Noble Intentions: Season Two (Episodes 6-10) (33 page)

Jack looked back at Harris, who sat in the car and had his feet on the street. “Keys?”

“In the glove box.”

Jack crossed the front of the car to the passenger side and got inside the vehicle. He opened the glove box and pulled out its contents. There were two keys and a plastic bag containing paperwork. He pulled the papers out. They were in Russian. “These do me no good.”

“Give ‘em here,” Jasmine said. “I can read Russian.” She looked over each paper, top to bottom, front and back. “We’re legit.”

Jack stepped out of the car. Looked over the top and nodded at Harris.

Tires squealed and the engine roared. A minute later Harris and the unnamed driver were gone.

“They left in a hurry,” Jack said.

“If I weren’t tied to you, I’d be gone too.”

Jack laughed. Slipped into the passenger seat.

Jasmine waited for Jack to close his door. Then she put the car in drive. She had already programmed the GPS in the dash to take them to Moscow. “We got about six or so hours to kill. Ready to tell me what you did after you left the S.I.S., Jack?”

“No.”

7

“I hate being in Moscow,” Ivanov said.

“Why’s that?” Julij said.

“Feel like I’m under a microscope. These people always around. Can’t operate like I want to.”

“It’s only temporary.”

Ivanov stood and stepped out from behind his desk. He crossed the room. Opened the door and poked his head into the gray industrial colored hallway. Satisfied it was empty, he closed the door and returned to his desk. “So what is the latest on the woman?”

“We know that she’s not in Iowa anymore. At least, not at the compound.”

“She’d be a fool to stay there after what happened.”

Julij nodded. “Her body wasn’t found. I think the logical next step would be for her to return home.”

“Agreed. Where is home?”

“Here, sir. Arbat district.”

“Do we know the address?”

“Yes.”

“We should get a man there.”

“Already did, sir.”

“Any luck?”

“Sort of.”

“How do you sort of have luck, Julij?”

“He believes he saw her,” Julij paused. He brought his hands together and rested his bottom lip on the tips of his index fingers. He continued, “He saw a woman that resembled her. Her hair was up. According to our man, he called her name and she fled. Ended up on a bus and he says that he lost her.”

“Why would she run?”

“Perhaps she was afraid it was someone out to get her. If we’re her friends, that means she has some powerful enemies here.”

Ivanov nodded slowly as he stared at the younger man through narrowed eyes. “So how many men do we have watching over her place now?”

“Four.”

“Make it eight.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Eight men.”

“And then?”

“What do you mean, ‘and then’?”

“Do you want them to kill her?”

“I don’t trust her, but I don’t want her dead. Not yet. Bring her to me.”

“Here?”

“Do you think this is the kind of place I can question her?”

“No.”

“No, it’s not, Julij. Have her brought to my place.”

“What will you question her about?”

Ivanov felt his cheeks grow hot. He took a deep breath and placed his hands flat on his desk. “I’m getting tired of you questioning me, Julij.”

Julij said nothing.

“I don’t trust her. I want to find out why she is the only high ranking person who made it out of Iowa alive. Why didn’t she go down with the others defending the plan?”

“I see.”

“Yes, Julij, you see. In fact, you can see yourself out of my office.”

Ivanov waited until Julij left the office. After the door closed shut, he pulled out his cell phone. Placed a call. Midway through the third ring a man answered.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any news?”

“On?”

“You know what. Noble. Do you have news on Noble?”

“Yes, I can confirm that he is now in Russia and is headed toward Moscow.”

“Excellent. Do we have a fix on him yet?”

“No, sir. We’re still working on that.”

“Call me when you do. I want to know the exact moment Noble arrives in Moscow.” Ivanov ended the call and placed his phone on the desk. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, until Jack Noble was back in his custody. He would not make the same mistake this time. He would not leave Noble’s death to someone else. He’d pull the trigger on his own and cut the man’s heart from his chest.

