CHAPTER 44
DINARA HAD PICKED the locks on the main entrance to get us into the building, but Ernie Fisher’s apartment on the ninth floor was more challenging.
“I can get it. I just need a few minutes,” she said as she crouched over a mortise lock that was designed to be impossible to pick.
I could hear the sound of sirens getting closer, and guessed it was the police responding to Leonid’s call.
Dinara was making fine adjustments with her lock-picking tools. “If I can just …” There was a faint snapping sound. “Damn!”
She pulled out a broken single hump Bogota pick, and looked at West and me with pure frustration.
“Stand back,” I said, and when Dinara stepped out of the way, I aimed my heel at the lock and kicked hard.
The lock popped, but a full-length security bar prevented the door from opening.
I was convinced I heard movement inside the apartment. “Come on,” I said, and West and I put our shoulders to the door and barged with our full combined force. The security bar made a terrible noise as it tore away from the screws embedded deep in the frame.
We burst into the grand apartment and I immediately saw the place had been turned over, and on the far side of the apartment Fisher was hanging by a window that overlooked the Moscow River. A length of piano wire was attached to a curtain rail and the other end was lost in the folds of his neck.
Dinara and West rushed over and started trying to get Fisher down. I was about to join them when a noise caught my attention. I ran into a large kitchen and saw an open door on the other side of the room. I crossed the white tiled floor and approached the door, which led to a metal fire escape. I could hear footsteps echoing off the walls and pulled the door wide. When I stepped through and glanced down, I saw the fire escape was built into a well that cut through the heart of the old building. Tiny balconies joined every apartment to the stairs that ran all the way down to the ground. Many of the balconies were cluttered by washing lines, toys, garden furniture and junk, which would have made escape a nightmare if there ever were a fire. I could see no sign of the source of the noise, so I looked up.
There, frozen almost directly above me, standing next to the balustrade that marked the edge of the roof, was a masked man in special forces gear. We stared at each other and I recognized his eyes. It was the man who’d murdered Karl Parker and Elizabeth Connor in New York.
He drew a pistol and opened fire, forcing me back into Ernie Fisher’s kitchen. Bullets flashed off the metal fire escape like tiny bolts of lightning and the thunder crack of the shots echoed around the well. A moment later, the shooting stopped.
“What the hell is happening?” West yelled from the living room, but I didn’t hang around to answer.
I ran outside and bounded up the fire escape, racing to the roof. When I reached the top of the stairs, instead of being confronted by the formidable assassin, I found nothing but footsteps in the deep snow. I followed them to the rear of the building and, concealed in a thick drift, I discovered an ancho
r and tactical rope that vanished over the low concrete barrier that marked the edge of the roof.
I glanced over and saw the assassin completing his rappel down the side of the building. He landed on an unmarked gray van and, in one fluid move, rolled off the roof and slid through the open passenger door onto the front seat. He slammed the door, and the van drove away. I considered the rope and wondered whether there was anything to be gained by following him down using a makeshift abseiling loop. Could I make it down before the van reached the end of the alleyway?
The decision was taken out of my hands.
“Stoy!” a voice yelled, and I turned to see three Moscow police officers moving toward me, their guns trained in my direction as they crossed the roof.
I glanced down and burned with frustration as I saw the gray van leave the alleyway and turn right onto the road that ran alongside the vast riverside government complex that was officially known as Federation House.
Once again, the killer had escaped.
CHAPTER 45
I’D HAD THE royal treatment for almost twenty-four hours. The police had cuffed me, and when Dinara had come up to the roof to see what was happening, they’d arrested her too. The cops had tried to take Master Sergeant West, but he’d flashed his diplomatic credentials, which were respected no matter what the state of relations were between Moscow and Washington. No beat cop would risk a diplomatic incident.
Dinara had told me we were being arrested on a murder charge before we were put in separate vehicles and taken away. She’d been pushed into a patrol car, while I’d had a disorientating ride in the back of a windowless van. I don’t know if she was taken to the same place as me, but I saw no sign of her when I was booked, stripped of my belongings and left to stew in a cell for the best part of a day and a night.
Finally, late Tuesday morning, the door to my cell opened and a uniformed police officer barked a command in Russian and gestured at me to get off the fold-down metal bunk. If I never saw the rusting toilet, or tasted the overly boiled food ever again, it would be too soon.
I followed the officer through the cell block. He unlocked a clanging metal gate and took me into a long corridor with rooms either side. The cop stopped at the first door and knocked. A voice inside replied in Russian and the cop opened the door and waved me in.
I walked into a windowless interview room and found two women sitting at a metal table that had been scored with graffiti.
“Please sit down, Mr. Morgan,” the younger of the two women said. “My name is Anna Bolshova and I am an officer with the Criminal Investigations Department currently assigned to the Interior Ministry.”
I had no idea what that meant. Was she a cop? Or a spy? She wore a severe dark blue, almost black jacket, and a pencil skirt. Her companion was an older woman who was in a skirt and blazer that looked as though they could have been beamed from the 1980s. The navy blue jacket had huge shoulder pads, brass buttons and gold brocade, and beneath it was a busy floral blouse.
“This is Zoya Popova, our official translator,” Anna said. “My English is good, but just in case.”