Bad Russian 05 Page 5

  Even as trying to slip back to sleep, I have to put the light back on, and put the chopper underneath the bed. Near enough so I can get at it, but not where I’m going to bump into it while I’m asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Him

  I HAVE DINNER WITH Illya and Petrov, my two closest men. Great food, a marvelous restaurant. Excellent vodka.

  And I can’t get her out of my mind for more than half a minute at a time.

  Even though they’re fifteen years younger than me, Illya, Petrov and I, we share the same outlook. On the work and the life, as well as almost everything else. We speak such different languages, we could be from opposite sides of the world. I know that they think the way I run our businesses and our empire is completely out of date. And they know that I believe they’re impetuous idiots, ready to risk throwing away everything we’ve built just for the sake of using some neat new gadgets.

  What matters is we completely respect each other. And, of course, that they do what I say. That way, we get along wonderfully. We joke about it. We joke about how one day they’ll want to make a move on me. Lead me down a dark alley, shrug and tell me, “Things have to change.”

  It may happen. But I doubt it. And, if it does, they’d better be very fucking prepared.

  I don’t know why I’m even thinking about that as I drive home. That, and I’m thinking about the big, old mansion that I bought in the Arbat district as a safe house.

  Is thinking of her making me consider the future, or is it simply the only way I can think about anything else but her? By the time I reach the parking under my apartment, my cock stands so hard it aches. I seriously think about beating it off before I get out. I know this whole level has complete coverage with video cameras.

  I’m uncomfortable in the elevator, and when I get to my apartment, I dash into the shower. Even blasting the water stone cold, I’m shivering before the fucking thing goes down. I turn in and try to sleep, but it feels like about ten minutes when I’m awake again, rolling with a raging hard-on and images of her, Irina. Irina undressing. Irina moaning. Irina kneeling. Bending forward. Gasping. Wet. Shaking. Squirting. On me.

  My ass and my thighs clench and my cock explodes, spraying thick cum all over the sheets. And I’m drenched in sweat. Still, I have restless dreams about her all night.

  I’m in the middle of one when I get a text message from Petrov.

  THERE COULD BE A PROBLEM AT THE DOCKS, BOSS

  Chapter Twelve

  Her

  DETERMINED TO GET MY work moving and to clear my brain, I decide to visit the docks. Get out in the world. Take a look at the actual movement of freight and goods. Ships, containers, trucks, dockers. Real things. I call the harbormaster and get a voicemail, so I leave a brief message telling him who I am, who I work for and why I’m calling.

  Less than ten minutes later, he calls me back. He has a deep, firm, seafarer’s growl, and he sounds like a big, Russian teddy bear. There’s a friendly chuckle in his voice. I tell him what I want, and I’m pleased when he invites me to come to the docks.

  With my laptop, I take the metro. The longer journey and a few changes finally give me a chance to see the amazing palaces the metro stations are. Massive vaults and arches in gleaming metal, marble, and red stone, carvings in bronze and brass, rich tiles and mosaics adorn the spaces. The metro itself is fast, clean, and efficient, as well as amazingly cheap.

  The Seattle metro system seems crude in comparison, but the thought of it still feels like home. I reach for my pendant. My stomach drops, hollow and empty. It’s not there. I’ve lost it.

  Maybe it’s in the apartment. I’ll check when I get back. I try to get a lid on my feelings and lock it away. I know that it’s gone, though. Somewhere, some carelessness on my part let it slip away, and I didn’t notice.

  That’s when I know. The only time that could have happened, and now I know that’s how it was. Fucking Vasilyevich.

  I have to wait at a checkpoint on the edge of the docks, but after the guard has checked who I am and the harbormaster confirms that he is expecting me, he invites me into his little hut and offers me tea from a well-used samovar. I accept out of politeness and the first taste from the tiny glass cup is bracing, but I quickly come to love the strong, sweet tea.

  The harbormaster soon arrives in an orange vehicle like a jeep but with no curves. In his yellow high-vis jacket, he looks how he sounded. Stocky with an almost permanent smile, a heavy beard, red cheeks that almost glow. He shakes my hand vigorously, thanks the guard and takes me in his jeep.

  He has told the Director of Port Logistics that he will bring me to visit. Driving along the harbor side, we pass freighters half a mile long, jammed against the dock wall. On the land side, shipping containers stack like low-rise townships in the colors of dirty Legos. The ground is marked with a grid, numbered and lettered for indexing.

  Everything is mechanized, maybe even more than in Seattle. Cranes move on tracks and occasional forklift trucks trundle by, carrying a container broadside to hoist onto a trailer, but there are hardly any people in sight. Almost none on foot. And, naturally, all of the people that I can see are men.

