Black operator complete.., p.22
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 22
“That’s good to know.” They drove on, with the wheels of the black Mercedes E220 thrumming on the slush-covered roads. On either side, buildings were covered in snow, and several times they passed an Orthodox church, with its distinctive onion-shaped spire. The effect more was like a fairytale Christmas card. They were driving past a park, a wide-open space with a broken fence and a border of clumps of trees, when he made his move.
“I want you to pull over. I need to take a leak.”
“Sure, no problem.”
He pulled into the curb, and he looked at Cris expectantly, but he didn’t get out. “There’s something I need to ask you.” He took out the photo he’d brought with him and showed it. “You picked up this woman from the airport yesterday, where did you take her?”
His eyes flared with recognition, and his expression became crafty.
“Who says I picked her up? I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“Is that so?” He took another picture from his inside pocket, and this was the screen capture from the Sheremetyevo video feed, “If it’s not you, who’s this?”
He stared at the image, and Cris was watching him carefully. At first, his eyes had shown fear, quickly replaced by determination. “I tell you, I’ve never seen her before in my life. I want you to get out of my cab.”
“Not until you tell me where you took her. Where did she go?”
“No. Get out of the car.”
He lost it then and slammed a fist into the man’s head. Followed it up with another punch to the belly, and the driver doubled over, slamming his head on the steering wheel.
“Where did you take her?”
He choked in terror. “I know nothing, nothing at all. I’ve never seen her. Besides…” He paused and spat out a tooth where he’d slammed his mouth against the wheel. Blood was pouring from a cut lip, “Besides, they’d kill me.”
“Who would kill you?”
“I can’t…”
“Can’t what?”
But he was reaching beneath the seat, and as if in slow motion, Cris saw the small pistol come out in his hand. A Russian-made PSM 5.45, similar to the Walther PPK but a tad smaller, and designed for concealed carry. Perfect for a cab driver in the city where the rate of robberies and murders was spectacularly high, even if they didn’t report them in the international news. He tried to point the muzzle at Cris’ head, but he was too slow.
He hit him again, and with his free hand, made a grab for the gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw flashing lights approaching, and a militia car was pulling in to find out why they’d stopped next to the park. The driver tried to pull the gun back from him, and for several seconds, they wrestled for possession. Lennie made a superhuman effort, managed to turn the barrel, and he pulled the trigger. Cris jerked aside, and the bullet tore through the glass of the passenger door.
He still had a partial hold of the gun, and he fought for control. Managed to twist it so the barrel wasn’t pointing toward him, and tried to drag away. But in desperation, Lennie squeezed the trigger a second time. Somehow, it hadn’t registered on his brain the barrel was no longer pointing at the American, but toward himself. The shot fired, just as the barrel jerked again, and this time it pointed at his head. The bullet tore through his mouth and up into his brain.
Ahead of them, the militia car had stopped, and the driver climbed out. He began to upholster his pistol as he walked toward the Mercedes. In despair, Cris knew he’d screwed it all up before he’d even begun. The one lead he had left, the cab driver, was dead. And the cop was about to arrest him, and probably it would result in a charge of murder. He’d let her down. If they killed her, he’d be to blame.
Chapter Two
They’d thrown her into the trunk of the BMW, her wrists and ankles secured, and driven away. The journey was short, she estimated no more than around twenty miles, which meant she was not far from Moscow. Information she filed in her head, just in case. When they arrived, they dragged her inside the wooden building, and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. A bare room, with just a rusty iron bedstead, and they handcuffed her to the bedposts, spread-eagled on her back; lying on a thin mattress that failed to cushion the springs digging into her back.
She was naked, except for a stinking blanket they’d thrown over her. It was cold, bitterly cold, and the wooden dacha was clearly not maintained. The wind blew through cracks in the woodwork, and the window, barred with heavy steel mesh shook every time a gust blew. They’d left her alone with just her bitter regrets for company. She should have listened to Cris. Too late for that, and by now, he’d have called her, and the smashed cellphone would have routed to voicemail. He’d be worried sick. All her fault, and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing.
