It was all Cobb could do to remember his alias. He took a deep breath. “My name is Berezin. I…” The remaining air whooshed out of his body as the foreman buried his fist in Cobb’s midsection. He doubled over onto the floor, his legs kicking spasmodically, gasping for air.
“When you’re ready, you may get up. Then we will start again.” The voice seemed to come through a tunnel, echoing through Cobb’s head, and he tasted bile, choking on it as he gasped. There was no way, Cobb realized, that he could go through this and still execute his plan that night. He got to his hands and knees.
“Now what do you think, my Berezin friend? Shall we talk?”
Cobb wiped at the blood running down his chin. His words came in gasps. “What I think… is that it won’t matter what I say.” He waited. There was no reaction from the other man. “I was brought up in Georgia. I don’t know where my family name came from,” he added quickly. “I can tell you about our grapes, our vineyards, our wines.
He didn’t see the blow coming this time, a brisk open hand to the side of the head that was as hard as a closed fist. Cobb went down again, ears ringing.
“I am sure you can tell me many things I don’t need to know about your wines. Anyone can be trained to do that.” The foreman had seemed relatively calm up to that point, but now anger was evident in his voice. “I want to know who sent you here. Nobody, not even the high and mighty in Moscow, makes a fool of me in front of General Keradin.” He pointed his index finger at Cobb, then jerked his thumb upward, indicating he wanted Cobb to get to his feet. “You could be from anywhere, but I suspect someone sent you to break security, someone who wants to see me sent off so that they can have this job.”
He went on, but Cobb barely heard what he was saying. The fact that the foreman thought he was being tested more for a breach in security than actually being compromised from the outside was Cobb’s ace in the hole. He had passed the test as a Russian, but not as the little old wine maker. Well, play Kozlov’s game, then!
“You are much wiser than anticipated,” Cobb began.
“This has been done before, you realize. I have been able to see through it each time. General Keradin is well taken care of, my friend. No one is going to compromise his position.” The words were spoken with arrogance and cruelty by a man who had succeeded in a mean world. Cobb had heard tales of GRU spying within the ranks, of how underlings sought to overthrow superiors by any means possible. Only the wisest, crudest, most suspicious survived to retire. “All I want to know,” the foreman said, “is who sent you in.”
Cobb lowered his eyes, sensing he might have a chance if he played the part of the enemy within. The foreman took a step in his direction, stopping when Cobb raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “You place me in a difficult position,” Cobb spoke slowly, still gasping. “If anything happens to me, you will of course, be considered responsible. If I am allowed to leave, you will be considered a fool. If I tell you who wants your position, then I will be a dead man.”
It was a chance Cobb had to take. If he kept talking, perhaps the foreman would relax his guard. “Let’s talk about how we can work together. After all, General Keradin is much taken with my knowledge of his wines.”
The foreman looked at him with disgust. “You turn on your seniors now; you will turn on me later.”
“I too want to work with Keradin. I took this assignment to meet him, believe me. I want to get out of Moscow. My life is wine. I have no interest in your job. A life of peace.”
“I can’t believe someone would send you.” The foreman shook his head in disgust. For a second, he turned his back to Cobb, wandering toward the small, single window. “Imagine…”
That was the foreman’s last word as Cobb sprang across the space between them, covering the distance in an instant, his arm already raised. He brought it down, his hand flattened sideways like an ax head. The blow caught the foreman in the back of the neck. As he slumped sideways, Cobb grabbed him, twisting his head back. The neck snapped with a sharp crack. Cobb released the body. The foreman was dead before he hit the floor.
Cobb peeked anxiously out the window. No one was around. He dragged the body behind the foreman’s desk. Knowing there had to be a weapon of some kind, he went through the drawers. In one of them, he found a Makarov pistol, fully loaded. He tucked it inside his shirt.
Outside, the shadows had merged into the blackness of night. A cool breeze blew in off the Black Sea, pushing the lights of magnificent yachts safely into the arms of this Russian Riviera. He pulled his cap low over his forehead and exited into the darkness. He hoped no one had business in the foreman’s office that night. The light was off, the door locked as he slipped out. Perhaps, just perhaps no one would miss the foreman for the next few hours.
Cobb already knew where he would hide until he judged the time was right to move. There could be no possible reason security would ever inspect the crusher. He climbed easily up the side and slid over into the catch basin inside. If for some unknown reason someone did want to look inside, Cobb would be able to hear them climbing up the side.
Feeling gently with his fingers, Cobb found the side of his face swollen from the foreman’s blows. He sat up cautiously. His stomach also hurt. Stretching slowly, Cobb grinned to himself. He would feel just fine in no time. The foreman would never feel a thing again.
He peered cautiously over the top of the crusher. Nothing — no one. He looked toward the Black Sea. Safety! Lights blinked back from the water. The glow of Yalta, off to one side, offered comfort, especially to the powerful few in the Soviet Union. Like the foreman of Keradin’s vineyard, they had willingly done anything to achieve the good life.
Tonight, if he was successful, Cobb would change that good life for another well-rewarded Russian citizen. But he would only accomplish that if another person, one unknown to him until today, was able to pull off her part of a sensitive plan, one he had conceived in just a few brief moments. This was not out of the ordinary for him. His existence depended on his reactions. He succeeded in the job because he was the best there was. He relished the spirit of the hunt. But Verra was joining him in a spirit of hatred, as well as trust that a complete stranger would do everything in his power to bring her with him. After the degradation she had suffered, she had nothing to lose.
Cobb felt for the pistol, extracting it from his shirt. It was warm with the heat of his body. He checked it again, just as he had done before allowing himself to doze for an hour. The Makarov would be used only as a last desperate measure. Their weapons would make short work of him and Verra if they were caught. Perhaps if they confronted only one man or two, it might buy him time. It might buy time for the girl.
Verra. Cobb dreamed about her. She had changed from a peasant girl, covered with dust, clothing stained with grape juice at the end of the day, to a beautiful woman in an evening gown. He imagined her sweeping down a long staircase, jewelry glittering, hair upswept, long gown covering all but her shoes… and there at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for her in full uniform… was Keradin. Though the shock in the dream had jolted him awake for a second, he realized then, as he did now, that she was as beautiful in reality as she had been in his dream. The peasant clothing she had worn that day was nothing more than a uniform. The elegant way she carried herself, the manner in which she spoke, even her desire to emasculate Keradin, made him realize that she was indeed the lady she claimed to be, a lady who would seek revenge if she was violated. She would be a worthy partner — and he had not realized how much he needed a partner until she clarified that for him. He forced the memories of another time and another woman in Saigon from his mind.