Gravilov’s enforcer, Razor, trailed Matson in a security car. Ninchenko’s driver followed them from two blocks behind and let the other two surveillance cars work the perimeter.
Matson’s driver wound his way east, northeast, then northwest to Artema Street, a mixed-use boulevard of offices, apartments, restaurants, and car dealerships.
Gage’s cell phone rang as they drove. It was Slava.
“I talk to Alla Petrovna father in Budapest,” Slava said. “He say he not have daughter. What you call disown. Look like she follow in father business, but not follow father.”
“Maybe it’s genetic. She must have a crook chromosome.”
Ninchenko chuckled.
“What chrome zome?” Slava asked.
“I’ll have Ninchenko explain it later.”
“Maybe American humor not translate.”
“Afraid not. Is everything ready for the happy couple?”
“ Da. Nice room. No view.”
Ninchenko’s driver pulled over as they approached the end of Artema Street, then pointed toward the Madison Restaurant, a casual New York-style steakhouse and bar. Matson and Alla were walking in. Razor had parked his car on a street to the west of the building, and Matson’s Mercedes had swung in behind.
Gage directed the driver to position the van on the opposite side of Artema, with a view of the entrance and the long row of restaurant windows. Ninchenko then ordered his two chase cars to bracket Razor’s and the Mercedes, ready to freeze them in place while Gage and Ninchenko grabbed Matson and Alla as they left the restaurant.
“Are they too close?” Gage asked Ninchenko, tilting his head toward the chase cars.
“No. Many of the patrons bring security. Razor’ll think our men are merely comrades suffering in the cold while the bosses eat in comfort. He’s too arrogant for his own good. He shouldn’t have let himself get boxed in.”
Ninchenko handed binoculars to Gage.
Gage scanned the restaurant interior. Matson and Alla sat in an oversized leather booth in the wood-paneled restaurant. Down lighting from recessed ceiling coffers illuminated their table.
A wine steward approached to take Matson’s order, then entered the glassed-in circular wine vault. He made his selection, then returned to Matson’s table.
Matson swirled the wine, then tasted it and nodded.
“Matson thinks he’s a real charmer, a debonair man about town,” Gage said. “Look at his little pinky sticking out, like a society matron…He looks ridiculous.”
The wine steward filled Alla’s glass, then added to Matson’s.
Gage watched Alla’s face brighten as she reached across the table to clink glasses. She smiled, then slid around the table so that she was next to Matson and her back was to Gage.
The waiter approached to take their dinner orders and moved Alla’s place setting. She lowered her menu as if to defer ordering to Matson, then reached her arm through Matson’s and snuggled close.
“Suppertime,” Ninchenko said, retrieving a bag from the floorboard and handing Gage a sausage sandwich and a Coke.
After Matson and Alla’s dessert dishes were removed, Ninchenko signaled his chase cars. The four occupants exited the Ladas, two taking positions against the building out of the wind and lighting cigarettes, while the others simply stretched, then stamped their feet on the icy grass, their breath rising in swirling clouds that quickly condensed into invisibility. One walked up to Razor’s window and offered him a cigarette. Another approached Matson’s driver, holding out a flask of vodka.
Alla gave Matson a light kiss on the cheek, then walked toward the far left rear corner of the dining room and disappeared down a hallway leading to the restrooms. Matson left the table and followed the same route. A minute later Alla reappeared. She glanced toward the empty booth as she walked toward the coatroom. She retrieved a black, fur-collared overcoat, then walked toward the entrance.
Gage lost sight of her when she passed on the opposite side of the reception station, then spotted her again as she descended the concrete front steps. She looked toward Razor and the Mercedes, but Ninchenko’s men blocked her view. She then walked behind a large fountain near the entrance.
“Tell your men to stand by until Matson comes outside,” Gage said. “And get them out of here fast. We don’t want Razor thinking there’s anything left to fight over.”
Ninchenko gave the order as Gage looked toward the restaurant window. Matson had not yet returned from the restroom. A slight motion caught Gage’s eyes.
“She’s running! She’s running!” Gage yelled at their driver and pointed at Alla fleeing across Artema, and then said to Ninchenko, “Razor hasn’t noticed yet. Have your men keep him diverted.”
Gage fixed his eyes on Alla as their driver pulled away from the curb.
“What should we do about Matson?” Ninchenko asked.
“Nothing yet,” Gage said. He pointed at Ninchenko’s phone. “Keep your guy on the line and reporting what Matson does.”
They followed Alla as she cut south, then slipped into a small residential street running southeast. Gage lost sight of her until their driver looped around the block to cut her off, but she was already beyond them.
Ninchenko held his phone tight to his ear, then said, “Matson is back at the table, waiting for his credit card receipt.” He then pointed at Alla. “She’s fast.”
“One of our surveillance people in London said she was a jogger,” Gage said. “But how the devil did she know we were here?”
Gage felt anger rise within as he turned toward Ninchenko. “Did one of your people sell us out?”
“I don’t know-but we will know in a couple of minutes.”
“I don’t want her hurt. Leave it up to me.”
Alla slowed as she approached a group of theatergoers strolling toward the Zoloti Vorota Theatre, mixing into the crowd to conceal herself and catch her breath. The driver pulled over until she separated and began scampering farther south.
Ninchenko raised his hand as he listened on the phone. “Matson is walking toward the coatrack.” He looked at Gage. “What should we do?”
“Have someone go in pretending to be a friend of Alla’s from her hometown. Say she walked down to his apartment to say hello to his wife. She’ll be back in ten minutes. Have him buy Matson a drink in the bar.”
Ninchenko passed on the order as Alla cut onto a side street angling northeast.
“She’s heading back toward Artema,” Ninchenko said. “Lots of places to escape into. Apartments, stores, even embassies.”
“We better get her now.”
The driver sped up until he was ten yards beyond her, then cut into a blind alley to block her way. Gage and Ninchenko leaped out and grabbed her just as her feet slipped from under her when she tried to stop on the icy sidewalk.
Alla struggled against them, squirming, kicking, trying to shake free by wiggling out of her coat. She then went limp. Ninchenko smiled at Gage, but instead of loosening his grip, held her even more firmly, turning her coat into a straitjacket.
“Let me go!” she yelled in Ukrainian. “Let me go.”
Ninchenko covered her mouth. Gage pointed down the shadowed alley, and Ninchenko dragged her to the end. The driver backed in and then walked around to the rear of the van to tie her hands. They lowered the tailgate and sat her down.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Ninchenko said. “If we were, you’d be gagged and hooded. We just want you to answer some questions about Stuart Matson.”
Alla’s eyes flashed, then she nodded and he removed his hand.
“Who are you running from?”
“Everyone.”
“Who’s everyone?” Gage asked.
“Shit,” Alla spat out, her face red not only from exertion, but now from anger. “Another fucking
