Disposable Asset Read online

  After a few seconds, Ravensdale nodded. Fletcher pushed back, scraping his chair across the floor. Moments later they stepped together out into the cold night, side by side like two old friends.

  TWO

  20,000 FEET OVER THE ATLANTIC

  Beneath the Gulfstream’s window, mountains gilded with moonlight had fallen away; criss-crossing skeins of electric light had followed, and ever since there had been only limitless black.

  The plane pitched violently, sending the lone steward grabbing for a seat-back. Ravensdale sat up straighter, wiping at his face. Beside him, Andrew Fletcher displayed a reassuring smile, touched with contempt. Behind gleaming lenses his eyes looked bright and artificial, like the glass eyes of a toy. ‘Try to rest,’ he said.

  Another gust of wind rocked the jet; Ravensdale’s stomach gave a queasy answering roll. He took solid hold of his armrest. The turbines hummed. The rocking of the plane settled. Eventually, Ravensdale’s stomach settled too.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured Dmitri waking up in the morning to find himself consigned indefinitely to Tess Mackinnon’s care. The boy, he told himself, would be OK. Dima had proven adaptive. He took that from his mother. Ravensdale himself was a creature of habit, preferring careful planning and known quantities to sudden unexpected detours.

  Setting his jaw, he tried to rest.

  Sheremetyevo-2 was crawling with soldiers.

  After landing on a secondary runway, the Gulfstream taxied into a small hanger. There they sat for almost half an hour. Fletcher peered out his window, awaiting a signal. At last he caught the eye of the steward, nodded, and quickly stood.

  A black Mercedes with tinted windows of bulletproof polycarbonate had pulled up beside the plane. They left the airport via a rear gate, waved through by an official who pointedly looked away. Once Sheremetyevo was receding behind them, Ravensdale dialed a number from memory. He was placed on hold. Several minutes passed. Then the voice returned and told him the request had been granted; his personal visit was expected within the hour.

  They proceeded to follow a serpentine surveillance evasion route around Moscow. The familiar sights gave Ravensdale a queer sensation of doubling, as if the old him and new him sat side by side in the rear of the car. They passed Three Stations, where Kazan’s seventy-meter spired tower rose into the cloudy afternoon, and the Manege, where Tolstoy had taken his first riding lessons. Krymsky Bridge spanned a backdrop of Gothic-Stalinist monoliths. Outside Gorky Park, the elaborately carved two-tiered carousel spun lazily. The Moskva River looked more polluted than ever, clogged with a swill of trash and filth.

  They stopped at a liquor store: God have mercy on the visitor in Russia who showed up empty-handed. Then they headed toward Serebryany Bor – the silver forest – one of the most distinguished addresses in all of Moscow. Here, within easy range of the city’s center, on a tiny island covered with towering silver pines, lived the elite: oligarchs, entrepreneurs, rock stars, top-ranking FSB operatives, nomenklatura who had been senior members of the Party system, and pre-eminent mafiya like Otari Tsoi.

  Nearing the bridge that crossed on to the island, the Mercedes pulled on to a rocky shoulder. Parked just ahead was a silver Jeep Commander. Fletcher handed Ravensdale a single glittering key. ‘Good luck.’

  Ravensdale nodded.

  ‘I’m at the Marriott. In the lobby every day at noon and midnight.’ His voice turned low, insinuating. ‘Remember: whatever it takes.’

  At the guard booth by the bridge, Ravensdale was waved from behind the wheel.

  His wallet was taken, flipped through, and returned. His phone was confiscated. Invasive hands explored his shoes and cigarettes, poked up beneath the collar of the oxford shirt he’d donned at Fletcher’s insistence inside the Gulfstream. ‘Izvinitye,’ said one guard insincerely as Ravensdale was jabbed and nudged: Forgive me.

  Only after the guards had sampled the cognac was he allowed to keep the bottle. Back inside the Jeep, he drove a few hundred meters more before reaching a familiar gate. The grand old mansion at the end of the private driveway had twin machine-gunner nests mounted above a lopsided facade. Inside, Ravensdale followed a bodyguard down a corridor of Art Nouveau architecture, past a library, an enviable collection of original art, and a glassed-in display case featuring Uzbek daggers, Red Army bayonets, and kinjal, the ceremonial dagger of the Caucasus. More bodyguards – ‘flat tops’, as they were known, with their severe crew-cuts – lurked in corners and doorways, arms folded before broad chests.

