The Man in Red Square by Bill Moody

Author:Bill Moody
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

***

Eddie Waters dialed the American embassy from one of the public telephones. Karl Evans had been taken away, moaning, grimacing in pain, the flight had been inexplicably delayed and now, Dimitri Zakharov, spooked by Evans sudden illness was about to clam up again.

He could feel it. Waters himself was dismayed by Evans unexpected attack of, what was it? Christ, he was in real pain. It had to be more than the coffee, but he was refusing to read more into it though Zakharov obviously was wary now.

As the phone rang in his ear, he glanced at his watch and the departures board. Twenty minutes until boarding. Zakharov stood quietly beside him, his eyes darting around the lounge.

Finally, the embassy switchboard answered. “I want to speak to someone in the political section,” Waters said. “This is Special Agent E. Waters, FBI. I’m at Frankfurt Airport.”

“Whom do you wish to speak to in the political section please?” It was the standard runaround, Waters knew. The CIA personnel were always hidden in the political section.

“Christ, I don’t know. Anybody. This is an emergency.” Waters still planned to make the flight, but he’d decided to advise the embassy about Evans.

Zakharov motioned to him and pointed to the door of the men’s room next to the bank of phones. Waters nodded and watched Zakharov disappear through the door.

“If you’ll hold the line, I’ll see if I can connect you,” the voice said. Waters gripped the phone tighter and endured several minutes of recorded music until the operator finally returned.

“I’m sorry, there’s no one available in the political section. Do you wish to…”

Waters angrily slammed down the phone. Well, he had tried. Now where was Zakharov? Some of the passengers were starting to gather up their things and move toward the boarding gate. All he needed was to miss the plane because Zakharov was sitting on the can. He pushed through the door of the men’s room and passed a dark, swarthy man on the way out.

There was a shoeshine stand just inside the door. Two elevated chairs with protruding footrests and an array of brushes, rags and polish in a wooden box, but no attendant. Waters pushed through the shutter-like doors and at first glance, the rest of the toilet was deserted as well. He saw only a row of wash basins and water splashed mirrors. Someone had left one of the taps running and absently, he turned it off.

“Dimitri?” he called. The Russian had to be in here. He hadn’t seen him come out, but there was no answer except his own voice echoing around the tiled walls. The first tightness in his stomach began as he passed the wash basins and turned to the right, walking down the line of cubicles, his heart beating faster now. Open. Open. Open. Closed.

“Dimitri?” He pounded on the locked door. He started to call again when he heard the doors swing open and hurried footsteps. He walked back toward the urinals. Two men came in. One went to one of the wash basins and plopped down a small bag.

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