Disposable Asset Read online

  Ravensdale signaled assent with his cigarette, sending a wisp of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

  ‘She used grenades,’ Vlasov went on. ‘Explosives. A handgun. We have fragments and spent shells. We have the remains of the aircraft with which she made her incursion. But all trails lead nowhere: to the black market, and then to brick walls. Very neat. Clean margins.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘So we should forget about where she’s been, I imagine, and concentrate on where she’s going.’ The Inspektor peered into his cognac with hooded eyes. ‘Which would be …?’

  ‘Her last contact tried to kill her. She won’t trust another. Her face is in the newspapers. She knows we’re looking for her.’ Ravensdale shrugged. ‘Fight or flight. She’s running blind.’

  ‘We have confidence in our sketch. I dare say she will be found, in the end, with the active assistance of the citizenry. Muscovites are the most vigilant people on the planet.’

  Silence descended again, grew heavy. The clouds beyond the window skimmed across the moon, giving Ravensdale the sensation that he, too, was moving. At last Tsoi shifted in his seat. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I cannot forget my duties as host. Mister Ravensdale has traveled a long way. And the Inspektor is no doubt required at Bauman Street. If anything develops, we’ll pounce. Until then … we have food for thought.’

  The guest room was on the mansion’s second floor.

  The sheets were Egyptian cotton, the bathroom stocked with artisanal soaps and lotions. There were only two possible exits: the door, and a beveled window overlooking the front drive. With the heel of one hand, Ravensdale wiped a swath of condensation from the window. Flat tops were posted at regular intervals along the driveway. From above, he could make out the bulge of firearms beneath their overcoats.

  He washed his face with scalding water. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, massaging the bridge of his nose with two fingers. In America, eight hours behind, Dima would just be finishing his afternoon snack. With luck, Tess wasn’t letting the boy eat too much junk food. Dima could be damned persuasive when it came to securing junk food …

  An engine turned over outside. He moved to the window again, saw a ZIL-41047 limousine just pulling away. The Inspektor, it seemed, had dallied for a private word with Tsoi.

  After a long moment, he turned slowly back toward the bed. He was reaching for the oxford’s top button when a knock sounded at the door. ‘Come.’

  Tsoi smiled apologetically. ‘The room is to your liking?’

  ‘Perfect. Thank you.’

  ‘I was speaking with the Inspektor.’ Broodingly, Tsoi closed the door. ‘An interesting fact came to light. He recognizes you, he says, from his intelligence days.’

  Tiny hairs bristled on the nape of Ravensdale’s neck. It was possible. During his stint in Moscow, he and Carlson – and later he and Sofiya – had been shadowed around the clock by FSB operators. For the most part the surveillance teams had remained faceless, elusive figures behind sunglasses and trench coats. Vlasov might well have been among them.

  ‘He has seen your file. And he connected some dots for me. I knew that Sofiya Kirov had disappeared around the same time you went back to America. But somehow I hadn’t put two and two together.’

  They stood facing each other, motionless.

  ‘I’m not here to wag my finger.’ Tsoi’s blunt pockmarked face remained unconcerned, as if they discussed the weather. ‘From what I understand, you’ve paid a high enough price already for your choices. Drummed out of service, until this recent development necessitated your return … and worse, you didn’t even get to keep your prize. Is this so?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Ravensdale looked at the swath he had wiped clean on the window, now obscured again by fog. In that shape one could see a scythe, a wheel, a carousel. ‘What did the Inspektor say happened?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘A touching story. Two enemy agents, in a race to see who can develop the other first, fall in love. They tender their resignations and run back to America. For a time, it seems they’ll get away with it. Then, after a suitable period of waiting, the FSB decides to make an example, and … how do they say?… the lady vanishes.’

  Ravensdale nodded.

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘You saw it?’

  ‘Vlasov didn’t give you the gory details?’

  ‘He said they took her from a playground. Left your son crying in a sandbox. You were across town, getting the tires on your car rotated.’