She shivered, and even during the worst times, when they’d been hunting her and Cris across the snowy wastes of Vermont, she’d never felt so bad, never so far from the people she loved. And who loved her.
Alex, I’m sorry. I was doing it for you, and I was wrong.
And then the shivering stopped. He mindset shifted to a different plane. Anger flowed through her body, where before there’d been fear. She was Maria Tereshkova, the choice of the majority of Russian people for President of the Republic, if they’d let her stand. Okay, they’d won this round. She was back, and they’d kidnapped her. But they’d made a mistake. She was still alive, and while she was alive, she’d fight, using every weapon available to her. Fight and keep fighting, until she beat them. Or she was dead.
She felt around with her fingers and touched the stinking mattress. Recoiled, and then stretched to reach past its thin, sagging fabric to the wire springs of the primitive bedstead. Touched the springy, but rusting metal, and found where the wire loop was bent around to fasten it to the next wire loop. A piece of thin wire would pick a lock. Could she pick the lock while it was fastened to her wrist? She didn’t know. Only that she was Maria Tereshkova, almost-President of Russia. She would try, and she would fight. She had no idea how much time she had before they came to rape her, how much time before they murdered her. Only that she’d use every second of every minute of every hour, giving it her all.
She started to bend the wire, backward and forward, backward and forward, ignoring the pain as it dug into her fingers, and thinking of the two men in her life. Alex, safe in Brighton Beach, and Cris, frantic with worry in the apartment they’d rented in Manhattan. She’d paid for another five months in advance, so he’d be secure, for now. He’d be searching for her, enlisting the help of every agency in the city, although none could help. She’d disappeared, vanished from the radar, beyond the reach of normal law enforcement and embassies, which meant it was up to her. Backward and forward. Backward and forward.
What will I do when they come to rape me? What can I do? Except lie here and let them do it. And make a solemn vow to kill whoever it is, as soon as I can get free. Enjoy your perverted games. Do what you like; you’re just earning yourself a death sentence if I ever get out of here.
Backward and forward, backward and forward. The door opened, and she stopped. The man named Dmitry entered the room
“I trust you are comfortable, Miss Tereshkova?” She didn’t reply, and he smiled, “Perhaps not. I brought you something to eat.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, refused to unshackle her, and fed her a stale sandwich, bite by bite. She didn’t resist. She needed the calories, needed the energy. When she’d finished, she sipped water from a plastic cup. It was lukewarm and tasted foul.
“You may rest for tonight, Maria. Your first, er, client, will be with you tomorrow evening. Unless Pavel comes to sample the goods.” He grinned, expecting a response, and she ignored him.
Relax, ignore him, and use up the anger on the spring. Keep working at it, until I can free myself. Then I’ll swipe that grin of his face. Somehow.
“Anything you’d like to say to me, princess? Any requests? I could always look for another blanket if you were nice to me.”
She spat out the reply. “Yob tvoy mat. I’d sooner be screwed by a rabid dog.”
The grin faded. “It can always be arranged, if that is your preference. I’d watch your mouth if I were you.”
He stalked out the door and slammed it shut. She put her hand under the mattress and began working on the spring. Backward and forward. Backward and forward.
* * *
The gun was out, not pointed at him, not yet. His fingers closed around the PSM, and he hesitated. The cop was an innocent man, carrying out his work, not a gun-happy thug. He kept the gun held low and the safety on. The tap came on the window, and he pressed the button to lower the glass. The man still didn’t have his gun pointed at him, although he’d have it in his hand. Ready to take the shot. He snarled a few incomprehensible words in Russian.
He assumed a confused expression. "Evening, officer. How I help you?"
Another torrent of Russian, and the guy looked like he was getting angry. Somehow, he must disable him without killing an innocent man. The alternatives were to submit to arrest, and a life sentence for murder in one of the grimmer Moscow prisons. He pasted a smile on his face and tried to look relaxed. Even if he felt as relaxed as a man did about to stand in front of a firing squad.
