Disposable Asset Read online

  She was gazing off into space, as if reading tea leaves only she could see. Suddenly, her head turned, and for an instant her eyes met Cassie’s. ‘If you ask me,’ she said, ‘this is why your Blakely was a hero. Because an outside enemy can always be fought. But once the rot takes hold inside …’ Quickly, she looked away. ‘Feh. Listen to me go. “For the love of God,” Ivan used to say, “a true lady knows when to shut up and look pretty.” Well; you can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Cassie said nothing.

  ‘Anyway. We’ve got to finish our sweeping. And fix that lock; they busted it. And I was thinking: if you could stay a bit longer, I could find other ways to take advantage of that strong young back. There’s an outdoor market every weekend, you know. Once upon a time, my handiwork was in great demand. Now, you see, the kilim just pile up. Think about it. But first, give me a hand. These dishes aren’t going to clean themselves.’

  MOIKA RIVER EMBANKMENT

  Inspektor Vlasov clawed for his phone. ‘Vlasov.’

  ‘Inspektor.’ A moment of disorientation; then he identified the voice as belonging to the American, Ravensdale. ‘I’m in Petersburg. Come meet me at the US consulate. Kak mazho ckopee.’ ASAP.

  A flare of anger – was Vlasov now at the man’s beck and call? But the connection was already dead.

  He pulled a hand down his face, levered off the camp bed. A quick toilette and he was on his way, making an excuse to Bordachenko (an ‘intriguing lead’) and boarding a marshrutka, a shared taxi, heading east alongside the sleeping ice-covered River Neva.

  Wan daylight illumined vast facades of gray stone interspersed with peach and lime. To the south-east, the dome and bell tower of Transfiguration Cathedral peeked sparkling above slanted rooftops. Truth be told, thought Vlasov as he rode, the city was far more enchanting than Moscow. Founder Peter the Great, the most far-seeing of czars, had not been afraid to leave behind the cold dark medieval ways accepted by most Russians as their due, to embrace Europe and move unencumbered into the future.

  Inspektor Piotr Vlasov shared with his namesake this Eurocentric inclination. Like so many others, he had grown up a victim of the gray Soviet malaise – he was old enough to remember hoarding cheap brown soap, standing in line for hours just to get some rough toilet paper, staying up late listening to short-wave radios, hoping to hear on the BBC or Radio Liberty a snatch of a Beatles tune (‘the belch of Western culture,’ according to the Ministry of Propaganda). But when all this was finished, when the girl had been recaptured and the numbered account unlocked, Vlasov would move west and never look back. The French Riviera. He had visited once and fallen in love. There he could grow happily fat and old, indulging in fine food and expensive clothing and soft beds and rare tobaccos and high-stakes gambling and pretty women. The days would be warm and mellow, the nights long and sultry.

  Midday traffic was heavy; the four-kilometer trip from the Moika took half an hour. At last the marshrutka turned on to embassy-rich Furshtatskaya Ulitsa. The American consulate was four stories, with a priapic American flag thrusting between ornate balconies above a tidy courtyard, and a Marine guard out front wearing crisp dress blue.

  After submitting to a search, Vlasov accepted a badge and followed an escort into an elevator. The hallway into which they emerged was thickly carpeted, lined with doors, heavy with silence. They walked past flower arrangements and US Great Seals and furled American flags. They entered a conference room that was cleaner than the Sledkom war room and sleeker. A large monitor was mounted on one wall, at a right angle to a picture window overlooking a balcony. A row of clocks hung opposite, displaying the time in Tokyo, Paris, Stockholm, Beijing, Madrid, and Washington DC.

  Sitting beside Ravensdale at a burnished walnut table was another American – sandy widow’s peak, boyishly cleft chin, manicured fingernails. After a moment Vlasov placed him as Andrew Fletcher, the former chief of the CIA’s Moscow Station. Fletcher gave the impression of having just come from an afternoon at a yacht club. He had never hoarded cheap brown soap, thought Vlasov, nor stood in line waiting for toilet paper.

