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With their impromptu performance, Bones and Willis had the full attention of the policeman for several minutes, but rather than escalating the situation with further shenanigans, they stood by meekly until the man finally lost interest and resumed meandering up and down the platform. Not long thereafter, the boarding call was given, and the two men filed onto a passenger car and found seats. Bones surreptitiously scanned the other passengers, but saw no sign of Professor or Lia.
“Think they’re okay?”
“Sure,” Willis said, confidently. “Prof knows what he’s doing.”
Bones did not doubt this for a second, but that didn’t mean he was reassured. Unfortunately, there would be no way to know for certain until they reached their next destination, the northern port city of Saint Petersburg—a journey that would take several hours. Even if everything had gone off perfectly, Professor would not risk making contact with them while there was even the slightest chance that they might be under surveillance by police or FSB agents.
And if something had gone wrong... If Lia had been caught, or Professor, or Maddock and Leopov, there wouldn’t be a thing he or Willis could do to help them out. That was the nature of their job, but it didn’t make waiting any easier.
After the train left the station, he did his best to play the part of wide-eyed tourist, gawking at the landscape as it passed them by and offering boisterous commentary. After a couple hours of this, with the train now well away from the urban environs of Moscow and deep into the boreal forests of western Russia, he managed to nod off and slept sporadically during the remainder of the journey.
Upon arrival at the Moskovsky railway station they disembarked and moved to the spacious Renaissance-inspired lobby where they pretended to browse the contents of a souvenir kiosk while watching the other passengers filing off the arrival platform. Bones hid a relieved smile when he spotted Professor, walking by himself, nose evidently buried in a tourist map. He did not acknowledge Bones and Willis, nor did they give him more than a casual glance. But as the human flow dwindled to nothing with no sign of Lia, Bones grew anxious again.
“Did you see her?” he finally asked.
Willis, who was trying on sunglasses and watching the crowd in the reflection of the provided mirror, murmured, “Check the newsstand at your three o’clock.”
Bones rolled his gaze slowly in the suggested direction, and caught the eye of a young woman who was standing in front of an adjacent kiosk, apparently trying to bum cigarettes from passersby. She wore a long black T-shirt, belted like a tunic dress, and with her spiky black hair, black lipstick and eye makeup, and black fingernails, she reminded Bones of Winona Ryder’s character in the movie Beetlejuice.
“The goth girl?” he asked, smiling at her. She wrinkled her nose at him then turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. He grinned. “She’s hot, but I don’t mess with jailbait.”
Willis stared at him over the top of a pair of mirrored aviator shades. “Seriously?”
“What? You think she’s legal?”
“Man, Sherlock Holmes has nothing to worry about.” Willis returned the sunglasses to the rack and then turned toward the lobby. “Come on. Let’s go find Prof.”
Bones shrugged and followed the other man to the exit. Once outside, they joined a line of people who appeared to be waiting for rides. A few minutes later, a black sedan pulled up near them and a familiar face appeared in the lowered passenger window. It was the goth girl.
“Hey sailors,” she called out, in slightly accented English. “Need a lift?”
Bones gaped at the young woman, then flashed a sidelong glance at a laughing Willis. “Wait, is that...?”
He looked at her again, and this time, was able to recognize the face behind the exaggerated black make-up, the same face he’d seen in the photograph at the safe house—Lia Markova.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he circled around to the opposite side of the car and slid into the back seat behind the driver—Professor.
Bones cast a suspicious glance at Willis who took the seat behind Lia. “You knew it was her? How?”
“Easy. She was wearing Professor’s belt.”
“That’s quite a transformation,” Bones remarked as the car pulled into traffic. “I guess when you retire from the Navy, you can step right into a new career as a punk makeover artist.”
“Best I could manage under the circumstances,” Professor replied. “Amazing what you can do with shoe polish.” He glanced over at Lia. “I promise, it will wash off eventually.”
