Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (30 page)

Their cover was they were traveling to enjoy the sights of Moscow for a few days and nights. Yes, it was their first visit to Moscow, they told customs officials. Yes, they were booked at the Sheraton Palace Hotel for three nights and had their return ticket to go back home. Everything was in order. A few stamps on official documents, and they were welcomed to Moscow.

Aware they were most likely being watched, they never turned their heads to check behind their backs. They collected their luggage, then Carrie bought an umbrella from one of the gift stores. They hailed a cab outside the terminal and headed for the city, about twenty miles south of the airport.

Once they had been on the Leningradskoye Highway for a few minutes, the driver—a man who told them he was forty-five, but whose wrinkles made him look almost ten years older—began to point out various landmarks of the city. Carrie began to snap pictures, acting excited at pretty much everything. Justin asked the driver for advice about places to visit, acting as if it were their first time in the city, and the driver had all the answers.

He was a calm, relaxed man, doing the speed limit and respecting most, if not all, traffic rules. Other cars kept changing lanes, fighting to gain a few extra seconds, their bumpers almost kissing the ones of cars in front of them. Their maneuvers were crazy, the drivers showing very little regard for their own lives or the lives of other people around them.

They crossed the Moscow Canal, which connected the Volga River to the Moskva River snaking throughout most of the city. Soon they reached the Sokol District and the highway turned into the Leningradsky Prospekt, one of the major avenues in Moscow. Modern, luxury import cars sped past cheap, Russian-made clunkers. Stalin-era gray and drab apartment complexes were dwarfed by newly-constructed shiny, glass towers. The rain had slowed down, but the menacing clouds loomed over the buildings.

The driver dropped them off at the Sheraton Palace Hotel, and Justin rewarded him for the safe ride and the tourist advice with a generous tip. His services were no longer required, but Justin liked the man and would have hired him for all three days, if they were really tourists.

After registering with the reception, they turned down the porter offering to carry their luggage and proceeded to their room on the fifth floor. As they entered the elevator, Justin turned to Carrie. “I almost can’t believe you’re here with me, in Moscow. You know, because of your hate for Russia.”

“I can hardly believe it myself. But here we are.”

“Too bad we couldn’t get in touch with Yuliya. She hasn’t returned to Moscow yet.”

“She’s still in Yemen?”

Justin nodded. “That’s what I heard. They found Romanov’s money, and Yuliya is getting her revenge. The people who attacked the safe house in Sana’a were Houthis. She’s hunting them down.”

The elevator binged, and they stepped outside. “I bet you Fyodor is already here,” Carrie said.

“I’m sure he is.”

They found their room, and Justin swiped his card. The door opened, and they entered their Club Junior Suite. The blinds were drawn, and one of the lamps was turned on. A man in his thirties was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room and facing the hallway. “Justin and Carrie. Welcome to Moscow,” he said as he stood up, pushing the chair to the side.

It took Justin a millisecond to compare his face to one he had seen in his mission files. The man was Fyodor, one of the Service’s operatives in Russia’s capital. He was going to be their main contact, providing them with intelligence and equipment.

“Nice to meet you, Fyodor,” Carrie said.

“Same here,” Fyodor replied.

He reached over and shook Justin’s hand.

His English had no trace of Russian or any other accents. His handshake was strong and steady. “Good trip?”

“Yes, a long, but good trip,” Justin replied.

“Thirsty? Hungry? We can order room service.” Fyodor pointed at the phone and the menu on the small desk across from the bed.

“Thanks, but we’re fine,” Justin said.

“As you wish. The room is clean. I swept it for bugs myself. So we can speak freely.”

Fyodor walked to the desk and picked up a small leather briefcase from underneath it. He placed it on the bed, then flipped open its hinges. “Here you have euros, dollars, two MP-443 pistols, Russian passports, driver licenses, credit cards, clean cellphones, and of course, the plans of Romanov’s mansion.”

Carrie smiled. “Wonderful.”

She reached over, picked up one of the guns, and began to inspect it. Satisfied, she said, “Now I feel complete.”

Fyodor nodded, then grinned.

“We really appreciate this,” Justin said.

