“You know this? His face?”
“Go online. Put Bernard Sokolov in Google,” Titov said. “He’s on every television station in the Twin Cities. When we go north, you have to drive, Kat. Be good if you could get Bernard to lie down in the back and maybe find something to cover him with.”
“Cover him? With what?”
“Let me think about that. I’ll call you when Edouard gets back to me.”
• • •
Edouard Gagnon calledright at eight. He could move them that night, across the Pigeon River. “Five thousand,” he said.
“We’ll need a car…”
“Will I get it back?”
“Yes. We need to drive it to Toronto…”
“You could do that, but it’s at least a sixteen-hour drive if we don’t get any more snow. And I’d want another ten grand, you know, for the inconvenience and risk of losing the car. I could put you in an air taxi, with a guy who won’t talk, for five thousand. In-country flight from a general aviation airport to another general aviation airport outside Toronto, no IDs required.”
“Let’s do that,” Titov said. “I’ll hand you the cash at the river.”
“Six o’clock. Be there or be square,” Gagnon said.
“I’ll call you,” Titov said.
• • •
Titov was lyingon the motel bed as he spoke to Gagnon, watching a news program from the Twin Cities with the sound muted. A feature story came up, a rosy-cheeked woman wearing a ski hat and wearing a bright red ski jacket, and a caption at the bottom of the screen said, “The Birkebeiner, Hayward, Wisconsin.”
He thought, “What?” and as soon as he signed off with Gagnon, he picked up the remote and unmuted the TV. He caught the tail-end of the young woman’s cheery report and went to his laptop.
It took only a moment to confirm it: there was a huge cross-country ski race in Hayward that morning that would continue for most of the rest of the day. He thought for a moment, then went out to the ’net again, and checked for a local Walmart. He found one just across the interstate, and called up the website. The Walmart did sell cross-country skis.
He called Abramova, who said, without preamble, “Are we ready?”
“Almost. I talked to my contact, we have a crossing point.” He explained about the airplane, and Abramova was good with that. “One more thing: there’s a cross-country ski race in a town called Hayward, almost straight north of us, on the way to the border. There’ll be thousands of people there, I’m worried somebody will spot Bernard.”
“People will see him, but they won’t see him,” she said. “Come as soon as you can.”
“There is a Walmart just across the interstate. I need to stop there for a minute. I will see you in twenty minutes,” Titov said.
At nine o’clock, back from Walmart, having spent fifteen hundred dollars on the cheapest cross-country skis sets he could find, a decent-looking parka in Sokolov’s size, along with a sack full of junk food,Titov drove to now-deceased Nikitin’s room, where Abramova was waiting with Sokolov.
Sokolov had been lying on the bed when Abramova let him in, and Titov gawked at the other man. “My God,” he said to Abramova, “What have you done?”
“Nobody will see him,” Abramova said.
“That’s…brilliant,” Titov said. And, “You’re right. I think I just wasted a lot of money.”
Abramova had shaved Sokolov’s head, and Sokolov had shaved his previously furry face. “I look like a peeled potato,” Sokolov said.
“It’ll grow back,” Titov said, marveling at the change. Sokolov had looked like a blond bush the night before, with the shoulder-length hair and scuzzy blond beard. His head now looked like a pale fleshy egg, with all of Sokolov’s features seemingly melted into the bottom of his face.
“Then we go,” Abramova said. “Why did you go to this Walmart?”
“I bought four sets of skis and poles and some boots. All junk, but it looks okay, if you don’t know about brands. I thought we could push the second and third row of seats down, in the van. There’d still be enough space for Sokolov to lay on the floor between the front seats and second row. We’d throw all the skis on top of him, if you get stopped…you’re going up to the ski race.”
Sokolov: “You thought I’d lay on the floor for six hours?”