Lia’s black-painted lips curled into a wan but grateful smile. “A small price to pay for my life,” she said. “Thank you all.”
“Don’t thank us yet,” said Professor. “We’ve still got a long ways to go.”
They drove west along a main boulevard. Professor informed them that it was Nevsky Prospekt, named for somebody famous, but Bones willfully tuned him out. Nevsky was just a name on a map for him, nothing more. After a few “crazy Ivan” maneuvers to make sure they weren’t being followed, and several more unprompted lectures from Professor, they left the city behind and headed west on a narrow, poorly maintained two-lane highway. There was sparse traffic on the tree-lined road and even fewer residences. After a while, Professor ran out of things to talk about and they rode on in silence.
About half an hour after leaving the city, Professor pulled the rented car to the side of the road and shut off the lights. They waited in darkness for another few minutes to make sure that they had not been followed, and then got out and began hiking into the woods. A short trek brought them to a white sand beach at the edge of the Gulf of Finland. Bones could see twinkling lights out on the water—fishing boats coming and going.
“There,” Willis called out, pointing to a spot further down the beach to the east. Bones’ sharp eyes immediately picked out the faint red gleam of a hooded flashlight about fifty yards away. He produced his own penlight and used it to flash out a message in Morse code. A few seconds later, the red light began flashing an answering message. With the correct countersign given, they moved cautiously to the rendezvous point where two men in nondescript oilskins waited near a beached skiff.
Lia sucked in an apprehensive breath.
“Don’t worry,” Professor assured her. “They’re friendly.”
“Americans?”
“Finnish Coastal Jaegers.”
“They’re commandos like us,” Bones supplied. “Only not quite as badass.”
“We’ve done joint training exercises with them in the past,” Professor continued. “They’re good guys.”
One of the pair offered a terse greeting in halting English, but that was the extent of the conversation. Like Bones and his companions, the Finnish commandos were focused strictly on accomplishing the mission, which in this case meant getting off the beach and out into the water as quickly as possible.
Bones remained on high alert as the Jaegers first rowed, then motored the flat-bottomed boat out into the Gulf, but the transition out of Russian territorial waters was completed without incident. The skiff pulled up alongside a run-down trawler where two more “fisherman” were waiting to help them aboard. Only then did Bones allow himself a small sigh of relief. They had accomplished the main objective of the mission. Lia was safely out of Russia.
“This is where we say good-bye,” Professor told her.
Lia let out a dismayed yelp. “You’re not coming?”
Professor shook his head. “Our covers are still intact. We might need to use them again someday, so it’s better if we leave through the front door. We’ll head back to St. Petersburg. Play tourist for a while. I’ve always wanted to visit the Hermitage.”
Lia’s gaze darted toward the men waiting on the fishing boat then back to Professor. Clearly, she wasn’t happy about being handed off like a football.
“Don’t sweat it,” Bones said, making a scooting gesture. “You’ll be fine. Dane and Zara are waiting to meet you in Helsinki.”
But then one of the ersatz fishermen made a braying sound like the buzzer on a game show and called out, “Sorry, Squanto. Survey says: Wrong answer.”
A premonition of dread seized Bones. His skin suddenly felt too tight for his body. He snapped his gaze up to the man, recognizing both the face and the voice. “Captain Midnight? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Ruining your vacation.” The CIA officer paused a beat before continuing. “Maddock and Leopov are missing, which means your op, which was crap to begin with, is now completely FUBAR.”
“Missing?”
“Earlier this afternoon, the Moscow police put out a BOLO for two Americans who bear a striking resemblance to your pals. They’re wanted for questioning in connection with a murder investigation—dead hooker fished out of the Moskva...” He paused and snorted with laughter. “Fished hooker. Get it?”
“You’re a real humanitarian,” Bones said, rolling his eyes to hide his dismay.
“Simmer down, Geronimo. I’m just the messenger. Anyway, when the Moscow station chief realized that the naval intelligence attaché was implicated in a murder, he decided to bring in a professional.”
