Tucker sighed and turned to face Utkin fully. “What were you thinking?”
“What?”
“The taxi, the business suit, the bad part of town . . .”
“What should I have done differently?”
“All of it,” Tucker replied.
In truth, Tucker was partly to blame. From the dossier, he had known Utkin was a lab geek. He knew the meeting site was dicey. He should have changed it.
Utkin struggled to compose himself and did a surprisingly admirable job, considering the circumstances. “I believe I owe you my life. Thank you. I was very frightened.”
Tucker shrugged. “Nothing wrong with being frightened. That just means you’re smart, not stupid. So before we get into any more trouble, let’s go get Bukolov. Where is your boss?”
Utkin checked his watch. “He should still be at the opera.”
“The opera?”
Utkin glanced up, seemingly not bothered that someone seeking to escape the country, someone being hunted by Russian elite forces, should choose such a public outing.
Tucker shook his head. “You remember when I said don’t be stupid . . .”
Over the next few minutes, he got the story out of Utkin. It seemed—faced with the possibility of never seeing the Motherland again—Abram Bukolov had decided to indulge his greatest passion: opera.
“They were doing one of Abram’s favorites,” Utkin explained. “Faust. It’s quite—”
“I’m sure it is. Does he have a cell phone?”
“Yes, but he will have it turned off.”
Tucker sighed. “Where is the opera house and when does it end?”
“In about an hour. It’s being held at the Tchaikovsky’s House. It’s less than a mile from here.”
Great . . . just great. . .
He put the Volvo in gear. “Show me.”
10:04 P.M.
Ten minutes before the opera ended, Tucker found a parking spot a few blocks from the Tchaikovsky’s House. As angry as he was at Bukolov for choosing to preface his defection by dressing up in a tuxedo and attending a public extravaganza, the deed was done. Still, this stunt told him something: Bukolov was either unstable, stupid, or arrogant—any of which did not bode well for the remainder of their journey.
Tucker left Kane in the car and accompanied Utkin down the street. He stopped across from the opera’s brightly lit main entrance and pointed toward its massive white stone façade.
“I’ll wait here,” he said. “You go fetch the good doctor and walk to the car. Don’t hurry and don’t look at me. I’ll meet you at the Volvo. Got it?”
“I understand.”
“Go.”
Utkin crossed the street and headed toward the main entrance.
As he waited, Tucker studied the crimson banner draped down the front of the theater. The fiery sign depicted a demonic figure in flames, appropriate for Faust, an opera about a scholar who makes a pact with the devil.
I hope that’s not the case here.
A few minutes later, Utkin emerged with Abram Bukolov in tow. The billionaire leader of Russia’s burgeoning pharmaceutical industry stood a foot shorter and forty pounds heavier than his lab assistant. He was bald, except for a monk’s fringe of salt-and-pepper hair.
Following Tucker’s instructions, Utkin escorted the man back to the car. Tucker gave them a slight lead, then followed. Once he was sure no one was tailing them, he joined them at the car.
“Hello!” Bukolov called, offering his hand.
Irritated, Tucker skipped the formal introductions. Instead, he used the remote to unlock the doors. “Utkin in front, Bukolov in—”
“Doctor Bukolov,” the man corrected him.
“Whatever. Doctor, you’re in the back.”
Tucker opened the driver’s door and started to climb in.
Behind him, Bukolov stopped and stared inside. “There’s a dog back here.”
“Really?” Tucker said, his voice steeped in sarcasm. “How did he get back there?”
“I’m not sitting next to—”
“Get in, or he’ll drag you inside by your tuxedo lapels, Doctor.”
Bukolov clamped his mouth shut, his face going red. It was doubtful many people had ever spoken to him like that. Still, he got in.
Two blocks later, the pharmaceutical magnate found his voice. “The opera was tremendous, Stanimir—though I doubt you would have appreciated the subtleties. Say, you, driver, what’s your name? Is this your dog? He keeps staring at me.”
Tucker gave Utkin a narrow-eyed glance, who got the message.
“Doctor Bukolov, why don’t we talk about the opera later? We can—”
The man cut him off by tapping on Tucker’s shoulder. “Driver, how long until we reach Kazan?”
Resisting the urge to break his fingers, Tucker pulled to the nearest curb and put the Volvo in park. He turned in his seat and faced Bukolov. “Kazan? What are you talking about?”
“Kazan. It’s in the oblast of—”
“I know where it is, Doctor.” The city of Kazan lay about four hundred miles to the west. “Why do you think we’re going there?”
“Good God, man, didn’t anyone tell you? This is unacceptable! I am not leaving the country without Anya. We must go to Kazan and collect her.”
Of course we do.
“Who’s Anya?” he asked.
“My daughter. I will not leave Russia without her.”
11:22 P.M.
Sticking to his original plan, Tucker headed out of town, stopping only long enough to trade the Volvo for the new Marussia F2 SUV. They found the brute of a vehicle parked where he had instructed it to be left on the south end of town. It was fully gassed and carried a false license plate.
Reaching the P242, he continued west for an hour, doing his best to tune out Bukolov’s rambling monologue, which ranged from the mysterious Anya, to the industrial history of the region, to Kane’s disturbingly intelligent mien.
On the outskirts of the small town of Kungur, Tucker pulled into the hotel parking lot and decided he’d put enough distance from Perm to regroup.
He got out and called Harper and brought her up to speed.
“This is the first I’ve heard of this Anya,” Harper said.
“You described the doctor as eccentric. You were being generous.”
“He may be a bit”—she paused to consider her words—“out of touch, but there’s no mistaking his brilliance. Or his desire to leave Russia. And to answer your unspoken question, we’re convinced he’s on the up-and-up.”