8

Clarissa had the bus driver drop her off near St. Basil’s Cathedral. She crossed the artificially lit walkway in front of the huge building. The sky was white due to the impending storm. The wind whipped her face. The cold air stung her cheeks and nose.

She moved quickly, partly in an effort to keep warm, but mostly to get to the safety of the hotel. She stepped into the lobby and the man behind the counter looked up from this computer, nodded and then looked away. Fine with her. The less attention she drew, the better. She walked past the elevator and took the stairs. The hallway outside her room was empty. She stuck her key in the door and opened it. The room appeared undisturbed.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Noticed the light flashing on the phone. Picked it up and was directed to the front desk.

“Ma’am, we have a package addressed to your room. I’ll have somebody run it up now.”

“That’s OK. I’ll come down and get it.”

Five minutes later she was back in her room with the package. There was no return label, which she viewed as both good and bad. Sinclair would not use a return label. Neither would someone who had sent her a bomb.

She placed the package on the table. Grabbed the unsheathed knife and cut the thick brown packaging tape. She stuck her fingers in the slit and pulled the flaps of the box apart like a heart surgeon spreading his patient’s ribs apart.

Inside the box she found a manila folder that contained a dozen or so papers. There was a key chain with four labeled keys. She looked at each individually.
Front. Mail. Room. Bank.
Were the keys labeled like this when Sinclair got his hands on them? Or had he coerced Anastasiya into giving him the information? She flinched at the thought and quickly buried it. She didn’t know. She would never know. And she was fine with that.

She set the keys aside and grabbed the folder. It seemed Sinclair had been busy with the woman. Each page had new information on Anastasiya. Most of it was about her background, and not exactly classified intelligence. Clarissa learned that the woman had attended boarding school in New England for three years. She was the daughter of a Russian government official. Their family bred horses. She had been an athlete, but not good enough to make the cut. At the age of twenty she joined the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, formerly known as the KGB. She specialized in counter-intelligence, and then counter-terrorism.

Finally, there was a note from Sinclair that indicated Anastasiya might be on the same side as them and was planted into Boris’s group to take them down. He also advised her to treat every person she met with caution. People who appeared as friends might be foes, and vice versa.

Was the man outside the apartment building a friend? Or was he a foe? He had obviously been waiting for Anastasiya. It might be a good idea to find and question him.

Pain stabbed at her stomach. She looked at her watch and realized that she hadn’t eaten in nearly twelve hours. She called down to the lobby and ordered a steak. While she waited for her dinner, she reviewed the information again. She wanted to make sure she hadn’t overlooked a single detail of Anastasiya’s life. The thought crossed her mind that maybe the woman had deliberately lied to Sinclair in an effort to throw the operation off. Clarissa knew that’s what she would do if in a similar situation. If the woman really was on the up and up, and intended to take down Boris, she would fully comply in order to regain her freedom as soon as possible.

A young man arrived with dinner. Clarissa signed for the meal and gave him a tip. She placed the food on the table and put the papers back in the folder and tossed the folder on the couch. Mid-way through her meal, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Jack.”

“Where are you?”

“Close. Almost to Moscow. How’re things there?”

She thought about the man who called out for Anastasiya and subsequently ran after her. “Not sure yet. Just got the key to the woman’s apartment.”

“You heading over there tonight?”

She walked to the back of the room and pulled the curtain back. Fat snowflakes flew straight at her, hitting the window. The flakes melted and slid down, leaving a slushy trail in their wake. She said, “Weather’s kinda bad tonight. I need to get over, but I want to be able to see what I’m walking into. There was a man near her apartment today. He seemed to recognize me, well, her.”

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks, Clarissa. Wait until we get there. We’ll meet and put a plan together.”

“OK.”

“We’re going to stay nearby. Apparently Frank felt it wasn’t a good idea for us to be in the same hotel.”

“Since when did you start taking orders?”

“I know, I know. He had a good point, though. If one of us were followed back to the hotel, we could all end up compromised or dead.”

