursed his lips.

“You know, we Russians have an old saying.
A wolf won’t eat wolf
.” He watched as Hartman worked the meaning. “You and I might come from different packs but beneath our differences we’re both still wolves.” He raised a hand, looked at it a moment and then thrust it towards the American. “Whatever happens, remember that.”

Hartman took his grasp and their eyes met. The Russian stared back at him for a long moment then looked aside to the waiting driver and looped a finger in the air. The blond man gave an expressionless nod, slipped into the driver’s seat and flipped the ignition, bringing the Mercedes’ engine to life with a menacing low rumble.

Hartman fell into the front passenger seat, drew the heavy door closed behind him and glanced across at the driver.

“You know where we’re going?”

The man beside him nodded once at the windshield and slipped the Mercedes into gear.

“Okay,” Hartman breathed, “then let’s go there.” The headlights flared to life and the black sedan crept forward into the lane. Hartman shifted in his seat and cast a glance behind him, catching a last glimpse of Vari standing in the open gateway, his thick shoulders squared, hands hanging loosely at his side, one open, the other closed, a cell phone locked in its grasp. As he turned away he lifted the phone, his downcast profile suddenly washed with a dull flare of pale blue light.