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Despite his initial misgivings, Maddock had to admit that Leopov’s plan was pretty good. While not as elaborate as their aborted plan to roll up the Rat in Bosnia, it relied on the same principle of misdirection and had a low probability of escalating into violence. This would be a stealth mission, relying on tradecraft not combat prowess. Shooting their way out of a bad situation simply wasn’t an option. They didn’t even dare carry weapons. If things went south, their only salvation would be to go full ghost-mode—disperse, disappear, and make their way to a friendly border.
They spent forty-five minutes going over the details, troubleshooting and working out contingencies, and then Maddock and Leopov left together to carry out their part of Lia’s rescue. As they reached the street, Maddock quickly identified Leopov’s watcher—a man sitting in an idle taxi cab parked half a block away. Maddock had noticed the cab on his initial approach but not realizing that Leopov was already the subject of surveillance, had dismissed it. The fact that it had not moved in at least an hour was more than a little suspicious. He considered approaching it and asking the driver to give them a ride, but decided that would just invite trouble. Instead, he pretended not to notice the taxi, and they continued on foot to the nearby Metro station.
As they walked, he easily spotted two more watchers—a pair of hulking men in slovenly track suits who looked enough alike to be twin brothers. Both were hyper-focused on Maddock and Leopov, and it was a challenge to avoid accidentally making eye contact with them. Their lack of subtlety surprised Maddock. “It’s like they don’t care if we know they’re following us,” he told Leopov as they waited on the platform.
“I noticed that. Maybe they’re the ones we’re supposed to see.”
Maddock had considered that possibility but dismissed it. “I think we’re dealing with amateurs here.”
“Not FSB?”
“Hard to say. Who else might have an interest in this?”
“Possibly finding a fortune in Nazi loot? Who wouldn’t?”
Maddock shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t change what we have to do.”
“Maybe makes it easier.”
“Let’s hope.”
The train arrived a moment later and they boarded. The men in track suits got on as well. In what appeared to be an attempt at actual tradecraft, they entered the car through different doors, but once aboard, they resumed their flagrant vigil.
Maddock and Leopov rode the Green Line train a few stops to Tverskaya where they took the connecting underground tunnels to Pushkinskaya Station, and boarded a Purple Line train one more stop to Kuznetsky Most. Another underground tunnel brought them to Lubyanka Station where they emerged from the underground into the infamous Lubyanka Square.
During the Cold War, both the square and the station had been renamed for Bolshevik hero Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Cheka, the original Soviet secret police agency. There was still a bust of “Iron” Felix in the vestibule of the station, but the statue in the square had been destroyed by protestors following the failed coup by hardliners to oust the Soviet premier Mikhail Gorbachev. In its place, a memorial had been erected to honor the victims of the notorious Gulag prison system. But even though the fall of the USSR had brought a measure of freedom to the Russian populace, the Lubyanka Building, the imposing yellow structure that had served as the headquarters of Dzerzhinsky’s police agency under all its various names, remained under the control of its latest incarnation—the FSB.
He glanced over at Leopov, curious to see her reaction to this enduring symbol of the oppressive regime that had taken her father from her, and was surprised to see that her gaze was focused in the opposite direction, specifically at an even larger brick building which featured several high arches framing enormous banners showing children at play. She noticed his attention and threw him a wistful smile. “Is Detsky Mir,” she said. “Is largest toy store in all of Russia.”
Maddock did not fail to notice that her accent, normally all but undetectable, had thickened considerably.
“I think my parents brought me here when I was child,” she added, and then shook her head as if the memory had slipped away. “Was long time ago. We should get moving.”
She gestured to the south, where a brick pedestrian lane led away from the plaza. As they walked past storefronts Maddock surreptitiously checked their six o’clock in the window reflections, and wasn’t at all surprised to see the two men in track suits trailing along. He was starting to reconsider Leopov’s assertion that the men might be part of a larger surveillance team, and that their blatant obviousness was intentional, but for the moment, it suited his purpose to continue ignoring them.
They strolled at a leisurely pace down the lane until emerging in the vast open square around which several of Moscow’s most iconic and historic structures stood. The Grand Kremlin Palace—a magnificent yellow structure topped with ornate arabesques, rising above the massive red brick wall that bordered the southwest side of Red Square. To their left, at the southeast corner, was an even more iconic symbol of Moscow. Saint Basil’s Cathedral, with its multi-colored domes, looked a little like something built out of Christmas tree ornaments.