“Really?” Bones dead-panned. “Who is he sending?”
Huntley ignored the dig. “Word on the street is that a Russian mobster named Telesh is behind all this. Unfortunately, he’s connected—I’m talking best pals with the Russian prime minister. Maddock and Leopov are in the wind, which I guess is better than being in a Russian prison cell, but this is still a major league diplomatic balls-up. I’ve talked to your CO and he mostly brought me up to speed on this epic cluster, so I understand the what, but not the why.” He turned his gaze on Lia, and the young woman, who already looked deathly pale in her improvised Goth get-up, went a shade whiter. “Why the hell are you so important?”
––––––––
Maddock did not lose consciousness completely, or if he did, it was only for a moment or two. As his awareness returned, he felt strong hands lifting him, turning him onto his belly. His arms were pulled together behind his back, secured with several yards of heavy-duty tape. A strip of the sticky adhesive was slapped over his mouth, and then the world went dark a second time as a sack hood was dropped over his head.
Primal panic surged through him. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to suffocate inside the sack.
Pull it together, Maddock, he told himself. You will suffocate if you don’t calm the hell down.
With an effort, he brought the urge to breathe under control, held what little breath he had left. Beyond the confines of his hood, his captors were manhandling him to his feet, but he let himself go limp in their arms, as if he had indeed passed out. After a silent ten-count, he succeeded in drawing a shallow breath through his nostrils. It was enough.
He decided this was a positive development. Telesh wanted them alive. If he had wanted to kill them, he wouldn’t have bothered with tape and sack hoods; he would have simply ordered Tweedledum to snap their necks, too, and left the bodies for the rats.
Maybe the gangster planned to interrogate them to learn Lia’s whereabouts. Maybe they would be held for ransom, or sold to the highest bidder. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Eventually, an opportunity would present itself for escape, and when it came, Maddock would be ready.
He could not say with certainty how much time passed. He drifted in and out of consciousness, partly as a strategy for coping with the reduced supply of fresh air, and partly because there was nothing else to do.
His captors carried him for a while, then deposited him on a flat surface—probably the bed of a truck or some other vehicle. The hood was heavy enough to muffle most sounds but he could feel vibrations rumbling through the floor beneath him and could sense changes in acceleration and turns. After a while, he was lifted and carried again, and then once more put in a prone position. Another vehicle... No, a plane. There was no mistaking the surge of power as the aircraft accelerated for take-off, the steep climb to cruising altitude, the rapid change in air pressure inside his head which he could only equalize by working his jaw to pop his ears.
The flight lasted a couple hours, which told Maddock that they were probably still in Russia. Once the plane was on the ground and not moving, he was half-dragged to another vehicle. He needed to relieve his bladder and tried to tell his captors as much, but his muffled shouts accomplished nothing. If something did not change soon, he would have no choice but to urinate in his pants.
The ride lasted another hour, and this time, he was fully awake and present for every twist, turn and pothole. The last mile or so was the worst as the vehicle crept along at a snail’s pace, grinding along a gravel road that felt about as smooth as the surface of the moon. Finally, the torturous journey ended. Maddock was dragged out of the vehicle. The change in position gave him a moment of relief, but the jostling that followed pushed the limits of his self-control. After a few minutes of being carried, he was deposited in a kneeling position on a hard, cold floor. He felt something tugging at his wrists and then, miraculously, his hands were loose. His arms were stiff and partially numb, and all he could do was let them hang limp at his sides.
The hood was abruptly snatched off his head. He winced as light flooded into his eyes, and when he sniffed in a grateful breath, he nearly gagged. The air reeked of urine and excrement.
Something rattled behind him. He turned, still blinking back tears, just in time to see a chain-link gate swing shut, closing him in a narrow stall. Through the blur and the diamonds of steel mesh, he could just make out the silhouette of his tormentor. A moment later, he heard the distinctive click of a lock bolt being thrown, and then the silhouette was gone.
