“I won’t leave it at that.” Klimov fished out his cell phone and speed-dialed FSB Director Frolov. Only hours ago they had discussed the crisis in Sochi, and Frolov gave no indication that he knew about the EMERCOM team operating at the wreck. Someone at the sanatorium must have tipped the FSB about the girl.
When Klimov described the unfolding intrusion, Frolov confirmed the FSB officer’s story word for word.
“Just give us the girl, Minister. It’s for her own good. We’ll transfer her to a good clinic. She’d be safer under our protection.”
Klimov’s grip tightened on the handset. In a clipped tone, he said, “Just keep your goons away from my boys, or else you will deal with me personally.”
He killed the connection. The FSB envoy watched silently, triumph in his eyes.
In the end, Klimov had to accept defeat, and, in a sense, Frolov’s logic. But not the audacity of his methods.
The Minister turned to the base commander.
“Show them to the medical ward where Ms. Kasymova is kept.”
PART III
1
The last ten kilometers were the hardest. Russia’s vastness, so cherished to behold some four hundred kilometers ago, when Constantine had entered the country, was piling more frustration onto him with every turn of the Porsche’s wheels. The endless plains became a blur.
But closing in on Moscow, he saw hints of an impeding finish emerging in the landscape. The familiar greenery made his heart race again.
The highway swerved through the trees, past the sparse communities of the city’s outskirts, towards denser neighborhoods, and finally, through blocks of high-rise towers.
As the M1 punctured Moscow’s outer ring, the road fused into Kutuzovsky prospekt, the city’s main entry point that opened into ten lanes of speeding traffic. The paved space was so wide that the adjacent buildings seemed distant, as if separated by an aircraft runway. Embroidered by jubilant banners and flags, Kutuzovsky was a major venue for Moscow’s never-ending carnival of life.
Straight ahead was Russia’s own Arc de Triomphe, a mark of supremacy over France. Constantine passed the chestnut alleys of Victory Park, the rising obelisk, and the gushing fountains. On the grassy knoll, the flower clock registered eleven o’clock.
It would still take some time for Constantine to absorb it all — the sights and sounds, the faces, the summer air scented with mixed blooms, and above all, the changes around him. Moscow had become even more beautiful — vibrant, colorful, and rich. The Russian flair for grandeur, backed by petrodollars, burst from every corner, window and billboard.
His Porsche did not stand out here as it did in Europe, for the street was swarmed with luxury cars, making Bentleys and Lamborghinis seem mundane. Kutuzovsky had always been a favorite district of the elite, be it Politburo members or billionaire oligarchs. On the left-hand side was Moskva City, a high tech business center that stood on the banks of the river. Concrete and glass, shimmering in the sun, had evolved over the twelve months he’d been gone, new framework acquiring form. The cluster of corporate towers rose a hundred stories high, showcasing Russia’s economical renaissance.
When a different kind of tower appeared in view, the tips of his fingers turned to ice. The mountainous shape poked through the sky. He felt pride in its beauty reigning over the blue, shaded with melancholy surrounding the age of its construction.
Kutuzovsky, built under Stalin, ended as it hit the steepest curve of the River Moskva, reaching the heart of the city. There, gloriously neighboring the postmodernist Moskva City, was a classic monolith of brick and stone, flanked by tiered wings, lavish with spires, balconies and parapets. The Ukraina Hotel, although it was constructed during Khrushchev’s reign, was one of his seven famous skyscrapers, placed by Stalin’s hand atop each of the seven hills of Moscow surrounding the Kremlin.
Constantine parked his Porsche under the trees in a quiet square in front of the hotel and got out, facing the monumental building. Intended to evoke trepidation, it felt as if the stone epitomized the spirit of Stalin. With twenty-nine levels above the ground, and three more below, the Ukraina Hotel was the second-highest of the seven siblings, the tallest being Constantine’s native Moscow University.
And so it stood, forever young, crowned by a Soviet pentangle, its visage retouched to be ever more blossoming as time went by.
Arching his head so that his vision could absorb the edifice in its entirety, Constantine became dizzy. He pressed against the side of the Porsche, massaging his temples. The fatigue was killing him. He grabbed the Samsonite and started towards the hotel. As he walked, he glanced over his shoulder at the car one last time.
Windows opened, doors unlocked, engine running.
Within minutes, the Cayenne would be stolen. Within days, it would roam Chechnya or St. Petersburg sporting fake license plates, any link to him erased.
2
Few people realized that of the entire ensemble of the Ukraina, only the main 170-meter-tall tower was dedicated to the hotel itself. Instead, the two low wings stemming from its base housed residential apartments. It was one of these apartments that Constantine was heading for.
Using Borisov’s cell phone, he had found the listing on the internet among thousands of other advertisements for typical two-room flats. As the old adage went, Muscovites never worked, but rather made a living leasing their apartments to migrants.
And lease was popular business, indeed. When a few hours earlier he had called to negotiate the terms, Constantine clinched a one-month rent for five thousand euros. Keys and money would change hands, forgoing any written agreement. A verbal deal was in the interest of both parties, allowing to evade taxes and retain anonymity.
Which is exactly what Constantine needed.
As he reached the designated door on the eighth floor and pressed the buzzer, Constantine was greeted by the apartment owner, an elderly woman with red hair and an overly made-up face.
“You must be Constantine.”
He nodded, and she guided him inside, providing a perfunctory tour of the property via gestures at closed doors.
When the corridor opened into the main office/dining/living room, she faced him expectantly.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry but I’ve changed my mind,” Constantine said.
Her penciled eyebrows arched.
“But… but…”
Constantine produced three bundles of cash from the Samsonite.
“Three months’ pay. Fifteen thousand euros. Surely, you wouldn’t mind such alteration to our terms?”
“Your stay here is assured!”
“As is my privacy, I hope.”
“Most certainly!”
Her eyes, heavy with mascara, were hypnotized by the thick wads of money.
Constantine dropped the money onto the table. “Deal.”
Eager to abandon him as soon as she’d stuffed the money into her purse, she wished him a pleasant stay and ran off. Constantine was equally eager to get rid of her.
The elderly lady had left behind only a set of keys and a fleeting reminiscences of Frau Hasler, a continent and a life away.
Constantine shut the door behind her, exhaling.
He walked around the flat like a chased animal that had to become familiar with its new lair before deeming it safe. The apartment had two tiny rooms and a monstrous four-meter ceiling. Although dusted, the furniture was stale, affected by age and use no matter how much the owner had tried to gloss it, just like her face. In the bathroom, the tiles had absorbed stain, and the ceiling exhibited rashes of nicotine rust; but it seemed safe for use, and nothing else mattered.