Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

It took twenty minutes before the van jolted to a stop. One of the guards swung open the door, and we were both shoved out. We were then pushed and dragged inside a big, multistoried building that didn’t seem to have many windows. I didn’t like that not-many-windows thing. Buildings that don’t have a lot of windows don’t have them for a reason.

We were led to some stairs in the back that went down to a basement. The inside of the building had an institutional look and air to it, like a hospital. Or, considering the circumstances, like a prison. We took a left at the bottom of the stairs and then walked down a hallway before we were shoved into a starkly empty room.

Our gags were removed, but neither of us said a word. We were both stunned. We just stood with our hands and ankles cuffed, staring at the white walls and contemplating our fates. We remained like this for nearly five minutes before a door opened behind us. I spun around and saw four really big goons enter, then the diminutive figure of Viktor Yurichenko.

Viktor immediately said, “Alexi, Alexi, it is so tragic that it has come to this. I am truly sorry it had to be this way.”

Alexi said nothing, so Viktor angrily shouted, “But you’ve been a damn fool! You never should have dealt with the Americans.”

When Alexi still didn’t answer, Viktor walked around me, until he faced him. His eyes narrowed into angry slits, then he barked something in Russian that I didn’t understand, but I didn’t need to. It was probably the Russki version of “shit” or “damn it,” and I started chuckling.

I tried to stop myself, but the chuckles kept bubbling out of my chest. Viktor walked in front of me and slapped me as hard as he could. The truth was that it wasn’t all that hard, and I chuckled even harder, partly because this whole thing was funny as hell, and partly because I was so damned nervous, it was either laugh or faint.

Viktor yelled something in Russian at his goons, and two of them rushed over and forced my partner to bend over. Then one pulled off the wig, and the other began yanking at the elastic, skinlike rubber of the mask. It came off in chunks and pieces, and after about thirty seconds of tugging they had most of it off. Those modern Hollywood disguise kits, you can’t believe how authentic-looking they can be.

I didn’t know the guy under the mask, except that he was a federal prisoner chosen for this job because he had identical physical measurements to Alexi’s. He’d been doing hard time for three counts of armed robbery and the CIA had cut him a deal. Since he was a three-time loser serving a life sentence, if he took this job and it worked, the President of the United States would get him a pardon.

At that moment he looked absolutely bewildered, since his role in this operation wasn’t supposed to end this way. The CIA had positioned him in that bathroom for an entirely different purpose. The real Alexi was supposed to join Katrina in a stall in the ladies’ room, they’d both don chubby babushka disguises, and then saunter out together. That touch was mine, of course. I mean, it had worked for me in the mall, right? I was supposed to leave right behind them.

Only that plan hadn’t considered the fact that there’d be a bunch of SVR goons inside the bakery. The way that plan was supposed to end was that the convict disguised as Alexi would emerge from the men’s room a few minutes after Katrina, Alexi, and I made our escape. He’d then hurry to the subway, get off after a few stops, dodge into a restroom, get out of his Alexi costume, then go to a linkup point where the CIA would meet him and get him back to the States and freedom.

But we all know what they say about the best-laid plans, right? The minute I knew the SVR had agents in the bakery, I realized it was time for plan B. Which was a bit of a problem, because there wasn’t any plan B. With both Alexi and Katrina in the bathroom, I was the only one left that the SVR watchers could observe. When I saw Alexi and Katrina leave in their disguises, I had to buy them at least two or three minutes to make it to the CIA van idling three blocks away, so they could make their getaway. Had I gotten up and followed them out, the whole thing would’ve collapsed.

I felt pretty proud about the self-sacrifice I’d made to get them a chance at a new life. There’s a certain nobility in that, right? It’s like that classic Dickens line “ ’Tis a far better thing I do,” and all that crap. But as I stared at the enraged face of Viktor Yurichenko, I remembered how that same novel opened: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” “The worst of times” were on their way.

“Who are you?” Yurichenko growled at the prisoner.

I said, “Let him go. He’s nobody. He was a federal prisoner hired to do this job. He had no idea what the operation was about, or even why he’s here. He was promised freedom if he just hid in that bathroom and then walked out two minutes after he heard a knock on the door.”

Viktor was now staring at me. Remember when I mentioned that Viktor sort of looked like a skinny Santa Claus, with those big smile creases around his eyes and mouth? Let’s amend that. He now looked like a cranky old man with giant hemorrhoids that were killing him.

“A common prisoner?”

“Yes.”

He looked over at one of his goons, and before I could say anything, there was a pistol shot and the poor guy slumped to the floor, the front of his forehead blown clear across to the far wall.

I yelled, “You bastard!”

Then suddenly I felt a searing pain on the back of my neck, and I crashed down onto the floor. I felt groggy, and rolled onto my back and looked up. A goon lifted me off the floor like a sack of feathers. He held me steady while another goon came over. This goon looked like his creator got confused about where his legs and arms were supposed to go, because he had short skinny legs and huge stumps for arms that hung from massive arched shoulders. I tried tensing my muscles to protect my organs, but it didn’t seem to matter. The guy had fists like concrete blocks. He kept pounding me in the stomach, and every time he hit me, I could feel the pulverizing force right down to my toenails. This went on for about thirty seconds, which doesn’t sound like a long time, but when you’re a punching bag it’s a very long time.

Then Viktor barked something and he backed away. I was almost past caring by that time. A few more punches and I would’ve suffocated.

I was moaning and trying to draw breath when Viktor lifted my chin and stared into my face. “They don’t like it when you call me names,” he said, very calmly. “I advise you not to do that again.”

I mumbled something, but it was incomprehensible, because I’d literally been punched silly. I had vomited, and it was hanging off my lips. I could barely draw any breath.

Viktor said, “Felix has quite a punch, doesn’t he?”

I think I nodded, and he asked, “Where is Alexi?”

“Gone,” I gasped.

“Liar. He isn’t gone. All our border crossings and airports have his photo. They know to stop him. How were you trying to get him out?”

I didn’t say anything, so Viktor said a few words to his goons again, and we went through the punching-bag routine again, only Viktor must’ve ordered Felix to pull his punches a bit, because this time I didn’t feel them all the way down to my toes. Only my knees.

Anyway, at least forty minutes had passed since Alexi and Katrina had left the bakery, so there wasn’t any tangible reason to keep taking this beating. I finally moaned, “All right… all right.”

Felix stepped back, and Viktor’s smug face reappeared. “Where?”

“On, uh, on the Secretary of State’s… uh, on his plane.”