Pipeline (30 page)

He rang the intercom, 6C. He hadn’t forgotten last night’s kisses in front of her apartment door. The number was etched in his brain.

“Tony, is that you?” Her voice was clear, welcoming.

“Yes, we’re here.” Tony smiled.

“We?” The question crackled over the intercom.

“Yes, we. Dom Perignon and I. We came together.”

He heard a giggle as the door buzzed open.

He could see her waiting for him on the landing as the elevator door opened. It was the exact place where he had left her the previous evening. She wore a green army-imitation cotton blouse and tight-fitting blue jeans. The high heels accentuated the jeans’ length. Her light hair was different today. It was parted on the far left of her scalp, falling sideways down the right side of her beautiful face. Only one of the large hoop earrings was visible; the other remained hidden behind her blond hair.

Tony looked down the short hallway beyond her and noted with relief that her apartment door was open. He kissed her tenderly on the cheek, not wanting to go too fast.

She looked at him, wanting to say something. He held up his hand.

“Look, I know it’s crazy. But what’s done is done. Come on; let’s open the champagne before it gets warm.”

Today, he took a moment to look around the apartment. The Asian furnishings were straight out of
Elle Décor
magazine. Except for a few black-and-white photographs, the walls were bare. The two sofas, set opposite each other with only a small round glass table in between, were close to the ground. Beyond the living room, a low, pale-colored, Japanese-style wood table was surrounded by eight plush cushions. The setting was hyperminimalist.

And expensive. He tried not to think about where the money came from.

They sat next to each other on the sofa, her legs curled under her. Smiling at his transparent infatuation, he could tell she was finally relaxing. That was exactly what he wanted. They talked easily for a half hour.

“Where do you want to go out and eat, Tony? Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’m hungry, but I don’t want to go out. What do you have in that refrigerator? Give me pasta, olive oil, and cheese and I will make you a dinner that is better than anything you can get in those fancy Moscow restaurants.”

She laughed, now totally at ease. “Okay, pasta sounds good. I have tomatoes, mozzarella, olive oil. What can you do with that?”

“Show me the way and you will see the miracles I can create.”

Twenty minutes after putting the pasta water on the fire, he ordered her to cut the mozzarella and tomatoes in small cubes as he dropped a couple of pieces of garlic in hot oil. Once they were cooked, he discarded the garlic into the metallic garbage can.

“Why are you taking the garlic out?” she asked.

“Because I just want the scent of garlic in the oil. I don’t want the bitter garlic taste. Here, try.” Dipping a finger gingerly into the still-warm oil, he lifted his outstretched finger in her direction. She took the finger in her mouth.

Tony didn’t remove it. He let his finger roam inside her mouth, spreading the viscous oil slowly over her lips. Her eyes grew warm.

They kissed lusciously. With their mouths still connected, Tony reached under her and lifted her onto the kitchen counter next to the boiling pasta pot. It was going to be a repeat of last night, but this time it would be in the kitchen instead of the bathroom. Steam bulged out of the pot of boiling water, covering them with a translucent trickle of vapor.

“I can’t hold on until after dinner,” Tony whispered in her ear.

“You are certifiably crazy,” Nina pretended to scold. But she offered no resistance.

He unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off. Her neck was im
mediately obfuscated by the pot’s roiling vapors. He unhitched her bra and leaned over to kiss her right breast as his left hand found and immersed itself in the pan’s olive oil. He put his oily hand on her left breast, leaving it glistening as he stroked her to excitement.

“What are you waiting for?” she muttered.

“I wanted an invitation,” he said, chuckling as he reached for his belt.

Tony Ruiz quickly unholstered the belt from his pants’ loops with one fast pull. Once free, he reconnected the end through the buckle in tight, sure movements. With her eyes closed in pleasure, Nina wasn’t able to react fast enough to what happened next. As taught by his teachers at the Criminal Justice Academy, just north of Tacoma, he swirled the belt’s loop around Nina’s wrists in one deft swoop. Once her hands were completely encircled, he yanked hard to fasten the belt tight. The jerk forced her eyes open, but it was too late. Confusion overtook her.

