Chapter Twelve
Cameron
I WOKE UP early the next morning to find Tess out of bed and brewing a pot of coffee, which smelled better than anything else I could recall in recent days.
I got up, threw my jeans on, and tried to get the drop on her in the tiny kitchen.
I crept up behind her as quietly as I could, but just as I reached her, Tess spun around, planting a kiss on me, her hands going to my stubbled face.
“Someone’s in need of a shave,” Tess said, with a slight growl in her voice.
“I know,” I said. “I was going to tell you last night that your moustache is getting a bit prickly, but I didn’t want to spoil the mood.”
“Shut up,” Tess hiss-pered. Slapping me on my bare chest. “Don’t even joke about that. My aunt Linda has a moustache. That stuff is hereditary, you know. It could happen to me.”
I studied her face for a few moments. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think there’s room on your perfect face for a moustache.”
She bit her lip. “We’re really stupid to be doing this while on the job, aren’t we?”
“Probably, but people meet each other at work all the time, right?”
“Calling what we do ‘work’ or ‘a job’ is oversimplifying in order to minimize the trauma of realizing the true peril we are in, right?”
I nodded with a sigh. “I’d say we’re in a fair amount of peril, true.”
“Seems that way,” she said.
“We could always run. Sasha can’t have eyes everywhere, right? We could make it onto a flight out of here, I’m sure. There’s nothing wrong with a tactical retreat.”
“I’m not quitting. Not after all of this work. Not when I’m so close to burning these mothers down.”
“Full speed ahead it is, Captain.”
“How about I pour us some coffee, and we can figure out how to get ourselves out of peril?” she suggested, grabbing the only two mugs from her shelf.
I took a seat at her tiny little kitchen island and studied her. “Has it been lonely for you here in Russia, all by yourself?”
“Me climbing you like a tree didn’t tip you off?” she retorted.
“The physical thing aside, what about the rest of it? Have you craved companionship?”
“I’m not sure I was referencing my physical reaction to you. As much as I enjoy the wrapper you come in, I like the chocolate bar that’s inside even more.”
I stood, leaning down for another kiss, pulling Tess in close. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”
“You can’t make that promise. Neither of us can,” she said.
“I can and I am. We’re partners, remember? We’ll always have each other’s backs. Besides, I’m not sure we have anyone else to rely on. From what we’ve both experienced, the agency is basically treating this mission like a black-op.”
She settled her palms on my chest. “Yeah, but why?”
“My handler told me there was a leak in our office. That any communication of any kind back home could jeopardize the mission and it’s assigned officers,” I said. “My strict orders were to run in whisper mode. No calls home to mother. No outside support.”
“I check in twice a week via a system of rotation drop points. Outgoing messages only,” Tess said.
“I don’t suppose you have any contacts here who could help?”
“Help us do what, exactly?” she asked. “Contact a CIA asset whose location is completely unknown to us?”
I shrugged.
“What about you?” she asked.
“The only contact I have in Russia besides you is an octogenarian US Ambassador from Washington State, but I doubt he’d be of much help,” I said, flippantly.
“Wait, you’re not talking about George Korman are you?”
A shock of pure surprise ran through my body. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Because George Korman is a company man. An absolute legend in his day, before he retired and became a US Ambassador to Russia.”
“Korman was a spy?”
“A cold war legend. The youngest officer ever to receive the Exceptional Service Medallion. He worked deep cover here for a total of eight years.”
I chuckled. “He made me on the plane.”
“What?”
“Korman. He pegged me as an officer the second he laid eyes on me. I tried to play it cool, but he saw through it. He warned me about the chaos of Russia and boy do I know what he meant now. In fact, he gave me his card in case I ‘ran into any trouble.’ I laughed it off at the time, but now…”
“Do you still have his card?” Tess asked hopefully.
“No,” I replied, tapping my head. “But that doesn’t matter because it’s up here.”
Tess quickly rummaged through her bag, producing a cell phone. “It’s a burner,” she said, handing it to me.
I dialed Ambassador Korman’ number and held my breath as it rang.
Korman answered with, “Boy Scout?”
“Yes sir,” I answered, surprised he knew it was me calling.
“Are you calling from a secure line?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you know where the Mariinsky Theatre is?”
“No, but I can read a map.”
“Good. There’s a Chinese restaurant across the way from the theatre’s entrance, on the northeast corner. Meet me there at eleven o’ clock, sharp and make sure you’re not followed.”
“Understood,” I said, and hung up.
“What did he say?” Tess asked.