  ‘Close enough,’ said Ravensdale tonelessly.

  Tsoi’s forehead crimped sympathetically. ‘You must have turned over every rock.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Except one.’ Before Ravensdale could reply, he continued: ‘I thought that we were friends, tovarish.’

  ‘We pretend. It greases the wheels.’

  ‘You should have come to me.’

  ‘If I’d thought you could help, I would have. But there are too many shallow graves in the world, Otari, for even you to find them all.’

  ‘Also, you feared I wouldn’t forgive past transgressions. Yes?’

  Ravensdale said nothing.

  Tsoi nodded grimly. ‘My friend: accept my most sincere condolences.’

  ‘Spasibo.’

  ‘But if we’re to work together now, there must be trust. And that requires complete honesty.’

  Ravensdale gave a gallows-humor grin. ‘Next time.’

  Tsoi sighed. Idly, he picked up a small decorative kovsh shaped like a dragon and ran a thoughtful finger along its porcelain length. He set it down again, flashed a surprisingly easy smile. ‘If you need anything during the night, knock on the door.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  On his way out, Tsoi paused and looked slyly back. ‘Not that I don’t trust you,’ he said. ‘But I should clarify: once the girl arrives here, she will not be released until your end of the bargain has been honored.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Pleasant dreams.’ Tsoi closed the door behind himself softly, with insulting politeness.

  Ravensdale sat again on the edge of the bed. After a while he undressed, crawled beneath a cashmere blanket, and switched out the light. He dreamed of dark wolves running through dense forest, past open graves and chain-wrapped corpses.

  SERGIEV POSAD

  She listened as Owen Holt moved around the room, as light on his feet as an elephant.

  Before opening the door he paused, as if reconsidering. She could still open her eyes, catch him in the act of leaving, and convince him to take her along. But an undependable man would be a liability, not an advantage; best to look elsewhere.

  The door opened and closed. She sat up slowly, looking around. Outside the window: full daylight. Holt had taken all of his personal effects … and not even left a note, the charmer.

  Quickly, she dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Inside the parka’s pockets she discovered the cash, lighter, and henna she had stolen at Russky Dvorak. From the minibar she scavenged a bottle of water, two packets of peanuts, and a bag of mushroom and sour cream potato chips – only in Russia.

  A maid’s cart was parked just down the hallway. Cassie turned the other way, forsaking the elevator – coming up the previous night, she had noticed a convex mirror which probably concealed a security camera – in favor of the stairs.

  Before stepping into the lobby she paused, gathering a sense of the room. Immediately to her right: the front desk and a series of inoffensive watercolors depicting the town’s history of woodworking. A clerk was checking in a tourist couple. Coming out of the elevator to her left: a drop-dead gorgeous brunette wearing three-inch heels, a king’s ransom of jewels, and a sorrowful expression. Two teenaged girls laughed loudly by the gift shop. Two soldiers stood near the revolving door. In the center of the lobby sat a bellboy on his luggage cart, looking lost. In a sunken vestibule by a grand piano, a man in an over
stuffed chair turned a page in a newspaper. From the cast of his torso, Cassie gathered that his attention was focused everywhere but on the paper he held. According to Quinn, signals sent by the body wall – the carriage of head and trunk – were primal, coming directly from the movements of the first vertebrates, the jawless fishes. As such, they were harder to control than higher-functioning cues involving fingers, hands, legs, and feet. This made them more trustworthy; or as Quinn had put it: The most honest gestures come from the torso, not the limbs and face.

  She exited the lobby through a side door, maintaining the greatest possible distance from the soldiers and undercover detective. The day was unexpectedly sunny, almost mild. In the turnaround before the hotel, another tourist – fortyish, perspiring, small pot-belly encased in a tight powder-blue sport shirt – was arguing with a valet. His hapless family milled nearby, trying to dissociate themselves.

