Winter Work, page 34
“That’s my take. Ron’s, too.”
He sighed, stood, flexed his right knee, and stepped to the front window. Like Kent, he peered out the edge in both directions without disturbing the blinds.
“Let’s hope your colleague moves fast. If they saw him leave, they might decide it’s the best possible time to strike…Scheisse!”
“You see something?”
“No. But I just remembered. Krauss actually came up with a good idea about these safe houses, and it was readily adopted. For each one, we obtained access to a nearby building and connected the properties through adjacent basements. Depending on the architecture, we built interior passages up from belowground—through air shafts, between fire walls, that kind of thing, to allow for secret entry. It was all ridiculously elaborate, like so much of what we did, but Krauss received a medal of commendation from Honecker himself. Not that we ever used a single one, as far as I know.”
“Until today, anyway.”
“Yes. And if they used your colleague’s departure as their trigger action…”
“Where’d they put the entries?”
“Closets, attics, wall panels.”
“We better start looking.”
Emil unfolded his coat from the arm of the couch, pulled out the Pistol-M, and headed for the bedroom. Claire stepped toward the kitchen, but stopped first at the front window, and this time pulled back the blinds for a clearer look just in time to see a blurred figure in a dark tracksuit disappear into the doorway below.
“Too late!” she shouted. “Someone’s on his way up!”
She looked for something she could use as a weapon, and settled on a small heavy lamp on an end table. She yanked out the plug, wrenched off the shade, and backed against the wall by the doorway while holding the lamp to one side, like a batter waiting on a fastball.
There was no sound from the stairwell, either from the shutting of the downstairs door or from approaching footsteps. She kept her eyes on the handle as several seconds passed. Emil hadn’t said a word from the bedroom, which was worrisome, but she needed to stay quiet.
The handle began to turn, slowly. She tensed, tightening her grip on the lamp.
A grunting noise came from the direction of the bedroom, although it sounded as if it were coming from behind the walls. The door in front of her flew open. Claire swung the lamp as hard as she could, but the intruder fended off the blow with a deft move of his forearm that knocked the lamp to the floor. It was one of the men who had tried to trap her at the café on Frankfurter Allee, the big one, beefy and tattooed. He held a gun but kept his distance, poised to fend off any further blows.
“Where is he?” the man asked in heavily accented English. “We don’t want you or your colleague, but if either of you tries to stop us, we will respond with force.”
Claire said nothing. She began to back away to block his path to the bedroom, which had gone silent. She hoped Emil was still on the prowl.
“Stop now, or I will shoot you.”
His tone, and what she already knew of their handiwork, convinced her to do as he asked. He pivoted and moved against her from behind with alarming suddenness, wrapping a heavy forearm around her neck and pulling her close enough to speak directly into her ear. His breath smelled of alcohol and onions.
“Just because we’ve been asked to keep you alive does not mean we will succeed. Nor does it mean we can’t enjoy you first. All of us. Now, tell me, where is Emil Grimm?”
Before she could answer, there was the sound of a struggle from the bedroom, followed quickly by a gunshot.
56
It had occurred to Emil as he entered the narrow bedroom that he already knew how Kolkachev’s people would approach an assault on this safe house. He knew because his own agents had learned the same techniques, borrowed from the same KGB doctrines, and the guiding philosophy in an action like this was simple enough: Come at your enemy from as many directions as possible simultaneously. That way, one of you will almost certainly strike at a weak spot, if only by default.
And because he also knew the likely players would be Yuri Volkov and his two minions, two approaches already seemed obvious—through the main door, and through whatever secret entry Krauss must have told them about. The third direction? His mind was still working on that, although for the moment he was preoccupied by a grunt of effort and a scraping noise coming from behind the wall of the bedroom closet.
He carefully opened the closet door just as Claire shouted from the living room that someone was headed up the stairs.
So that was one of Volkov’s men accounted for, and now a second one, as two feet emerged from an opening in the side wall of the closet. Emil knew that the most effective response would be simply to shoot the man as he emerged.
His calculation changed as he heard the sound of a brief struggle from the living room, and then a man’s voice speaking to Claire. He couldn’t make out the words, but at least she hadn’t been shot.
In the closet, the legs emerged, then the arms and torso, and finally the man’s head. He was holding a gun, and as soon as he saw Emil he rolled onto his side to try and get off a shot, so Emil fired first, into his chest. The man crumpled, moaning. His gun fell to the floor, and Emil kicked it away.
Footsteps were approaching from the living room. It was at that moment that he realized where the third approach would come from, as his mind seized on a memory from an HVA training manual: the rooftop, of course. They would use a grappling hook and a stout line to rappel down to the rear window and swing through, feetfirst.
Just as this occurred to him there was a loud crash and a cascade of shattering glass to his rear, and before Emil could even turn around he was jarred off his feet by the impact of heavy boots into the small of his back. The Pistol-M went flying as he caught his fall. Someone was now on his back, grabbing the neck of his shirt, the belt of his trousers, then pinning him to the floor. A voice breathed into his right ear, breathless and rasping. It was Yuri Volkov.
“We have you now, Emil. And it will not pass quickly.”