  He was shown into a lavishly appointed sitting room, and there sat Otari Tsoi himself, reclining on a leather couch with his arm around a willowy girl of perhaps seventeen. Tsoi’s close-cropped hair was still black, his jaw still leaden, his olive skin still pocked with acne scars. His thick neck, visible beneath the open collar of a poplin shirt, was still intricately tattooed with colorful skeletons, serpents, knives and angels. This man was one of the siniye, the tattoos announced: the blues, the old guard of the Vorovskoi Mir, Thieves’ World.

  At Ravensdale’s entrance, Tsoi stood – short, stocky, powerfully built – and delivered a crushing bear hug. ‘Elena,’ he told the girl, leaving one massive hand on Ravensdale’s elbow. ‘This is an honor you do not deserve. Meet James Bond. The real-life version, I admit, is not quite so dazzling as the one from the movies. But believe me, this is as close as we are ever going to get.’

  The girl disarmed Ravensdale by standing, delivering a shy, girlish curtsy, and batting glitter-coated eyelids.

  ‘You see the disappointment on her face? She expected Daniel Craig.’ Tsoi’s chuckle was lightly self-deprecatory, as if he considered himself the true brunt of the joke. ‘Darling, go brush your hair or something. Let the men talk.’

  Accepting the bottle from Ravensdale, he inspected the label with satisfaction. At a bar in the corner, he poured two glasses of the strong cognac called tutovka. Handing one over, he fell back into the couch and removed from a breast pocket a tin of khat leaves, fitting a pinch of the leathery green root between cheek and gum.

  As Ravensdale found his own seat facing Tsoi’s, his gaze lingered for a moment on the large window opening on to the backyard. Beyond tall silver pines, a gentle grade sloped down to a patch of scrubby snow-covered beach. He remembered that beach: the crunch of a shovel biting into rocky sand, the grunt of flat tops lifting a body, the spray from the river, the sweet hint of brandy on Tsoi’s breath. In the far distance, Moscow’s skyscrapers shone like dusky jewels.

  ‘You look well,’ said Tsoi, in a tone which suggested otherwise.

  Ravensdale grinned and sipped his cognac, which ran down his throat with a pleasant sting. ‘It’s good to see you, my friend. But I think that I owe you an apology.’

  ‘You left me with my dick hanging out, yes. But I managed to zip up fast. Only cut myself a little.’

  ‘It was Carlson. He gave me no warning … Well, you must have heard the story.’

  Tsoi lifted his chin inquiringly: Enlighten me.

  ‘Turns out the Bureau’s man in Sicily was working both sides. Carlson panicked, called everybody off the field. That included Force Multiplication. Direct violation of orders for me to stay without him, he said … which turned out to be true.’

  With surprising delicacy, Tsoi picked a flake of khat root from his tongue. His scarred face gave away nothing. He examined the flake on his fingertip critically. ‘You couldn’t get me a message?’

  ‘Carlson,’ said Ravensdale shortly.

  ‘I didn’t realize the man had such power over you. I’d assumed you were equals.’ Tsoi scanned, to make sure the insult had registered, and then smiled. ‘But that page has turned. I forgive you, tovarish. It’s good to see your ugly face again, and that’s the truth.’ He flicked away the khat root. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? Something to do, perchance, with a certain armed assault early this morning?’

  ‘You see through me. As always.’ From an onyx cigarette case on the end-table, Ravensdale helped himself to
a Sobranie. ‘So you know what I need.’

  Tsoi snickered. ‘You’ve got balls. I’ll give you that.’

  ‘I’ll make it worth your trouble.’

  ‘Look around. Do I need your money?’

  ‘A pound of flesh, then.’ Ravensdale struck a match. ‘Or a head on a platter.’

  Intrigued, Tsoi frowned. Ravensdale could guess his line of thought. The man’s network of connections, svyazi, reached from the storied corridors of the Kremlin to the underground gambling dens of the local gangs, the shpana. He kept on his payroll chiefs of police, commanders of the OMON paramilitary strike force, and deputy directors of the FSB. But connections went both ways, and with so many allegiances came complications. There were always flies in the ointment, and always loyalties which made removing said flies untenable. During their long acquaintance, ‘pest control’ had been one of the services provided by Ravensdale. In exchange, Tsoi had handed over an equal number of smugglers of raw fissile material.