Pulling hard at the belt, he took hold of Nina’s imprisoned arms and submerged both her hands in the boiling water. She screamed in pain and writhed off the counter. He managed to cut off the anguished shout with one hand over her mouth. Just fifteen more seconds and he would be finished. Holding the belt with his left hand, his right worked deftly to stuff a single sheet of paper towel in her mouth. The shrieks subsided immediately into muffled yelps.

She was fighting now, pulling her arms and trying to run away. Her eyes were wild with terror. Forcing her onto the floor, Tony pulled her heavy cotton army blouse toward him and used the shirt’s two sleeves to tie her feet together tightly. Nina was now immobile. Dragging her arms forward with the belt, he tied the belt’s free end to the oven door’s handle.

Tony’s breathing was labored but he marveled at the fact that his heart was beating rhythmically. He stepped back a moment to survey the situation, looking down at her. Nina was now prone on
the floor, lying on her back. The belt was pulling her arms tightly behind her head, raising them toward the oven door.

Nina swerved and jerked. But it only caused the oven door to swing open forcefully and bang her on the head. Sensing slack, she tried to wrench herself to a sitting position. Her burned hands were beginning to turn a crimson red. Already some of the scalded skin was shriveling backward.

“Nina, stop moving. You’re rocking the stove. That pot of water is going to tip over and fall on your head.”

He saw her eyes peel upward and backward to the still-boiling spaghetti pot. The sight calmed her down.

“Nina, look at me. Look at my eyes. This will be over soon. If you behave and do things right, nothing more will happen to you. Do you understand?”

Her eyes, bloodshot from tears and strangled screams, communicated understanding.

“I want you to move your head to tell me that you understand,” he ordered. Her contorted face nodded positively.

“Okay. I have only three questions. This will be over quickly. Who hired you to do me yesterday? Who paid you? If it’s Daniel Uggin, I want you to nod yes.”

After the minutest of pauses, she nodded affirmatively.

“Good. Two to go. Who does Uggin report to? I’m going to take out the paper towel from your mouth long enough for you to say one name. But, Nina, listen to me. If you scream, I will drop the boiling water on your face. Your hands will be scarred, but you can still have your life with blistered hands. Dariya and you can continue being successful models. But once the water hits your face, you will be out of business forever.

“Are you ready?” Her head bobbed sideways as she pulled again on the oven door. The pot rattled on the stovetop.

“Listen, damnit. If you keep moving, I will start with spoonfuls at a time. First on your eyelids. Then your lips. I will disfigure you step by step.”

He walked a few steps to the counter to find a spoon. She yelped through the paper towel.

He leaned over and pulled the wet paper towel out of her mouth. She tried in vain to create some saliva by swiveling her tongue around in her mouth.

“The name, Nina?”

“It’s Rudzhin, Piotr Rudzhin. He’s the one who told Uggin to organize our evening together last night. Please let me go. My hands hurt so much. Please.”

Tony returned the paper towel to her mouth. He was close to the end.

“Nina, there is one more thing. Give me Rudzhin’s phone number. I’m going to take out the paper towel again and you’re going to give me his mobile phone number. Do you know it by heart or do I need to get your phone?”

He saw her eyes open wide. Far too quickly.

He picked up the cordless telephone on the kitchen counter.

“Nina, be careful. You need to be sure that you give me his correct number. If I sense that you’ve given me a wrong number or are using an emergency code, the entire pot falls on your face. Remember, I’m an American official. I have immunity. Even if Rudzhin arrests me, I won’t spend a second in jail in this country. What you do now dictates whether our problems are over and done with.

“Now tell me the number to dial.”

MOSCOW
SEPTEMBER 4, 10:00 P.M.
THE CDL RESTAURANT

Sitting next to Stuart Altman, Piotr Rudzhin sat back to enjoy the troupe of gypsy troubadours who had just entered the CDL’s second-floor Pushkin Room. Wearing bright-colored billowy costumes and
knee-high leather riding boots, the three musicians swayed and meandered dramatically through the room as they played their violins.

The meal had been spectacular. Caviar and blinis were followed by Siberian wild salmon and goat cheese terrine. The main course, served by white-gloved waiters, had followed—wild boar and tangy red cabbage. Plates of crème fraîche–stuffed napoleons were now placed in front of each guest as the gypsy fiddlers played the haunting, high-pitched tunes of Russia’s steppes.