"Look, I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You speak American?"
The cop hadn't noticed the body of the cab driver, which Cris had pushed down into the foot well. He rattled off more sentences in Russian, and then said, "Angelski?"
"American."
He looked puzzled, and with some justification.
“You are an American driving a Russian taxi in Moscow? What is this?"
A shrug. "I borrowed it from a friend. Just driving around, looking at the sights.”
The story was paper thin, and one hand went down to the cop’s side, reaching for his pistol. He knew something was wrong, and he was about to play out the endgame. Arrest, short trial, and life sentence in a prison hell.
"You will give me your papers."
"Er, yeah, sure. Now let me see…"
The cop’s hand was coming up, and it would be holding the gun. Cris pushed the driver’s door hard to open it. The heavy, German Mercedes steel slammed into his arm, and he yelped in pain. A clatter of metal on tarmac announced he'd dropped the weapon, and Cris catapulted out of the vehicle. The cop was kneeling, groping for his gun, and they both saw it at the same time. Cris kicked it away, and as the cop made a lunge for it, he took a handful of the man's tunic and brought him close, slamming his fist into his belly. He followed up with a perfect hand-strike to the neck that left him gasping for breath, and then slammed another fist hard into the area of his heart.
He fell, not yet unconscious, but stunned and unable to fight back. He leaned down, took him by the collar, and dragged him to the cop car. He sat him in the driving seat, with his head lolling to one side. Put his thumb to the man’s carotid artery and pressed hard for a few seconds. It was enough. The eyes had been flickering, but now he went out. Probably would recover after a few minutes, but by then he’d be a long way away. Before he left, he searched the trunk and found a gun. A Czech Skorpion machine pistol, and he scooped it up with two spare magazines.
He returned to the cab, stashed the guns in the front footwell, and dragged the dead driver into the trunk. He checked the body and found his driver’s license and the registration for the Mercedes. It was in the name of a cab company, and he noted the address. Closed the lid, climbed back into the driving seat, and started the engine. Drove out of Moscow, and he was looking for the huge cemetery they’d passed on the way in, the Cemetery Vagankovskoya. It would be quiet, if not deserted, and it ran alongside the Moscow River. He parked inside the approach road and dragged the body three hundred meters to the edge of the river, tossed it in, and retraced his steps.
He punched the address of the cab company into the satnav, restarted the engine, and drove away, following the directions. He was weaving through the outskirts of Moscow, and then he crossed the inner ring road heading toward the city. After a mile, the cheery female voice announced something in Russian, and he was at his destination. He stopped the vehicle one hundred meters from a cluster of four taxis parked at the curb. They were outside a building with a lit sign that stated taxi. He switched off the engine and sat, watching and waiting. Not quite sure what he was watching for, but he needed something. Anything, some kind of a lead, and then he confirmed what he’d suspected when he first saw the place.
The office appeared to be in use by four men, but they had something different about them. They weren't the usual run of cab drivers. Not podgy, overweight men with stooped shoulders and the plodding stride of those who spent their working life sitting in a car. They were different.
Fitter, tougher looking, and he was still puzzled. Then he worked it out, a high-end brothel. The drivers would exit the office with a girl. The short skirts, high heels, and skinny, skin-tight tops in the middle of winter gave away their profession, the oldest profession in the world. The operation was ferrying prostitutes to and from their clients. Although he got the impression the drivers were more than their handlers. Men who looked the same the world over, dead eyes, glances constantly searching for threats or for targets; former Special Forces, hard men, men who would kill at the current going rate. He cautioned himself to be even more careful, and he patted the pocket where he’d stashed the cop’s gun, the Grach.