  The Director of Port Logistics’ office looks like a container with windows and is up two flights of metal steps. The harbormaster guides me there, introduces me to the Director, Dimitri Andropov, and he leaves with a smile and a wave, telling me to call him if I need anything else.

  I’m shocked that Andropov is smoking the short end of a fat and pungent cigar. He has an orange high-vis jacket over a rough gray wool suit. He’s tall and broad with a thick, tobacco mustache and narrow eyes. He gives me the clear impression that he is extremely busy.

  His samovar is polished, and his tea glasses are sparkling clean. He does not offer me tea.

  I ask him about how they manage customs and bonding, mainly to let him know that I have at least some idea how a dockside works. His answers are direct, and very brief. I ask if I can see how a single container progresses through the system, from ship to shore to road. Wearily he tells me that a box might wait on the quayside for several days for collection.

  I know that’s possible. I also know it’s extremely rare. Things are not shipped across oceans as a pastime. Somebody is always waiting, usually impatiently. I let it pass. He couldn’t pick a container at random and show it to me. There were security issues.

  He says that I would have to know the bill of lading number, container number, and booking number of a specific container. I know that he can do it with any one of those bits of information, but I pull the details of dockets I tapped into my phone. From the first docket I read him off all three references he asked for.

  He blinks. His tone softens a little, now that I really am speaking his language at last. As he punches the lading number up on his system, he admits that was enough. Then he offers me tea, and he shows me the screen.

  I’m proud of myself, managing not to cough at the acrid tang that hangs over his office.

  I accept the tea, although I don’t really want it. Having made a thaw in the ice between us, I’m not about to frost it up again by refusing hospitality. While he fixes the tea, I see that the ship with that container arrived and was unloaded yesterday. I can see where the container is set to be stacked and, from the reference numbers—numbers are my weakest point in reading Russian—I believe I can work out the location on the grid, and I can see it, right out of the office window.

  I thank the Director when he gives me my tea. I point to a rusty blue container on the top of a stack outside and ask him if I got it right. He’s impressed. But I’m not certain that he’s pleased.

  Taking my time over the tea, I get him to let me track a few more of the containers on the list I have. All of them seem to have come on just two ships. Both arrived this week. Those that came in first have already left. Collected within hours of their arrival.

  I ask if that’s unusual. “Not really,” Andropov tells me. I would love to play poker with thi
s man. I would clean him out in no time.

  After I enter the fourth bill of lading number, a slow sly look comes over his face. Just for a moment, his eyes widen. Like he is making a connection between the numbers that I’m giving him.

  Then he asks me if I’d like to track some more freight. I have an instinct to get out of there. When I rise to leave, he tells me he can drive me to the metro station.

  I tell him that it’s a nice day, and I’d like to walk. Which is, frankly, ridiculous, as his expression clearly says. It’s not freezing outside, but it’s gray, windy and there’s a damp chill in the air. Even at sea level around Puget Sound, you would never call this a ‘nice day.’

  The walk back to the checkpoint at the edge of the docks must be a mile and a half at least, whipped by the stiff breezes that blow off the Volga river and blow through the stacks of containers.

  “I have a long phone call that I need to make,” I tell him. Offering another excuse only highlights the lie. He blinks slowly, but I’ve already started. “This will be a perfect time to call.” I tell him. I give him a bright smile as I gather my things. I finish the tea and thank him twice.

  I have to calm myself to make sure that I don’t stumble or stagger on the way to the door. I am anxious to be out of there, and I’m not keen to show it. My hand is on the door handle when he tells me, “Cell coverage here is almost nil.” His eyes are still and cold. “It’s unlikely you’ll be able to make your call.”

  “Well, let’s hope, anyway. It was nice to meet you. It was very kind to take time out of your day. I can see that you’ve got a tremendous amount to do.”

  I smile, and even make a little wave, as I step out, over the jagged metal door frame, into the cold wind on the small platform at the top of the rickety metal steps.

  I’m halfway down the first flight of steps when I hear the door open again behind me. I almost stumble then, as I turn to look back and see Andropov lean his head out of the door.

  “I called the harbormaster. He will come. Pick you up and give you a ride.”

  “Oh. Thank you. That’s very kind. Really,” I’m still making my way down the steps. Onto the second flight. The metal stairway rattles and shakes under my weight. I look up, “Thank you again. You’ve been very kind.”

  He catches my eye as he replies, “Really?”

  He watches me the rest of the way down the steps.