  ‘Tempting,’ allowed Tsoi after a moment. ‘Anybody?’

  ‘Anybody.’

  ‘But you’re asking for a lot. How about five anybodies?’

  Ravensdale puffed his cigarette and shrugged.

  Again, Tsoi chuckled. ‘You’re crazier than ever, my friend.’

  Ravensdale only feathered smoke from his nostrils.

  ‘Tempting,’ the man repeated. ‘But be careful what you promise. I’ll take you at your word. There’s a fellow from the German BND who’s been giving me headaches. And another from the French DGSE. And another from Mossad, and an MI6 agent who robs me of my sleep.’

  Ravensdale kept his face blank.

  ‘Now, see: that makes me suspicious. A German … of course, you’ll throw him to the wolves with pleasure. A Frenchman … with a show of reluctance, but ultimately, oui. But a Brit? An Israeli? These are your kin. Your brothers.’

  ‘This takes priority.’

  ‘Last time, you disappeared on me in the middle of the night. Didn’t even say goodbye. Created some problems.’

  ‘Don’t you believe in second chances?’

  ‘Tempting,’ said Tsoi again. ‘Tempting. Tempting.’ For a final moment, he deliberated. Then a smile lit his face, turning the acne scars upward, baring unnaturally white false teeth – the real ones had been lost to scurvy in prison. He raised his snifter in a toast. ‘To old friendships,’ he said brightly, ‘given new life.’

  Together, they drank off their glasses.

  SERGIEV POSAD, NORTH-EAST OF MOSCOW

  A sign of pearled neon advertised a bar called Russky Dvorak.

  She walked in with chin held high, lifting the first purse she passed. Inside the bathroom she went through lipstick, mascara, hairbrush, henna, cigarettes and lighter, cell phone, credit cards, and several thousand rubles in cash. With the henna, she could even change the color of her hair – but it would take time. For now, she made do with a quick spit-and-polish using the make-up and hairbrush. Pocketing the dye, lighter, and cash, she slipped the rest back into the purse, and the purse itself into a garbage receptacle.

  Outside, the temperature was dropping. Nevertheless, the streets remained crowded – the town of Sergiev Posad, a prime destination in the Golden Ring surrounding Moscow, was flypaper for tourists – and finding an unattended car proved impossible. She wandered packed narrow avenues, past souvenir stalls, curio and coffee shops, bars and restaurants, boutique clothing stores, museums and fast food joints. Beyond low rooftops, a glimpse of a more ancient Russia loomed: the Cathedral of the Assumption, larger than its inspiration and namesake in the Moscow Kremlin, thrusting six ornate pillars topped with onion domes into the pastel smear of the setting sun.

  When the wind gusted, she shivered. The cold was intensifying … and the ranks of police were growing ever thicker. If she couldn’t get off the streets soon, she’d be sunk. But a single girl checking alone into a hotel would be all too conspicuous, and the railroads were crawling with politsiya.

  A pair of soldiers holding tablets paced slowly up the opposite side of the avenue. Cassie developed a sudden interest in a curio shop she was passing. One hand moved to her mouth, so she could gnaw on a fingernail. Behind sunset-honeyed glass glinted carved dymkovo toys, clay hussars, wooden eggs, lacquer boxes, Crimean lamps, silver snuffboxes, and antique specimens of kovsh, a drinking vessel with a boat-shaped body and a single handle, and korob, the small wooden chest used to hold a peasant girl’s dowry. Her weary eyes lingered on a matryoshka doll, representing a tiny girl with tapered lashes, bee-stung lips, and a brightly-flowered scarf.

  Otkuda vy? the girl inside the dacha had asked. Where are you from?

  Nichevó stráshnovo. Never mind. I’m an angel. Go back to sleep, honey.

  In the glass, she watched the hazy reflection of the soldiers pass behind her.

