Coercion (14 page)

Alex watched with a mischievous smile as
Gold Frame left the hotel in hot pursuit of the wrong man.  He allowed five minutes to be sure they were well on their way and then went to the lobby to check out.  The receptionist did a double take when she saw his smiling face.  She seemed a bit nervous that he was leaving—fancy that—but brightened up when he asked her for a taxi to take him to the airport. 

“Flying home?”

“Back to Moscow.”

“Midnight flight?”

“That’s the one.”

“Bon voyage.”

She picked the phone up before he was out the door. 
So predictable
.

It was very cold out, but no snow was falling, yet.  The Channel One news had warned that a major snowstorm was in the forecast, so it was a good thing that he was not really flying. 
He took the taxi to the airport and then walked around a bit to satisfy himself that he was not being followed.  Once convinced, he ducked into a kiosk where he bought some mascara, a card, a fancy box of chocolate and red wool scarf. 

Alex filled out the card and tucked it under the ribbon on the box.  Then he put the scarf around his neck,
tied the ears from his fur hat snugly under his chin, and went back out into the freezing night with an altered stride.  To all but the most careful of observers, he was a different man.

Alex caught
a different taxi back to town.  This time he directed the driver to The Engine Room’s competitor,
Propeller
, which was located a half block to the other side of Irkutsk Motorwork’s entrance.  Alex hoped these simple moves would be sufficient to baffle the KGB for the few hours he needed.  At least Gold Frame was nowhere to be seen.

Arriving at Propeller,
Alex made a point of writing down the taxi’s license plate number and then paid the driver two hundred rubles to deliver the candy and card to a fictitious address in a distant suburb.  Best to keep the countermeasures coming; he could afford it.

Alex
entered Propeller and made his way through a boisterous crowd to the men’s room.  There was a man at the urinal and another at the sink, so Alex locked himself in a stall and waited for them to leave.  Once he was alone in the room, Alex moved to the mirror and began blackening around his left eye with his newly acquired mascara.  This would make the guard less comfortable about staring, would give him an excuse for acting coy, and would make it that much more difficult to distinguish him from the photo in Boris’s propusk.  “
Parik
,”
that was it
.  He finally remembered the Russian word for toupee.

Alex looked at the document that would gain him entry to Irkutsk Motorworks.  It consisted of a folded piece of colored cardboard with a black and white passport photo glued on one side, and a form filled in by hand on the other.  The triangular stamp of the enterprise adorned both sides, making it sacrosanct.

Russians put their sacred stamps on everything official, and it was all security ever looked for.  Alex found them ridiculous.  They were extraordinarily easy to forge by Western standards.  Today, however, he did not have the time for that.  Given the appearance of Gold Frame he had needed Boris for more than his propusk and coveralls anyway.  Speaking of which, he wondered how it was going at Max’s Place.

Alex left Propeller in much better shape than he had left The Engine Room.  There was probably still some vodka on his breath from the latter, but that would only serve to augment his disguise.

It was time to get serious.  The next two hours were what he had traveled half way around the world for. 
Get this right, and you could be home by this time tomorrow
…

Irkutsk Motorworks was a complex of three buildings surrounded by a tall chain-link fence.  Alex noted that there was concertina wire around the top that looked much newer than the fence itself.  He thought that smelled like a clue, but it was hard to tell with
his frozen nose.

A
T-shaped covered walkway connected the three buildings.  The smaller, central building appeared to house the administrative offices, while the enormous left and right windowless structures were production facilities.  The guard building, which was located on the fence-line like a dot atop the T, housed the only entrance.

Boris, once loosened with liquor and intoxicated with cash, had vented that he really was concerned about losing his job.  He had tugged at a loose thread on his blue coveralls and explained that he worked on the ‘blue side’ of the complex, whereas all the action was over on the ‘black side.’

“Why not switch to the black side?”  Alex had asked.

“I tried.  Didn’t pass the test.  Fucking perestroika.”

“They working a double shift over in black?”

“No, still a single, though rumor is that’s about to change.  Won’t help me none.”

“And I suppose black services the administration building as well?”

“You got that right.”

“Bastards.”