“No problem,” Fyodor said. “My partner and I will drive you to Romanov’s. We’re staying across the hall, so we have eyes and ears on everything going on in this floor.”

“Perfect,” said Justin. “We’re going to clean up, then come and get you when we’re ready.”

“Anything you need, just let me know.”

“We’ll do.”

Fifteen miles west of Moscow, Russia

Friday, October 1, 9:10 p.m.

No city in the world had more billionaires than Moscow, and Romanov was one of them, but he preferred to live away from the city’s noise and commotion. Yes, he owned a penthouse in one of the newest and most luxurious apartment towers in Moscow, with magnificent vistas of the Kremlin and the Moskva River. But he liked to throw parties for his business partners in his country residence, a posh palace west of the city.

Fyodor was their driver in a black Audi sedan, a luxurious model Justin had never seen before. They were going to a billionaire’s party, so they needed to look the part of billionaires. Their clothes were bought at some of the top fashion stores in Moscow. Carrie was wearing a scoop neckline black dress that accentuated her hourglass shape and equally exquisite three-inch pumps, along with a matching purse. She also had a black wool blend coat. Justin had a black suit and tie with a white shirt, all Italian hand-made, and a black felt coat.

“I feel so exposed in this dress,” Carrie said, pulling up the neckline to cover some of her cleavage. “I should have gone for the other dress, but that one made me look like an escort.”

Fyodor grinned. “I’m sure there will be some high-priced escorts at the party.”

“You look great,” Justin said. “Your appearance will help us get past the guards. Then we’ll go straight for Romanov.”

Fyodor caught Justin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “How much time do you think you’ll have?”

Justin shrugged. “It depends who Romanov has as his eyes tonight. The guards at the door most likely will not recognize me, but some of his close bodyguards have seen me before. I’d like to find Romanov in the first five minutes once we’re inside his palace.”

They travelled a few miles on the Rublovka highway, and as they drew near the village of Razdory, Fyodor began to point out palaces, mansions, and country residences dotting the landscape. Only dim lights in the distance betrayed their presence, as they were mostly hidden away from the highway, surrounded by forests and high walls, according to Fyodor’s explanations. Many of Moscow’s elite lived around this area, and Fyodor said that villagers who refused to sell their lands had received death threats.

“Hey, check that out,” Fyodor said. “A Lambo—”

His words were muted by the vroom of a Lamborghini passing them at an insane speed. The yellow glow of the supercar vanished in the night just as quick as it had appeared.

“Wow,” was the only word that came out of Justin’s mouth.

“I think it was an Aventador Roadster. I’ve never seen one before,” said Fyodor.

A Maserati convertible passed them, and Justin’s eyes followed it.

“The closer we get, the more expensive cars we’ll see,” Fyodor said. “Romanov’s palace is in Zhukovka, home of the richest of the rich.”

Justin nodded. “Let’s check with your partner.”

Fyodor called his partner, Nikolai, on his cellphone. Nikolai was driving about one hundred yards behind them, to make sure they were not being followed. His Porsche SUV would also serve as their backup gateway car in case things did not go according to plan.

“He’s good,” Fyodor said. “I told him we’re making a right turn about here.”

Fyodor turned the steering wheel, and the Audi glided into a narrow road, barely wide enough for two cars. A thick wall of pines sheltered from their view everything on both sides of the road. The pavement was new, resulting in a smooth ride. The Audi’s headlights shone on a silver Bentley cruising along at about forty miles.

“He’s probably going to the same place.” Justin pointed at the Bentley.

“Most likely,” Fyodor said.

The Bentley slowed down, then cut to the left.

“Yes, he’s going to Romanov’s,” Justin said.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. Nikolai’s Porsche had fallen behind. He was going to hide in the woods until it was time to call him or until he saw them drive away.

The Audi made the turn, and they saw the Bentley again. It had stopped in front of a large wrought-iron gate. A man in a navy blue uniform and a cap was checking the car with a small flashlight. He had a notepad in his left hand.
The guest list?
Another man stood in a small watch post by the gate, observing the operation. He held a submachine gun in his hands.

Justin’s stomach tightened, but his face was relaxed. It was a simple checkpoint.

“There should be no problem,” Fyodor said.

