Chapter Twenty
Chisinau, Moldova. Friday, June 13, 2025.
As usual, Fedoruk had chosen the very best. In Chisinau, this meant the Albisoara Terrace & Restaurant, on the eponymous street. While Robinson waited to be picked up, he went to the restaurant's website. Consulting the calculator on his laptop, he translated the astronomical prices with great relish. (He bet that the Albisoara served "great relish.")
The menu stretched "European cuisine," to include not only leg of rabbit ($112) and same of pork ($83.50), but hamburgers ($70). And the dessert menu stretched from Kiev cake ($39.25) to Tiramisu ($33.15) and Pistachio cheesecake made with Philadelphia cream cheese ($39.25).
Still waiting for the Tank to arrive, Robinson eyeballed the other pages on the Albisoara site. On the Wine page, instead of a list, he found a statement by the sommelier, whose picture suggested the young-punk style of Patsy Santos-Oliveira (tattoos, piercings, etc.). But this person, whose name suggested Russian-Jewish origins, was pictured in mod-casual office garb, instead of Patsy's official dark suit. Naming neither brands nor prices, the sommelier's statement was rich in wine clichés ("distinctive," "aromatic," "rich," "zesty," "full-bodied," etc.) Robinson's opinion was re-enforced: this joint could empty the deepest pockets.
Apparently, Fedoruk had anticipated that his thorough, curious dinner guest would have visited the Albisoara site, and that he would, accordingly, have experienced severe sticker shock. As Robinson joined him in the back seat of the SUV, Fedoruk anticipated the problem: "Not to worry, John. Our bouffe is definitely on Uncle. I checked."
The ride from Mateevici to Albisoara, via Str. Puskin, took only a few uneventful minutes. The restaurant's main dining room, three-quarters full at 1900 hours, when they arrived, was furnished in tasteful Moldovan bad taste: unpainted wood-slatted shutters; gray bentwood chairs; plain white chandeliers, each with four white tasseled fixtures; off-white tablecloths; four wine glasses per setting; and, on each table, a big plant that looked like a Romaine lettuce growing out of a pineapple, set in a square turquoise ceramic vessel.
As their formally dressed, older male server flourished the huge leather menus, Fedoruk glanced at Robinson with an expression that plainly said, "Don't forget, John, I warned you not to let the prices spoil our dinner!" To prove his point, he recommended either the rabbit leg or one of the grander pork options. Robinson went for the rabbit, accompanied by boiled potatoes with a house-special sauce, and what sounded like an ordinary side salad. Fedoruk opted for a pork dish that sounded like spare ribs, with a side of a mysterious eastern-European vegetable. They would both begin with a Moldovan-style octopus concoction.
"Does Moldova even have a seacoast? Robinson asked, tucking into the small-ish appetizer.
"These probably come from Giurgiulesi," Fedoruk replied. "It's close to the Black Sea. Most seafood is brought to Chisinau by smugglers. Not the Donducenis, though, who trawl for much bigger fish. The restaurants have 'arrangements' with the smugglers. Once in a while, when other things happen to die down, we shake a stick at the smugglers, and they stop for a few days." He shrugged, and Robinson noted that it seemed to have become his default gesture.
As soon as the waiter had left for the kitchen with their entree orders, the sommelier appeared. This woman, shorter than in her photograph, engaged Fedoruk in a rapid-fire Moldovan conversation, while Robinson looked on with a fixed smile. The only words he understood sounded like wine names, two of which Fedoruk selected. When the sommelier returned with the first one, a white, labeled "Purcari, 1827," she offered the obligatory sample taste to Fedoruk. He gestured toward Robinson, who was hardly an oenophile. The wine was good. Did he imagine a soupçon of jasmine? The number on the label, he assumed, referred not to the vintage, but to the date the vineyard had been founded. The sommelier poured exactly equal measures for them, then left their table for another.
"Next victim!" Robinson whispered.
The rye rolls in the basket on their table proved so delicious that he recalled a mantra of his father's: "Don't fill up on the bread, John!" Vowing to exercise self-control, he broke one of the rolls into thirds, and nibbled.
"Can we talk now?" he asked. Fedoruk nodded.
As they awaited the arrival of the meat, Robinson impatiently posed the question of the hour: how should they go about finding and apprehending Ramesh Subramanian?
Fedoruk sipped his wine before replying. "A difficult question, John.
Especially now that their drone attack has backfired. Maybe, we can pump the surviving Rusu brother, Petru. By tomorrow, he may be well enough to be interrogated."
Before Robinson could reply, their waiter emerged from the kitchen, bearing a large tray with large plates on it. Fedoruk, whose back was to the kitchen, started to talk again. "Or maybe Yamamoto or Santos-Oliveira can intercept ... " Robinson shushed him. The ribs and rabbit arrived, and were served with suitable panache.
As they tucked in, Robinson wondered why he was not enjoying this delicious meal more. Why did the cost bother him so much, when it was unlikely he would be picking up even part of the tab? For his part, Fedoruk seemed grimly determined that they should celebrate the successful outcome of the drone incident in the park.
Robinson decided they were both afraid that, at any moment, more drones might land, or bombs detonate. The countermeasures they had mentioned —in terrogating the surviving Ruso brother, and intercepting Subramanian's communications — would certainly not shield them from present danger.
And then, as if by magic, their phones simultaneously buzzed. Robinson saw that he had received a new text from the CCTF office in Cape Town. Before he could open it, Fedoruk pointed to his screen, which indicated he had received the same message."Better let me take this, John, on my un-hackable device." Robinson put his phone back on the table, and Fedoruk read the text aloud.