Emil felt himself being lifted to his feet as easily as if he were a sack of beets, and saw his pistol go skittering across the floor as Volkov kicked it away. A gun barrel poked into the nape of his neck, while Volkov wrapped his other arm around Emil’s chest. On the floor of the closet, the first man had passed out in a pool of his own blood.
Then Claire and another of Volkov’s men appeared in the bedroom doorway, standing side by side. He held a pistol. She was empty-handed.
Emil’s mind offered him a fresh calculation, whether he wanted it or not. Two of them held guns, and both were fit and free to act. Claire was momentarily free as well, but unarmed, and Emil might as well have been a goat, trussed for slaughter. There was no sign of Ron Kent, nor any noise of his approach. Even if he arrived, he was unarmed.
Obviously, this wasn’t going to work out, and, as Volkov had just said, it probably wouldn’t pass quickly. Maybe they would at least leave Karola alive.
57
As Claire came into view of the bedroom, she saw a living, breathing Emil Grimm, and, briefly, was thrilled. She then noted the gun barrel at Emil’s neck, and the muscular man who gripped him from behind, and reassessed.
Moving alongside her was the Russian who had come in through the door. He, too, was taking stock of the scene as they approached the bedroom doorway in tandem. He had released her at the sound of the gunshot, but still held his gun. Not an advantageous position for her or for Emil. The dropped lamp was well out of reach.
She now recognized the man holding Emil as Yuri Volkov. He shoved Emil through the doorway and spoke as they advanced.
“We are taking Herr Grimm with us, plus whatever he brought with him. Step aside or be shot. Your choice.”
She stepped aside, and in doing so spotted the body of the third man on the floor of the open closet, which explained the gunshot. In the middle of the bedroom floor lay Emil’s Pistol-M, but in her current position she’d never reach it without drawing fire from at least one of the two remaining Russians.
Volkov spoke.
“Maxim, check the living room closet.”
The Russian to her right did so, and immediately found the pilot’s case and the folder propped next to it. He flipped the latches on the case, checked inside, then returned to her side.
“Looks like it’s here, all of it.”
Claire realized belatedly that, by watching, she had missed her best opportunity to rush into the bedroom. And where the fuck was Ron? She listened in vain for the sound of footsteps from downstairs. He should have returned by now. Had the Russians dealt with him already?
All four of them now stood near the middle of the living room. She caught Emil’s eye. He blinked, seeming resigned. But after everything he’d told them about the fates of Lothar Fischer and Andreas Plotz at the hands of Yuri Volkov, there was no way she was going to let Volkov take Emil out of here, not if she could help it.
She wondered why they would even bother now that they had all of his goods. Out of cruelty and malice, for having made them work so hard? Or was their reasoning more pragmatic—to find out from Emil whether he had any further allies who needed to be erased? Karola, for one.
Claire slid marginally to her left. She was now the closest of the four of them to the bedroom door, and they were arrayed so that once she got through the doorway, she would momentarily be out of the line of fire. She was poised to bolt when the bigger Russian, who must have realized the same thing, grabbed her right forearm and dragged her toward him.
“Nyet,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Don’t move again.”
He raised the barrel of his gun to her temple just as footsteps pounded heavily up the stairs. Then he released her to redirect his aim toward the doorway. Claire swung her elbow in a blow to his chin, which knocked him off balance long enough for her to level him with a swing of her fist to the bridge of his nose. He dropped to his knees with a roar of pain, the gun falling. She kicked it away and it spun beneath the couch.
Volkov twisted Emil to one side and took aim at the door over Emil’s shoulder as the door opened. Emil thrust his right elbow into Volkov’s stomach, jolting him enough to make the shot go high. It blew a shower of plaster from the ceiling that pelted them all.
Volkov shouted angrily and threw Emil to the floor as he turned his gun on Claire, who crouched instinctively, watching the man’s eyes. She was deciding whether to dive left or right when another gunshot resounded from across the room in more of a cough than a blast.
The side of Volkov’s head erupted, throwing a spray of blood, bone, and viscera onto Claire atop the white dust that had already coated her from the ceiling. She shuddered like a wet animal, then came up out of her crouch to see Clark Baucom in the open doorway, breathing deeply, face sweating, a look of primal rage in his eyes. His blue wool overcoat was as powdered and spattered as Claire, but all three of them were still standing.
In his right hand was the vintage High Standard HD 22. Steam was drifting from the suppressor at the end of its long and slender barrel.
Then, more footsteps, rising from below. Baucom turned, Emil pivoted, and Claire picked up the fallen lamp for the possibility of more action when all of them saw it was Ron Kent, a late arrival to the party.
“About goddamn time,” Baucom said. “What the hell were you even doing down there?”
“I fucked up,” he said, panting, then looking at the floor. “I was looking for more of them, but, well…”
Then, seeing Claire and the mess she was in, he tentatively came forward.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice emerging in a croak. The fallen Russian to her right groaned and wobbled as he tried to stand. Claire swung the lamp against the base of his skull with a crack. He moaned and collapsed back onto the floor.