  ‘Close the door, Inspektor, have a seat. Thank you for coming so quickly. Julian Quinn; Senior Inspektor Piotr Vlasov, of the Investigative Committee. Inspektor Vlasov; Julian Quinn – a trusted associate from home.’

  Vlasov shook the man’s hand, said nothing about the alias. The palm was silky. The man smelled lightly of sandalwood and rose water.

  ‘Inspektor Vlasov,’ Ravensdale told the man he called Quinn, ‘is our contact within Pieter Sledkom. He has the influence to get things done.’

  They sat. Ravensdale took a moment to get his thoughts in order. He pulled an ashtray close, lit a cigarette. ‘We have reason to believe,’ he said then, deliberately, ‘that should Mister Quinn’s presence in Pieter become known, our quarry might find the prospect of … making contact … irresistible.’

  Vlasov said nothing.

  ‘And so it would behoove us, once we’ve put appropriate measures into place, to make certain that his presence does become known. Also to broadcast that, after arriving as a special ambassador, he will not remain safely inside the consulate. Quite the opposite: he’ll move regularly between quarters here and Sledkom HQ, where he’ll lend a personal hand with your investigation. An unprecedented gesture of cooperation and goodwill between our two great nations. Of course, this means lifting the embargo on news of her escape.’

  ‘Za druzhbu myezhdu narodami,’ said Fletcher dryly. To friendship between nations.

  Vlasov chewed on the inside of his cheek. ‘The Kremlin will never sanction it.’

  ‘Let me handle the Kremlin. Can you get Bordachenko on board?’

  ‘And how, may I ask, will you “handle” the Kremlin?’

  ‘I have a friend.’

  Both Fletcher and Vlasov looked at Ravensdale, who casually spat out a wayward flake of tobacco.

  ‘Listen. We want her. You want her. Bordachenko wants her. This is how we are going to get her. A well-publicized convoy moving between here and Sledkom, twice a day – morning and night – until she takes the bait. Undercover agents and snipers all along the route. But we’re out of our home territory, Inspektor. The lion’s share of the manpower will need to come from you.’

  ‘From Pieter Sledkom, you mean.’

  ‘That is what I mean. So I ask again: if I handle the Kremlin, can you handle Bordachenko?’

  Several moments passed. The Inspektor slowly nodded. ‘Not without promise,’ he concluded. ‘I can try.’

  VYBORG

  Nikolai lay awake, picturing the box of Kosmostars sitting on the cereal shelf in the darkened kitchen.

  He shifted uneasily in his bed. His lips worked soundlessly. Tears stood in his eyes.

  He must not take the cereal. He must not take the cereal. He must not take the cereal.

  He left the bed and went into the kitchen. Tongue creeping from one corner of his mouth, he dragged the step stool to the light switch. He switched on the overhead, then spent a moment pondering. Behind him, illumination spilled into the living room. Mama was still SLEEPING IT OFF.

  Towing the stool across the floor again, he climbed to the cereal shelf. Scared, guilty, but most of all hungry, he took down the box of Kosmostars. Just one handful – and nobody need ever know—

  But the cereal proved too delicious, his hunger too great. Standing on the stool, he wolfed down one handful after another. Only when the box was empty did he look around, shamefacedly, at the scattered fallen pieces on the floor testifying to his transgression.

  He replaced the box, got down on hands and knees, and ate cereal off the linoleum. Then he took his juice cup from the refrigerator and drained it.

  But he was still hungry.

  His mind turned to the chocolate-that-was-not-chocolate. Bad enough, though, that he had eaten the cereal without permission. Eating the candy would just compound the damage. Only if he ate some supper, some real supper, something that would make him grow big and stron
g, would Mama not be angry when she woke up.

  After shooting an aching glance toward the living room, he climbed back on to the stool. In a cabinet he found a cardboard box of noodles. Tongue poking again from the corner of his mouth, he tried to recall exactly how Mama did this. She put the noodles in a pot, added water, and put the pot on the stove. Turned on the burner. Told Nikolai to play a little longer until supper was done. Then the noodles were ready. She poured them into a sieve, draining the water. She dumped them on to a plate and then put butter and salt on top.

  Simple enough.