  Finally, he shuts the door, but his face remains in the window. The cold look in his eye is an image I know I’ll remember.

  I don’t wait for the harbormaster. I start walking briskly. The wind makes my clothes flap. Mournful echoes of a few seagulls follow me across the cement.

  The whole landscape is wide, flat, and bleak. All I can see is industrial warrens of stacked containers, and behind them, cranes, and the masts of freighters. Distant machines clank and echo on the gray, choppy water.

  I really will to try to call Mr. Hudsicker. It’s early in Seattle, and he sounds less than thrilled to hear from me. I start to tell him my concern about the pattern of shipping that I’ve seen.

  He sounds weary. “You aren’t there to investigate, Irina. You’re there to establish channels of communication. Enable MoscowSecuriTek to use our system and plug us into theirs.”

  I’m passing by the blue container, the one that was first on my list.

  “So, if I see things that look suspicious, should I ignore them?”

  He hesitates. “No. You should save them for your return, and then report them to me. Verbally. Don’t write any of this down. Let me be clear about that. And report only to me. You could be… I don’t know, you’re probably just misunderstanding.”

  I consider how to tell him about Vasilyevich.

  The big black car slips up beside me so quietly, it passes me and turns before I even realize that it’s there. When I look around to see who is in it, I’m grabbed from behind.

  A gloved hand covers my nose and mouth and another arm wraps around my waist. The black trunk of the car is yawning open as I’m lifted off my feet.

  All I can tell is that it’s a huge, strong man. Yes. Definitely a man. Holding me very tightly across my hips and over my face. I struggle, but the glove is over my nose and mouth, tight enough that I believe he could suffocate me.

  Deliberately, he lowers me into the trunk, facing into the darkness. By the time I can spin around, the lid of the trunk is almost shut, and all l see is a strong pair of legs in black pants. It looks like an expensive suit, but it’s only an impression.

  I never even got a look at him. He’s taken my satchel with my laptop and the trunk is shut behind me. I feel as though I know the scent of him, though.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Him

  I WOULD PREFER THAT it was not this way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Her

  I WAIT, CURLED IN the soft, hushed blackness. It feels like hours pass. The trunk is completely dark, and it’s too well padded to hear any sound outside.

  Eventually the car rocks on the driver’s side. Someone gets in. It has to have been half an hour. Then the vehicle shakes as the engine starts to thrum and purr.

  There’s very little sensation of movement. Very gently the car rocks from side to side. Leans the very slightest amount as it turns. When the floor of the trunk dips, I feel acceleration. When it rises, we must be braking. I don’t know how long we drive. Again, it seems a long time but it’s probably only a few minutes.

  When the motion finally stops, I’m cold with anxiety. What now?

  The vehicle rocks as the driver gets out. I feel a thud as the door shuts. Then silence. The hood of the trunk pops. A crack of daylight slices slowly wider and I’m dazzled. I can make out the same hefty pair of legs in black pants, blocking the rear of the car. As the lid rises, it reveals the long silhouette of a man.

  I discipline myself to keep my breath steady as I hold my arm over my eyes, trying to get enough shade to see.

  My eyes are starting to adjust, and I can see that we’re right at the side of the river. There are no buildings or people anywhere to be seen. I can’t hear a sound beyond the flapping of the wind.

  The man’s open hand presses toward me, gesturing me to stay. My instinct is to jump, but I can see I’d be lucky to get halfway out of the trunk. And I remember how strong he is. The silhouette looks like Mischa.

  Then I hear his voice. “Stay down.” The command of his voice takes hold of me from the inside. “There are no surveillance cameras here, but drones can spy from a great height, so I’m taking no chances. Try to stay comfortable. I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

  “Safe for who?” The trunk is already closing, and my words are lost.

  When the trunk opens again, it’s in the hard, fluorescent light of a cold garage. The tarmac floor is marked out for a dozen cars or more but only the black sedan is here among the square white pillars. I’m nervous, but he beckons me, instructing me to walk ahead of him.

  He guides me to a corner of the garage, through a wood door and down a flight of steep, cement steps.

  “Not far. You’re going to be comfortable here.”

  “As comfortable as I was before you kidnapped me?” My throat is dry. I can’t completely banish the shake from my voice.

  His hand drops gently onto my shoulder. “If I hadn’t taken you, Irina, you would likely be dead by now. If I got word about you going to visit the docks, you can be sure I wasn’t the only one.”

  “What’s wrong with me visiting the harbormaster?”

  “You had your nose very close to some things that others would prefer you didn’t.” … “Lovely nose, by the way.”