That Time in Moscow Logan Ryles (book suggestions .txt) 📖

with years of filth. Kevin drove back and forth down narrow city streets east of the Kremlin for only ten minutes before Wolfgang pointed.

“There! That’s it!”

Kevin stared up at the building rising six stories out of Moscow’s concrete jungle. “Which unit? We have no way to know.”

“Just get me to the building,” Wolfgang said. He turned back to Edric. “This is it. Give me ten minutes.”

Edric turned to Lyle, and the tech shook his head. “It’s not a good idea. Ambulances don’t wander around like this. We’re drawing attention.”

“Ten minutes,” Wolfgang repeated, throwing the back door open and jumping out before anybody could stop him. He broke into a run toward the apartment tower, then heard softer footsteps pounding behind him. Megan appeared next to him, her ponytail bouncing as they closed in on the building and rushed through the glass doors of the main entrance.

The grimy lobby of the complex featured scuffed walls and a yellow light that flickered overhead. An oil heater burned in one corner, with soot gathered on the wall behind it. Everything smelled hot and dirty, like the inside of a machine shop.

They approached the front desk, where a clerk’s wide eyes switched between them and the oil heater. Wolfgang remembered that he and Megan still wore firefighter gear, and he connected the dots quickly. The oil heater was probably a fire hazard and illegal.

Megan produced the photograph of Sparrow and Koslov from her pocket and held it up. “Which apartment?” she said in English. The clerk shook his head, still glancing impulsively at the heater. Megan repeated the demand, then paused and cupped her hand over her earpiece.

Lyle. Thank God.

Megan looked up again. “Kakaya kvartira?”

Again, the clerk looked confused. Megan repeated the question, jabbing the photo closer to the clerk’s nose. Recognition dawned on his face, and he rattled off something in Russian.

Megan snapped, “I don’t speak Russian, pal. Which apartment?”

The clerk held up four fingers, closed his hand, then held up three.

“Forty-three!” Wolfgang said, turning toward the stairwell. Megan followed, the two of them barreling up the steps two at a time. The fourth-floor landing was littered with garbage, and the stairwell door hung on one hinge. Wolfgang kicked it open and twisted down the hall, checking each of the doors as they passed. The brass numeral plates that adorned each door were all written in Cyrillic.

Wolfgang cursed and scanned the doors again, then took a chance. He counted three doors from the end of the hallway, then tried the knob, but it was locked. He drove his foot into the door, and it blasted back on its hinges. They rushed inside, clearing the hallway and turning into the main living space, where Pascha Koslov sat on a couch with panic-filled eyes.

Wolfgang recognized him immediately from the photograph.

Koslov bolted to his feet and held out both hands.

“Pascha Koslov?” Wolfgang asked.

Koslov hesitated, seemingly confused by the uniforms, and Wolfgang decided to throw all his cards on the table. “Mr. Koslov, we’re the Americans. We’re here to get you out.”

A tear slid down Koslov’s face. “America?”

“Da. America.” Wolfgang held out a hand, feeling his own eyes sting. There was something about the pain in this man’s face that was so deep and lonely. A man who loved. A man who just wanted to be free, and for the one he loved to be saved.

“Come with us, Mr. Koslov. You’re safe now.”

“I wouldn’t be sure of that,” Megan said. She stood next to the window, looking down at the parking lot, then cursed under her breath.

“What is it?” Wolfgang said.

“Your buddy’s here.”

Wolfgang ran to the window.

Ivan Sidorov climbed out of a car in front of the apartment building, a small army of Russian soldiers close behind.

11

Wolfgang hesitated near the door. He wanted to look back out the window and check Ivan’s progress, but it was a pointless maneuver. Somehow, Ivan had found out about Koslov’s association with Sparrow and then tracked down Sparrow’s address. It was quick math and brought with it enough SVR agents to bring down the house.

“What’s the play?” Megan said.

Wolfgang shifted, realizing he’d subconsciously expected her to take the lead.

But no. This is my mess. I’ve got to clean it up.

“We’ve got to get Koslov to the train. Ivan will expect us to take a plane. We’ll be in Belarus before he realizes what happened.”

“What about the others?”

Wolfgang shrugged, hurriedly stripping out of his baggy firefighters’s overalls and gesturing for Megan to do the same. “Edric knows the plan. They’ll meet us in Minsk.”

Voices boomed from the stairwell, and Wolfgang looked to the door. His mind spun, searching for an option. He could pull the fire alarm, but Ivan wouldn’t be fooled by the same trick twice. Alternatively, he could charge into the hallway and leverage the element of surprise, but surprise was a poor substitute for firepower in the face of half a dozen armed SVR agents.

The trash chutes.

Wolfgang remembered the dangling tubes that ran from chutes, down the sides of the building, and into dumpsters outside—a cheap and grimy disposal system.

“This way! I’ve got an idea.”

Megan grabbed Koslov by the hand, and the three of them ran to the door, throwing it open and hurrying through without waiting to see if Ivan’s crew had reached the fourth floor. Wolfgang turned to the left, dragging Koslov by the hand as angry Russian voices filled the stairwell behind them.

If Ivan has a rage problem, it’s probably my fault.

Wolfgang slid around a corner to the east hallway and immediately saw the uncovered mouth of the trash chute gaping at them like a black hole. It was about eighteen inches wide and framed with sharp, dirty metal.

Terrific. I’ll need a tetanus shot.

Wolfgang slid to a stop at the mouth of the chute and beckoned Koslov forward. “Come on, Pascha. Down you go!”

Koslov’s eyes widened, but then Ivan’s crew reached the fourth floor, and the door to the stairwell blew back on its hinges as they rushed through. That was enough for him, and