The man stepped off the curb. He wore jeans and an unzipped black leather jacket. He held a Sharper Image shopping bag in his left hand, keeping his right hand free. Roarke never took his eyes off that hand: the hand that would go for his gun.
He waited for the cars to go by, then crossed to the parking lot. Roarke was able to get a partial view through the window. Watch his gun hand. Davis was twenty steps away, at a slight angle, suggesting he was heading to a car parked a few spaces away. He slowed down and reached inside his jacket for his pistol, the 10-mm Colt.
A few more seconds. Roarke ran the possibilities. Keep down until he’s at the door. Can’t make a sound. No reflections in the tinted window. Same for the side mirror. Roarke looked over his shoulder for a split second to see what his subject could use as cover. Damn, a van’s pulling out!
The man in the baseball cap halted. A woman with two kids backed out. They could see Roarke. He slid his gun under his jacket. The driver seemed to take forever, actually seven attempts to make what was a three-point turn.
Roarke’s target waited, but now the van blocked his view. He lost his line of sight on the gun hand. Roarke hoped that Davis had a clear view, if not a clear shot.
By now, O’Connell knew the layout of GUM. The shops opened at 8:00 A.M. and, among the busiest were the ones that sold Krasny Oktyobr (Red October) Chocolates and the lacquered wood Matroishka dolls. Roarke went into the store he thought would work the best: Gallery Bosco di Ciliegi, with its rows and rows of clothes. The boutique was crowded with foreign posh shoppers excitedly browsing through the stylish clothing.
O’Connell entered, knowing the Russian would find him again. He went directly to the far end of the store, where a mirror provided him with a good way to see who came in. He surmised that the man would take his time, first making certain it was safe to enter. He would not rush forward. He would approach calmly.
O’Connell considered how times had changed. Russia was becoming increasingly closed and more secretive. The hammer and sickle were long gone, so were the daily fears of American missiles. But even his newspaper reported on an almost daily basis how the new regime embraced the return of autocracy. Citizens again served the State, not the other way around. Initially, the political shift was blamed on Russia’s own war on terrorism. Yet, in too short a time, power consolidated in the hands of a virtual dictatorship that could fight anarchists, or any enemies within, with greater effectiveness. That’s what Michael O’Connell thought about as he held up a leather jacket into the mirror. That’s what went through his mind when he saw the old man saunter into Bosco di Ciliegi.
Roarke heard some humming as the man got closer. An oldie. What was it? He tried to concentrate on getting Depp, but the name of the song was bugging him. A few more seconds. What the hell is the song?
The subject rounded the back of the car. Roarke knelt behind the rear and saw his own reflection in the green Toyota parked next to the Mercedes. He quickly adjusted, but the move meant he gave up his vantage point. Roarke heard a bag rustle and the sound of keys. Bag’s on the ground. Keys in his hand. Then the unmistakable quick beep of the wireless lock unlocking. Roarke stood up and stepped out from behind the Mercedes.
“Stop!” he shouted.
“FBI!” Davis yelled from the front. “Freeze!”
Roarke didn’t anticipate what happened next.
The man stopped to examine a few items of clothing: a woman’s silk scarf, an argyle cashmere sweater, a sports jacket. He appeared to leisurely work his way to the far end of the store. The reporter kept his eye on the mirror. Something new caught his eye. Another man rushed in through the entrance to Bosco di Ciliegi, looking as if he were late for something. He frantically scanned the room.
A frumpy jacket, loose pants. The man was totally out of place, even to O’Connell’s thinking. He was definitely searching for someone. Christ! O’Connell automatically turned to the side, away from the new man.
Where’s…? He caught sight of the old man who brushed him in Red Square. He was a few rows away, walking toward him, seemingly unaware of the danger. O’Connell caught his eye and nodded his head slightly. The no was instantly understood. O’Connell cocked his head in the direction of the other man, now fifteen feet away. The old man was able to see his reflection in a store mirror.
O’Connell watched as his contact quickly broke right, putting racks of clothes between him and the second man. Suddenly, a gun was out.
Russians automatically froze. It was impossible for anyone not to recognize the distinctive demand to “Halt!” — which the old man did not heed.
The man froze in place. Roarke issued his next order. “Drop the keys and raise your hands!”
“What?” the man said.
“Arms out. Lie down, face on the ground.”
The man’s left hand went up slowly. His right hand remained at his side.
“I said, on the ground! Arms out. Legs spread. Now!”
Davis was now ten feet behind and off to the side, avoiding Roarke’s potential direct line of fire.
The man was still looking down. He hadn’t moved yet, and his hat obscured most of his face.
“FBI! Do as he says. This is your last warning.”
The quarry looked to his left, to Davis, and back to the right, to Roarke. Roarke lowered his gun, aiming at the man’s kneecap. “You’ll be on the ground one way or another.”
The man knelt, stretching his left arm forward, but his right was not.
“Arms out!” Roarke demanded!
“I can’t!” the man finally said.
“I said arms straight out!”
“I can’t!” There was desperation in the man’s voice.
Acting? Roarke wondered.
“For God’s sake, man, I’m disabled!” The man did his best to get into the spread-eagle position between his car and the Toyota, but his right arm wouldn’t move where Roarke demanded.
With the man on the ground, Roarke stepped closer to cover him. Davis closed in from behind. He shoved the man’s right arm forward and patted him down.
“He’s clean.” With his knee grinding into the man’s shoulder blades, Davis pulled his hands together and threw on the handcuffs.
“Okay, now up!” Roarke ordered. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
A shot rang out as the old man made for the door. The old Russian stumbled into a group of Canadian tourists. There were screams. O’Connell froze, waiting for the policeman to find him. But a store manager tackled the gunman. The old man continued a few steps into the common area, finally crashing into a food cart of Krasny Oktyobr Chocolates.
Some people froze; others darted in every direction. O’Connell joined the runners trying to escape. Nobody really knew what to do or what had happened. O’Connell saw the old man on the ground. He stayed with the flow, pushing closer. O’Connell calculated that he only had a moment before the policeman would be on him. He leaned over. The Russian was bleeding, but he was still alive, laying on his side. His eyes were open, but cloudy. A pool of blood formed, soaking the crushed chocolates. O’Connell was a foot from his face.