Maddock could not help but feel awed by his proximity to the buildings, which were not only monuments in their own right but symbols of Russia—symbols that, despite their beauty, had for most of his life represented the oppressive government of the USSR—the enemy of freedom.
They headed out across the square, orienting toward the low, ziggurat-like structure positioned in front of the Kremlin wall. While not as impressive as Saint Basil’s Cathedral, the step pyramid, composed of blocks of a polished red granite-like stone called porphyry, marked the exact center of Moscow, and contained the embalmed remains of the first Soviet leader, Vladimir Lenin. There was an honor guard of soldiers stationed at the door of the monument, which was open to allow visitors to view the preserved cadaver. Maddock also spotted a few uniformed policemen amidst the small crowd of people milling about the plaza—mostly tourists, bundled up against the chilly weather, busily snapping pictures with disposable cameras. When they reached the middle of the square, Maddock turned a lazy circle, as if immersing himself in the panoramic experience.
“Looks like Tweedledee and Tweedledum are still with us,” he murmured.
“What a surprise,” Leopov replied. “Spot anyone else?”
“No. You?”
“No, but I do see our girl. Right where we told her to be.”
Maddock followed her gaze to a spot near the north corner of the mausoleum where a lone female figure stood, bundled up in a fur-lined winter coat. Her features were partially concealed behind a scarf that was wrapped around her head and lower face, and a pair of sunglasses hid her eyes, but rather than throwing doubt on her identification, these measures confirmed it. In a phone call made from the safehouse, they had warned the woman to keep her face covered.
Maddock took a deep breath. “Okay. Then let’s do this.”
They made a beeline for the woman, striding purposefully, all the while aware that the men wearing track suits were matching their pace. Maddock kept his eyes on the policemen and the soldiers. He hoped their mere presence would keep the pursuers from doing anything outrageous, but he also knew that if the men tailing them were government agents, the police would either keep their distance, or take the side of the enemy.
As they got within a few yards of the woman, Leopov called out, “Lia!”
Uttering the name aloud was like pulling the trigger on a starter pistol. Maddock managed to take one more full step, but even as he set his foot down, he became aware of movement all around him. The rapidity of the response confirmed Leopov’s suspicion that the pair he had dubbed Tweedledee and Tweedledum were only a small part of the surveillance effort. Six men—including the men in track suits—converged on them like warrior ants responding to an attack on the hive. The others wore belted leather jackets and trench coats, almost exactly like the KGB agents in the old spy films he had watched as a kid. Two of the men had pistols drawn, held low and mostly concealed from the view of passersby. The others moved in closer to physically restrain Maddock, Leopov, and the woman they had come to meet. Before Maddock or the others could respond to being accosted, one of the men advanced on the woman and roughly snatched her scarf away, knocking her sunglasses askew in the process.
“Hey!” she shouted angrily, as the unveiling released a cascade of brown ringlets. Her dark eyes shot an accusing glance at Maddock. The goons holding them had a similar reaction as they realized what Maddock already knew.
Although there was a passing resemblance to the woman Maddock had seen in the photographs at the safehouse, this person was, without a doubt, not Lia Markova.
After Maddock and Leopov departed, the man in the off-duty taxi continued to watch the house from which they had emerged. His confederates would continue following the Americans, hopefully to where the Markova woman was hiding, but he had other business. He waited about ten minutes before getting out and heading to the front door of the residence. As he neared the door, he slipped his right hand into the deep pocket of his leather jacket and curled his fingers around the butt of a compact Makarov pistol. He was prepared to shoot through the pocket if circumstances dictated, but hoped it would not be necessary—it was his favorite jacket.
At the door, he checked for surveillance cameras, and seeing none, let go of the pistol and reached into a different pocket to produce a ring of keys. He shuffled through them until he found one that matched the profile of the lock, and then proceeded to insert it in the keyhole. They key was a cut down blank—called a “bump key”—and while it did not match the arrangement of the wafers inside the lock mechanism, it would, with just a little extra effort, permit him to enter.
With his left hand, he exerted pressure on the bow of the key, as if trying to turn it, and then delivered several solid raps with his right fist, all aimed at a spot right next to the latch, jostling the wafers inside the lock, causing them to jump up and down. After a few failed attempts, he chose a different key with the same profile and tried again, this time with more success. On the fourth such blow, the resistance from the lock vanished and the key turned smoothly.
He quickly put away the keys and drew the pistol, keeping it at the low ready as he eased the door open, though he doubted he would need it. If there was anyone inside, they would almost certainly have come to investigate all the racket he had raised with the bump key.
