Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [80]
Pauling got into the first taxi in a long line of them and told the driver to take him to Gorky Park. Traffic was sluggish, but the driver took less congested side streets until pulling up in front of the House of Artists, home of the Russian Artists’ Union, directly across the street from the entrance to the park. Muscovites were out in droves there, too, enjoying the 275-acre park, Moscow’s most popular recreation center. It struck Pauling as he watched the vibrant street scene that the resiliency of the Russian people, gripped as they were in a brutal recession exacerbated by Yeltsin’s decision to devalue the ruble, was to be admired. He doubted if the majority of Americans, certainly those whose lives were basically free of hardship, would fare nearly as well if faced with similar adversity.
He checked his watch: eleven-fifty. He crossed the road, entered the park, and strolled along its tree-studded walkways. A jazz concert was in progress in the ten-thousand-seat open-air Zelyony Theatre, and the giant Ferris wheel that dominated the horizon was in action, its tinkling music and the shrieks of delight from children blending with the jazz band to create a surprisingly compatible sound.
He continued to walk until reaching a boating pond and stopped beneath a tree at its edge. Another glance at his watch: a few minutes before midnight. He was sure he had the right place. Lerner had told him to wait by the tree closest to the stand-up cafe on the north side of the pond.
A minute later, he saw Glinskaya emerge from behind the cafe. The young Russian mobster wore a black, Italian-cut suit and black-and-white shoes. Two other men were with him, one on either side. When they were closer, Pauling recognized them from the back room of the Red Cat.
“Pauling, on time, huh?”
“Of course. I keep appointments… and promises.” Pauling looked for another person to join them, the arms dealer Glinskaya was supposed to deliver. When no one did, he said, “Missing someone, aren’t we?”
The Russian smiled, shrugged.
Pauling made a show of looking at his watch. “Are we talking here, or are we going someplace else?”
“The impatient American way,” the Russian said.
“Maybe you haven’t noticed but it works,” Pauling said.
Glinskaya’s face hardened, and Pauling regretted his flippancy. But then the slick man smiled and nodded vigorously. “I like you, Pauling. Direct, huh? You are always direct.” He looked about; the only people near them were his two colleagues, who stood a few feet away. “You have the money?” he asked.
“Yes.” Pauling pressed his right elbow against the Glock 17 in his pocket. “It stays with me until I have what I’m paying for.”
Without a word, Glinskaya pulled an envelope from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to Pauling. “Go ahead,” he said. “What you want is in there.”
Pauling looked at the envelope.
“Read it,” said Glinskaya.
The Russian’s two men moved closer to Pauling, taking up a position on either side. Pauling got the message: Read what was in the envelope but don’t think about walking away without paying.
Where they stood was in deep shadow. Pauling removed the single sheet of paper from the envelope, squinted, then slowly moved into a shaft of light from the cafe. The two men moved with him, as in a ballet.
The note was written in English, good English. It was fifteen lines long, the sentences properly punctuated, capital letters where they should be. But Pauling wasn’t focusing on the note’s syntax or style. It was what it said that had his full attention.
“So, Pauling, you are satisfied?”
“Who wrote this?” Pauling asked, moving back closer to Glinskaya.
“The one who knows.”
“Who?”
“No, no, Pauling, that is not important. I asked him to meet with us. He refused. But I convinced him to write down about the missiles, who he sold them to. Believe me, Pauling, this is the man who sold the missiles that shot down your planes. Now, you give me the money and I will give