Lust, Money & Murder (17 page)

Just like her father.

Elaine’s eyes were drawn to a clock on the wall. She watched the red needle of the second hand slowly move around the face. Twenty
years
in prison. She suddenly stood up, her vision blurred. There was a sink in the corner. She rushed over to it and vomited.

As she wiped her mouth, she realized how quiet it was in the room. And then she looked at the can of hair spray, the hair brush...she could assemble her gun. Maybe she could escape.

Then she again noticed how quiet the room was. Suddenly, she heard men’s voices out in the corridor. They were laughing, speaking Russian.

She looked over at the door. The handle turned.

Elaine quickly sat back down.

Several huge Russian men sauntered into the room. They were all wearing blue Aeroflot coveralls, with photo ID badges clipped to their pockets. Each man held a steaming paper cup in his hand. They stopped talking when they saw Elaine.

“
Kto ti
?” one of them said, staring.
Who are you?

“Who are you?”

One of them turned and muttered, “
Americanka
,” to the others. The whole group sipped their coffee, watching her.

“I think you should not be here,” another man said, in thickly accented English. “This secure area of airport.”

“
Puskai ostayotcia, ona ochen krasivaya
” another said.
Let her stay, she’s very beautiful.

The men all chuckled good-naturedly. They just stood there, drinking their coffee, smiling at her.

Elaine glanced at the open door. The sign that had said DOPROC had disappeared.

“Where am I?” she said, standing up.

They glanced at each other, puzzled.

“You are in the Aeroflot baggage handler recreation room.” The man smiled. “Would you like some coffee?”

* * *

Elaine madly threw all her things back into her suitcase, then banged out through the door that opened onto the main concourse, her mind racing.

The two men weren’t with the Secret Service—they were with the Russian Mafia! She’d been tricked and let them get away with the data key.

Lassiter had used her to transport the data key out of the United States. He must have sold it to the Russian Mafia.

It was unbelievable to her, but it was the only logical explanation.

She had to get it back. It was the only way she could stop herself from being framed. If she could recover it, she could take it back to Washington and go to the highest authorities—to the Executive Treasurer, or the Director of the Secret Service. She could explain everything that had happened—surely they would believe her.

As she ran down the concourse toward Passport Control, she mentally recounted everything that had happened yesterday in Lassiter’s office. A demonstration at the Bank of Russia? For all she knew, there was no demonstration—the project was so top secret the only information she ever received was directly from Lassiter’s mouth. Furthermore, she had no evidence that he had told her he was going to Russia, or that she had agreed to go in his place! She had bought the plane ticket herself, with her own credit card—a one-way ticket!

My god, she thought—I looked as if I fled the USA with no intention of ever coming back!

When Elaine reached the sprawling Passport Control area, she found it packed with hundreds of weary travelers, waiting in endless queues. The two Russian thieves had probably left the airport some other way. It would be a miracle if she could get that data key back now...

Far ahead, Elaine could see the staffed booths: RUSSIAN PASSPORTS, EU PASSPORTS, ALL OTHER PASSPORTS. At the very far side of the room, she spotted another booth: DIPLOMATIC PASSPORTS/VIP SERVICE. There was no queue in front of it.

Elaine dashed in that direction and fished out her fake Irish diplomatic passport from the hidden slot in her suitcase. When she slid it under the window of the booth, the uniformed male Russian officer opened it and peered at it as she stood there, catching her breath.

O’NEILL, SHANNON, the name read. The seal of the Irish Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food was clearly visible on the pale gray paper.

“And how long vil you be in Russia?” the officer asked slowly, rolling the r in Russia.

“Just a wee time, a few days,” Elaine said, turning on her Irish accent. She glanced beyond the partition, into Baggage Claim
. Come on
, she thought
. Hurry up!

The officer looked closely at Elaine’s face, then peered at the passport again. Finally, he picked up a heavy stamp and
ka-thumped
it on one of the open pages. “Enjoy your stay.”

Elaine rushed from the booth and entered the baggage area, then headed straight down the hallway marked GREEN LINE – NOTHING TO DECLARE, rolling her suitcase along behind her. When she emerged into the airport lobby, there were throngs of people huddled around the exit from Customs—men, women, children, many holding bouquets, their eyes anxiously scanning the arriving passengers for their loved ones.

Elaine pushed ahead, tripping over people and luggage, frantically searching for the two men who had conned her. She was immediately accosted by a gaggle of leather-clad taxi drivers.

“Cheap taxi to center!”

“Very low price—”

“One hundred dollars—”

“New Mercedes, very comfortable—”

“Get out of my way,” Elaine snapped, plowing through them.

She followed the signs to ground transportation. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she was struck by a blast of cold air that chilled her to the bone—the temperature was well below zero. It was still dark outside, and the parking lot was covered with snow.

Elaine desperately scanned the lot for the men, peering into the windows of the passing vehicles.

They’re probably long gone by now
, she thought, terror-stricken.
What I am going to do?

She desperately tried to think of someone who could help her, but the only person that came to mind was Nick. And he was in jail somewhere.

Then, across the parking lot, she spotted the man with the pockmarked face. He was unlocking the door of a large black SUV. The other man was not with him.

“Taxi?” a voice said from behind her.

Elaine whirled around, afraid it was the second man. But it was only a taxi driver, in the usual Russian taxi driver outfit—a cheap-looking brown faux leather jacket, a plaid scarf, and a black driver’s cap. He looked harmless—big, but with stooped over shoulders. He had sad eyes that reminded her of a basset hound’s.