Unless of course they had known that someone was trying to break in, and were waiting to ambush him once he was inside.
As he entered, he brought the gun up, holding it out with both hands, shoulders squared and ready to fire.
The entry foyer was empty. He kept moving, the gun held steady, finger on the trigger, as he moved into the front room. There were two mugs on a table, both empty, but nothing else of note. He moved briskly through the house, checking each room, always leading with the pistol, even though each opened door confirmed his suspicion that the residence was unoccupied. When he cleared the last room, he took out his phone and dialed a number. When the connection was made, he reported that he had found nothing.
“Never mind that,” came the answering voice at the other end. “They are walking toward Red Square. They may be planning to rendezvous with Markova in a public place, for all the good it will do them. Come here. Now. Hurry.”
“Da. I’m on my way.” The intruder thumbed off the phone and headed for the door.
In a small room concealed behind a false wall at the end of the hallway, Bones, Willis, and Professor watched the man’s exit on a closed-circuit video monitor. As he got in the taxi and sped away, they breathed a collective sigh of relief. The search of the premises had been rushed and unprofessional. Not only had the intruder overlooked the secret room, but also the state of the art miniature cameras hidden inside and out.
“That was lucky,” said Professor.
“Dude looked more like a bouncer at a strip club than a spook,” Willis remarked.
Bones nodded. “Hope he kept his day job.”
“I think that would probably be his night job,” Professor pointed out.
“Whatever. I’m just glad we don’t have to hang out in here any longer.” Bones pushed on the back of the false wall, carefully swiveling it out into the hallway of the residence. He stepped out and then stretched, tipping his head back and letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. “No offense, but you guys are a little ripe.”
Professor wrinkled his forehead in dismay and self-consciously sniffed the air, casually lowering his nose toward his armpit. He shrugged. Willis just rolled his eyes.
Bones moved through the house to the front room and peeked out through the window even though the cameras had confirmed the intruder’s departure. “Coast is clear,” he announced. “We’d better get moving.”
Professor lingered in the small room, watching his friends leave on the video monitor. When he was certain that no one had been left to maintain surveillance on the building, he shut off the equipment and restored the false wall to conceal the secret room, then headed out as well.
He did not immediately see Bones and Willis, but knew the route they were taking, and followed it until he spotted them, half a block away and moving north toward the Leningradsky Prospekt. His teammates were taller than he with longer strides, so he had to quicken his step to maintain the interval, but he had no intention of catching up to them.
Bones and Willis paused at the intersection, staring at something off to the left for several seconds before swinging to the right and heading down the avenue. The apparent object of their fascination came into Professor’s view a moment later—an enormous geodesic sphere, easily sixty or seventy feet high, rising out of a ring-shaped foundation like a black bubble poised to lift off and escape into the heavens. They had passed it earlier on their approach to the safe house and Professor had subsequently learned that it housed the Sokol Tunnel Control Center, part of the Moscow Metro system. Composed of triangular panels of dark glass, Professor thought it looked like the compound eye of an insect, but Bones had dubbed it “the Mother of All Disco Balls.” This time however, Bones and Willis hadn’t really been looking at the Tunnel Control building.
Professor reached the same spot a few moments later and followed their example, facing the elaborate structure and, to all appearances, gawking at it like a tourist. From the corner of his eye however, he could make out the figure of a woman. That she was in fact female was not immediately obvious. Bundled up inside a soiled, castoff coat, her head and face were mostly hidden by a heavy scarf and a mangy fur ushanka hat. Professor only knew that this apparent homeless derelict was a woman because he had been told to meet her here.
“Did you see my friends?” he asked, speaking slow and enunciating carefully, even though he had been told that the woman understood English.
“Yes.” The reply was a hoarse, tentative whisper.
“Hold out your hand as if you’re asking me for money.”
When she did, he turned to look at her, seeing her clearly for the first time, but still barely recognizing her as the same woman he had seen photographs of less than an hour ago. He reached into his pocket, took out a wad of ruble notes, along with a Metro card, and placed them in her outstretched hand. “Go after my friends. Keep close, but not too close. They’re going to the Metro station. Get on the same train they do. I’ll be keeping watch from behind. Got it?”
“Yes.” Her voice was even more fearful now.
Professor forced himself to look away. For her sake, he had to treat her like an annoying beggar, ruining his sightseeing vacation. Still, he couldn’t leave her without at least a few words of assurance. “We’re going to get you to safety, Lia. Everything is going to be okay.”