There was a knock on the door. I knew who it was. “And about time,” I thought, as I went to answer the knock. Two guys were standing outside.
“Are you Dan Gordon?” asked one of them in the most stereotypical Brooklyn accent I've ever heard.
“Who are you?” I asked, just to keep up the charade.
“Charles asked us to see if you need help. I'm Brandon and this is my partner Sean.”
“I need to leave Moscow immediately with my companion. Just let me pack up and we'll leave. She's in room 1405; let me call her first.”
I picked up the phone and called Ariel's new room.
“Ariel, I'm sending a friend of mine to bring you over to my room. I'm packing, and we should leave immediately.”
“OK,” said Ariel. “I didn't know you had friends in Moscow. Are they from the Office?” She was surprised.
“I have friends everywhere. You just need to know where to look.”
I turned to Hart's men. “One of you should go to her new room and bring her over here. There was an attempt to kidnap her today. We don't know who is responsible, and finding out who's behind it is, in fact, second priority until we leave Moscow safely. Things are getting too warm around here – even for Moscow in the fall. Please avoid all her questions; she doesn't really know who I am. Just bring her here safely.”
Sean said, “I'll go,” and left the room.
I had to call an airline for the first flight out but decided it'd be too risky to leave traces. I emptied the closets and changed my bloodstained shirt for a clean one. I put all my clothes into my duffel bag and zipped it up. Sean returned with Ariel. I looked at her face. She was pale and confused. It was all moving a bit too fast for her.
“You didn't tell me that your friend was an American,” she said in Hebrew.
“Let's go.” I said; I didn't think I had to explain any further.
“Guys,” I said at the elevator, “why don't you take our things with you and bring your car to the front. I don't want to be seen leaving the hotel with baggage. We'll leave without checking out.”
“What about the bill?” asked Ariel.
“Don't worry about that. I'll leave money with my friends here,” I said. “After we take off, they'll settle up.”
It all went smoothly. Sean and Brandon walked out, Ariel and I followed. When we saw a Pontiac Grand Am pull up, we got into the backseat and we were on the way to Sheremetyevo, with Brandon behind the wheel.
“How far are we from the airport?” asked Ariel.
“It's twenty miles to the airport,” said Sean. “With the current traffic conditions I expect that we'll be there in forty minutes or so.”
As we entered Prospekt Mira Street just outside the hotel, going northeast, I looked back. I did not like the sight. “Brandon,” I said, “we have company. Backup from the Office?” I used the code name that would let Ariel continue to think I was with the Mossad.
“No,” he answered.
“Do you recognize them?” asked Sean in a cool voice.
“No, their headlights are blinding me, but they have been behind us for about five minutes.”
“Let me see,” said Brandon and changed lanes. The car behind us did the same.
“It could be the Soviet police,” said Sean, “and in that case we have nothing to worry about.” Nonetheless the tension was palpable.
Brandon looked at the rearview mirror again. “They don't look like police to me. Soviet police can't afford to buy a black Mercedes.”
“Radio the Office and alert them to the situation,” said Brandon, and Sean pulled out a two-way radio and reported it. Brandon changed lanes again and the followers’ car was again on our tail.
“There are three of them,” said Brandon, after looking back through the side mirror. “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts, we are about to take off.” The Pontiac's engine roared as Brandon accelerated; we were pulled back by the velocity. Ariel squeezed my arm. I took my hand and held hers. “We'll be in the airport soon,” I said.
A red Mercedes appeared from nowhere and came dangerously close to us on our left. A man in the front seat signaled to us to pull over; his gestures and expression were not friendly. Brandon ignored him. The red Mercedes broadsided our car from the left, ramming us over to the right lane. We barely escaped colliding with a light truck.
“Son of a bitch,” said Brandon. “I'll show you what high-risk driving is” and pulled hard to the left just as the red Mercedes was trying to pass us, pushing it to the divider. The screeching metal of the collision between the metal barrier and the red Mercedes sent sparks into the air. The black Mercedes, which had been on our tail throughout, accelerated and tried to rear-end us.
“Sean, get your gun,” said Brandon, “and radio the office that we are under attack.” Sean pulled out a short barrel. 38, opened the side window, turned around, and fired one shot at the black Mercedes behind us, hitting its radiator, which immediately spewed white steam. He fired another shot, blasting their windshield into a million pieces. The noise created by the wind blowing through the open window prevented me from hearing the barrage of gunfire aimed at us. It hit the rear window, shattering it, covering me and Ariel with glass fragments. I bent down and pulled Ariel to the floor, seeking cover.
“Give me a gun,” I shouted. Sean handed me a. 38. I raised myself and through the splintered rear window shot the driver of the black Mercedes directly behind us. I could see his face take the hit and his head drop on the wheel. The black Mercedes lost control and rolled over the divider.
“Hold on,” said Sean in his cool voice, “we're getting into Moscow Ring Road in about one minute. Let's get the other son of a bitch before we make the turn – it'll be more difficult to shake them once we are on the highways with its heavy traffic.” Passing cars were doing their best to avoid this gunplay, scrambling to get out of the way.
The red Mercedes was still on our left, again trying to broadside us but failing each time due to Brandon's skilled maneuvering.
“Let me get him,” I said, “he's on my side.” I opened the left side window and shot at the driver but I missed and hit only the right door. Brandon swiveled our car to avoid being smashed by the Mercedes.
“Slow down,” I shouted, “slow down!”
“Why? Are you hurt?” asked Sean.
“No, just slow down and let him pass us a bit, I can get a better shot.” Brandon slowed and I finally got a good look at the passengers of the Mercedes. They were all light-brown-skinned men in their thirties. One of them in the backseat was aiming a shotgun at me. “Goodbye,” I said, and pulled the trigger, hitting him in the neck. I saw a gush of blood flooding his chest. I pulled the trigger again at the passenger next to the driver, but missed.
“Hold on, I'm making a sharp turn to the left,” shouted Brandon as we entered the expressway. I looked back; the red Mercedes was still after us. I aimed hard, holding the. 38 with both hands, and squeezed; that was my last chance, and it was also the Mercedes driver's last minute on earth as the bullet hit his forehead. The Mercedes collided into a passing eighteen-wheeler and burst into flames.
“Let's get the hell out of here,” said Brandon, as we merged into the hectic traffic.
“Are you OK?” I asked Ariel, pulling her up from the car's floor. She was confused and shaken. “Yes,” she mumbled and cuddled into my arms. “Just hold me.”
I put my arm around her. “Do you know who these guys are?” asked Sean.
“I can only guess, she was being watched by several different groups. I can't tell you who our pursuers were, but I do know we need to leave immediately before another smart-ass pops up from nowhere.”
Sean radioed the office and tersely reported the events, keeping his cool.
“I'm sorry to leave you with the mess,” I said.
“Don't worry,” said Sean. “We'll clean it up.”
I handed the gun back to Sean. “Thanks!”
“Nice shots,” said Brandon in appreciation, “Where did you learn to shoot so well?”
“I'm a hunter,” I said, “I hunt a lot.” I didn't mention that my usual prey was money launderers, not animals,
