The Domino Game (13 page)

12

The apartment lay
in darkness save for the soft glow that trickled along the polished floorboards from the room at the end of the corridor. Nikolai leaned away from his place beside the living room window and checked the illuminated clock beside the television.

Three fifty-two.

He turned back, lifted the edge of the curtain again and peered down into the shadowed street, trying to ignore the clutching within his chest.

From the end of the passage, he could hear Natalia’s hushed and patient voice as she helped Larisa to dress. They had let the little girl sleep as long as they dared but now, woken so suddenly, she was irritable and confused and Natalia was doing her best to soothe her, explaining that it was time to go; that she must hurry or they would be late for the start of their wonderful adventure.

Four levels below the window parked vehicles lined both sides of the shadowed street. Nikolai glanced its length and back again, along the row of streetlamps that cast a weak shroud of light across the pavement, seeing no movement, hearing no sound apart from the murmur of the city at sleep, the muted wail of a siren somewhere far off in the distance. He watched for a minute longer then a noise from behind distracted him and he turned to find Natalia standing in the doorway that led to the hall, Larisa beside her, one of her tiny hands reaching up to clutch her mother’s while she rubbed gently at her eyes with the knuckles of the other. In her free hand Natalia was holding something. Nikolai’s eyes traced down and settled on the chubby form of Boris the Bear, suspended by one ear from his wife’s slender fingers. Larisa stopped her rubbing and held her hand out expectantly, waiting patiently for Boris to be deposited into her grasp. Seeing them like this, Nikolai was overcome by a sudden surge of contentment. For a single moment all of his apprehension seemed swept away on its tide, then the moment was gone and the misgivings and fears rolled back again and crashed against him like a storm wave pounding a defenseless shore. He blinked at the impact; swung his gaze in a tight arc from daughter to mother.

Natalia read the concern in his eyes. “She’s fine.” She looked down at their daughter and forced a smile, too thin to conceal her tension. Swapped her gaze back to Nikolai and half whispered, “Anything yet?”

Nikolai drew a breath and shook his head. He began to speak again then froze, raising a hand towards Natalia, spinning his head back to the window and straining to listen. From somewhere outside a new sound rose faintly above the undertone of the city. He turned quickly and edged the curtain aside, scanning the street. There was movement and a trace of light at the northern end; he shifted to get a better angle and brought his eyes into focus. A long black sedan was turning the corner, side lamps on, headlights off, approaching slowly now, edging forward down the aisle that separated the parked vehicles. Nikolai concentrated through the gloom, following its path, noticing how it slowed even further as it came closer. He flung the curtain aside and spun around to Natalia, answering her unspoken question with a sharp nod.

He moved quickly now, his body wired, the anxiety and uncertainty cast aside, each action deliberate and exact. He threw a hand towards Natalia, adding emphasis to the direction.

“You stay here. I’ll go down and make sure of everything, then bring the American back up to collect the tapes.” He touched her, gently but firmly, reading her eyes, searching for the acknowledgment. She bit her lip. Nodded. He hesitated a moment then slid his fingers into his pocket, pulling them out and pressing them into hers. “Keep this for me.” His hand pulled away and her eyes fell to the crucifix resting in her palm. He cast a glance down at Larisa, paused to brush the back of his hand across her cheek, then stepped around them both, moving quickly towards the door. He was almost there when Natalia’s sharp cry stopped him in his tracks.

“Nikolai?”

Her tone sent a shiver of apprehension triggering through him like a live current. He spun around, shocked by the impact of what he saw.

It was Natalia, of course. The high, slanting cheekbones and perfect lips, the exact proportion of her exquisite face. It was Natalia right down to the errant strand of hair that loped forward across her brow, but not Natalia’s eyes. Even during the darkest moments of Larisa’s illness Natalia’s eyes, beneath their tears, had still always glowed with determination and courage. Those that stared back at him now were empty. Empty of everything but liquid, black panic.

For an instant it seemed to him that they belonged to someone else. Someone he didn’t know. Someone who had already seen the future. Then her hand closed tight around the small gold cross and she spoke softly, finishing what she had been about to say.

