Operation Barracuda

6

I jump toward Mrs. Prokofiev, grab her by her massive shoulders, pull the woman toward me, step to the side, and place my hand firmly over her mouth. This muffles her scream to an extent.

In Russian, I say, “Please be quiet. I won’t hurt you!” I mean it, too.

But the woman is huge and strong. She wrestles out of my grip and swings an elbow into my stomach. The suit protects me but this woman means business.

She starts to run from the office and I tackle her. Her bulky frame falls to the carpet with a heavy thud as she screams again. I move over her and put my hand across her mouth again.

“Listen to me!” I shout in Russian. “I work for the government! I’m here to help you.”

But it’s like holding a 280-pound wild boar. Because I’m pulling punches and don’t want to hurt her, she throws me off of her and manages to get to her feet. I hang on to one leg — it’s like hugging a tree trunk — and she pulls me along the carpet back into the office. Damn, she’s going for the guns.

“Wait!” I shout, but she pulls the Winchester off the wall, cocks it, and aims it at my head.

I raise my hands. “Mrs. Prokofiev,” I say, “please calm down and just listen to me.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” she demands. Her voice is deep and hoarse.

“I’m a private detective,” I blurt out. “I work for the Russian government. I’m gathering information about your husband’s extramarital activities!”

This gets her attention. “What did you say?”

“Please, may I stand?”

She keeps the rifle trained on my forehead. I don’t doubt she would pull the trigger if provoked. Only now do I notice that there are curlers in her gray hair and she’s got cold cream on her face. Hideous.

“All right, stand up, pig!” she shouts. I do so but I keep my hands high. I’m sure I could disarm her and send her to Dreamland if I wanted to, but I have a better idea.

“My name is Vladimir Stravinsky and I work for the Russian government,” I say. “Your husband is in some trouble. I’m here to see what I can find. I honestly thought you weren’t at home.”

“What did you do to Ivan the Terrible?” she snarls.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ivan! My dog!”

“Oh. He’s just asleep. It was a tranquilizer. He’s not harmed, I promise.”

She squints at me and frowns. “What’s this about Stefan?”

Stefan? Oh, her husband. “Mrs. Prokofiev, are you aware of your husband’s extramarital activities?”

“His what?”

“May I lower my hands?” I ask as politely as possible. “I can show you some, um, pictures.”

She glares at me, unsure whether or not to trust me. Finally, she nods her head but keeps the barrel in my face. “What are you talking about?” she whispers.

“Your husband has a mistress in Ukraine. In Kyiv, to be exact. A fashion model.” I decide to rub it in. “She’s in her twenties.”

The woman’s eyes flare. I swear they turn red for a moment. “I don’t believe it!” she says.

“It’s true. I’m afraid this affair he’s having is causing some concern in the Kremlin. The general has been neglecting some of his, er, duties.”

“You lie, pig!” She lifts the rifle to her eye, taking a bead on my nose.

“I can show you pictures!” I say.

Mrs. Prokofiev slowly lowers the gun again and jerks her head. “All right. Show me.”

I hold out my wrist and reveal the OPSAT. “They’re on here. This is like a digital camera. Look.” I quickly bring up the shots I took in Kyiv and display them to her, one by one. Her facial expression exhibits incredulity at first and then her pallor changes from white to red, even through that awful cold cream. If she could breathe fire, she would.

“I’ll kill him,” she mutters. The woman lowers the rifle and commands me to stand. She appears a little unsteady, so she moves to the desk and sits in the general’s chair. “What is going to happen to him?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I’m just gathering information for now.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” she says. “I’ll kill him first.”

I figure this is anger and bravado talking. “That’s not necessary, Mrs. Prokofiev. I’m sure that—”

But I’m interrupted by the sound of cars moving past the office window. I remember that the driveway leading to the garage is on the side of the house directly next to the office.

“My husband!” she says, standing. “He is home!”

I curse to myself. “I’ll have to hide.”

She waves her finger at me. “No. Do not hide. Go out the back door. I will keep him occupied when he comes in. Hurry!”

I nod, thank her, and leave the office. Ivan the Terrible is beginning to wake up. He sees me and growls sleepily. I jump over his body and he springs to his feet. When he barks, Mrs. Prokofiev shouts, “Ivan! No!” The dog whimpers slightly and sits. He apparently knows who his master is.

I go out the back door, close it, and step into my old footprints to keep from creating new ones.

“Sam, you’re not alone,” Lambert says. “Man at three o’clock.”

Sure enough, a uniformed guard comes around the house to the back, apparently performing a routine security sweep for the general’s arrival home. He sees me and shouts for help. As he draws his pistol, I forget about the footprints and rush him. I slam into him head-on and together we fall into the snow. I punch him in the face as hard as I can but the man is well trained. He plunges his knee into my side, sending a jolt of pain into my kidney. I roll off of him and attempt to get to my feet but the guard whips his arm out and stiff-hands me in the neck. If the angle had been a little better for him, he would have broken it. As it is, I fear he’s destroyed my larynx. I struggle for breath but the pain is intense.

The guard stands, draws his weapon, and points it at my head. I’m on my knees, helpless and groveling before him, but I do have the presence of mind to clutch handfuls of snow and pack them together.

The guard says, “I should go ahead and kill you but I think we’ll see what the general has to say about you.”

Suddenly there’s a loud gunshot inside the house. The guard stiffens and looks up. I use the opportunity to throw my slush ball into his face. It’s one of Krav Maga’s basic tenets — use whatever you have available in order to gain an advantage. I then spring at him, pushing off with my legs like a jack-in-the-box. I ram him in the abdomen, knocking him down once again. His pistol, a Makarov, flies into the air. This time I don’t give him a chance to rebound. I jump and bring the soles of my heavy boots down on his head. I twist, land with legs on either side of his temples, and then I give him a solid kick in the right cheekbone.

He stops squirming.

I pause for a second and a half to make sure I’m not leaving anything behind and then I take off toward the side of the house. As I run past the office window, I hear angry voices inside but it’s impossible to identify them. And I really don’t care. My throat is on fire and I just want to get the hell out of there. I got what I needed, I think.

Sticking to the shadows, I jump the iron fence and sprint down the street toward the van.