Big Numbers (21 page)

Here’s a sample from Bill Moody’s
The Man in Red Square.

Prelude

At first glance there was nothing to distinguish the slightly built man, body thickened by a heavy parka, standing opposite the Lenin Mausoleum. A look, a nervous gesture, a tell-tale tic behind the wire-framed aviator sunglasses, none of these would have been evident to the casual observer. It’s difficult to recognize a man poised, however reluctantly, on the brink of his own destiny.

He’d been standing there for nearly an hour, squinting into the glare of an unseasonal sun that had briefly thawed Moscow and brought its bewildered and confused citizens out in droves to bask in the unexpected mid-winter warmth.

A lot of the snow had melted, still scattered about Red Square, thick jagged patches remained, like a chain of white islands stretched from the dark, red stone walls of the Kremlin to the incongruous onion-like domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

The icy wind blowing
off the Moskva River swirled briefly about the Kremlin towers and whipped across the square towards the GUM Department Store, stinging the faces of lunch time shoppers scurrying in and out of its ornate facade.

Was it an omen perhaps, this freakish weather? Nature bestowing her approval? He couldn’t decide. He only knew the earlier confidence and assurance had deserted him now, vanished like the puffs of his own breath in the wind, leaving him with only a cold knot of indecision clawing at the pit of his stomach.

It wasn’t going to work. He was sure of it.

But even now, as his mind flirted with abandoning the whole idea, playing with the notion like a child with a favorite toy, he could feel several pairs of eyes, watching, recording his every move, tracking each step. There was no turning back now. One step and he would set in motion a chain of events from which there was no retreat.

He was committed, as surely as a diver who springs off the high board and waits only for the water to rush up and meet him.

Only his reason for being there defined him, set him apart from the swarm of foreign tourists and Muscovites waiting patiently in the long line snaking towards him across the square. Weary pilgrims to a godless shrine, shuffling ever closer for a fleeting glimpse of Lenin’s waxen figure encased in glass.

Still motionless, his eyes restlessly wandered over the slow moving file. The Russians were easily distinguishable. Uniformly dressed in drab olives and dark browns, their enduring somber faces wore resignation like a mask. They were in sharp contrast to the animated group of Japanese, nervously chattering, eyes darting everywhere, clutching cameras and thumbing guidebooks.

Just ahead of the Japanese group, his eyes stopped and riveted on a man and woman. The man—tall, angular, seemingly oblivious to the cold in a light coat, tie flapping in the wind—stood ramrod stiff next to the much shorter woman. A mane of blond hair spilled over the folds of her thick fur coat.

They were exactly as he remembered.

The woman’s breath expelled in tiny puffs as she gushed in obvious delight and pointed around the square. The man nodded absently, occasionally following her gestures. Once, they turned in his direction; he thought for a moment the man’s eyes locked with his own. He turned away quickly, pulling the hood of his parka up around his face. Then, almost angrily, realizing he couldn’t possibly be recognized at this distance, jammed his hands in the pockets of the parka, and felt his hand close over the small slip of paper.

Relax. How long had it been? Years. He forced himself to take several deep breaths and tried once again to shake off the anxiety. Was this all it would take? A hastily scribbled note?

The file was moving faster now. He would have to make his move soon. But there was something wrong with his legs. They wouldn’t move. Again, almost angrily, he took off his sunglasses, as if they were the cause of his immobility. He turned into the wind and strolled casually towards the line.

He pushed through a large crowd coming out of the tomb, unmindful now of the grunts of protest as he jostled for a position nearer the Japanese group. A few turned to eye him curiously as he suddenly veered away and broke into a kind of slow jog. His boots crunched over a patch of snow; the blood began to pound in his ears.

Abruptly, he changed direction. He turned quickly, pushed through the orderly file, directly in front of the man and woman. Startled, the woman cried out, clutching her handbag close as he brushed against her. The fur of her coat lightly grazed his face. Angry voices filled his ears. Someone was shouting for the guards. The man, equally surprised said something but it was lost in the shouting.

He palmed the folded slip of paper and slid it easily into the tall man’s coat pocket.

For a fleeting moment, so vital that everything depended on it, he turned his face squarely to the man. He saw the flashing spark of recognition dissolve into shock, the mouth drop open to speak a name, silently formed on bloodless lips. Then he was gone, melting into the crowd, past curious stares, indignant voices.

It was done.

He walked hurriedly, zigzagging across the square, glancing back over his shoulder, knowing there would be no pursuit. He paused at the steps of the Metro, free at last of the crowds.

Perhaps, free of Russia.

***

Tommy Farrell was waiting for Santa Claus.

He’d had other plans for Christmas Eve–plans that didn’t include freezing his ass off in the back of a broken down van on the New York Thruway. He sat hunched on the floor near the rear doors, shifting his position for the third time in as many minutes but finally gave it up as a useless exercise. There was simply no way to get warm or comfortable. He could only take solace in the knowledge that the red, disabled vehicle tag flying from the van’s aerial was as false as his hopes that the Jets would make the Super Bowl.

He looked out the van’s rear window. The late evening traffic rushing by was lighter now than when he’d taken up his position nearly an hour before and moving steadily. The road had been cleared, but new snow flurries were already starting to fall and a heavy storm was predicted by midnight. Perfect weather for Santa Claus, Farrell thought, lighting a cigarette and pulling the collar of his coat up around his ears.

He checked the luminous dial of his watch. Eight o’clock. He dragged deeply on the cigarette and tried to dredge up thoughts about duty to country, but they were easily obscured by the vision of his wife, at home in front of a glowing fire, putting finishing touches on the tree and explaining to their two young children why daddy had to work on Christmas Eve even if he is in the FBI.