Carrie nodded, then leaned over Justin’s shoulder. “I’ve got the man with the sub,” she whispered.

Her left hand held a MP-443 pistol. She flashed it to Justin for a second, then hid it under her seat.

Justin nodded.

The guard finished with the Bentley and gestured to Fyodor to move forward.

“Here we go,” Fyodor said.

He spoke softly to the guard and showed them the two passports of Justin and Carrie. The guard flashed his light in their faces and kept it a bit longer than necessary on Carrie’s. Then he checked their names against his notepad. He nodded to the man inside the watch post. The gate began to swing open toward the inside. The guard handed the passports back to Fyodor and gestured for them to move forward.

Justin’s breathing relaxed. He exchanged a glance with Carrie. After they had left the gate behind, she handed Fyodor her pistol.

Fyodor said, “Hopefully, we won’t need guns.”

He put her pistol in the glove compartment.

Justin doubted his words, but did not say anything. “Here’s mine,” he handed Fyodor his MP-443.

They were not sure if Romanov had guards who would search every guest or if he had installed metal detectors at his palace entrances, but they were not willing to risk it. After all, Justin was here to simply have a talk with Romanov.

The Audi rounded a couple of curves, and the splendor of a medieval-style palace opened up before their eyes. It was built of rustic-looking stones, with numerous towers, balconies and turrets, and it had two long, stretched out wings. A lot of work had gone into creating elaborate decorations on the walls and along the arched windows. Large sconces lit up most of the windows and the two large entrances.

“Wow, the pictures didn’t show half its beauty,” said Carrie.

“Which entrance?” asked Justin.

“That one,” replied Fyodor.

He pointed to the one closer to them. Seven or eight supercars were parked along the wide driveway that circled a large, brightly-lit water fountain. Fyodor parked next to a Ferrari Enzo, which made their Audi look like a poor man’s car.

“There’s the welcome team,” Fyodor said, arranging his rearview mirror. “Four guards at the entrance.”

“If they don’t recognize me, the hardest part is over,” Justin replied.

He stepped out and fixed his tie. Carrie came over to him and hung on to his left arm.

“Good luck,” said Fyodor.

“Thanks. OK, wife, let’s go enjoy some champagne,” Justin said with a grin.

The temperature had dropped to freezing, and their breath formed small clouds in front of their faces. They crossed the distance in measured steps and walked on the red carpet leading up the stairs. The guards nodded at Justin, but he did not return their greeting. Servants were invisible to a snob billionaire. Less face time also meant they were less likely to recognize him if they had ever seen him or his photo.

A couple of steps inside the entrance, two gorgeous brunettes in elegant red dresses offered to take their coats. Justin and Carrie obliged, then walked through a huge rotunda. About twenty people were chatting with one another in hushed voices. Justin quickly scanned their faces. Romanov was not in the crowd. A grand piano was to the left, where someone was playing a famous classic piece Justin recognized, but could not remember its name. A waitress with a pretty face and long golden hair offered them champagne, and they picked up glasses, but did not drink from them.

“All right, Romanov’s office should be on the second floor.” Justin pointed casually with his hand toward his left. “Maybe he’s there.” He gestured with his head toward a set of grand stairs.

“I’ll be here on guard,” she replied with a smile. Then she reached over and whispered in his ear, “A man at my two o’clock is checking us out very thoroughly. One of Romanov’s men.”

Justin nodded. “Good to know. He’s the one right by the stairs?”

Carrie burst into a quiet laughter and tapped Justin on his arm. “Yes, that one. I’ll distract him.”

“Great.”

They split up. Justin struck a conversation with a couple who looked like they were in their mid-fifties. He introduced himself as an oil businessman from Australia and an old friend of Romanov. They were real estate moguls who had sold most of the properties in Zhukovka and the surrounding areas. Justin feigned interest in their stories, while following Carrie out of the corner of his eye.

She took a sip from her champagne glass and began to look for a waitress. One was right by the piano, but she overlooked her. She strutted toward the guard and began talking to him. Justin could not hear her words, but she was moving her arms and body, indicating something was wrong about the champagne and making a disapproving face. The guard tried to get the waitress’s attention with hand gestures and calm Carrie at the same time. It was not working, so he walked along with Carrie, away from his position.