desk drawers or trying to break into the safe.
The BKA official was corrupt, but he was not an idiot. The odds were very much against discovering any hidden document conveniently labeled “My Secret Life and Wulf Renke.” She was also sure that Kessler would have set hard-to-find telltales and possibly even other electronic alarms to protect his most prized information. Disturbing those would only put him instantly on his guard.
Instead, Randi began pulling open various pouches on her equipment vest, revealing an assortment of miniaturized listening devices. She smiled coldly.
Suspicious or not, Herr Ulrich Kessler was about to discover that there were other ways to learn his most closely held secrets.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was the evening rush hour and hundreds of Muscovites worn out after a long day’s work packed the steep escalators serving the Smolenskaya Metro Station. Among them were three people, one of them a tall, strong- looking man in his mid-fifties. He carried a heavy canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder and wore a martyred expression as he patiently shepherded his doddering, elderly mother and his equally ancient father off the escalator.
“We’re almost outside, little mother,” he said gently. “Just a little farther now.” He looked back over his shoulder at the older man. “Come now, Papa.
You must do your best to keep up.”
Up at the top, a growing crowd of increasingly unhappy Metro riders were pressing up against the barriers leading to the street, restlessly waiting for a chance to run their magnetic tickets through the machines and leave the station. But most of the ticket-readers were shut down, forcing everyone in the crowd to funnel through the three barriers that were still in service. Exasper-ated murmurs swept through those milling in line when they saw the reason for the slowdown. Squads of gray-coated militiamen were deployed at every entrance and exit. They were busy carefully checking the faces of everyone entering and leaving the Smolenskaya station. From time to time, they pulled people away in ones and twos for closer questioning?often, but not always, lean, dark-haired men or slender and attractive, black-haired women.
After scrutinizing the identity papers of the most recent pair hauled before him, Militia Lieutenant Grigor Pronin tossed the cards back and then waved the worried-looking man and woman away. “Fine,” he growled. “Everything’s fine. Now move along!”
He grimaced. He and his entire unit had been tied up in this ridiculous manhunt for hours, stuck here on pointless, glorified sentry duty on orders from the Kremlin. No Chechen terrorist had ever looked anything like the photographs he had been shown. Meanwhile, he thought bitterly, Moscow’s real criminals must be having a field day?mugging, shoplifting, and stealing cars to their black hearts’ content.
Pronin swung round in irritation at a sudden outbreak of loud cursing and swearing from the barrier. People were pushing and shoving one another near one of the ticket machines. He scowled. What the devil was wrong now? The militia officer stalked closer, angrily laying one hand on his holstered sidearm.
The crowd at the barrier saw him coming and fell silent. Most stepped back a pace or two, leaving three people still gathered around the machine.
One, a tall, silver-haired man, seemed to be trying to gently urge a plump, much-older woman through the narrow opening. Stooped over a cane, an elderly man with long whiskers and dirty, matted white hair leaned heavily against the railing on the other side, feebly motioning the woman on. Two medals pinned to his dirty coat proclaimed him a veteran of The Great Patri-otic War against Fascism.
“What’s the trouble here?” Pronin demanded grimly.
“It’s my mother, sir,” the silver-haired man said apologetically. “She’s having trouble with her ticket. She keeps sticking it in the wrong way round.” He turned back to the woman. “Now see what you’ve done, little mother? The militia have come to see what the fuss is about.”
“Never mind that,” Pronin said brusquely. He reached across the barrier, grabbed the magnetic card from the old woman’s shaking hand, and inserted it himself. The barrier slid aside, allowing her to hobble through, followed soon after by her son. Almost immediately, a horrid odor assailed the militia lieutenant’s nose, a rank, acrid stench that made him gag.
He stepped back, astonished by the smell. “Good God,” he muttered in shock. “What’s that stink?”
The other man shrugged sadly. “I’m afraid it’s her bladder,” he confided.
“She doesn’t have very much control over it these days. I try to get her to change her diaper more often, but she’s very stubborn, you see ?much like a little child, really.”
Disgusted, Pronin waved the trio through his waiting men. So that was what old age could be like, he thought darkly. Then he turned back to survey the crowds, already dismissing the depressing incident from his mind.
Once they were safely outside the Metro station, the old woman painfully made her way over to a bench and sat down. The two men followed her.
“I swear to God, Oleg,” Fiona Devin muttered crossly to the tall man masquerading as her son. “I’m going to be sick all over myself if I don’t get out of these foul-smelling clothes and all this damned padding … and soon!”
“I am sorry,” Kirov said ruefully. “But it is necessary.” One of his bushy eyebrow s rose in wry amusement. “On the other hand, my dear, you must admit that a bit of vomit would add a very nice touch of authenticity to your disguise.”
Leaning hunched over on his cane, Jon Smith tried hard not to laugh. The glued-on theatrical whiskers and wig he was wearing itched abominably, but at least his coat and worn trousers were only stained with machine oil and ground-in dirt and not anything worse. Fiona, swaddled in layers to make her look fat and then stuffed into horribly soiled garments, had it a lot worse.
Smith noticed other shoppers and pedestrians giving them a wide berth, quickly walking away with wrinkled noses and averted eyes. Even in the open air, the smells emanating from them were still pungent. He nodded. These get-ups, uncomfortable and demeaning though they were, were proving remarkably effective.
“Come, Fiona,” Kirov urged. “We’re almost there. It’s only a hundred meters or so farther on, just down that next little side street.”
Still grumbling under her breath, Fiona forced herself back onto her feet, which were stuffed into boots that were at least a size too small for her, and shuffled off in the direction Kirov indicated. Together they hobbled and limped east along the Ulitsa Arbat and turned into an alley lined with small shops selling books, new and used clothing, perfumes, and antiques.
Patiently, the Russian led them to a narrow door halfway down the alley.
Next to the door, a dirty window displayed a poorly lit selection of antique samovars, matryoshka dolls, lacquer boxes and bowls, crystal, Soviet-era porcelain, and old lamps. Faded gold lettering above the window read ANTIKVAZ-AVIABARI.
If anything, the tiny shop behind the door was even more of a jumble, full of items heaped together on dusty shelves and counters without any apparent rhyme or reason. There were replicas of famous religious icons, Red Army belt buckles and fleece-lined fabric tanker’s helmets, gold-plated candle sticks, chipped China tea sets, costume jewelry, and framed and faded Soviet propaganda posters.
When they came in, the proprietor, a large, ponderous man with just a fringe of curly gray hair around his bald pate, looked up from the cracked teacup he was gluing back together. His dark eyes brightened at the sight of Kirov and he came lumbering around the counter to greet them.
“Oleg!” he boomed, in a baritone voice that carried the hint of a Georgian accent. “I assume these are the friends of whom you spoke on the phone?”
Kirov nodded coolly. “They are.” He turned to Fiona and Smith. “And this overfed villain is Lado Iashvili, the self-described bane of Moscow’s legitimate antique dealers.”
