The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

“You’ll be fine,” Hadden stated, his words beginning to slur like Terry’s.

“Nobody knows you’re here or gives a shit about it, buddy boy,” Terry stated. “So go take care of little Misha and then head to the airport and go the hell home.”

Matt knew now was indeed time to head upstairs. He shook Hadden’s hand, grabbed two more beers, and headed to his room. The next day, he planned on connecting with Misha, paying her out of the CIA slush fund he had been authorized to use, and then flying out on the first plane that was headed somewhere interesting. He didn’t want to fly for 10 hours back to the states. Perhaps he’d go somewhere to clear his head and get some exercise before going home.

The next morning, Matt awoke to a much different ambassador’s residence than he had experienced since his arrival in Moscow. With the Wilkersons now gone, there wasn’t the coming and going of domestic and embassy staff that had kept the phones and the footsteps in the hallway moving. He showered and dressed, packed his bag, shut down his laptop, slung the backpack over one shoulder, and headed downstairs to begin his coffee ritual.

To his surprise, there wasn’t any. Much of the staff had been given the rest of the week off, including the kitchen staff. The few domestic workers that remained behind had worked into the night and had begun early that morning to wipe away anything and everything that could remind them and the ambassador’s successor that this had been a crime scene hours before.

Like a man on a mission, Matt found the coffee and within minutes had a large pot brewing. He checked the secure email account on his phone and read the texts Dale had sent him while he slept. There was also a voicemail from Coleman. It said that she hoped he was okay and that POTUS was stunned by what had happened there. She suggested he stay overseas for a week or so until things quieted at home. He had already planned on it. Hadden joined him in the kitchen. They sat and discussed the plan for the day.

“I’m set to meet Misha at eleven o’clock in front of Lenin’s Tomb. I need to get over to the Embassy to collect the funds, and then I’ll head over to finish this up and get the hell out of here.” Hadden insisted that he would accompany him. Terry would drive them to the Embassy, then the 30 minutes to Red Square, and then to whichever Moscow airport Matt wished to go.

“You guys really want to spend that much time sitting in traffic with me?” he joked. “Terry might just shoot me if he gets wound up again.”

Hadden poured himself a cup of coffee and freshened Matt’s. They sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking about the Moscow traffic but more about the events that had taken three lives just down the hall from where they were sitting.

“Terry needs to get back to the States to decompress,” Hadden suggested. “He was very close to Mrs. Wilkerson. Probably too close, if you catch my drift.” Matt nodded. “Yep, I picked up on that late the other night when he knocked on her door.”

Hadden had already heard about the awkward encounter. “I guess the fact that Mrs. Wilkerson mentioned you were a good-looking guy, and that he found you in her room at that hour, got the jealousy meter pegged a bit.”

There was no reason for Matt to pursue that topic any further, so he changed the subject and talked about what he was going to do next. Then, “Terry does need some time off, back in Texas. He probably should have flown home with them if it wasn’t stopping in Dover first.”

Hadden agreed with the nod of his head. “Now, let’s get over to the Embassy and get you moving.”

Ninety minutes later, Terry drove their black SUV into a parking spot close to Saint Basil’s Cathedral at one end of Red Square. Matt hopped out and, with Hadden keeping a distance of 30 feet or so behind him, walked at a brisk pace across the wide-open square.

He remembered the black-and-white videos he had seen on YouTube of Nikita Khrushchev, the leader of the then Communist Soviet Union, in the early 1960s waving to the parade of Russia’s military might – soldiers, tanks, and missile launchers presented there in front of the Kremlin. Some things might be different now, in color, like the massive, vibrant red brick walls of the Russian fortress, but others remained much the same; here was an American operative paying off the Russian mistress of the American ambassador to keep her quiet.

As he continued his walk toward Lenin’s Tomb, Matt laughed to himself. I’ve tried to get in there to see the old dead bastard three times now, and I’ve never managed to make it inside. Maybe today will be different, as long as Hadden doesn’t mind waiting.

He arrived right on time and was wearing a red Washington Nationals baseball cap, something he thought would make it easier for Misha to find him. A few minutes after he donned the hat, she tapped him on the shoulder from behind. He had seen pictures of the pretty young Misha Doronin, but when he turned and recognized her, he smiled. She was a true Russian beauty, a young woman with those captivating blue eyes he had seen so often at the Sheraton bar. But she didn’t appear to be a wolf in a red dress; this was just a hard-working young woman, a beautiful innocent who had fallen into a sick family game. There were no wolf eyes, just bright ones that had sadly lost some of their luster.

She extended her hand. “I am Misha, tell me your name, please.”

“Matt, I’m Matt. We’ve texted each other many times. I’m very happy to meet you, but sorry it had to be under such strange circumstances,” he said, and he meant it.

Misha turned