  She moved again. Ten minutes later she found a free stool at a tavern four blocks from Russky Dvorak. At the far end of the bar sat a man in his middle years, blond and well-fed, handsome but dull. His eyes had the hungry, searching quality of a soldier’s whose R&R was almost up. A pale band on his left hand testified to a recently removed wedding ring.

  Ordering a glass of Zauberman, she waited to be approached. Looking her best, she could hardly take two steps without fighting off some misguided Lothario. At the moment, however, she apparently looked far from at her best. She kept waiting. When her wine arrived, she took a dainty sip. Her stomach growled a warning. Olives sat in a bowl; she ate two, chewing carefully. As she warmed up, she unzipped the parka. Another sip, and she pushed the glass reluctantly away. Had to keep sharp.

  At last the man slipped off his stool. Moments later he was beside her, smiling. ‘American?’ he asked in English.

  She affected wariness. ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘Sixth sense, I guess.’ He offered a hand. ‘Owen Holt.’

  Guardedly, she shook. ‘Heidi.’

  ‘Where you from, Heidi?’

  ‘Connecticut. You?’

  ‘Tampa. We’re both a long way from home.’ Sliding on to a stool beside her, he caught the bartender’s eye and pointed at her glass. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘My thesis.’ She leaned slightly away. With pro forma politeness: ‘You?’

  ‘Business. Leaving tomorrow, actually. I was supposed to stay another week, but with this travel advisory … The head honcho thinks it might be safer back stateside.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m a little nervous myself.’

  ‘We’ll be OK if we stick together. Where you staying?’

  ‘Youth hostel.’

  ‘Is that safe?’

  ‘When I was with my friends, sure. But they went on to Penza yesterday. I stayed behind, to visit a few more museums … but now, with them gone … I’m wondering.’

  ‘Like I said: we’ve got to stick together.’ He leaned closer, peering at her temple. ‘Looks like you’ve already got scuffed up a bit.’

  ‘Low ceiling.’ She laughed. ‘Vodka. Bad combination.’

  The bartender set another glass of wine on the bar. Owen Holt leaned back, gesturing for the check. ‘How about after this round,’ he said, ‘we find something to eat? My treat. Drink up.’

  Afterward, she lay looking up at slats of light on the ceiling, listening to his labored breathing.

  Eventually, she left the bed, slipping into the bathroom. The hotel’s modest amenities – single-serving shampoo and lotion, saran-wrapped toothbrushes, cardboard-covered drinking glasses – struck her, after just a day on the street, as outrageously decadent.

  She showered leisurely – the quick rinse before hitting the sheets had taken off only the surface layer of grime – and then, beneath gentle recessed lighting, conducted a thorough examination of her poor, battered body. The left side of her ribcage was mottled with bruises. The ribs themselves stood out clearly. The abrasion on her left temple had become an angry red welt. The right temple was not so bad.

  Toweling off, she climbed back into be
d, naked. Owen Holt stirred sleepily. ‘Hey, you.’

  She smiled. ‘Hey.’

  ‘You smell good.’

  He reached for her again. She did not resist.

  When it was done, he was back asleep within three minutes. She lay awake, staring at the slatted light on the ceiling.

  Now what?

  No easy answer presented itself. Her plans had gone only as far as completing her mission and then meeting her contact, whom she’d believed would provide safe extraction.

  Beside her, Owen Holt emitted a stertorous grunt, followed by a muffled fart. He rolled away, revealing a bald spot on the crown of his head.

  Maybe she could glom on to this man, talk him into delaying his return to the States. A couple traveling together would be less noticeable than a young woman traveling alone. And every kilometer she gained from Moscow would increase her chances. But sooner or later she would need to cross a border or board an airplane, and when it came to navigating an international line, Owen Holt would be of no appreciable use.

  Maybe she was going about this wrong. She might just hunker down, avoid borders, and lay low. But then, of course, she would never get back to Quinn.

  Her heart thumped. Quinn. He had tricked her – dangled the lure, made her jump, and then stabbed her in the back—

  She breathed. When the emotion served a purpose, she would give it free rein. Until then, it would only work against her.

  With or without Owen Holt, she realized, her chances were not good.

  She had no documents, no tickets, no identification. A reasonable likeness of her face was splashed across the media. Worse, they might have recovered her scent from the knit cap she had lost. There might be dogs to contend with. Trying to pass through an airport would be asking for serious trouble.