He shivered again and poured the last of the coffee from a thermos. It was still hot but flat, tasteless. He felt the van shudder and turned sharply as the interior was suddenly bathed in blinding light, revealing for a moment the tripod-mounted Nikon with a long-range telephoto lens. A klaxon horn shattered the night as a heavy diesel thundered by dangerously close.

Farrell’s hand shook; the coffee spilled. He cursed the huge truck as the hot liquid splashed on his hand. Tossing the cup aside, he wiped his hand on his jacket and squinted through the lens of the Nikon.

The camera was trained on a phone booth across the expressway.

He carefully adjusted the focus and checked the meter reading. With high speed, infrared film to compensate for the poor expressway lighting, the pictures would be sharp and clear if conditions held. He rotated the lens slightly until he could read the number on the dial of the telephone.

“Bingo One, Bingo One, this is Caller.” The metallic voice crackled out of the small hand-held radio beside Farrell.

“Go, Caller,” he answered.

“The Navy’s on the way. Just passed the toll booths. ETA, four minutes.”

“Gotcha.” Farrell laid the radio aside, checked his watch and the camera once again and nervously watched the minutes tick off. In just under four minutes, a dark blue sedan pulled off the expressway and parked in front of the phone booth.

The driver emerged cautiously from the car, briefly scanned the oncoming traffic and gave Farrell’s van a cursory glance. For an instant, the driver’s face was framed in the lens. “Gotcha,” Farrell murmured aloud. The Nikon’s motor drive whirred as he clicked off several frames.

Through the lens, Farrell continued to track the man as he strode towards the phone booth. Inside, a dim light came on over his head as he closed the folding door. Farrell watched tensely as the man took a large envelope from under his coat and stuck it under the shelf below the phone. He hung up the receiver and quickly returned to his car. Farrell shot the last of the roll at the retreating car as it merged with the traffic heading toward New York City.

With practiced hands, Farrell rewound the film, loaded the camera with a fresh roll and re-adjusted the focus. He paused for a moment, lighting another cigarette, then picked up the radio.

“Caller, this is Bingo One.”

“Go Bingo,” the voice replied.

“Santa’s helper has come and gone.”

“Roger, Bingo. Santa should be along in a minute. How you doin’ out there?” The business-like voice suddenly became friendly.

Farrell smiled. “Okay if I ever thaw out.”

“Hang on. I’ll buy you a drink when we wrap this up, okay?”

“No thanks. It’s Christmas Eve remember?”

“Aw, you married guys are all alike. Why don’t you…wait a minute. Santa just went through the gate. Black Buick, four-door.”

“Right,” Farrell said. He snapped off the radio and rubbed his hands together. He counted off three minutes and forty-two seconds before the second car pulled off and parked near the phone booth. For more than a minute, the flashing tail lights winked at Farrell, but no one got out of the car.

“C’mon, c’mon.” The snow flurries were beginning to thicken. As if responding to Farrell’s anxiety, the door opened and a man got out. Short, thick-set, and as with the first man, his face was briefly framed in the lens.

Farrell’s breath quickened at the sight of the familiar face. He pressed the shutter button. Swiveling the camera, he tracked his prey to the booth and locked in for a waist-high shot.

This time there was no pretense of dialing. The man simply held the receiver in one hand and felt under the shelf for the envelope. He seemed to stare directly into the lens, as if he knew it was there, Farrell would remember later.

While the man grappled with the folding door, Farrell shot the remaining film and grabbed the radio, almost shouting now. “All units, go!”

Red lights flashing, tires screeching in protest, a police cruiser arrived seconds later. It skidded to a halt blocking the outside lane and was quickly joined by three unmarked cars. Together they boxed in the black Buick.

Farrell continued to watch through the lens. The expression of bewilderment and shock on the man’s face quickly gave way to resignation as he was led away to one of the waiting cars. Then, police cruiser in the lead, one of the policemen driving the Buick, the convoy roared off, leaving the phone booth deserted once again.

Farrell quickly packed up the camera and lens in an aluminum case. He jumped out of the van’s rear doors, tore off the red tag from the aerial and climbed into the driver’s seat. Turning the ignition key, he smiled in relief as the engine came to life easily.

He paused for a moment wondering as always where his photos might end up. On the desk of the Bureau Chief? In the Kremlin? Well, it didn’t matter really. He’d done his job.

He shoved the van in gear and pulled onto the expressway. With any luck he’d be home in time to help with the turkey.

One

It was nearly nightfall as the jumbo jet burst through the heavy dark sky over Washington and touched down at Dulles International Airport. The chirp of tires and sudden reverse thrust of engines jolted John Trask, brought him to the surface of an uneasy slumber. He rubbed a bony hand over his sharply chiseled face, blinked out the window at the airport lights flashing by and unbuckled his seat belt.

Once inside the terminal, Trask eased through customs and immigration. Diplomatic status has its rewards, he thought, smiling at the novelty of traveling under his own name. He moved quickly to beat the crowd to the ground transportation exit and scanned the rank of taxis for the car that would take him to Langley.

There was snow on the ground and the night sky promised more of the same. In a moment he was joined at the curb by a much younger man and directed to the waiting car. Trask eased in the back seat, and closed his eyes as the driver negotiated the airport traffic and angled towards the Virginia Expressway.

Gratefully, he sank back against the seat, feeling the fatigue spread through him. But even his weariness could not stop the jumble of thoughts racing through his mind. It was happening again. Just when he thought he had the answer, it slipped away, triggering the familiar signs he’d grown to trust that meant something didn’t quite fit.

The arrest of a Soviet official—especially one without diplomatic immunity—was always welcome news, but this one didn’t make any sense at all. Why would a senior trade delegate, with an unblemished record, jeopardize his career and usefulness to Moscow with a stupid blunder?