  ‘But it certainly was not here last night.’ The man spoke British-accented English; even his annoyance sounded gracious. He was indicating a white scratch on a rear flank of a red Lada Samara hatchback. ‘I know that for a fact, because the rental agent and I walked around the car with a checklist.’

  ‘Then it must have happened,’ said the valet wearily, ‘as you drove. Not here, sir, I can assure you. Sergei is the very best we have. He has never once damaged—’

  ‘Let’s ask Sergei ourselves, shall we?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. His shift has ended.’

  ‘Then I will speak with your supervisor. I must insist.’

  The man’s wife – broad shoulders, fair curly hair – was sucking on the inside of her cheeks, broadcasting frustration and impatience. The kids, both in their early teens, had wandered off toward the end of the turnaround, concentrating on their phones. The hatch of the Samara stood open. One heavy piece of luggage had already been loaded, but two smaller suitcases awaited attention.

  In a fraction of an instant, the decision had been made. A few steps brought Cassie to the rear of the hatchback. She slipped inside, then reached out and picked up both small suitcases. Pressing herself flush against the cargo shelf, she covered herself.

  Then she lay flat, breathing shallowly, heart fluttering. If anyone had seen her, the consequences would come … now.

  She could hear the valet and the tourist still arguing, the first doggedly refusing to admit culpability for the scratch, the second refusing to accept the insistence of the first, demanding with increasing (yet still gracious) vehemence to speak with a supervisor. She could see close-up luggage tags (HARRIS; 384 WHITE STUBBS LANE, LONDON, ENGLAND) and smell the sharp pinched fragrance of a new car. Through cracks between suitcases, she could see fine blue lines crossing the rear windshield, and beyond them the pebbled ceiling of the turnaround’s roof.

  Ten minutes of stonewalling passed before good Mr Harris gave up. Then the suspension creaked with the weight of four additional bodies; the hatchback was slammed closed. The engine turned over, and the Samara lurched forward, on to the road.

  ‘I’ve half a mind to write a letter,’ muttered the husband.

  To which the wife rejoined, ‘Dear, it’s not worth it. Why not let it go?’

  To which the husband retorted, ‘Why can’t you ever take my side?’ In the back seat, the children poked each other and giggled. Beneath shifting luggage, Cassie tried to figure out which direction they were going. They had turned right out of the hotel – north, away from Moscow.

  As minutes passed, they retained the same bearing. The family settled into silence. The rollicking motion of tires across uneven roads was lulling, the sunshiny air warm. But she needed to remain alert, of course. At any moment could come a roadblock, a checkpoint, armed men, barking dogs …

  She would not sleep. But she could half-drowse, like a cat. Conserve energy, recharge her batteries … and when the moment came, she would be ready.

  COBBLER’S COVE: ONE YEAR EARLIER

  They moved out from the porch, past an armed guard and on to a snowy path.

  For a few minutes they walked without speaking, ice crunching softly beneath their feet. Beyond the woods, blue mountains rose into the dawning sky. As they walked, Cassie felt herself warming, but she kept her hands jammed into her pockets, her shoulders hunched, her body language closed.

  ‘This land,’ Quinn announced suddenly, ‘goes on about eight miles that way—’ he made a hatchet-blade with his hand and pointed straight ahead – ‘and about sixteen miles that way—’ he gestured to the left – ‘and it’s all raw wilderness: woods and creeks, and lakes and fields, and not a single house except for that one right there. There’s not this much unspoiled land left anywhere else in the whole state.’ He took out a pack of Merit Lights, lit one without offering to share, and French-inhaled the smoke.

  She looked around uneasily, into the glittering ice-caves of the woods. Cameras were hidden somewhere, she thought. This was some kind of reality show, something like that, and her every reaction was being filmed.

  He seemed to be waiting for acknowledgement. Warily, she nodded. ‘Bum a smoke?’ she ventured.

  ‘Absolutely not. What part of you’re in training do you not understand?’ He stepped carefully over a twisting branch. ‘You are very skilled,’ he continued conversationally, ‘at picking pockets, at stealing cars, at evading pursuit. The only major deficit in your skill set, so far as I can see, is the ability to take a life. Sound right?’

