In their case, the weather decided not to cooperate. A thick curtain of gray clouds and a heavy rain greeted them before they hit the tarmac. The captain noted it was only fifty degrees outside, with wind speeds of over ten miles. Justin could feel the cold as they stepped out of the airplane and into the air bridge.
Inside the airport, another gigantic dome reminding Justin of a large flower with open petals welcomed passengers. The terminal was clean and lacked nothing in terms of passenger services. Open spaces, lots of stores, and short lines at the passport check-in counters.
Their cover was they were traveling to enjoy the sights of Moscow for a few days and nights. Yes, it was their first visit to Moscow, they told customs officials. Yes, they were booked at the Sheraton Palace Hotel for three nights and had their return ticket to go back home. Everything was in order. A few stamps on official documents, and they were welcomed to Moscow.
Aware they were most likely being watched, they never turned their heads to check behind their backs. They collected their luggage, then Carrie bought an umbrella from one of the gift stores. They hailed a cab outside the terminal and headed for the city, about twenty miles south of the airport.
Once they had been on the Leningradskoye Highway for a few minutes, the driver — a man who told them he was forty-five, but whose wrinkles made him look almost ten years older — began to point out various landmarks of the city. Carrie began to snap pictures, acting excited at pretty much everything. Justin asked the driver for advice about places to visit, acting as if it were their first time in the city, and the driver had all the answers.
He was a calm, relaxed man, doing the speed limit and respecting most, if not all, traffic rules. Other cars kept changing lanes, fighting to gain a few extra seconds, their bumpers almost kissing the ones of cars in front of them. Their maneuvers were crazy, the drivers showing very little regard for their own lives or the lives of other people around them.
They crossed the Moscow Canal, which connected the Volga River to the Moskva River snaking throughout most of the city. Soon they reached the Sokol District and the highway turned into the Leningradsky Prospekt, one of the major avenues in Moscow. Modern, luxury import cars sped past cheap, Russian-made clunkers. Stalin-era gray and drab apartment complexes were dwarfed by newly-constructed shiny, glass towers. The rain had slowed down, but the menacing clouds loomed over the buildings.
The driver dropped them off at the Sheraton Palace Hotel, and Justin rewarded him for the safe ride and the tourist advice with a generous tip. His services were no longer required, but Justin liked the man and would have hired him for all three days, if they were really tourists.
After registering with the reception, they turned down the porter offering to carry their luggage and proceeded to their room on the fifth floor. As they entered the elevator, Justin turned to Carrie. “I almost can’t believe you’re here with me, in Moscow. You know, because of your hate for Russia.”
“I can hardly believe it myself. But here we are.”
“Too bad we couldn’t get in touch with Yuliya. She hasn’t returned to Moscow yet.”
“She’s still in Yemen?”
Justin nodded. “That’s what I heard. They found Romanov’s money, and Yuliya is getting her revenge. The people who attacked the safe house in Sana’a were Houthis. She’s hunting them down.”
The elevator binged, and they stepped outside. “I bet you Fyodor is already here,” Carrie said.
“I’m sure he is.”
They found their room, and Justin swiped his card. The door opened, and they entered their Club Junior Suite. The blinds were drawn, and one of the lamps was turned on. A man in his thirties was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room and facing the hallway. “Justin and Carrie. Welcome to Moscow,” he said as he stood up, pushing the chair to the side.
It took Justin a millisecond to compare his face to one he had seen in his mission files. The man was Fyodor, one of the Service’s operatives in Russia’s capital. He was going to be their main contact, providing them with intelligence and equipment.
“Nice to meet you, Fyodor,” Carrie said.
“Same here,” Fyodor replied.
He reached over and shook Justin’s hand.
His English had no trace of Russian or any other accents. His handshake was strong and steady. “Good trip?”
“Yes, a long, but good trip,” Justin replied.
“Thirsty? Hungry? We can order room service.” Fyodor pointed at the phone and the menu on the small desk across from the bed.
“Thanks, but we’re fine,” Justin said.
“As you wish. The room is clean. I swept it for bugs myself. So we can speak freely.”
Fyodor walked to the desk and picked up a small leather briefcase from underneath it. He placed it on the bed, then flipped open its hinges. “Here you have euros, dollars, two MP-443 pistols, Russian passports, driver licenses, credit cards, clean cellphones, and of course, the plans of Romanov’s mansion.”
Carrie smiled. “Wonderful.”
She reached over, picked up one of the guns, and began to inspect it. Satisfied, she said, “Now I feel complete.”
Fyodor nodded, then grinned.
“We really appreciate this,” Justin said.
“No problem,” Fyodor said. “My partner and I will drive you to Romanov’s. We’re staying across the hall, so we have eyes and ears on everything going on in this floor.”
“Perfect,” said Justin. “We’re going to clean up, then come and get you when we’re ready.”
“Anything you need, just let me know.”
“We’ll do.”
No city in the world had more billionaires than Moscow, and Romanov was one of them, but he preferred to live away from the city’s noise and commotion. Yes, he owned a penthouse in one of the newest and most luxurious apartment towers in Moscow, with magnificent vistas of the Kremlin and the Moskva River. But he liked to throw parties for his business partners in his country residence, a posh palace west of the city.
Fyodor was their driver in a black Audi sedan, a luxurious model Justin had never seen before. They were going to a billionaire’s party, so they needed to look the part of billionaires. Their clothes were bought at some of the top fashion stores in Moscow. Carrie was wearing a scoop neckline black dress that accentuated her hourglass shape and equally exquisite three-inch pumps, along with a matching purse. She also had a black wool blend coat. Justin had a black suit and tie with a white shirt, all Italian hand-made, and a black felt coat.
“I feel so exposed in this dress,” Carrie said, pulling up the neckline to cover some of her cleavage. “I should have gone for the other dress, but that one made me look like an escort.”
Fyodor grinned. “I’m sure there will be some high-priced escorts at the party.”
“You look great,” Justin said. “Your appearance will help us get past the guards. Then we’ll go straight for Romanov.”
Fyodor caught Justin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “How much time do you think you’ll have?”
Justin shrugged. “It depends who Romanov has as his eyes tonight. The guards at the door most likely will not recognize me, but some of his close bodyguards have seen me before. I’d like to find Romanov in the first five minutes once we’re inside his palace.”