“He said we’re having Peking Duck for lunch.”
* * *
We arrived at the Lucky Dragon restaurant with two minutes to spare, confident we hadn’t been followed.
Two taxi rides and the last half mile by foot and we were tail-free.
The Ma?tre D’ showed us to a closed, private dining room in the back where Ambassador Korman was seated and waiting for us. He’d even poured the tea.
“Nice to see you again, Boy Scout,” he said cheerily as we took our seats.
“And you as well, Ambassador. May I introduce you to my fiancé, Eleanor Finch.”
“You can speak freely here. No one’s listening to our conversations. And even if they are, no one here speaks English. Cantonese and Russian only.” Korman broke out into a wide smile. “Well, except dumplings. That’s the universal language, of course.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Tess said, shaking Korman’ hand. “It goes without saying, your reputation proceeds you.”
“How long have you been in Russia?” Korman asked.
“Almost six months, sir.”
“Still have all your fingers and toes, then?” he asked, with a smile.
“Yes, sir. So far, so good,” Tess replied.
“Please, call me George. I spent thirty years as a field officer where I went by more aliases than I can remember. Then I got a new job where everyone called me either Sir or Ambassador. My adult kids call me Dad, to the grandchildren I’m ‘Pop Pop,’ and my dear sweet bride calls me ‘Porgie.’ It’s nice to hear my real name from time to time. ”
“George it is, then,” Tess said, sweetly. And, son-of-a-bitch, she actually blushed.
George turned to me. “Stepped into some of that Red Chaos I warned you about?”
I raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”
“Because we’re in the back room of the Lucky Dragon, which means you’re smart enough to have figured out who I am, but in the shit deep enough to need my help. It also means you’ve run out of local allies or you’ve been burned.”
“Not burned but we’ll be marked for death if we can’t convince someone of our affiliation with a certain Company asset.”
Korman’s eyes widened. “Sounds like proper spy work to me.”
“What do you say, George? Ya feel like suitin’ up for the game again?” I asked.
“Who says I ever stopped wearing the suit?” he replied with a wink.
“I think I’m engaged to the wrong spy,” Tess said.
“How can I help you two?”
“I’m not sure how much you know about Ilya Petrakov,” I started.
“Quite a bit, actually. Our careers ran in parallel for many years. Both of us climbing the ranks of our respective fields around the same time. I must confess, I don’t follow his operation as closely as I did while on the job, but old habits die hard, so I try my best to stay up to date.
It’s why I took a keen interest in you, Boy Scout. ”
“Thank you again, for your time and your help. We’re working undercover as black-market art brokers and newly engaged couple Eleanor Finch and Noah Beck.”
“If fine art’s your game, Sasha Fedya’s your man,” George said.
“He is our man, indeed.”
“Most importantly,” Tess interjected. “He’s the man my boss would like to spend some quality time with.”
“I see,” George said. “He’d be a good catch, that’s for sure. The only problem is—”
“Ilya Petrakov,” Tess said.
“I don’t get it,” I admitted. “There wasn’t much information in my brief about Ilya Petrakov’s relationship with Fedya, so I only know what I know, but what makes this fence so bulletproof?
We know he’s a criminal, and I understand why we can’t simply turn him in to the Russian Police, but why not give him to Interpol or grab him ourselves?
Hell, if the US hates him so much, why send us and not a sniper and a spotter? ”
“Because Sasha Fedya is far more than a fence,” Tess said.
“He’s become an integral part of Ilya’s operation.
Through his work as a middleman for the past twelve years, Sasha has opened up all kinds of new channels for his boss.
Channels that have made the Petrakov family hundreds of millions of dollars.
Taking down Sasha is too big a move against Ilya right now.
It would make too much noise. The Deputy Director told me himself.
We’re not prepared to engage in open warfare with the Petrakovs.
That’s the whole reason I’m here. Go as deep as possible in order to gather the intel needed to move forward. ”
“Forward with what, exactly?” I asked.
George leaned forward. “The removal of Ilya Petrakov, along with several key Oligarchs.”
“So, what does black-market artwork have to do with taking down the Oligarchy?”
“Nothing,” Tess said. “But Deputy Director Forrester thinks Sasha Fedya is sheltering, laundering, and moving the wealth of many of Russia’s richest and most powerful.
Some of these riches include artwork, heirlooms and artifacts once owned by Jewish families, that were taken from them during World War II.
If we can uncover how Sasha is doing this and for who, we can exploit whoever is on the other end of it. ”