helped him to avoid a jail cell and a criminal record back in Pokrovskoye. He’d needed a credible excuse to leave his village, a reason that would make the townsfolk hesitate at holding him back. Announcing that he was to become a
strannik
was the perfect way out.
And the more he thought about Misha and his astounding discovery, the more he became convinced that his decision to come here, to this austere place, would reward him richly.
Perhaps Saint Simeon was—he laughed inwardly—working his miracles after all.
14
A loud car horn jolted Sokolov out of his reverie.
He was still standing by the cab, outside the Russian consulate. Waiting.
He thought he had it all mapped out. The street was one-way, meaning that when Rogozin left for the day, he would have to pass the yellow cab, enabling Sokolov to follow him. But when the first car left the consulate shortly before six, Sokolov realized he’d missed a key factor: the official car that drove out of the metal security gate before turning right down Ninety-first Street and past his position was a gunmetal-gray Mercedes S-Class with blacked-out windows that made it impossible to tell who was inside.
As the car turned onto Fifth Avenue, Sokolov cursed loudly and slammed both palms hard against the roof of the taxi.
“Yo, brother, what you do that for?” Winston protested.
“Sorry, sorry . . . My apologies,” Sokolov told him.
Winston shrugged, turned away, and resumed his gentle head bobbing to the music coming through his earphones.
Sokolov fumed in silence.
Who are you trying to fool, Leo? You’re no longer the young man who outwitted them before. You’re just a bitter old man who couldn’t keep his bloody mouth shut after too many vodkas. A typical Russian, in fact. Not an American at all.
He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and rubbed his hands across his face.
What the hell do I do now?
He could retreat back to another dive and spend another night feeling sorry for himself, or—excepting the flag-flying limousine of the consul general—he could just wait and hope they weren’t all like that, or just randomly pick another car, whoever may be inside, and see where he ended up.
It wasn’t really a choice at all.
He sucked in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the gun he had in his coat pocket. It was an alien piece of equipment to him. A primitive, vulgar weapon. But right at the moment, it was also useful, and he was grateful he had it.
He waited some more. Then things improved.
The next cars to leave were sedans, mostly pretty high-end, with standard windows. And the eleventh car to exit the gates, almost an hour later, was a dark gray Lexus with none other than Rogozin at the wheel.
Sokolov watched him glide by, then hopped in the cab.
“That car”—he motioned excitedly to Winston—“that’s the one. Follow it.”
The yellow cab pulled into its wake.
Winston nearly lost the Lexus several times, but each time, he just managed to stay within sight of the shiny dark sedan. By the time they reached their shared destination, a towering apartment building on East Thirty-sixth, it was just past seven and the light was fading fast.
The Lexus turned into an underground parking garage and disappeared inside, with the garage’s metal shutters rolling back down behind it.
Sokolov knew he had to move fast.
“Stop here, let me out,” he yelled at the Jamaican.
Winston slowed to a stop just next to the descending barrier. Sokolov had already seen the meter showing a hundred and eleven dollars, and he shoved two hundred-dollar bills into the small flap in the security partition that separated him from the driver before bursting out of the car.
“Thank you, but I must go now,” he said as he darted toward the gate.
He got there as the edge of the barrier was less than three feet off the ground. Without hesitating, he threw himself to the ground and landed heavily on his left knee before dragging himself clumsily under
strannik
was the perfect way out.
And the more he thought about Misha and his astounding discovery, the more he became convinced that his decision to come here, to this austere place, would reward him richly.
Perhaps Saint Simeon was—he laughed inwardly—working his miracles after all.
14
A loud car horn jolted Sokolov out of his reverie.
He was still standing by the cab, outside the Russian consulate. Waiting.
He thought he had it all mapped out. The street was one-way, meaning that when Rogozin left for the day, he would have to pass the yellow cab, enabling Sokolov to follow him. But when the first car left the consulate shortly before six, Sokolov realized he’d missed a key factor: the official car that drove out of the metal security gate before turning right down Ninety-first Street and past his position was a gunmetal-gray Mercedes S-Class with blacked-out windows that made it impossible to tell who was inside.
As the car turned onto Fifth Avenue, Sokolov cursed loudly and slammed both palms hard against the roof of the taxi.
“Yo, brother, what you do that for?” Winston protested.
“Sorry, sorry . . . My apologies,” Sokolov told him.
Winston shrugged, turned away, and resumed his gentle head bobbing to the music coming through his earphones.
Sokolov fumed in silence.
Who are you trying to fool, Leo? You’re no longer the young man who outwitted them before. You’re just a bitter old man who couldn’t keep his bloody mouth shut after too many vodkas. A typical Russian, in fact. Not an American at all.
He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and rubbed his hands across his face.
What the hell do I do now?
He could retreat back to another dive and spend another night feeling sorry for himself, or—excepting the flag-flying limousine of the consul general—he could just wait and hope they weren’t all like that, or just randomly pick another car, whoever may be inside, and see where he ended up.
It wasn’t really a choice at all.
He sucked in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the gun he had in his coat pocket. It was an alien piece of equipment to him. A primitive, vulgar weapon. But right at the moment, it was also useful, and he was grateful he had it.
He waited some more. Then things improved.
The next cars to leave were sedans, mostly pretty high-end, with standard windows. And the eleventh car to exit the gates, almost an hour later, was a dark gray Lexus with none other than Rogozin at the wheel.
Sokolov watched him glide by, then hopped in the cab.
“That car”—he motioned excitedly to Winston—“that’s the one. Follow it.”
The yellow cab pulled into its wake.
Winston nearly lost the Lexus several times, but each time, he just managed to stay within sight of the shiny dark sedan. By the time they reached their shared destination, a towering apartment building on East Thirty-sixth, it was just past seven and the light was fading fast.
The Lexus turned into an underground parking garage and disappeared inside, with the garage’s metal shutters rolling back down behind it.
Sokolov knew he had to move fast.
“Stop here, let me out,” he yelled at the Jamaican.
Winston slowed to a stop just next to the descending barrier. Sokolov had already seen the meter showing a hundred and eleven dollars, and he shoved two hundred-dollar bills into the small flap in the security partition that separated him from the driver before bursting out of the car.
“Thank you, but I must go now,” he said as he darted toward the gate.
He got there as the edge of the barrier was less than three feet off the ground. Without hesitating, he threw himself to the ground and landed heavily on his left knee before dragging himself clumsily under