To set the festive tone, Zhironovsky and Packard had exchanged heartfelt toasts as the group sat down to dinner. Even Packard had spoken genially about “new winds of warmth coming to the frigid constellations of the polar north.” It was hard for Rudzhin to believe it was true; to be sure, he had harbored doubts. But one look at the mood around the dinner table was enough to convince him that Zhironovsky was on his way to getting what he wanted.

Midway through the gypsy violinists’ second ballad, Piotr Rudzhin’s phone rang. He did not hear it above the din of the music, but he could feel the vibration in his pants leg. His leg ratcheted outward, and Piotr dug his hand into his pants pocket, straining to drag out the phone. Looking at the display, the identity of the inbound caller puzzled him.

It was Nina’s number. Over the past year, he had taken her to bed a couple of times. She was a sex goddess; Lord, this woman knew how to make a man scream in joy.

But those few times they had jumped in the sack together had always been on his terms. Only when he had wanted. When he had called. Nina understood the drill; seeing her had always been his decision, not hers. Their relationship was a business exchange. She needed to be available. He paid for her high lifestyle.

So why the hell was she calling him? He would have ignored the call if it hadn’t been for her excellent work with the American the previous evening. Piotr had the videotape safely stored in his office. He had even watched a couple of pathetic minutes.

This evening, Nina’s call deserved answering.

Apologizing to Altman, Rudzhin walked slowly toward the door and pressed the answer button just as he entered the quiet of the CDL’s grandiose upstairs dining room. The second floor was only half full of guests. He picked out a free table, still elegantly set to serve late-night diners, and sat down.

“Hi, Ninoushka dear. I can’t talk long; I’m with the Americans. But I wanted to thank you again for last night.”

He was appalled to hear a man’s voice.

“Mr. Rudzhin. This is Tony Ruiz. I hope dinner is going well. I’m sorry I’m not there.”

“Why, Mr. Ruiz.” Rudzhin’s voice strained to sound even-keeled. “I am surprised to hear that it is you. I understood from General Packard that you were not feeling well. Where is Nina?”

“Nina is right here next to me, lying on the floor. She got burned. And I’m feeling better.” Tony’s sarcasm was sharp and crisp.

Every nerve in Rudzhin’s body was now at full attention. Something was very wrong. He pressed the phone against his ear. Even the hushed dining room seemed disruptive and loud.

Rudzhin struggled to remain calm. “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Ruiz. You clearly have something you would like to say.”

“Well, I thought we could chat, since I presume you know me intimately by now. I’m guessing you couldn’t resist watching Nina and me going at it all night long.”

Rudzhin felt his temperature rising. What the hell did this American want?

“Mr. Ruiz, I don’t have time for this. I would remind you that you have called the deputy minister of the interior of the Russian Federation. It seems that you have barged into the house of one of my fellow citizens and she is harmed. There are one million six hundred thousand police at my disposal in this country. Shall I call just five of them?”

Realizing he had just threatened a White House official, he revised the threat by quickly adding, “After all, it sounds like Nina requires some assistance.”

“Don’t threaten me, Mr. Rudzhin. You are at a disadvantage.”

“What? You are in my country as a guest. You have dismissed our invitation to dinner and are calling me from the house of an employee whom you may have hurt. You are behaving erratically and dangerously. Why would you think it is I who is at a disadvantage?”

“Because I know about Humboldt.”

Piotr Rudzhin could not have heard correctly. It couldn’t be. There must be some mistake, he thought as a searing chill went up his spine.

“What did you just say, Mr. Ruiz? I didn’t understand.”

“You understood perfectly. I know about Humboldt. About Peru. About your fraud with Anfang. And, Mr. Rudzhin, I know about Senator Matta’s death. As I was saying, you are at a disadvantage.”

“I don’t know…don’t know…what you are talking about.” Rudzhin couldn’t remember ever stuttering.

“Of course you don’t, Mr. Rudzhin. Nonetheless, here is my message. Unless you want what happened in Peru all over the front pages of every newspaper in the world, you and your boss Zhironovsky are going to slow-walk the rest of the negotiations with General Packard. You are not going to sign any agreement. You will tell Packard that the Kremlin has had some second thoughts about the tunnel.”