He was in a jail cell.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It was a cell of sorts, but not one meant for human prisoners. The light that still brought tears to his eyes was streaming down from a single naked incandescent bulb mounted on the ceiling. It illuminated a narrow stall framed on three sides by chain link fencing. The remaining wall was concrete, as was the floor which was covered in mildew-spotted straw.
There was a disturbance outside the confines of the cell. Maddock moved closer, pressed his face against the chain-link and saw two of Telesh’s thugs with a hooded and bound figure suspended between them.
Leopov.
He tried to shout her name, and was reminded of the tape covering his mouth. He reached up with still-tingling fingers and tore it away. “Zara!” He decided to hide his relief at seeing her behind a façade of outrage. “Let go of her you bastards.”
They paid him no heed, but wrestled Leopov into the stall to his left where they cut her bonds and removed her hood.
As the men exited and locked the stall, Maddock shifted to the shared wall. On the other side, Leopov was covering her eyes with her hands as if weeping.
“Zara, I’m here.”
Leopov’s head came up, her tear streaked face searching him out. Her fingers tugged at the tape strip, ripped it away. She gasped in a breath, shuddered in revulsion. “Dane? Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, and then added. “A dog kennel, I think. That’s about all I know.”
“Was dog kennel,” said a voice from just outside Leopov’s cell—Telesh. “Former owner of this dacha raised wolfhounds. I do not like dogs so have found other use for it, as you see.”
Maddock swung his gaze in the direction of the voice. His vision was still a little blurry but his eyes had adjusted to the light level and he no longer had to squint to make out the ogre-shape of their tormentor. “What kind of sick bastard doesn’t like dogs?”
Telesh uttered a harsh laugh but did not further opine on the topic.
“Dacha?” Leopov asked.
“Yes,” Telesh went on. “Was built for senior party members. I got sweet deal. Is near Gelendzhik. You know Gelendzhik?”
Maddock did not recognize the name, but Leopov did. She nodded, and then, presumably for Maddock’s benefit, said, “It’s a resort town on the Black Sea coast. About a hundred and fifty miles from the border with Georgia.” Then, with a note of chagrin, she added, “It’s pretty remote.”
“Yes,” Telesh confirmed. “A good place to get away from it all, no?” He laughed, then his voice took on a hard edge. “I have made you...” He made a little explosion with his fingertips. “Disappear. No one will look for you here. The police think you are murderers. Your government will not come to your rescue. Your only hope is to tell me what I want to know. So, I ask you again. Where is Lia Markova?”
“And I will tell you again,” Leopov replied. “We don’t know. That was the whole reason we arranged a decoy. To distract you so she could slip away on her own. She didn’t tell us where she was going, and we didn’t ask.”
“You must have some idea where she is going,” Telesh pressed, softening a little, almost pleading. “Some way to contact her.”
“Why on earth do you think we would ever tell you?” Maddock challenged. “You’re going to kill us anyway. And if we give up Lia, you’ll just kill her, too. At least this way, she lives.”
“You are mistaken. I do not want to kill the Markova woman. Petrov made a mistake. Frightened her. I don’t want to kill her. You...” He waved dismissively. “You, I don’t care about.”
“What do you want with her?”
“Is none of your business. Now, will you tell me?”
Maddock spread his hands. “Sorry, but like the lady said. We just don’t know.”
Telesh regarded them both for several seconds. “For your sake, I hope this is not true. I give you time to think about it.” He wrapped his hands around his arms and gave a mock-shiver. “It gets very cold here at night. I’ll come visit you tomorrow morning. Maybe have hot meal for you. Maybe not. We will see what the morning brings.”
With that, the gangster turned and walked away.
Leopov watched him leave and continued to stare into the empty darkness beyond the cell. “Well?” she said, not turning to look at him. “Whose turn is it to come up with a plan?”