He was unsure of how to handle this. The men in that place would be well trained, and handy with a wide range of weapons. If he tried going inside to demand answers, they’d just put a bullet in him. He was still trying to work it out when he had a lucky break. A girl emerged from the office, followed by one of the drivers. He went to a Mercedes E220, black, same as the one he'd parked further up the street. He ran to his vehicle to follow her. She was carrying the distinctive bag, the Gucci he'd gifted to Maria in New York. If there was any doubt, he checked his mobile phone signal, and the bag he planted in the bag was picking up. He hadn't found Maria, but he'd found a link to her. After the devastation of losing the information the taxi driver Lennie could have given him, he was back in business.
The car pulled away from the curb, and he followed, staying well back. Careful not to be spotted, but concerned not to lose the black Mercedes in the heavy Moscow traffic. There was no shortage of black Mercedes cars in the Russian capital.
They drove across the city, passing the onion domes of Saint Basil's, the Kremlin. They stopped several hundred yards from Red Square, and he pulled into the curb. They went inside, and he strolled casually toward the building to check it out. The jury that building do you are EVA, gloomy, czarist architecture, with the overblown facade, from that period. He tried the main entrance door, and it was locked. His only option was to wait in the shadows at the side of the entrance. Waiting for someone to go in or out, so he could enter before the door relocked. He pulled up his collar against the bitter cold of the Moscow winter and surveyed the street, one hand in his pocket, clutching the PSM pistol. He had to get inside and question that girl. She must have some of the answers.
* * *
She kept working at bending the wire, and at last she felt it snap off. At the same moment, the door opened, and a man entered. She recognized Pavel Stolypin, the owner of the Red Square Club. His eyes rolled every which way, and she could smell his breath. Heavy with the reek of vodka, and then he reached for her. So he’d come to sample the goods, as he'd promised. She fought down her fear and tried to think.
The big man pulled off the filthy blanket and stood for several minutes gazing down at her body. Then he reached down and cupped her face. Put his face close to hers and kissed her. His tongue pushed into her mouth, and she resisted the urged to bite it off. Knowing he’d kill her outright, but felt revulsion as his tongue went deeper. She was about to be raped, and not a single thing she could do about it. He ran his hands down her chest, cradled her breasts, and then down between her legs. He stopped before invading her most intimate space, stepped back, and began to undress. He staggered as he pulled off his pants and had to hold the bed head to steady himself. He pulled off his shirt and finally the underwear, and stood before her with his penis hanging loose between his legs.
She had an idea that might delay the horror he was about to inflict upon her. Gazed at his organ and formed a smile she didn't feel inside.
"Is that it? Is that the best you can do?"
He stared at her, his eyebrows raised as he tried to make sense of what she’d said.
"What do you mean is that it?"
"That." She nodded her head towards his organ, "I mean, a man like you, I didn't think you had the dick of a midget. Does it ever get longer or harder, or does it stay like that?"
He roared with anger and shouted, "You fucking whore!" He struck her on the face, a hard, stinging blow that rattled her teeth. She’d display an angry mark on her face for weeks to come, "You forget I can do whatever I want with you. Do not dare to insult me."
"I'm sorry." She reassembled her expression into one of contrition, "I do apologize."
He nodded in satisfaction, and she looked again at his groin, "It's just that I haven't seen one that small. Not ever."
He hit her again, two hard slaps, and both landed on her bruised face. He stepped back and finished up with a punch to the belly. Her words had done the trick and eroded his ardor. His penis, already flaccid from the vast quantity of alcohol he’d consumed earlier, had lost all desire.
"I'll be back later," he snarled, "You open your mouth again, and I'll put a gag in it."
He pulled on his clothes in silence, but she could sense his simmering rage. At least she’d been spared the rape, for now. He came close and gave her a final savage punch. So hard she thought he might have damaged something inside. Then he left and slammed the door closed. She lay spread-eagled for two hours until she recovered sufficiently to work on the lock on her right wrist. Twisted her hand around, so her fingers could push the wire into the lock; she'd learned elementary lock picking years ago from the bodyguard they'd killed in Chicago.