  He found a pot beneath the sink, tipped the box into it, added water, set it on the burner. Found the knob and twisted. A tick-tick-tick came from the stove. So far, so good.

  He went back to the refrigerator and took out the butter. Then he found the salt and set both on to the ledge by the sink. After some searching, he found the sieve and set it beside the salt and butter. He spent a moment looking at his handiwork and then nodded, satisfied.

  Now he had only to wait.

  He went into the living room, avoiding looking toward both his mother and the chocolate-that-was-not-chocolate. Usually, he played with his toys while supper was cooking. It would be best, he thought, to do everything just the way he usually did. He assembled his stuffed animals and toy rocket ship. Everybody went to the moon, and while they were there some aliens landed. The aliens were bad guys who shot lasers. In the end, piglet snuck up behind them and bit one on the leg, scaring the aliens back into their flying saucer. The good guys won. Everybody was happy. They had a party to celebrate, with lots of cake and soda.

  Supper should be done by now.

  He returned to the kitchen, very proud of himself now for what he was doing – the biggest-boy thing yet, in a life ever more filled with big-boy things. But as soon as he approached the stove, he knew that something had gone wrong.

  Nothing obvious. But there was that tick-tick-tick, coming from the stove, which didn’t happen when Mama was cooking. And there was no fire beneath the burner. There was also a weird smell in the air, like old eggs, or farts.

  He climbed on to the stool and looked inside the pot. The noodles looked just exactly the same. They had not cooked at all.

  His lip began to tremble again. He had failed, and now he would start to bawl, just like a baby. He would cry and cry and never be able to stop. And Mama would never get better. And Sasha would never come back, and nothing would ever be the way it used to be, and it would be all his fault—

  He bit his lip, hard.

  After a moment he climbed down from the step stool. He left the kitchen, with the burner still going tick-tick-tick.

  He walked to the front door, reached for the knob.

  The night wind waiting on the other side was fresh and cool. Only once it had come in and run around the house, stirring things up, did Nikolai realize how extremely funny the cottage had come to smell. There were rotten garbage smells, like yucky spoiled hot dogs. There was the old eggs smell coming from the stove. And beneath it all was another smell, sort of like the smell of the beach during summer, when the temperature got up high and the seaweed began to decay; salty smells, meaty smells, sick smells. And were they coming from Mama’s direction? Yes. Because she was very sick, he thought, very very sick, indeed.

  Standing in the doorway he looked down the hill, at Mister Rawicz’s house.

  He could make it there, he thought. If he put his mind to it, he could. Farther than he was allowed to go by himself, yes, but not farther than he could go. If he pretended he was a soldier or a secret agent or a spaceman on a mission of vital importance, he could be brave and fleet and strong, and he could make it without getting lost or getting in trouble. He knew he could.

  But Mister Rawicz was JEWISH. He looked harmless enough, it was true, with his bulbous nose and his rubbery ears and his halo of white hair. And he seemed kind enough. Once he’d given Nikolai a gingerbread cookie dusted with cinnamon. But he was not to be trusted. Nikolai didn’t know just what JEWISH meant, but he knew it wasn’t good.

  At length, he nodded slightly to himself. Mama would wake up, he thought as he shut the door again. Either that or Sasha would come back. One way or another, everything would be all right. Delivering himself to Mister Rawicz was a risk not worth taking.

  He walked to the kitchen – tick-tick-tick went the burner – and switched off the overhead light. He used the potty, then crawled back into bed. Then he did cry, staring at the dimly fluorescent green Sputnik hanging from the ceiling, until at last his wet eyes closed, lashes sticky from tears, and he coasted down a greased rail of exhaustion, into darkness.

  SOUTH OF NEVSKY

  Mariya’s reedy snoring drowned out the soft gabbling of the radio; the news came through only during the brief pause following each inhalation and exhalation.

  The Sports Ministry was protesting a proposed audit on … zzzZZZZzzz … ending a postal industry subsidy for newspaper and … zzZZZZZzzz … Old New Year’s being celebrated across Russia with intimate gatherings before the solemnity of Lent … zzZZZZZzz …

  Cassie felt very close to safe.