Maddock laughed despite himself, then reached out to weave his fingers into the steel mesh of the gate. He shook it experimentally, rattling the heavy-duty padlock which held the latch bolt in place. The lock was solid enough, but the same could not be said for the 12-gauge wire that comprised the chain-link web. Time and gravity had allowed the diamond-weave to sag in several places. “If Telesh thinks this can hold us, he’s in for a shock. But if this place is as remote as you say, then breaking out of this cage will be the easy part. I don’t suppose you’ve got any old friends in this neck of the woods.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been here, but if we can get to a phone...” She trailed off, turned to look at him. “Do you believe him? About Lia?”
“You mean that he doesn’t want to kill her?” He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“What do you think he really wants?”
Before Maddock could answer, a new voice joined their conversation. “I know.”
He whirled around to see a figure rising from a nest of straw in the cell to the right of his—a haggard looking man with greasy hair and soiled clothes. His eyes were sunken, cheeks hollow from days of privation.
“I know what he wants,” the man said. He sounded as miserable as he looked, but he nevertheless struggled to his feet and approached the barrier between them. “You are Lia’s friends?”
“Who are you?”
Behind him, Leopov gasped. “Maddock. It’s Oleg Petrov. Lia’s boss.”
––––––––
In the trawler’s galley, over cups of hot coffee, Lia told her story. Her account raised more questions than it answered.
“Müller, huh?” Huntley rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“If it was Gestapo Müller,” Lia said, “Then the item mentioned might really be something important to the Reich. Something valuable.”
“If,” Huntley retorted. “It’s a pretty common name. Especially in Germany. Could be someone else.”
“It doesn’t matter who he is,” said Bones, emphatically. “What matters is that the guys who are after her—” He jabbed a finger at Lia. “This Russian gangster, Telesh... He thinks that’s who it is, and he wants whatever it was Müller supposedly took with him.”
“And that matters why exactly?”
“Jeez, you’re a real douche sometimes. Telesh is out there, looking for it. He probably has Maddock and Zara. That’s probably why they haven’t made contact.” He did not allow himself to consider the possibility that his friend might already be dead. “We’ve got to go back to Moscow. Your people are obviously keeping tabs on this guy. Tell us where to find him and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“Slow your roll Hiawatha—”
“Give it a rest, man,” Willis snapped.
“No, you give it a rest, Buckwheat. You guys don’t get to run rogue ops whenever you feel like it. Maddock and Leopov knew the risks. Now, we’ll keep our eyes and ears open, and if we get a lead on where they are, we’ll pursue it. If we can extract them, we will. But under no circumstances are the three...” He looked over at Lia and amended. “The four of you setting foot on Russian soil. Not ever again, capisce?”
“You can’t expect us to just sit on our asses and do nothing.”
Professor raised his hands. “Look, if we can’t take direct action, maybe we can work a different angle.”
“Like what?” Huntley asked the question a millisecond ahead of Bones.
“Telesh is looking for Müller, and finding whatever Nazi loot he took with him. That’s where he’s gonna go. If we can find it first, then he’ll come to us. Or we can use whatever it is for leverage to get Dane and Zara back.”
Bones snapped his fingers and pointed at Huntley. “And I know just where to start.
“The CIA has a ton of classified files from the war. Stuff that nobody wants to talk about. Nazis getting get-out-of-jail-free cards after the war. Scientists and military officers. Operation Paperclip. Operation Overcast. Dustbin. Ashcan. That’s just what the public knows about, but I’ll bet it’s the tip of the iceberg. If the Russians don’t know what happened to Müller, maybe the CIA does. And just maybe, that will lead us to whatever it is Telesh is looking for.” He paused a beat, daring Huntley to dismiss him. When the intelligence officer did not reply, Bones went on. “You get us access to those files. Help us find Müller and the loot, and we’ll leave Russia to you.”
Huntley regarded him with something that might have been skepticism or admiration. Finally, he chuckled. “What, so you’re treasure hunters, now?”
“Yeah,” Bones retorted. “I guess we are.”