people were as well organized as McGarvey thought they must be, the airport and train stations would probably be monitored for any suspicious people. He did not want to blow his Belgian cover yet. It would provide a solid track that would mysteriously disappear should the need arise.
The second problem was his hotel room. In Russia if you checked out of your hotel you had only two choices. You either checked into another hotel or you left the city.
In one of the newspapers he’d read an article about the prostitution rings that operated out of several of the hotels in Moscow, using women from the former East Germany and Poland. The Metropol was not one of them, but McGarvey circled several of the hotel names in the article, underlining one of them several times as if for emphasis. His bellman Artur had gone through his things. Nothing was missing yet, but he would be sure to see the newspaper with the circled articles and believe that McGarvey hadn’t simply abandoned his room.
Leaving everything behind except for his money, his gun and the clothes on his back, he emerged from the hotel a few minutes before 5:00 p.m.” the afternoon dusk already deepening in the still falling and blowing snow. Two blocks away he found a cab to take him out to the flea market at the Dinamo Stadium beyond the outer ring road near the Frunze Central Airfield. The going was difficult but the driver didn’t seem to mind. He kept slyly looking at McGarvey’s image in the rearview mirror.
The stadium’s parking lot was huge. Despite the horrible weather hundreds of entrepreneurs sold everything from Kalashnikov rifles to western currencies from stalls, or from the backs of their cars or trucks. Barrels filled with burning trash or oily rags lent a surreal air to the place. Perhaps a thousand people wandered from stall to stall. Some huddled around the wind-whipped flames. Still others, many of them well dressed and accompanied by armed men, lugged their purchases back to Mercedes and BMWs parked at the fringes, and guarded by other armed men.
“This is not such an easy place,” his driver said pulling up. “Maybe you could use some help,”
McGarvey held up a British hundred-pound note. “I collect military uniforms. Identity cards. Leave orders, pay books. That sort of thing.”
“I know a guy who has that stuff,” the cabby said, reaching for the money. But McGarvey pulled it back.
“I don’t want any trouble. I want to buy a few things, and then I want you to bring me back downtown to the same place you picked me up.”
“You need some muscle. Five hundred pounds.”
“A hundred now and another hundred when we get back to the city.”
“I don’t want any bullshit,” the driver protested as he reached for something in his jacket.
McGarvey pulled out his pistol, jammed the barrel into the man’s thick neck, and pulled the hammer back. “Don’t fuck with me, I’m not in the mood,” he said in guttural Russian.
The driver froze, his eyes on McGarvey’s in the rearview mirror.
“You can either make an easy two hundred pounds, or you can try to take everything I have.”
The cabby shrugged and laughed nervously. “Your Russian is pretty good, you know. Where’d you pick it up?”
“School One,” McGarvey said. It was the KGB’s old spy training school. One of the best in the world.
“Okay,” the cabby said, blanching. “No trouble.”
McGarvey uncocked his gun, stuffed it in his pocket and gave the cabby the hundred pounds.
They drove around to the west side of the vast parking lot where the cabby led McGarvey to a ring of a half dozen army supply trucks and troop transports. Within a half-hour McGarvey bought a canvas carryall and an army corporal’s uniform, including greatcoat, olive drab hat, gloves and cheap leather boots. He also bought the identity papers and leave orders for Dimitri Shostokovich stationed at Zakamensk in the far southeast along the Chinese border. The burly entrepreneur who sold him the lot for a hundred pounds stamped the current dates on the orders, and flashed McGarvey a gold-toothed grin.
“The photographs don’t match, but no one will look very closely,” he said. His breath smelled like onions and beer. “You’ve got eleven days until you’re A.W.O.L.. But nobody gives a fuck about that either.” He stuffed everything into the carryall.
Several men came into the circle of trucks and stood around one of the barrels of burning rags.
“Time to go,” McGarvey’s driver warned.
McGarvey reached his hand into his coat pocket and partially withdrew his gun. He looked directly into the salesman’s eyes. “I don’t think those gentlemen mean us any harm.”
“No,” the salesman said after a moment. “But if there is nothing else you wish to buy, perhaps it is time to go. Unless you would like some help with your… project.”
“What project would that be?” McGarvey asked easily.
The salesman motioned toward the carryall. “Maybe you yourself are a businessman. I have certain connections.”
McGarvey seemed to think about it for a moment. “How do I find you?”
“I’m here every night. Just ask for Vasha.”
“The … project could be big. Maybe you couldn’t handle it.”
Vasha licked his lips. “You might be surprised.”
McGarvey picked up the carryall. “I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Okay, you do that.”
On the way back into the city the cabby once again kept looking at McGarvey’s image in the rearview mirror. He sensed that some kind of a deal was going down and he was hungry. He wanted to be a part of it.
“I know this city. I could take you anywhere you want to go,” he said hopefully. “Nobody can watch their own back one hundred percent. I’ve got good eyes and plenty of guts. And I’ve got some pretty goddamned good connections. I brought you to Vasha with no trouble.”
“What’s your name?” McGarvey asked.
“Arkady.”
“How can I reach you? Day or night?”
Arkady snatched a business card from a holder on the dash and passed it back. “How do I reach you?”
“You don’t,” McGarvey said. The cabby’s name was Arkady Astimovich and he worked for Martex, one of the private cab companies in the city. “We’ll see how you do this time, Arkasha. Keep your mouth shut like you promised, and I might have something for you.”
“What about tonight?”
“No. And don’t try to follow me. A little bit rich is better than very much dead. Do you understand?”
They pulled up at the curb a couple ‘of blocks from the Metropol near the Moscow Arts Theater. Traffic was heavy tonight. The driver stared at McGarvey’s reflection for a few moments. “I understand,” he said.
McGarvey handed him the second hundred pounds, got out of the cab and disappeared into the blowing snow and crowds with his canvas carryall.
He ducked into the shadows of a shop doorway just around the corner, and waited for five minutes, but the cab never showed up. Astimovich was hungry, but apparently he was also smart.
Hefting his carryall, McGarvey walked down to the metro station on Gorki Street and bought a token for a few kopecks. Just inside he studied the system map which showed the stop for the Leningrad, Kazan and Stations was Leningradskaya. He put his token in the gate, and when the light turned green he descended to the busy platforms. It took him several minutes to figure out which train was his, and he got aboard moments before the doors closed. There were less than a dozen people aboard the car, among them four roughly dressed young men, whom McGarvey took to be in their twenties. They eyed him as he took a seat by the door, the carryall between him and the window.
He had no illusions about what Russia had become, but since his arrival in Moscow this morning the only cop he’d seen was the one directing traffic near the hotel. In the past the Militia seemed to be everywhere, including the metro stations. But Moscow, and presumably the entire country, had sunk into an anarchy of the street. The only faction with any real power was the Mafia and the armies of private bodyguards. Street crime was not completely out of hand yet because businessmen and shopkeepers paid protection money called krysha, which literally meant roof. Without it you were either a nobody or you were dead. And the Militia might come if they were called.
At the next stop a couple of old women got aboard, spotted the four young men, and immediately stepped off. A couple of the other passengers also got out, and the remainder kept their eyes downcast.
