leaving.
McGarvey had to wait nearly forty-five minutes before it was his turn. The Latvian customs official glanced briefly at his papers, stamped the exit section of his passport and waved him through. On the Russian side of the border, however, the policeman motioned him over to the parking area in front of the customs shed, where a pair of officials waited.
McGarvey handed out his passport to one of the stern faced officers, who studied the photograph carefully, comparing it to McGarvey’s face.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Russia?” the official asked in Russian.
“Business,” McGarvey replied. He handed over the papers for the car. “I’m importing this car for sale in Moscow. And if I get a good price, I’ll be bringing in more of them.”
One of the armed Militia officers drifted over, and looked longingly at the Mercedes. It was something that he could not afford to buy with a lifetime of earnings. A certain amount of resentment showed on his face because like the customs officials, he knew that the only people in Moscow who could afford it were either corrupt politicians, the new businessmen, or the Mafia.
The customs official opened the car door. “Release the hood, then step out of the car and open the rear compartment.”
McGarvey did as he was told. A third customs official came out with a long-handled mirror, which he used to inspect the undercarriage of the Mercedes, while the other two officials searched every square inch of the car, as well as McGarvey’s single overnight bag and laptop computer.
As they worked, McGarvey took a picnic basket from the passenger side, and sat on the open cargo lid. The officials kept eyeing him as he opened a bottle of good Polish vodka, took a deep drink, then started on the bread, cheese, sausage and pickles.
On the way out of Riga this morning, he’d stopped at the Radisson and had them make up the gourmet picnic lunch, which also included a good Iranian caviar and blinis, some imported foie gras, smoked oysters, Norwegian salmon, and Swedish pickled herring. ‘
The customs officers opened the gas cans stored in the cargo area and shined a flashlight inside, then bounced the spare tire several times to learn if anything might be hidden inside. Working around McGarvey, they also removed the primary spare tire from its bracket on the cargo lid, and did the same thing with it.
McGarvey finished his lunch an hour later, about the same time the customs officials were done. The one with the paperwork stamped the documents and handed them back to McGarvey.
“Take care that you violate no Russian laws,” he cautioned harshly.
McGarvey nodded. “I’ve eaten all that I want. May I leave the rest of this here, with you and your men?” He held out the picnic basket.
The customs official hesitated for only a moment, then took the basket. The others watched the exchange.
McGarvey glanced at the paperwork, then started to raise the cargo lid, when he turned back. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” the customs officer demanded sharply.
“The import duty is supposed to be five hundred marks more than what I paid in Riga,” McGarvey shrugged. “I noticed the mistake after I’d left. I thought you people might catch it.” McGarvey shrugged. “But if you say it’s okay—”
The officer handed the picnic basket to one of his men, took the import duty form from McGarvey and studied the document for a few moments. When he looked up he was wary. “It looks as if you’re correct.”
“I thought so,” McGarvey said. He pulled out five hundred marks, and handed it to the official. “As I said, if my business goes well in Moscow, I’ll be bringing in more of these cars. Maybe as many as a dozen or more a month, so I want to make absolutely sure that everything is as it should be. Do you understand?”
“Yes, thank you,” the officer said, hardly able to believe his luck. “I’ll look for you next time.”
“In a week or two,” McGarvey said.
Elizabeth sat hugging her knees to her chest in the window seat of her father’s apartment, staring dejectedly down at the street, all but deserted at this hour of the morning. Her father was gone. It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole. For all any of them knew he could be buried in some unmarked grave somewhere. Her mother said it had been his greatest fear.
“Here it is again,” Jacqueline said from across the room where she sat in front of the laptop computer. “That makes three references tonight.”
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, looking up. She was dead tired, her back ached and her eyes burned from staring at computer screens for the past couple of weeks.
Jacqueline, an expression of barely controlled excitement on her face, brushed her hair back. “He’s coming on the net now.” She sounded breathless. “What was that special food you told me that Rencke was fond of?”
“Twinkies,” Elizabeth said. She got up and padded over to Jacqueline.
“Well, take a look at this, ma cherie.”
From: [email protected] Subject: CIA CLANDESTINE SERVICES 4/24/9902.17
You guys don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Why don’t you get real or something. If the company was so bad and had a police state stranglehold etc why the hell does every swinging dick asshole want to come to the states? How many of you little darlings are shitting in your pantaloons to immigrate to Iraq, or Haiti, or some other paradise? Get real!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (twinkieitem4)
“That’s him,” Elizabeth cried excitedly. “My God, you’ve found him!”
“Not yet, but we’ve made a start,” Jacqueline said. “The address is an anonymous re mailer in Poland, I think. But I can check on it.”
“It means he could be anywhere.”
“That’s right, Liz. Could even be in the apartment across the hall. But I have a friend who’ll know about this re mailer If it’s legitimate, we’ll have a shot at finding out Twinkle’s real location.”
She reached for the telephone, but Elizabeth grabbed her arm.
“If this gets back to Lynch or Galan, they’ll screw it up.”
Jacqueline grinned. “Don’t worry, this is our little secret for now.”
Elizabeth’s eyes strayed to the hole in the wall where they’d disabled the first of the bugs they’d found. For the moment, they were secure in this apartment. She was frightened. But she was no longer tired.
McGarvey arrived back at the Metropol Hotel around noon. He gave the car keys along with a good tip to Artur the bellman, who promised that the Mercedes would be parked in a secured spot, absolutely safe from interference. After he checked in, he used a pay phone in the lobby to call Martex Taxi Company, and left a message for Arkady Astimovich to telephone him, giving the number of the pay phone.
He bought a copy of the Paris International Herald Tribune from the gift shop, then sat drinking coffee and reading the newspaper a few feet away. Astimovich called twenty minutes later.
“You’re back,” the cabby said excitedly.
“That’s right. What’s your brother-in-law’s name?”
“Yakov Ostrovsky.”
“I want you to set up a meeting for eleven o’clock tonight at the club. Tell him I’m bringing a proposition that he won’t be able to refuse. One that will make all of us some money. Then I want you to meet me in front of the Kazan Station with your cab twenty minutes early.”
“What if there’s a problem, can I call you again at this number?”
“No ” McGarvey said. “If you’re not there I’ll take this deal to somebody else.”
“I’ll be there,” Astimovich promised.
McGarvey had a surprisingly good corned beef on rye sandwich and an American Budweiser beer at the expensive lounge in the lobby. The service was excellent but if any of the hotel staff, other than Artur, remembered him from his previous visit, they gave no sign of it.
Afterward he went up to his room’ took a shower and slept lightly until 7:30 p.m.” when he awoke with a