"R.S. currently in Chisinau, probably within 200 metres of your present location. (signed) P. S.-O.
"Patsy must have a device that can override Subramanian's GPS surveillance-detector," Robinson said.
"My God!" exclaimed Fedoruk, jumping to his feet, and frantically speed dialing. "He's less than a block away!" Before the outgoing call could be connected, a very loud bang shook the glassware on all the tables, and some of their wine sloshed onto the off-white tablecloth. (Foolishly, Robinson was relieved that the wine was white.) With Fedoruk in the lead, they sprinted for the entrance.
As soon as they were outside, they could see exactly what had happened. Where the Tank had been parked lay a heap of melting, steaming metal and plastic. Before they could move closer to the wreck, a phantasm emerged from the cloud of smoke. Robinson's momentary reaction was insane: he thought the phantasm was Geistmann. But it turned out to be Fedoruk's driver, who had left the car for a stroll and a smoke.
"Thank God you're safe, Vlad," Fedoruk said, hugging the man, then swiping at the dust on his shirt.
Robinson, who knew that "Vladimir" meant "Robert," in Moldovan, had another foolish thought: Vlad's deadly smoking habit had just saved him from a smoky death. "I think I'm beginning to understand Subramanian's m.o.," he said. "He's a repeater who gradually builds toward a lethal climax."
"Should I call for another car?" asked Fedoruk.
"It might be safer to walk."
"Should we go back in, and finish our meal first?"
"He might blow up the restaurant. I hope he ... "
Then, they heard a loud gong sound behind them three times. Spinning around, they saw that the sidewalk was crowded with diners and staff from the Albisoara, all moving in their direction. Among the buzzing crowd were their old waitperson and the punk sommelier. Someone was saying that there had been a telephone call, warning Management to clear the restaurant, because a bomb was about to go off.
A few seconds later, there was another loud explosion. "The Albisoara," Robinson thought, "is toast." He realized that jokes had become his default defence against fear.
With Fedoruk in the lead, they started up the block, away from the crowd, and toward the approaching sirens. As they hurried along, Robinson thought of a point to add to his developing profile of Subramanian. "He does try to avoid collateral damage," he said.
"No!" Fedoruk contradicted him. "Laundering money for slime balls like the Donducenis causes terrible collateral damage."
Robinson had another inconsequential thought. He wondered if Chisinau's police vehicles had been replaced since he had last seen them outside the prison on Str. Ismail, during Geistmann's escape seventeen years before. If he remembered correctly, the prison was only about fifteen minutes from the restaurant.
With Vlad, the driver, bringing up the rear, and without further incident, Robinson and Fedoruk walked back to the Embassy. After they had all washed up, in the restroom on the main floor, they left Vlad in the office to write up an incident report, and walked down the stairs to the safe room.
Since their gala dinner had been truncated, they made do with stale tuna fish sandwiches, apparently left over from an afternoon meeting. Fedoruk washed his sandwich down with a cup of black coffee from the ever-present pot, but Robinson declined, saying he was already jittery enough. He made do, instead, with a tall glass of tepid water from a carafe that had apparently also been left from the meeting. They ate and drank at the far end of the conference table, where they had breakfasted at the start of this eventful day.
When he had finished his sandwich and coffee, without consulting Robinson, Fedoruk dabbed his lips, and placed a call to Patsy Santos-Oliveira. S-O picked up after the first ring; she must have been waiting for the call. After Fedoruk had put his phone on speaker, he given her a quick recap of the restaurant bombing. Robinson chimed in with a thumbnail account of what had happened in the park. He explained that, other than the Ruso brothers, no one had been hurt or killed. He repeated his point about Subramanian's apparent aversion to collateral damage, to which S-O made an interesting response.
"Apparently, our boy, Ramesh, doesn't like getting his hands dirty. I wonder if his family had running water, when he was a kid."
Robinson, who was on edge from the events of the day, and who disliked this kind of glib pop psychology, came as close as he ever did to losing his temper. "Millions of people," he sniped, "grow up without running water. Most of them don't wind up as bombers or CFO's for human traffickers." He stopped himself from speculating that S-O, herself, had been among the hordes of the world's unwashed children.
"Fair enough," she conceded. "But, John, don't you realize that this ... squeamishness, or whatever, could provide a hook for us? If you guys could set up a situation where he either has to kill a lot of innocent people, or go down, himself, he would probably hesitate, at least. And he who hesitates ... "
They completed the cliché in unison: " ... is lost."
Fedoruk then asked if she still knew Ramesh Subramanian's exact whereabouts. She did. He was back inside the mob's mansion, near Rascani park. "That means he's about twenty-five minutes from the Embassy. I'll leave you guys to it." She closed the call.
Robinson started to get up, but Fedoruk remained seated, drumming his fingers on the wooden table."Doesn't she realize," he said, "that we've already thought of taking out their HQ? But our people in charge —including me— say it's a no-go. Storming the villa would cost us too many Agents."
"What about a drone?" Robinson suggested.
"Too much potential collateral damage. These days, even if the bad guys don't, we have to worry about c.d. Since the recent spate of incidental civilian deaths, every U.S. government agency has been warned off."
"A remote-control bomb?"
"Same problem."
"Then, we need to think of some kind of bait that will tempt him to come to a place where we can kill him." He paused for a moment. "Remember my point —and Patsy's— about his avoidance of collateral damage? If we could just ... "
"Hmm. Let's think about that. Maybe ... " Making it up as he went along, Fedoruk proceeded to outline a plan.
"Well, Fyodor," said Robinson, "that just might work. It's worth a try, at least." What he did not say was that Fedoruk's plan might also backfire.
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