Alex d
id not push Boris for any more details.  He had squeezed out all he was likely to get, and that was enough.  Unfortunately, although Alex had Boris’s blue propusk and blue coveralls, everything of interest to him would certainly be in the black zone. 
Win some, lose some
.

Since it was too late to try to find a black-zone look-alike now, he would have to improvise once he got inside. 
Alex consoled himself with the thought that if it were too easy, the thrill would be gone.  He just wished the chill would be gone. 
It was cold
.

From out on the street the complex looked quiet.  There were a few lights on in the administration building, but no movement to be seen.  Alex guessed the genuine janitors were either doing their jobs, or playing cards.  The production facilities didn’t have windows, so Alex couldn’t see if there was activity, and the wind deprived him of the opportunity to listen for it, but at least they wouldn’t hear him coming.

Alex psyched himself up; he was going in. 
It was time to be a janitor again.  This was becoming a habit.  He hoped God wasn’t sending him a message.
 

During his six years as an operative with the CIA, Alex had gone through what could be considered the ultimate
education in method acting.  Many of the situations he had walked into as a covert agent were far more dangerous than this one, and the roles were almost always more complex.  Nonetheless, his pulse was beating quickly for a second-shift janitor on his way to work—probably because he was working without a safety net.

Boris’s shift ran from five p.m. until one a.m., but he had called in sick.  It was now eleven o’clock.  If questioned, Alex would say he started feeling better and decided to get a couple of hours in.  It was lame, but nobody expects the man with the mop to reason with actuarial precision, and it was the best he could come up with.

Alex held up his propusk without enthusiasm or a break in his shuffle as he moved past the guard’s window and clicked through the turnstile.  The guard did not even bother to raise his head from his paperback; he just blinked his eyes up at Boris and then returned his gaze to the book.  Alex found it amusing that the man had just lived a scene from a detective story, but had been too engrossed in reading about somebody else’s adventure to notice.

Alex had decided to begin in the blue sector, where Boris belonged, and then venture into the black zone from there.  He would try to accomplish two things while in blue.  First of all, he would get oriented—the two production facilities appeared to be
mirror-images of each other—and secondly he would see what he could do to arm himself.  Alex didn’t need anything fancy, but like flying without a parachute, he hated to find himself without any options at all.  The closest thing to a weapon he currently had on him was Boris’s monster key ring.  Somehow, he didn’t think that would cut it if the going got tough.

Alex had expected to find sophisticated security at Irkutsk Motorworks, and was surprised to learn that they used
metal keys rather than electronic cards.  That discrepancy bothered him but he decided to process it later, once he was safe, along with whatever other information he gathered.

He found his first stop, the maintenance room, without much problem.  It had large exterior doors on the side of the building.  Aside from being unlocked, Alex found what he had expected.  It housed both groundskeeping equipment and traditional cleaning supplies and there were half a dozen lockers along one wall.  Fortunately, nobody else was there.

After discretely assuring himself that he was not under video surveillance, he searched the lockers for a set of black coveralls.  No dice.  He found a tin of black boot polish that offered a flicker of hope—he could dye his coveralls in a pinch—but it contained condoms. 
As one door closes, another one opens
…

Alex slipped the end of a Chinese
Armored Silk
condom over the neck of an ammonia bottle and inverted it.  Once the contents had drained he tied the condom off, creating an ammonia bomb.  It would be good for throwing in somebody’s face or taking out a dog’s nose.  Then he moved on to a big can of what smelled to Alex like kerosene.  He poured it into a couple of empty pint-size jars and then put a piece of rag over the top of each before screwing the lids on.  He had already discovered a lighter in the pocket of his coveralls. 
Thank you Boris
.  That was enough tossables.  He loaded them into the trashcan on the janitor’s cart. 

Now he needed something for quick and quiet combat.  He searched a toolbox and found an awl that would suffice.  It went into the pocket with the lighter.  Then he topped off the cart with a small crowbar, hacksaw, and a few screwdrivers.  He also put a mop in the bucket, but unscrewed the head
so he would have a staff at his disposal. 
Friar Tuck takes on the KGB: was he being an idiot, or an optimist?