“I will, I promise. Always. I love you, Niko.”

The traffic was light; their destination no more than two or three kilometers from the lane behind Pushkin Square. They travelled in silence, Hartman studying the driver’s profile as they wound their way east around the Garden Ring and north into Prospekt Mira, trying to place his origin, puzzling the blond hair and blue eyes, the refined angular features of his face, against the name:
Roman.
As they rounded the corner a shower of light scattered across his pale skin and Hartman settled for one of the Baltic States: Estonia or Latvia or Lithuania. Somewhere the Teutonic Knights had sowed some seeds before moving on. His gaze broke away as they crossed the dip in the asphalt and swung into the side street. Roman eased off the gas and crept the big saloon forward, hunting for the turn. Began to arc the wheel then stabbed a hand at the dashboard, killing the headlights, and pulled hard right, swinging the Mercedes into the curb neatly behind the last of the parked vehicles.

Hartman spun around.

“What is it?” He stared at the profile again. The features were tensed, the pale blue eyes alert and narrowed for focus. Roman remained silent but tipped his head forward and waited for Hartman’s gaze to follow. Up ahead – a hundred and fifty meters away, maybe – another vehicle sat stationary in the roadway facing them, side lights burning, its running engine pumping a chimera of exhaust vapor into the chill air.

“Shit!”
Hartman slammed a hand sideways into the door panel.

Beside him Roman pushed back the edge of his jacket, eased a matt black pistol from its holster and set it down carefully on the seat between his legs. He threw Hartman an expectant glance. Hartman leaned aside, trying to peer forward across the line of parked cars that trapped his view.

“Is that his building?”

Roman looked around, searching for some point of reference Vari must have given him. Apparently found it, gauged distance and nodded. He shifted in his seat, squinting along the empty street towards the other vehicle then pulled back and turned to Hartman with a wary look. The American tried to read his expression. Gave up and snapped with impatience.
“What?”

Roman gave a low whistle. “The plates, my friend.” He lifted the automatic from the seat and slipped it back into its holster. ‘The
Vor
or
patsani…
Phsst!” He threw a hand aside derisively. “They don’t worry me, but there’s no way I am going to get into a face-off with these guys. Dealing with the gangs is one thing but this… this is something else completely.”

Hartman stared at him. “What the
fuck
are you talking about?”

The driver turned back to him abruptly, regarding him as if he were stupid. “Have a look for yourself. The plates are blue. That car is MVD: Interior Ministry.” He raised his eyebrows. “You get it? This isn’t what I signed on for.”

Nikolai took the stairs two at a time. The hollow gnawing in his chest had returned, but the need to focus – the immediacy of what he had to do – kept it at bay.

In his mind he saw Natalia again, heard her cry and tried to re-interpret the expression in her eyes.

Why wouldn’t she be fearful? Christ, he was petrified. But in six hours – eight at most – it would all be over. He and Natalia and Larisa would be out of Russia and on their way to a new life, and all of this would be behind them forever.

That was how he had reassured himself and reassured Natalia, but as he grabbed the banister and swung into the last turn he saw her face again and realized that somehow she had seen beyond this moment and recognized that his promise was a lie.

Somehow she knew, and now it was too late.

Whatever was about to happen, there was no way out.

Hartman clenched his fists, pumping them with frustration until his nails bit into the flesh of his palms. Stuck here behind these goddamned parked cars he couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t even see anything! He cursed and swung his head to the side.

“We can’t just sit here!”

Roman turned to him slowly, eyebrows raised. Lifted his hands palm up from the wheel, inviting a suggestion.

Hartman stared at him, grimaced. He made up his mind and reached for the door but before he could move, an arm as taut as a length of steel swung back across his chest, pinning him to the seat. Roman swiveled to face him, leaning in close as he spoke.