  She hooked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Make it through the day, and I’ll explain everything. Until then, don’t ask. Believe me: once you learn the whole story, you’ll be glad I found you.’

  ‘How long have you been watching me?’

  ‘End of the day.’ His tone brooked no argument. ‘Unless, of course, you want to call my bluff. Then we can take a ride, see a man about a judge.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘So. There are a very limited number of ways to take a man’s life. For our purposes, there are only seven: by vehicle, by fire, by explosive, by hand, by knife, by poison, and by gun. Each has advantages and disadvantages.’

  ‘You really think I’ll kill someone just to stay out of jail?’

  ‘Once you learn the whole story: gladly. And when it’s done, you’ll thank me for giving you the opportunity. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, please, pay attention. No target is going to stretch his throat out on a chopping block for your convenience. You’ll need to make your own opportunities. But if you’re patient, chances will present themselves. Sun Tzu: Options multiply as they are seized.’

  Again he paused, waiting, until she gave a short, tight nod.

  ‘Once you’ve considered options and consequences and decided to proceed, you will not hesitate. If you undertake the beginning of an action, you will see it through. Hesitation will ruin you. Whether you hesitate because of procedural reasons – doubting the consequences of your actions – or because of moral reasons, makes no difference. Hesitation will ruin you.’

  The still-rising sun hung low in the sky. They picked their way over a fallen tree trunk, through a patch of tangled shrub. ‘Can you drive?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m assuming you can’t pilot a boat or an airplane.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Let’s not put “vehicle” out of the equation just yet. If you can handle a car, a boat’s not hard. Planes can be a little trickier, but with some training …’ He flicked ash from his cigarette with a thumb against the filter. ‘Fire is the most economical method. It takes only a match, and a match is usually close at hand. Death results from burning, from asphyxiation by superheated air and smoke inhalation, from carbon monoxide. But fire is imprecise. Are you listening?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Explosives, under the right circumstances, may be just what the doctor ordered. You might home-brew, or you might use something prefabricated. I’ll provide contacts in the field who will be
able to get anything you might need. A plastique charge is easy to hide, easy to move, and so stable you can put out a cigarette in it.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Yes is the better answer. So. Hand, knife, and poison. All focused; all silent. You’re not a big girl, and killing someone with bare hands isn’t easy. But whether it’s accomplished using accessories – a blunt weapon, a makeshift garrote, even a pen – or just with what God gave you, it’s possible. At the most basic level, it doesn’t matter how strong you are. It matters where you hit the guy. You hit first, and you hit hard. Once the target has been dis-abled, several holds and locks will result in death. First, however, he must be incapacitated. Certain vulnerable points on the human body will cause such incapacitation. I’m talking about eyes, nose, Adam’s apple; temple, ears, back of the neck; upper lip, kidneys, and groin.’

  ‘Am I supposed to remember all this?’

  ‘Not yet. When attacking with a knife, realize that the first thrust doesn’t need to be fatal. Disable your target by slashing a muscle and he’ll be unable to defend himself. Then you’ll find your fatal attack, your vein or your vital organ.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Yes is the better answer. Poisons. Any average household is full of them, and your contacts will have access to specialized pharmacies. The trick is knowing how to use them – what effects they’ll create, how detectable they are, how long they’ll take to work, how fatal they’ll be.’

  A clearing opened on the right. At the far end, several human-sized figures stood beneath black cloth. Beside the figures, soda cans were lined at neat intervals along a low, ice-caked wooden fence. Drawing to a stop, Quinn pinched out his cigarette and pocketed the butt. ‘Gun is the most certain – but it’s loud. Almost certain to attract attention, unless you’ve got a silencer. Have you ever fired a gun?’

  She shook her head.

  From somewhere in the back of his waistband, casually, he produced a small pistol. ‘There are five basic rules to shooting. One: the gun is always loaded.’