Alex was hopeful that it would not come to
fisticuffs.  He had reason to believe that security would be especially lax tonight.  Boris told him that they had just spent three tough days getting the place spotless for a big meeting that took place earlier today.  Given human nature, Alex figured that most of the staff would spend the next three days slacking off to compensate.  The entrance guard’s behavior had been a good sign anyway.

Alex took as
quick a walk through the blue facility as a janitor could be seen to take.  He found nothing of interest, but got a lay of the land. Then Alex pushed the cart back along the covered walkway, past the administration building, to the twin facility on the black side.  He needed a black uniform, and so he headed straight for the maintenance room and its lockers.

Alex listened briefly at the door but couldn’t hear anything.  The wind was still too intense.  He checked the handle and found that like its blue brother, this room too was unlocked.  He opened the door and backed in, pulling his cart to look as casual as possible should anyone be there.  Unfortunately, somebody was.

“What you doing here?”

As a general in the KGB, Yarik was entitled to the use of a Chaika limousine with a flag on the hood, a siren on the top, and a
major in the driver’s seat.  He rarely took advantage of the perk, however, preferring instead to feel the road through the steering wheel of his Ford Explorer.  It offered a much smoother ride than the Chaika, and on days like today, Yarik needed more discretion than he could get with an aide in the car.  Today’s mission was Knyaz business. 

A typical head of the KGB’s Executive Action Department would spend his time dealing with administration, leaving the operations end of the business to the young guys.  But Yarik was not typical.  He detested administration.  This was normal enough, but he also care
d little for the money, perks or privileges that came with his rank.  This combination made an eloquent solution easy to devise.  Yarik delegated the administration and the chauffer to a colonel in his confidence, and freed himself up for the good stuff.  It was almost too good to be true.  He got power, respect, and fear, all from doing what he liked best.

Executive Action
, they sure found a way to give the group responsible for murders, kidnappings and sabotage a respectable face
. 
Were they fooling anybody?  Did he care?
 
In his opinion, it was the best job in the world.  Woe betide the man who tries to rock his boat.

With two hours of lonely, winding mountain roads behind him, Yarik caught sight of the
border patrol station.  Aside from a crinkly old goat herder and his gnarled dog, the desolate shack was the first sign of civilization he’d seen for fifty kilometers.

A soldier emerged, his weapon at port arms.  Yarik readied his passport and pulled to a stop. 
Crossing into Mongolia would not present him with a problem.  In fact, this particular middle-of-nowhere crossing probably didn’t present a problem to anyone who had ten rubles to spare.

As the private accepted
Yarik’s identification, his jaw dropped a bit.  Yarik’s reputation had preceded him.  Due to the combination of his size, title, and the bloody trail he left behind, Yarik encountered slack jaws several times a day.  He found it very satisfying and always kept it in mind when planning his kills.  After all, when you’ve got the best job in the world, you have to defend your title.

Just past the border was an open-air bazaar, duty-free shopping so to
speak.  Yarik stopped to make a quick purchase, garnering an odd look from the vendor when he asked to have it wrapped in newspaper and tied with twine.  The Mongol complied without comment and five minutes later Yarik reached his destination.

“Good afternoon, General, and welcome to the Lone Spruce Hotel.”  The manager gave a slight bow.

Yarik recognized the voice of the man he had spoken with by phone earlier in the week.  “Are they here yet?”

“Not yet, Sir, but I expect the Ivanovs within the hour, assuming this Friday is no different from most.”  He handed Yarik a duplicate key for the Ivanov room and looked inquisitively at the oddly shaped package Yarik was carrying.

Yarik did not comment on it.  He just handed the manager fifty Russian rubles, enough to rent half the Mongolian hotel.  As the man took the money from his right hand Yarik grabbed the manager’s genitals in his left and looked down into his eyes.  “Keep your mouth shut and you will never see me again.”  When he released, the manager wet himself but said nothing.  Yarik began to whistle as he walked up the stairs.

He made his way to the room the couple had reserved and concealed
himself in a convenient closet.  The latticework afforded him a full view of the bed, and there was room to shift about.  Standing there waiting, Yarik thought back to when he watched Julia take her nightly shower.  It was a long time ago, but little had changed.