  They had already come and searched. Finding nothing, they would not be back. So long as she stayed here in Mariya’s cottage, where old but not unpleasant cooking smells always lurked in corners, where the snores of an elderly woman spoke of a dependable barrier between herself and the outside world, she had little to fear.

  … zZZZZZzzz …

  Of course, she must manufacture an excuse not to visit the outdoor market, which would be all too public. But that should not be difficult. The old woman already suspected the truth – that quick shrewd glimpse when the subject of Blakely had come up confirmed it – and would not push too hard.

  … zzzZZZZZZzzzz …

  A vision pressed itself upon Cassie with sudden clarity: making coffee in the morning as Masha slept. Then the cottage would smell fresh and sharp and wide awake, and in some minor and inoffensive way her claim to the territory would be staked as the coffee-smell mingled in the corners and curtains with the old cooking smells. And somewhere farther down the line would come other smells, medicinal smells. Tinctures and baby powder. Rattling pill bottles, warm dry calloused hands. When the old woman ailed, Cassie would find at last the chance to repay some of her kindnesses …

  A nice fantasy. Yet no different, at root, than the fantasies she’d once entertained of going Christmas shopping in the mall with some faceless boyfriend. Fantasies, she thought, were just another form of denial. In the real world, everything she ever cared for slipped right through her fingers.

  … zzzZZZZzzzz …

  The cause of an airplane crash in Japan had yet to be … zzZZZZzzzz … tainted chicken was spreading salmonella across … zzzZZZzzzz … a special envoy from the United States had arrived at the American consulate to assist with the continuing … zzzZZzzz …

  Then a familiar voice piped through the old radio. All at once Cassie was sitting up in bed: struggling to breathe, heart threatening to burst through the shallow wall of her chest.

  ‘My presence in Russia,’ Julian Quinn was saying, ‘acts as a symbol of the importance we attach to US/Russian ties and indicates the commitment of the United States to preserving the bond of trust and—’ … zzZZZZzzz …

  Quinn.

  In Saint Petersburg.

  Now.

  FURSHTATSKAYA ULITSA

  The wall-mounted monitor came to life, displaying a satellite map of Petersburg, zooming in on a top-down view of the building they currently occupied.

  ‘In just a few hours,’ said Ravensdale, ‘Mister Quinn will step out through the front door and into a waiting limousine: a reinforced ZIL-4112R from the embassy fleet, which can withstand anything up to and including an RPG attack. An official pilot car will precede the vehicle. A rear guard will follow. But we can’t make the motorcade too daunting. We must supply the illusion of accessibility. Additional escort vehicles must remain undercover. Ideally, four at
all times – two in front, two in back, each carrying a driver and two agents.’

  Bordachenko nodded. ‘I’ve spoken with the ispravnik. You will want for nothing.’

  Vlasov let a wisp of smoke trail from his nose. ‘Will he wear a vest?’

  ‘He will. But that’s cold comfort against a head shot. And so we should, if possible, prevent her from getting close enough to shoot. In fact, we assume her access to materiel will be strictly limited. But—’ with a sidelong glance at his compatriot – ‘she does have the capability to improvise. We must therefore take every precaution.’ He worked the remote. The image on-screen zipped closer to the courtyard. ‘She may well be tempted to make the attempt as he gets into the car. But here she has no clear route of escape; only Furshtatskaya itself. Too many guards, too many guns. Still …’ The image zigged. ‘I’d like to see shooters posted along Chaykovskogo.’ The image zagged. ‘And Kirochnaya. Far enough away that she won’t spot them, but close enough that they can take the shot if necessary.’

  Bordachenko and Vlasov traded a look. The former nodded.

  ‘The car will travel west, three hundred meters down Furshtatskaya, before turning south on to Liteynyy Avenue. Then west on to Ulitsa Pestelya, and across Fontanka Canal. As they cross the bridge, we’ve got Summer Garden to the north and Saint Michael’s to the south – favorite tourist destinations. The combination of crowds and ready access to escape routes, at the confluence of the Moika with the Fontanka, make it a likely spot.’