“I don’t know what this is about, and neither do I want to, okay? But one thing I do understand is that while your Russian is commendable, you are not one of us. You are American, and given your connections, I assume you are something to do with the American Government, yet clearly whatever you are doing cannot be official or you would not be sitting here with me. So I would suggest that you think very carefully before getting out of this car and walking into a possible confrontation with the Russian Ministry of the Interior. Does that make sense?”

Hartman snared a breath. “Perfect sense.” He pushed the arm aside and reached for the door handle. “But I’m fucking doing it anyway!”

He sprang the lock and started to get out but now a hand closed like a vice on his shoulder. He swung back. Roman was glaring at him, the expression a fusion of anger and frustration. His eyes scanned Hartman’s for a moment then he plunged his free hand into his jacket and withdrew it clasped around the grip of the pistol. He held the weapon for a moment, weighing it, watching Hartman’s reaction, then spun it forward on its trigger guard and extended it, butt first, towards the American. He let out a heavy breath.

“Then take this,” he leaned in closer and hissed the words,
“but don’t get
caught!”

He let go of Hartman’s shoulder and set his hand back on the steering wheel.

“And when you have finished whatever the fuck it is you are going to try and do, this is where I will be waiting!”

In so crowded a city the vast empty lot opposite was a complete anomaly. It hadn’t started as a park. In fact, it had never been intended that it become one. Up until twenty years ago the site had been occupied by the palace of some forgotten minor noble from the previous century, or possibly the one before, then after the Revolution, the property had been seized by the state and its buildings partitioned into a rabbit warren of tiny flats and that, of course, had been the start of its decline. Winter by winter, over the next six decades the place had sunk into such a state of disrepair that finally the only thing left was to pull it down before it collapsed. It was a large property for this part of town – perhaps two hectares – and not to be wasted, so architects had been instructed to prepare plans for four hideously massive new brick and glass apartment towers but, thanks to a stroke of good fortune, by the time the plans were completed there was no money for the project to proceed, so it had stalled. And that was when the more cunning of the resident neighbors, disillusioned with everything Soviet, had come up with their plan to seize it back.

The trees had come first. One at a time to begin with and then in twos and threes, overnight. Not just shrubs or saplings. Real mature trees. Some of them four and five meters tall. Birch and larch and even some remarkably healthy firs, stolen from somewhere else of course, then carefully relocated here to a plan devised and executed by determined, invisible minds and hands, in a symmetry that made the open space appear as though this was how it had always been.

The park benches had come next. Half a dozen, a century old, wrought iron and dark green painted timber, bolted to concrete strips set in the ground, then once they were installed the gracious, serpentine gravel pathways that wound around them had begun to take shape.

When all of that was done, the last whimsical touch had been the children’s playground at the center. Slides and ladders, monkey bars and climb-through hoops and, eventually – the pièce de résistance – a small, handcrafted wooden carousel, its octagonal segments a palette of rich colors, lovingly decorated with folk art motifs.

It was behind the carousel that the shooter lay, his body prone, his spine arched up from the waist, his left elbow propped on the low wooden base of the structure, the barrel of the Kalashnikov Saiga 308 resting on one of the iron handgrips that separated the seats.

He had chosen his vantage point carefully. Behind him – less than thirty meters back – lay the rear line of the buildings bordering the park; between them a maze of alleyways and a dozen options for escape. The carousel itself provided cover, far enough back to minimize the hazard of any return handgun fire, and the position he had taken behind it gave him a clear view of the doorway opposite, between gaps in the rows of parked vehicles. Or had done. What he hadn’t counted on was the black Audi saloon that had now drawn to a stop in the street, completely compromising his fine of fire.

He cursed silently to himself and glanced around. Too late to move. Nowhere else to go. He edged forward and sideways trying for a better angle, adjusting the fit of the stock to his shoulder and pressing his eye to the rim of the enhanced night vision scope, reading the flat, magnified image on the lens.

The front passenger door of the Audi opened and a figure emerged.

The shooter moved the Saiga a fraction. The man in the crosshairs stood by the open door, scanning the street, leaned back down into the vehicle, spoke a few words and straightened up, then the rear door on the driver’s side swung open and another figure appeared. The shooter cursed to himself again.