As he unwrapped his package, he felt a familiar hunger.  His rage was like a beast that had never eaten its fill
. 
And today it had missed breakfast
, he muttered, thinking of Orlov.  Well, he would be procuring dinner with a Mongolian hand scythe.  That should compensate.  He tossed the instrument back and forth between his enormous hands, getting a feel for its weight and balance.  It had a curved steel blade half a meter long attached to an equally sized wooden handle: beautiful, simple, deadly.

Yarik had decided to make the killing look like a jealous husband or another boyfriend
was the perpetrator.  He did not know if the woman had either, but it did not really matter.  The hand scythe would mislead any official investigation, but bar talk would still stoke his legend.  The hotel manager and border guard would see to that.

H
e did not have long to wait before the happy couple arrived.  They burst into the room in a torment of kisses and giggles and dove hungrily onto the bed.

The woman was attractive, even striking, and she had a warm, smoky voice.  She was a good fifteen years younger than the forty-four year old engineer, and well proportioned.  She had honey-toned skin, long, thick black hair, and voila, shaved genitalia.  Now Yarik understood why the engineer made the expensive and illegal trip each week.

He also had to wonder what she got out of it, and hoped it was not related to the Knyaz project.  Yarik was not overly concerned about that possibility.  The odds were low that any damage had been done.  If she had gotten what she was looking for, she would not be wasting any more time boffing this guy.

Having watched
with voracious eyes while his lover stripped, the engineer shed his own clothes in a caffeinated heartbeat.  Then Yarik understood.  The engineer was half man, half beast.  As the woman coaxed the beast out of him, Yarik thought the man might pass out from lack of blood to the brain, but he remained standing.  This new evidence did not commute their sentence, in fact it didn’t rule out the espionage theory at all, but when she was gone Yarik would consider the case closed.  It would probably be a waste of time to scour Mongolia for those behind her.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, the moment the traitor was naked the spy pushed him forcefully backwards onto the bed where he lay with his prick raised in salute to her beauty.  Then she dove on it like a seal on salmon.  Yes, Yarik thought, the best job in the world.

From where he stood, Yarik could see the Mongolian woman’s breasts knocking together rhythmically as she performed her service.  He was finding it difficult not to moan along with the engineer.  Yarik considered doing just that for the thrill of her reaction, but he didn’t want the show to end.  There was something of a tigress in this woman, and that made her just his type.  If he lasted to retirement, Yarik thought, he would want a woman like that by his side.  But not until then.

He considered killing the man first and taking the woman before dispatching her, but decided to resist the urge.  It
would be a sloppy, amateurish thing to do, and probably unnecessary.

Act one of the show ended, and Miss Mongolia moved up on the bed.  Her sailor was at half-mast, so she dangled her heavy breasts in his face for a moment to put some wind in his spinnaker before commencing with the second act.  She took the leading role in this scene as well. 
Where did she get so much energy?
  Judging by the stamina in her legs, she must be an equestrienne … or a circus performer.  Like the fated scientist beneath her, Yarik was finding it hard to control his enthusiasm.

Half way through the second act Yarik’s phone began to vibrate. 
Damn!
  That was twice today.  He looked at the display: Hotel Irkutsk—
the receptionist; Alex must be moving
.  Yarik pressed the answer key and said “Hold on.”  The bed stopped squeaking at the sound of his voice.  He dropped the phone and crashed open the closet doors, bringing the scythe to bear with a roar as he leapt toward the bed.  The two lovers, caught up in the delirium of their lovemaking and startled by the incomprehensible sight of a screaming giant wielding a scythe, froze for an unbelieving moment to stare in shock.  A moment was all the time Yarik needed.  With two quick flips of his wrist, he slit both their throats.  Screams turned to gurgles, gurgles to silence.  Then he speared them to the bed like ketchup-splattered French fries on a toothpick. 
Love gone astray
.

The scene would look horrendous to the poor chambermaid that found them, but two seconds of shock aside, they had died happy.  Objectively speaking, Yarik had quickly and painlessly executed a traitor and a spy.  The rest was just theatrics.

Yarik was certain that he, too, would some day die a soldier’s death.  It would likely not be as painlessly quick or as blissfully unexpected as it was for these two, but it would almost certainly be as bloody.  That was okay with him.

Yarik remembered the phone and returned to the closet.  “What is it?”

The phone was dead.