“I give very good price to center,” he said, vapor pluming from his mouth. “Ninety dollars. My car not so good—” he pointed to a little beat-up Lada that was splattered with brown slush,”— but price very good.”

The black SUV was pulling away now.

“Fine, let’s go,” she said, moving towards his car.

The big man moved surprisingly fast for his size. He rushed over to the Lada and opened the passenger door for her, throwing the front seat forward. She climbed into the back of the cramped little Russian-made vehicle.

He got in and started the engine. “Which hotel?”

“See that black SUV?” Elaine said, pointing.

“Jeep?”

“Yes, jeep.” She had forgotten that’s what Russians called all SUVs. “Follow the jeep.”

As he pulled away, Elaine nervously glanced around the inside of the car, taking everything in, sizing him up. Attached to the dashboard was a square icon of Mary Magdalene. Next to it was a clipboard with color flyers for nightclubs, photos of scantily clad women on the front. In the compartment below, a dog-eared road atlas and a couple of short fishing poles, the type used for ice fishing.

She didn’t think he was anything other than what he appeared to be, an independent taxi driver.

The SUV was picking up speed. It soon disappeared around the ramp that led to the highway.

“Don’t lose it,” Elaine said, her voice trembling.

The driver glanced at Elaine again. “If you will simply say which hotel —”

“I don’t know which hotel!” Elaine tried to think of a reasonable sounding explanation. “That’s my friend, I don’t know where he’s going. Okay?”

“Okay,” the driver said, looking skeptical.

Elaine was too preoccupied with recovering the data key to think up excuses for a taxi driver. She checked out the back window to make sure they were not being followed. The road was clear behind them.

They soon caught up with the SUV.

“Hang back,” Elaine said.

“
Shto
?” the driver said.

“Stay behind the jeep, but don’t lose it.” Elaine wasn’t sure if he understood. “
Panyatno
?”

“
Panyatno
,” he said, glancing at her again in the rearview. He knew something strange was going on.

Elaine was frantically trying to think of a way to stop the SUV. She didn’t have much time, she had to act
now
. She considered calling the Moscow Secret Service field office and trying to explain what had happened, but it was too risky. Lassiter might have already called them, telling them she had stolen the data key. At this point, she couldn’t trust anyone.

Elaine opened her suitcase and began assembling the Sig Sauer, keeping it out of the driver’s sight. At least she still had the gun.

They came to a cloverleaf—the SUV took the ramp that said MOSCOW – CENTRE.

The driver kept looking at Elaine in the rearview—he had heard the clicking of the pistol as she snapped it together.

Suddenly, he pulled a cellphone from his pocket and began punching in a number with his thumb.

“
Ne zvonite telefon
,” Elaine said, alarmed.

He gazed at her through the mirror, hesitating, his finger poised over the keypad.

She pressed the gun barrel against the back of his neck. “I said no telephone calls. Put the goddam phone down in the passenger seat.”

He quickly tossed the device over into the other seat and raised both his hands in the air. He stared at her through the rearview, the basset hound eyes wide and frightened.

“Keep steering!” she said, as the car started to veer into the other lane.

He put his hands back on the wheel, but he looked so nervous Elaine was afraid he would panic. She pulled out her Treasury Department badge and held it up so he could see it through the rearview. Speaking Russian slowly and carefully, she said, “I am a special police agent from America. I will not harm you. Just do your job and follow that jeep.” She paused, then added, “If you do well, I will give you a big tip.”

He looked even more frightened.

Elaine was confused...then realized that she had used the wrong word for “tip,” which was a variant of the Russian word for tea. She had told him that if he did a good job, she would give him a big tea kettle.

“I meant extra money,” she said, rubbing her fingers together. “
Dengi
. Understand?”

“Ah.” He gave a nervous smile. “Extra money good.” He watched her for a moment through the mirror. “It is very exciting for me to help American FBI. I like exciting life. My life very borink.”

He thinks I’m an FBI agent,
Elaine thought.
Let him think that.

“My name is Dmitry. What is your name?”

“Janet,” she lied, saying the first name that came into her head.

“Janyet. This is nice American name.”

Now they were in heavy traffic and were coming to the first stoplights they had encountered since leaving the airport. If she waited much longer, the man in the jeep might meet someone else, and then it might be impossible to get the key back. She considered jumping out of the car, running up to the SUV, and trying to catch the driver by surprise. She could smash the window open and put the gun to his neck...but the windows might be bulletproof—the Russian Mafia was famous for its heavily armored vehicles. On top of that, dozens of people in other cars would see her. If someone called the police, no telling what would happen.

“I help you, Janyet,” Dmitry said, breaking into Elaine’s thoughts. “If you want.”

She studied his face as he gazed up at her through the rearview. She wasn’t sure she could trust him. Pushing the barrel a little harder into his neck, she said, “Who were you going to call on your phone?”

He raised his hands innocently. “I only call my wife. She worry when I working all night.” He looked ahead at the SUV again, shaking his head. “I hate Mafia! I
honest
taxi driver,” he said emphatically, pronouncing the “h” in honest. “Mafia no let me go inside airport, take all my customers.” He paused. “I have daughter. She study at Moscow State University to be doctor.” There was great pride in his voice. “I wish American FBI come and kill all Mafia, like on television!”

“That’s a task for your police,” Elaine muttered.

“Our police?” He gave a big belly laugh. “Our police, Mafia, same thing.” Dmitry raised both his big paws in the air. “All one big Mafia.”