Private Moscow (Private 15)

I stopped running and caught my breath as the chopper followed the river in front of me. I saw the assassin watching me from inside the aircraft, and made myself a silent promise.

We would meet again.

CHAPTER 7

I WAS SHIVERING by the time I reached Broad Street. My coat was in the Exchange cloakroom and my Balani custom fitted suit didn’t offer much protection against the bitter chill of a New York winter. My chest was sore from the car crash and, after all the exertion, each breath was like inhaling jagged shards of ice.

Two ambulances were at the intersection with Exchange Place, and teams of paramedics were administering first aid to the guards who’d been shot. The calm, measured air of the medics suggested serious, but not critical, injury. I hurried behind the gathered crowd and headed south along Broad Street before the trio of security guards who’d tackled me noticed my return. They were standing with a group of thirty or so onlookers, many of whom had their phones out and were filming the ongoing medical treatment.

I walked toward a police cordon that been established fifty yards from the Exchange’s Broad Street entrance, and flashed my credentials at one of the uniformed cops.

“Jack Morgan, Private,” I said. “The victim, Karl Parker, was a friend.”

The cop nodded me through and I walked toward chaos. A couple of hundred traders and support staff who’d been in the Exchange at the time of the shooting had been corralled in a space by the entrance. People were growing disgruntled, and uniformed cops were shouting instructions, telling everyone they had to wait to be interviewed by one of the detectives working the crowd. The mood was turning ugly as many of those evacuated from the building weren’t dressed for the freezing cold. Coats were being brought out, and blankets provided, but not quickly enough for the most vocal members of the crowd.

A fleet of emergency vehicles was parked on Wall Street, and their flashing lights colored the surrounding buildings. News trucks were arriving and a couple of camera crews were already setting up. A growing crowd was gathering beyond the cordon on Wall Street. Passers-by who suddenly found their route through the city blocked mixed with gawkers eager to satisfy their hunger for sensation. I’d worked too many cases to kid myself about the lure of the macabre, but this incident was personal and I wanted all the phones and cameras to disappear, and the people who’d suffered such great loss to be left in peace.

I caught sight of the two people suffering most. Victoria and Kevin Parker were led through the Broad Street exit and ushered past the tent toward the line of waiting emergency vehicles.

“Victoria,” I called out, jogging over.

She turned, but it was an automatic action, like a rabbit in the path of an oncoming truck. She gave no hint of recognition and seemed stunned by trauma. Kevin wore the same blank expression, and their eyes were raw with tears. They were being shep-herded by a couple of uniforms and a plain-clothes detective.

“Victoria,” I repeated as I reached them. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK,” she said, but her voice suggested otherwise. It was pained and cracking. I still wasn’t sure she’d recognized me.

“Where are you taking them?” I asked the detective, an earnest man of Latin American extraction who looked as though he’d been prematurely aged by the job. It was a quality I’d noticed in the eyes of cops, doctors and soldiers, a depth and weariness that accompanied a life on the edge.

Before he had the chance to answer, I heard a voice behind me.

“That’s him. That’s the guy who assaulted us.”

I turned to see the older security guard who’d tackled me, talking to a female detective with hawkish eyes and a stern, suspicious face.

“Rick,” she said, “this man fled the scene right after the shooting.” The uniformed cops helped Victoria and Kevin into an unmarked car.

“What’s your name?” the earnest detective, Rick, asked.

“Jack Morgan.”

“I’m going to need you to come with me, Mr. Morgan,” he said, looking me up and down. I could only imagine how disheveled I appeared after the chase and fight.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not if you come willingly,” he replied.

The old voluntary custody hustle. Favored by cops the world over when they were faced with a borderline collar and didn’t want a paper trail that might screw their figures. I didn’t object. I had a ton of eyewitness evidence to share and at least I’d be warmer in the precinct than the people being interviewed on the street.

“OK,” I said.

“Wise man,” Rick replied, before he walked me to a nearby patrol car.

CHAPTER 8

WITHOUT EFFORT, YOU cannot pull a fish from the pond, Yana Petrova thought as she trudged along the frozen pavement. Deep snow lay all around her, and the slabs were covered with ice crystals that sparkled in the streetlights. This was Moscow at its most beautiful, the city’s sins concealed beneath cleansing powder.

The thermal leggings Yana wore beneath her jeans did little to ward off the chill, and her goose-down coat wasn’t much better. She imagined how warm she’d be if she’d refused Mickey’s offer of a date and had instead gone straight home after her shift. She could have caught a cab from the office to their rendezvous but travel by vehicle was fraught with danger. Cars could be booby-trapped and trains packed with knife-wielding assassins. Yana preferred to walk. At least she could see danger coming.