“Then why are you interested in anything I’ve got to say?” I asked. “I’m not impartial either.”
Ernie Fisher’s death troubled me for more than the obvious reasons. He wasn’t wealthy and could scarcely be classed as part of the 20 percent, let alone the 1 percent. He simply didn’t fit the profile of the other victims, which confirmed my suspicion that the idea of a radical group targeting America’s wealthiest people was merely a cover story. I guessed that was part of the motivation behind the false flag article supposedly written by Otkrov. The killer had obviously staged the murder to look like
a suicide, so wasn’t planning to credit it to the Ninety-nine. When I discovered him on the scene, he realized the suicide set-up wasn’t going to fly, so he needed a story that maintained the Ninety-nine cover, while throwing people off his trail. Blaming me for the anomalous kill would achieve both aims perfectly.
“This is an opportunity for you to explain,” Anna said.
“Lawyer,” I replied. “Or US embassy.”
“Mr. Morgan, be reasonable, please. If you won’t talk, then I will be forced to hold you while we complete our own inquiries. That could be weeks.”
“Lawyer,” I repeated.
Anna shrugged and said something in Russian to the translator. Zoya responded with a mocking laugh.
“I give you one last chance, Mr. Morgan,” Anna said.
“Lawyer,” I replied.
“OK,” Anna responded, getting to her feet. “Then you must go back to your cell.”
She stopped the recorder and knocked on the interview-room door. The cop who’d escorted me stepped inside, and Anna said something to him in Russian.
“Come,” he said, taking my arm and hauling me to my feet.
We were on our way out of the room when a police officer entered. My escort snapped to attention, as did Anna. Even the translator got to her feet. The newcomer was a gray-haired man with a line of ribbons across his chest. It was clear he was a senior officer. He gave me a cursory glance before barking something at Anna.
The moment he’d given the command, he turned on his heel and left the room. Like a sudden violent storm, the officer had changed everything. Anna’s demeanor shifted from confident and controlling to one of dejection.
“It seems you are to be released, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “And I am to apologize for any inconvenience,” she added grudgingly.
She said something to my escort and he let go of my arm.
“You’re free to go,” Anna told me, gesturing at the open door. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she wasn’t enjoying the crow her superior had forced her to eat. “My colleague will show you out.”
CHAPTER 47
I WAS TAKEN out of the cell block to a booking hall where I was processed and got my things back, including my satellite phone. Feeling grubby and disheveled, I left what I’d thought was a police station—I’d only seen the rear entrance when I’d been pushed out of the police van—but when I finally stepped outside I discovered I’d been inside a huge government building. A courtyard lay between three six-story wings, each of which featured grand columns and high, arched windows. I walked along a path that bisected the snow-covered courtyard, toward a concrete gatehouse, where two uniformed guards kept watch. I passed through the high gate without incident and found myself on an unfamiliar street. There was a grand building and parkland behind a high wall on the other side of the busy road, and as I looked to my left and right, I saw no landmarks I recognized. There hadn’t been any fresh snow while I’d been inside, and everywhere was covered in icy, graying slush that made the city feel just as drab and shabby as me.
I was about to call Justine when I noticed exhaust fumes coming from the tail pipe of a small SUV parked in a bay on the opposite side of the street. I got the sense the occupants were watching me, but couldn’t see them clearly because the windows were steamed up. A hand wiped some of the moisture from the windshield and a moment later the passenger and driver doors opened. I was about to start running when I recognized the two figures that emerged as Leonid Boykov and Dinara Orlova.
“Jack,” Dinara yelled over the passing vehicles.
Relieved, I picked my way through the traffic, and joined them by the vehicle, a Lada Niva, a Soviet-era SUV that must have been at least thirty years old. As I approached, I could hear the engine ticking over unevenly, revving high and then running low, almost to faltering point.
“Yes, it sounds like a dying bull,” Leonid said. “But it moves. It’s my uncle’s car.”
They got in the front and I climbed in the back. The interior wasn’t much warmer than the street.
“The heater’s broken,” Leonid explained, wiping the windshield again.
“How did you get out?” I asked Dinara.
She nodded at Leonid. “It pays to have powerful friends.” “I’m sorry it took so long for you,” Leonid said to me. “It’s one thing getting a former FSB agent out of a police station, quite another thing securing the release of a foreigner from the Ministry of Internal Affairs.” I looked at the grand building. “You got me out of there?”
“Of course.” He nodded. “There are still some members of the Moscow establishment who whisper the name Leonid Boykov with pride.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d better check in with New York.”