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By Root 659 0

were no match for them, and he knew it. The older woman he’d knocked down was gone, and those who’d been in front of the Gold Coin when the attack began had either scattered or were on the sidewalk moaning and pressing hands to their wounds. Pauling looked back over his shoulder; an alley ten feet away separated Glinskaya’s bar from another. He rolled in that direction, six or seven turns, then sprang to his feet and took off down the alley. A flurry of shots ricocheted off the walls, whizzed past his head, skipped up from the concrete at his feet. He ducked, zigzagged, considered returning fire but decided distance was a better defense.

He reached the end of the alley, ducked out of it, and looked back. They were in pursuit, big men, lumbering along, yelling things in Russian at one another. Pauling could have revealed himself and opened fire, certainly taking down one or two. Instead, he ran to the corner, dodged traffic as he crossed the wide boulevard to a taxi, whose driver sat smoking a cigarette. Pauling opened the back door, tumbled in, slammed the door, and told the driver in Russian to get moving, fast.

“Nyet,” the driver said, adding he was on break.

Pauling put the Glock to his head. The driver tossed his cigarette out the window, started the engine, and pulled away. Pauling looked back through the grimy window. The three men were trying to navigate the traffic as they hurried in the taxi’s direction. Pauling yelled at the driver to take a sharp left onto another street. A minute later, he let out a long stream of breath, wiped perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, and slipped the Glock into his vest pocket.

“Where are we going?” the driver asked over his shoulder, lighting another cigarette.

“Just drive awhile,” Pauling said. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay you.”

They continued in a westerly direction until reaching the beginnings of Moscow’s outskirts, grim, gray buildings lining the street, streetlights dim or not working. The promised rain had started, now just a mist, certainly to become heavier as the night progressed. Pauling considered a number of times instructing the cabbie to let him off at any corner containing a public telephone, but he wasn’t ready to leave the security of the taxi and be out alone on the streets of Moscow. Eventually, after responding to the driver’s question—“You’re a convict?” “No, but I was almost a dead man”—he gave the driver Bill Lerner’s address, in the other direction, in central Moscow. Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of the four-story apartment building that had been Lerner’s home for sixteen years. Pauling pulled out a wad of rubles and handed them over the seat to the driver, who thanked him profusely. As he watched the taxi pull away and turn a corner, he couldn’t resist a smile. It might have been a traumatic trip for the driver, but it was probably the most lucrative fare he’d have all year. He also had a fleeting, absurd thought as he approached the building entrance that maybe he should have tried to retrieve the money from Glinskaya before bolting the scene. To keep for himself? Or to return to the United States government?

That he was lucky to be alive was more on his mind as he stepped into the foyer. Broken tiles on the floor hadn’t been replaced, and graffiti on the walls was fading; Russian building management at work.

There wasn’t an intercom, so Pauling started up the stairs to the third floor, moving slowly, his hip aching from when he’d flung himself to the sidewalk. He’d realized during the cab ride that a bullet had grazed his cheek, causing a tiny rivulet of blood to drip down onto the shoulder of his jacket. It was now dry, but had started to sting.

He heard a noise from the next level up and stopped, leaned against the wall, and slowly pulled the Glock from his vest. An older man said something in Russian and was answered by an older woman. A door slammed shut. All was quiet again. Pauling continued up the stairs, one slow step at a time, until reaching the small, third-floor landing. Lerner’s flat was one of two, the