“No. Just lounge around in the back of the van. If a cop pulled you over, you’d roll into that space behind the front seat and pull a bunch of the skis over you. You’d be good. But now…I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Not with that face.”
“That would work, though, if we needed to do it,” Abramova said. “It is clever, and no harm to have the skis.”
“I bought a parka for Bernard and some junk food so we won’t have to stop to eat. I’ve worked out a route going up that makes it very unlikely that we’ll even see a police car, much less get stopped by one.”
“What if we are?” Sokolov asked.
Titov shrugged: “Listen, with that bald head…I wouldn’t have recognized you five minutes ago if you walked past me on the street. Kat has all the ID she needs. It’s good ID. She gets a ticket, you go on…”
“What if he does recognize me? Or Katerina? Or is suspicious, and calls for help?”
“That’s why Kat has a gun. She takes the cop down, runs north, where I’ll be waiting, we abandon the van and go on in the Ford.”
“Complicated,” Abramova said.
“Not complicated,” Titov said. “Because we will not be stopped. I’ll lead you along the back roads, and we won’t even see many civilian cars. If I see a police car coming toward you, I’ll call, and you can adjust your speed. We shouldn’t drive fast, anyway. We have almost too much time.”
“We should go anyway,” Abramova said.
• • •
The trip wentjust as Titov said it would: they followed back roads north, then east for a bit, and came into Hayward from the southeast, passing through tiny towns with no sign of a police presence, and rarely even residents. The snow was thin until the last leg into Hayward, where the world began to get whiter, the snow deeper and fresher.
On the way north, Titov considered the possibilities: he’d talked to Davenport, arranged a meeting, but he didn’t have to go through with it. If he simply led the van in a loop around Hayward, he could continue north, cross into Minnesota at Duluth, take more back roads to the border, watch Abramova and Sokolov walk across the Pigeon River, and drive back to Minneapolis. He could pick up his Jeep and return to Chicago.
On the other hand, the authorities would have his DNA and probably even his fingerprints, from the cars and the original safe house. If he were ever arrested for anything, he’d be toast, as the Americans said. First-degree murder of two FBI agents; he would never be free again.
He could continue across the border with Abramova and Sokolov, and from there to Moscow, but he didn’t want to go to Moscow. In Moscow he’d be, at best, a low- to middle-level bureaucrat, never quite trusted because of all his years in the U.S. He’d be looking at thirty years—if he were lucky—of boredom, followed by more-or-less gentle poverty in retirement.
The case for cooperating with the Marshals Service and the CIA was stronger. During their reconnaissance of the Sokolovs’ original hideout, he’d been amazed by what the Sokolovs were getting. A dream house. If he could get the same sweet deal…
Yet, there was always the possibility that the Americans would betray him, put him on trial, throw his sad Russian ass in prison. He had that paper from the CIA and from the Marshals Service, but that could turn out to be faked.
He could continue to the meeting, listen to their promises, and if they weren’t solid enough, walk away. If they didn’t let him walkaway, simply keep his mouth shut. Abramova and Sokolov would still have a reasonable shot at making it out of the country, even if he’d gone missing.
• • •
Titov led thevan by a mile, a little more than a minute, and coming into Hayward, encountered a detour sign with a volunteer waving traffic around a blocked road. He punched up Abramova on his phone and said, “There’s a detour. Don’t let Bernard wear a hat, we want the bald head to show. I’ll go slow, so you’ll see me when you go through the detour. They’re not stopping anyone.”
At the detour, Titov stopped and asked the volunteer, “Where can I get the closest, you know, to the center of town? Where the skiers are coming in?”
“Things are pretty jammed up right now, but if you go three blocks that way…” The volunteer pointed. “…to the corner with the big house with the rock chimney, take a right, and that’ll get you about as close as you can get. You won’t be able to go through, though.”
“That’s great,” Titov said.
He continued down the detour, slowly, saw the van two cars behind him. He took the right, and two short blocks on, hit the traffic jam. Dozens of people in Wisconsin winter dress streamed by, happy, hurrying, jaywalking, sometimes simply walking down the middle of the street.
He got on the phone to Abramova, who’d followed behind. “Things are really blocked here. There are some spaces off the road, pull over and wait for me. I’m going to walk up and see how we can get out of here. Talk to a cop if I can find one.”
Abramova: “This is a nightmare. People are looking at us…”
“Yeah, but you look like everybody else. Not a problem, and like I said, we have time. We might have to go back a mile, find a road around the whole town. When I was bringing people up from Chicago, to make the crossing, this was the way I went, until we got to the detour. Goddamnit, it’s a pain in the ass. I’ll come back and get you. I need to see what the situation is.”
“Hurry, then. I don’t want to get stuck here.”
“If you want to get out and walk around, stretch your legs, you could,” Titov said. “You really do look like everybody else. I’m seeing Swedish and Norwegian flags everywhere, I don’t think a woman with an accent would raise any eyebrows. Especially since they were looking for a blonde in Minneapolis, and you aren’t one now…”
“Maybe,” Abramova said. “But you must hurry. I will be on my phone.”