Only then did she notice that she was covered with gore—on her arms, her chest, and no doubt her face. She swallowed hard and tried not to shake.
The only one of them who hadn’t yet spoken was Emil. Claire looked in his direction to make sure he had come through everything in one piece. He said nothing, but nodded stoically, as if to acknowledge her concern.
And for that one moment, at least, the four of them were comrades in arms, comrades in secrecy; comrades in everything that this profession of theirs had ever compelled them to do on behalf of duty or country.
58
Surprisingly—or perhaps not, considering where they were—Emil Grimm was the one who seized control in the aftermath. Even as one man lay dead, a second lay prone in a closet, and a third moaned and twitched on the bloodied floor, Emil strolled briskly downstairs to address a small crowd of neighbors who had come out into the night to see what all the noisy fuss was about in the apartment that had been empty for so long.
An older woman wearing a nightdress beneath a moth-eaten overcoat accosted him immediately.
“Were those gunshots?”
“No, no. A nail gun. Some workers. There was an accident, a few broken windows, but order has been restored, and now I must use your telephone to call for medical help.”
Without hesitation, he showed her his Stasi ID. She eyed him carefully for a second or two and invited him inside. Emil reached Dorn right away. He gave a brief description of what had happened and asked him to bring at least three men. After hanging up, Emil vowed to never show his ID again. If he had been able, he would have burned it on the spot.
Kent and Baucom were initially appalled by his decision to call the detective. But Claire, having already glimpsed the dynamic between Emil and Dorn, surmised that it was just the right move, although she was still a little unsteady from all that had just occurred.
Emil went back downstairs to continue placating the neighbors. The three Americans decided it was best if they remained out of sight for the moment, so they waited for Dorn in the kitchen, where they wouldn’t have to keep looking at the bodies. Baucom had trussed up the two living Russians with butcher’s twine from a kitchen drawer. The biggest one, in the living room, was still groaning, only woozily conscious.
Kent was extra solicitous with Claire. He wetted a dishtowel at the sink and approached her with a look of concern.
“Here. I’ll clean you up.”
She nodded and held still. His motions were tender, caring. The coolness of the wet towel was calming. Baucom, sensing he was intruding on something, retreated into the living room for a smoke. Kent spoke to her in a low, soothing voice.
“She’ll still do business with him, you know.”
“Ward, you mean? With Kolkachev?”
He nodded as he wiped her forehead.
“She’s decided he’s a worthy asset. Having Volkov out of the picture only makes him more desirable. Less baggage for down the road.”
“She’s that cynical?”
“I thought we all were. Oh, and another thing I should tell you. Ward’s had me working under a cover name.”
“I figured that was the case, but didn’t want to make an issue of it. Do I ever get to know the real you?”
“Paul Bridger.”
“Yes. You’re definitely more of a Paul than a Ron. I’ve also noticed you’ve stopped calling her Lindsey.”
He reddened, then smiled.
“I hope you don’t think my loyalties are always so easily swayed.”
“Only when truth and honor demand it. Not that we talk very much about them in this business.”
Dorn arrived soon afterward. Baucom retreated back into the kitchen, and the three of them listened while Emil, out in the living room, calmly offered a blow-by-blow of the events of the past hour as the men paced between the living room and the bedroom. The detective’s responses were probing, but only to a point. Partly, she supposed, because he was already familiar with Volkov’s doings, but also because he already seemed intent on negotiating the rapids of change, a nimble paddler who was quickly finding his way. She noted that each man seemed to hold leverage over the other, although it was difficult to judge which of them held the upper hand.
Then their voices went silent. Footsteps thumped toward the kitchen, and Dorn loomed in the doorway, hands on his hips as he eyed the three Americans and a new arrival.
“You’re multiplying in number. Not good. I also see that you ignored my request to leave by midday, but for the sake of consistency I will continue to refer to you in my reports as Herr Grimm’s ‘friends’—although only if, this time, you depart as soon as I’m done with you.”
“Gladly,” Claire said. Kent and Baucom nodded in assent.
“Very well. I now need to hear your versions. Propriety calls for separate interviews, but the need to have you on your way has persuaded me to let you do this as a group, out in the room where it happened. So, if you please…”
He gestured them through the door.
Ron Kent—or Paul Bridger, as Claire now knew him—asserted himself to offer his version first, seemingly out of a need to confess that he had failed his colleagues.
He’d been returning from the Turkish takeout with a bag of food, his distress call completed, when from a few blocks away he saw a man enter the downstairs door. Being unarmed, he paused to assess his next move, racking his brain to figure out how he might procure any sort of weapon, or what might be the best course of action.
“I guess I froze,” he said. “Brain-locked, or whatever you want to call it. Not for long, but long enough.”
Not until he heard a gunshot, and then saw Baucom come into view from the other end of the street, had he concluded that his wavering indecision might be fatal, so he then broke into a sprint, and arrived too late to do anything but watch. In his belated urgency, he had somehow never dropped the bag of food, which now sat on the floor in a corner of the room emanating a vague aroma of onions, yogurt sauce, and greasy shaved meat. Forever afterward Claire would associate the smell of a doner kebab with this moment.
