C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

“The car will be back for you by seven. You’re both booked on tonight’s flight to Berlin.”

“Berlin?” October froze in the act of scooting across the seat. “But my ticket is through Copenhagen.”

Andrei lit a new cigarette from the embers of his old one, his cheeks hollowing as he inhaled. “I want you out of here tonight, and the next flight to Copenhagen isn’t until later this week. You’re going to Berlin. And Jax-”

Jax paused with his hand on the edge of the door. “Yes, Andrei?”

“Be here. If I have to make other arrangements to get you out of the country, you really aren’t going to like them.”

“Got it,” said Jax, and closed the door.

“I guess he doesn’t want to play nice anymore,” said October, her brows drawing together as she watched the militia van speed away.

“No. But that doesn’t mean he’s not still playing.”

She glanced over at him. “What does that mean?”

Jax put his hand under her elbow, drawing her across the square toward the looming red brick nave of the cathedral. “Don’t look, but there’s a guy in a black leather jacket and a visored helmet who just parked his Kawasaki down the street. He was following us when we left the airport this morning.”

Jax watched, amused, as she struggled really, really hard to keep from staring down the street. “You think he’s one of Andrei’s men?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

She dug her fists into her pockets and kept her head down as they walked rapidly across the park. “Is he still following us?” she asked as they skirted the newly roofed sidewalls of the old German cathedral.

“Yes.”

They cut around behind the towering red brick nave, to where the still waters of the river reflected an autumn riot of golds and rusts.

The guy from the Kawasaki stayed behind them, one hand creeping to the small of his back as a tall rose-colored portico closed off by a wrought-iron fence loomed before them.

“What’s that?” said October, her head tilting back as she stared up at the soaring columns.

Jax turned so that he could keep one eye on the guy from the Kawasaki. “It’s the tomb of Immanuel Kant. He was an atheist, so they buried him out here. Which is kind of ironic, when you consider that his tomb is the only reason the Russians didn’t tear down the cathedral-Marx being a big fan of Kant, you see.”

She glanced over at him. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I majored in history at Yale.”

She started to laugh.

“That’s funny? Why is that funny? Because I majored in history, or because I went to-” Out of the corner of his eye, Jax saw the Kawasaki rider’s hand come up. “Look out!” he shouted, shoving October to one side.

He heard a whine, and a corner of the worn old sarcophagus disappeared into dust.

“Shit,” said Jax, gravel rolling beneath his loafers as he dragged her behind one of the slender columns.

October lost her footing and almost went down. “He’s shooting at us? Why is he shooting at us?”

“Because he’s not Andrei’s guy.” Jax yanked her up. “Come on!”

As they sprinted around the side of the cathedral, October stumbled and almost went down again. “Ah, shit,” she cried, one hand on her knee.

He knew she had an old knee injury dating back to the same incident in Iraq that earned her a psycho discharge. “Here,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Lean on me. Can you make it?”

She straightened, her jaw set hard. “I can make it.”

Up ahead, a side door opened to disgorge two middle-aged women wearing heavy handknit sweaters and plastic rain caps over their coiffed gray heads. Jax yanked the door open wider and pushed October inside.

“Ey! Prikratitye!” bellowed a red-faced guard with a sagging belly and a walrus mustache. “This is an exit. You are not allowed to enter this way!”

“Sorry,” October shouted back at him.

October limping badly, they pelted down the soaring nave of the cathedral, the guard blowing hard on his whistle. She glanced sideways at Jax. “What’s the penalty for crashing a museum in Russia?”

“I don’t know,” said Jax. “But it can’t be worse than getting shot.”

They heard the door bang open behind them again, streaming natural light into the dim nave. The guard let out another bellow.

She threw a quick look over her shoulder and said, “Shit. It’s him. What do we do now?”

Up ahead, a clutch of tourists choked the main door from the porch. “We mingle.”

They slowed to a walk, shoving their way through the tight-knit group, eliciting stern frowns, disapproving hisses. Jax could hear the tour guide’s stentorian voice saying in heavily accented English, “Over one hundred children sought refuge here, beneath the tower, on the second night the Allies bombed the city. The cathedral took a direct hit. All were killed.”

As Jax pushed toward the tall arched entrance, the tourists-a bunch of British pensioners, from the looks of them-turned mulish, refusing to budge. He was aware of the Kawasaki rider skirting the edge of the group, positioning himself to close on Jax as he neared the top of the main entrance steps.

“Excuse me,” said October, seizing a furled black umbrella from the hands of the pudgy, balding man beside her. “Can I borrow this?”

“I say,” sputtered the tourist.

As the Kawasaki rider lunged forward, the muzzle of his suppressed pistol coming up toward Jax, October reached out to thrust the handle of the borrowed brollie between his legs. Hooking one ankle, she gave it a sharp yank.

The man staggered, hunching forward as he fought to regain his balance. But by then, October was close enough to aim a downward chop at his extended right wrist, followed by a snap kick that spun the man around and sent him stumbling backward to pitch down the short flight of steps to the pavement below.

Wheels clanging, a tram trundled up the cobbled street before the cathedral, its windows filled with curious faces pressing forward. A chorus of gasps and tut-tuts arose from the tour group as a flock of helping hands descended on the man sprawled at the base of the steps.

“Thank you,” said October, restoring the umbrella to its rightful owner.

“Nice job,” said Jax. He grabbed her hand. “We have a streetcar to catch.”

Dashing down the steps, they leaped onto the back platform of the streetcar as it clattered past. On the pavement behind them, the Kawasaki rider struggled to his feet, still surrounded by a clucking, smothering horde of concerned British tourists, all talking at once.

“You okay?” Jax said, glancing at her.

She nodded, her breath coming hard and fast. The tram picked up speed, rattling over the bridge just as the cathedral clock began to chime the first notes of Beethoven’s Symphony Number Five, the somber tones ringing out to drift across the river and down the mist-filled valley.

Rodriguez watched Clay Dixon swing his leg over the Kawasaki’s seat, his hands clenching around the motorcycle’s handlebars, his body rigid with rage and frustration as he stared at a rusty barge floating past on the river below.

Rodriguez walked over to stand beside him, his gaze on the pigeons swirling around the clock tower of the cathedral.

“You okay?”

Dixon hawked up a mouthful of bloody spittle and shot it at the gutter. “Fucking bitch. We should have hit them on the road when they were with the Russians.”

“That would not have been wise.” Rodriguez kept his gaze on the cathedral’s red brick façade. “We can deal with this. There are two places our targets will logically go next: Baklanov’s house in Rybachy, and the salvage company’s office in Zelenogradsk. I’ll send Lysenko and Saidov to Rybachy. You go to Zelenogradsk.”