“Where?” Jenkins said.
“We don’t have time for questions. Now it is my turn to lead and for you to follow. If you wish to live.”
Jenkins rushed to the back of the car and popped the trunk, nearly gagging on the intense smell of burning rubber. Heat radiated from the tire rim.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “We don’t have time.”
He opened the suitcase and pulled out a plastic ziplock bag in which he kept over-the-counter medicines like ibuprofen, aspirin, and cold medications and emptied the contents. Then he removed the false wall.
“Mr. Jenkins, we have to go. Now.”
Jenkins grabbed the passports, corresponding credit cards, rubles, and American dollars, crammed them into the plastic bag, zipped it closed, and shoved the bag into the interior pocket of his jacket.
“Go,” he said.
She hurried forward, behind the buildings, which Jenkins deduced to be dormitories and classrooms. He looked behind them for headlights. Trees lined the campus streets, which would help to hide them, but not for long. The sidewalks were vacant.
The woman crossed an inner courtyard surrounded by buildings and kept moving, as if she had a purpose.
“We need to get into the woods,” Jenkins said, hurrying to her side. “We need to get out of sight.”
“I know this campus. I went to school here, and I have had reason to study it extensively.”
“Why?”
“Not now,” she said. “Follow me.”
Again, Jenkins had to give her credit. She seemed to have a singular purpose. She was also in good shape, not sounding the least bit out of breath, though she had to be close to his age. He was grateful for his early morning runs, and soon found his wind, his breathing becoming steady.
She came to what appeared to be the entrance of the school, dominated by an expansive lawn and divided by courtyards in front of a massive building Jenkins recognized from photographs.
“One of the seven sisters,” he said, slightly out of breath. He recalled the distinct tiered neoclassical tower, one of seven built in the Stalin era. The central tower was nearly forty floors and flanked by four long wings.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” She moved away from the building toward the courtyards. Paved with red bricks and lined with flower beds and tall trees, they might provide brief cover. Jenkins did not bother her with questions since she seemed to know where she was going and what she was doing. She rushed to a dry fountain in the southwest quadrant of the courtyard that looked like a multilayered wedding cake with a metal dish atop it. Gargoyle heads extended from the round basin, presumably to spew water. Like many things in Moscow, however, the fountain had fallen into disrepair. Several of the heads were missing, leaving pipes protruding from the pitted concrete. There was simply no money to maintain public landmarks.
Kulikova systematically walked around the fountain and pulled on metal grates beneath the concrete base.
“What are we doing?” Jenkins wiped perspiration from his face and looked behind them to the trees and the bushes, trying to discern car headlights.
“There is a ventilation shaft below the fountain. I don’t have time now to explain. We need to get one of these grates opened and get inside.”
Jenkins bent for a closer inspection. The decorative bars were part of a single grate with hinges at the top and a bolt embedded at the concrete base. The concrete had been drilled and the bolt epoxied into place, but the bolt had rusted, creating space. Jenkins yanked on the grate and the bolt head moved. He rattled the grate, and the noise echoed in the courtyard.
“I might be able to pry up the bolt.” He grabbed the head of the bolt with his fingers and tried to force it up. It raised slightly, but not enough. He stopped. “I’m going to need to create some leverage.”
He left the fountain for one of the surrounding flower beds and found a pile of rocks in a corner. He sifted through them until he found two that might work. Hurrying back, he dropped to his knees and angled the longer of the two rocks to put the flat edge under the bolt head, like a chisel blade. He used the second rock like a hammer. The bolt head raised slightly. He tapped again, and again, and again, each time raising the bolt millimeters. The woman kept watch. When Jenkins had raised the bolt enough to grip the head, he wiggled it, but again could not yank it free. He went back to tapping. He had no idea the length of the bolt, or how long it would take to dislodge it. He did know, however, they had very little time.
Zhomov drove slowly, searching the woods to the left and right.