She wasn’t dead, but had she been compromised? “OK, Jack. Call me when you guys get settled in.”

She placed her phone on the table and finished eating. The phone didn’t ring. She grabbed a bottle of Vodka from the freezer and filled an eight ounce glass halfway. Took a drink. The phone still didn’t ring. She finished the glass and poured another. The phone rang.

“Jack?”

No one replied.

“Who is this?” she said.

No one replied.

“Who is this?” she said again.

The line was silent.

She ended the call and tossed the phone on the table. She walked to the window, pulled back the curtains. Couldn’t see anything through the wall of white that pelted the glass. The flakes stuck to one another and started to form a coating on the window.

She paced the room, front to back, over and over. The phone began vibrating on the table. She picked it up and looked at the display. Unknown caller. Every call said that. She tapped the screen and lifted the phone to her ear. Said, “Who is this?”

“It’s Jack.”

“Are you in Moscow?”

“Yeah, we’re about half a mile away. Other side of the Red Square, across the river. Place called the
Hotel Baltschug Kempinski
.”

“I saw a sign for that.”

“Where are you?”

“A hotel called Metropol.”

“We’re coming over.”

“No, stay. I’ll come to you. I need to get out for a bit.”

9

Clarissa left the warmth of the hotel and stepped out into the heavy snow and the blustery cold. She trudged down an alley along the side of the hotel. Past the rear parking lot. The well lit street provided enough visibility to stay clear of objects in her way. Surprisingly, there were other people out, couples and singles, likely on their way back to a hotel after dinner.

She passed a set of buildings and turned left, toward the Red Square. The outline of St. Basil’s stood out amid the sheet of white in the sky.

As she approached the square, she noticed a man in a dark jacket leaning against a tree. He stared her down as she approached. Straightened up as she walked by. Fifty feet later she looked back and noticed that he was following her.

She picked up her pace, not an easy thing to do when trudging through five or six inches of fresh powdery snow. The crowds had dispersed before the storm hit and the snow was not packed. Each step required extra effort.

She glanced over her shoulder and noticed the man had closed the gap between them. That pinned him as a local, or at least a Russian that was used to the weather. She reached inside her jacket, around her back. Grabbed one of her pistols and stuck it in her coat pocket.

The area in front of her began to narrow, leading to a four lane bridge. Tall light posts lined each side of the bridge. A car crossed, coming toward her. Its headlights lit up the wall of snow and made it impossible to see more than ten feet ahead. If she couldn’t see, neither could the man behind her. She took the opportunity to break to her right toward the Kremlin. Several trees stood between a tall red brick wall that separated the Kremlin from the road.

The effort required to sprint when her feet were buried under snow left her slightly winded. She took cover behind a thick tree. Back to bark. Steadied herself. Listened to the sound of the wind. Watched shadows dance on the bright white ground. Branches swayed rhythmically. Snow swirled and passed her in every direction. Left to right and back again. Up and down, then settled on the ground.

A sound penetrated the relative calm of the swirling wind. The unmistakable sound of snow crunching under heavy steps filled the void behind her.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Marakov pistol. Removed the glove from her right hand. Bare skin met the icy handle. The tip of her index finger lightly touched the steel trigger. One drop of snow and finger and trigger would freeze into one.

The steps grew louder, slower, closer. Were they to the left or to the right? She honed in. Another step. Impossible to tell. She pressed back against the tree, becoming part of it. Perhaps he would walk right by.

The bridge was less than one hundred feet away. She could try to sprint again. Flag down a vehicle, if she saw one. The bridge was well lit and might provide some safety from the man.

A gloved hand wrapped around her face. Pulled her head back against the tree. The rough bark scratched her scalp and neck. The glove stifled her scream.

The hand came from the right. The man was to the right of her. She decided to roll toward him. Fire a shot.

Before she could, the man spoke in Russian. “What are you doing over here, Anastasiya? Why are you hiding out in a hotel?” He slid his hand off of her mouth.

“Who are you?”