Ivan walked up from behind. “I hear you’re the sorry bastard I’m supposed to see about a submarine.”
Yuri turned around and his eyes lit up. “Comrade!” They gave each other big, slapping bear hugs.
Ivan gestured around the room. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
“It’s a crazy story,” said Yuri. “After the big Soviet collapse, there was no money. The KGB got behind on the rent, evicted. They wouldn’t even bring me home — just cut me loose over here.”
“They laid you off?”
“Can you believe it? And after all the microfilm I smuggled in my ass for those guys. I said I’d appeal. They just told me to take a powder — a cyanide powder, and they laughed. Personally, I don’t think that was very professional.”
“But what are you still doing here?” asked Ivan. He pointed back at the articles in the window. “They said you had fled. Nobody knew where you went.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too. Isn’t that weird? I’ve never left. Even when the FBI was here. I kept tapping them on the shoulders and asking if there was anything they wanted to know, but they just told me to stay out of the way and went back to tearing out the walls with demolition saws. I even tried to get asylum. Back when the Cold War was hot, you got asylum, you were set. Nice house, credit cards. Today, if you used to be KGB, you can’t get arrested. The CIA won’t return my calls. The people who own this place keep me around like a novelty, all my drinks are free. I can’t complain. Speaking of which: Bartender! Stoli!”
The bartender placed six shots on the table, the surface of the clear liquor vibrating as another subway train thundered by on the other side of the wall.
“So this place went from being a document drop to a bar?”
“Not directly. After the Kremlin lapsed on payments, it first became a hip-hop kung fu video store. They had these stereo speakers pointed out the door at top volume twenty-four hours, and passing commuters heard all this crazy urban martial-arts screaming: ‘Eeeeeee-yahhhhh, motherfucker!’ Jesus, was I glad to see that go. I couldn’t hear myself think in here. I was trying to get résumés out at the time. The Canadians were hiring in the Tribeca office.”
“The Canadians spy on the United States?”
“Not really, but they like to keep a few nominal cells active for national pride. They have this big inferiority thing, or so I’ve heard. They gave me an interview, and I told them I knew how to kill with a single sheet of typing paper, but they said they weren’t interested unless I could hit Céline Dion, and then they laughed. Again, not funny.”
Ivan nodded with empathy. “I hate to mix business, but there’s this matter about a sub.”
“We’re all set for delivery,” said Yuri. “It’s a Perestroika Class attack submersible, one of the small ones but still nuclear, with beverage holders, so you’re getting your money’s worth. We sail in February from the North Sea, at four knots through the NATO array of hydrophones. But I wouldn’t lose sleep. Even if we get caught, it’s no biggie. Nobody cares anymore — all the rules are new. We’ve still got hydrogen bombs, but who knew the Internet would be the thing? Suddenly, rock
The bar’s owner walked up to the table. “Hey, Yuri! I see you brought some of your Russian friends. I sure hope you’re not doing any
“See?” said Yuri.
“What I wouldn’t give for a poisoned umbrella,” said Dmitri.
Ivan lifted the briefcase and set it on the table.
Yuri smiled. He cracked his knuckles and licked his lips, then turned the briefcase around to face him. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.” He flipped the latches and dramatically opened it with the lid facing the others.
Ivan was still smiling, but Yuri’s expression changed. He looked up. “What is this, some kind of sick joke?”
“What do you mean?” said Ivan. “It’s all there. Five million dollars!”
“Very funny.” Yuri spun the briefcase around.
“What the hell’s all this crap?” said Ivan. “Cologne, mints, condoms…”
The bar shook again as the subway rumbled by. It was late, only two people in the train: Eugene Tibbs in the first car, heading home with his silver briefcase, and in the last car, a tourist from Florida named Serge.
30
A sheet-covered body lay on the sidewalk outside a pizza parlor.
“Roll film!”
The location crew from
Cars began honking and swerving as five Russians ran through the middle of traffic on Broadway, sprinting up the sidewalk past Jerry Orbach, hopping over the body and disappearing around the corner.
“Cut! Cut!” yelled the director.
The Russians crossed the street again, running up Fifty-seventh and back into the Russian Tea Room. They dashed down the stairs and burst into the men’s room. Empty.
They ran back up the stairs toward the dining room.
