“Force them to swap their freedom for his?”
“That's right.”
“And if they don't value their friend's life?”
“Then neither should we. I still remember how to dispose of a body.”
The watcher glanced at his phone once again to memorize the man whose photo was displayed. Sergei Zubov, an officer in Sokolov's rescue team. Short, solidly-built, with a shaved head and a beak-like nose.
He put the phone away and scanned the road. Despite his mental toughness, tedium was hard to combat. As he observed a couple of passing cars, his thoughts began to drift.
“There he is!” the younger watcher called.
Indeed, a gray Nissan crossover was pulling away from the EMERCOM base.
The model matched the one they had on record, as did the license plate. The main watcher squinted to make out the appearance of the man behind the wheel. It was Zubov. The watcher recognized him immediately.
“That's him, all right. Move it!” he told the driver.
The engine started and the Toyota closely followed the Nissan. The driver was careful to let a few vehicles in between the two cars to avoid being conspicuous. Until they reached Moscow, there was no risk of losing Zubov.
“What's that bastard up to? Off to meet Sokolov?”
As action suddenly replaced the protracted boredom, the younger man became excited.
“Hopefully so. In any event, he'll concede an opportunity for our strike. Keep the gun handy.”
The watchers operated under the legal cover of a private security firm. It enabled them to carry a limited selection of firearms. Both men possessed compact PKSK-10 Kedr semiautomatic submachine guns. Two times lighter than the fabled H&K MP-5, the Kedr could be easily concealed. In the back of the Toyota, they were also transporting a couple of Saiga-12 tactical shotguns, based on the AK design.
If need be, they had every intention to put those to good use.
Well inside the metropolitan area of Moscow, Zubov turned to a busy street and wedged his crossover into a space between the parked cars lining the curb. Then he exited the Nissan and strode along the sidewalk. Abruptly, Zubov disappeared around a corner.
The Toyota lurched as the driver hit the brakes. The doors flew open as the watchers scrambled out in pursuit.
4
FROM A DISTANCE, SOKOLOV saw his best friend emerge from the Nissan. He and Zubov went back longer than either could remember. A highly-qualified pilot, he was deft at operating the stick of any aircraft while staying ice-cool in the face of danger. Behind Zubov's grumpy, cynical shell was a heart of gold. Throughout their missions in disaster areas, he had exemplified reliability even when pushed to the limits of endurance. Whenever his duties extended beyond flying EMERCOM jets, he never shirked extra responsibility in the face of danger.
Walking down the block, Zubov lit a cigarette. It was the pre-arranged signal to warn Sokolov that he had been tailed. Sure enough, spilling out of a Toyota, two men followed Zubov. The leader was shorter, his close-cropped hair grey at the temples, but the erect posture and gait suggested a military background. He moved with the composure of a seasoned operator. Marching in tow, the second man was obviously an underling despite his bulkier physique.
Sokolov slipped into an archway which led to a blind alley. Pressing closely to the inner wall, he stayed beyond their line of sight.
First Zubov went past the archway opening where Sokolov was hiding, then the men trailing him. From the recess, Sokolov sprang forward, grabbing the younger man by the shoulders and pulling him inside. Sokolov slammed him against the brickwork face first and chopped the back of his head with the side of his hand. The man's limp body slumped to the ground.
Sensing the commotion behind him, the older operator rushed into the archway. He drew a submachine gun as he saw Sokolov, who dashed at him and walloped an elbow into his face before he could fire. Dropping the weapon, he careened from the blow, and a punch across the jaw dropped him cold.
Sokolov patted over the man's pockets and found his ID. The laminated card bore the logo of a security company. It was affiliated with the Veterans Committee For Soviet Armed Forces. Sokolov had never heard of the organization.
Zubov appeared, a scowl crossing his face. He cast an eye over the prone bodies.
“Gene, why do you have all the fun?”
“You didn't miss much, Serge.”
“I'm always happy to act as a sitting duck for the FSB.”
“I appreciate it. These goons aren't FSB, though. More likely ex-military.”
Sokolov showed him the ID.
“Strange,” Zubov said, examining it. “Seems like some sort of charity. Why would they be after you?”
“Beats me.”
The other operator carried the same card and firearm.
Sokolov confiscated the submachine guns. Then he and Zubov made their way to the Nissan.
As they neared, the Toyota's driver pressed a phone to his ear. Sokolov approached the car from his side and pressed the barrel of the submachine gun against the window. The driver cowered. Sokolov motioned for him to open the door. As soon as the man did it, Sokolov hit his cheekbone with the gun's butt. The driver sagged in the seat, blacked out.
From the Toyota's rear, Zubov retrieved two soft rifle cases. He tossed them into the back seat of his Nissan as he climbed behind the wheel. Sokolov sat next to him, the Nissan backing out onto the road as he slammed the door shut. Zubov revved the engine and the car sped away.
Zubov turned at the next intersection. Several blocks farther, they saw Constantine already waiting at the entrance to the underground parking lot. They picked him up and drove down the ramp.
Constantine unzipped one of the rifle cases, looked inside and whistled.
Descending a level below, the Nissan stopped. Zubov kept the engine idling as they got out.
Parked right next to them was a massive station wagon. Its white body shone under fluorescent lighting. This particular Land Rover Wolf had been procured by EMERCOM according to custom specification in 1994 but had never been used by the Ministry. Built on the standard Defender wheelbase, the Wolf had been upgraded to withstand extreme arctic conditions. It had a reinforced chassis and improved insulation. Fitted with strengthened Michelin tires, the 4x4 vehicle could challenge the roughest terrain. Extending from the engine compartment and rising erect above the roof like a periscope was the air intake snorkel. Overall, the Wolf bore more resemblance to an APC than an SUV.
Zubov handed Sokolov the keys. From the Nissan's trunk, he took out two huge canvas bags and loaded them into the back of the Land Rover.
“There's all the gear you might need. And rations to last a few weeks.”
Sokolov surveyed the contents. Among other things he found canned food, bottles of water, sleeping bags, torches, batteries, a first aid kit, waterproof matches, a Katran diving knife, coiled rope, a satellite phone and even an ultra-rugged laptop which resembled a tiny attaché case, complete with handle.
Sokolov nodded approval. “Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
“You take care, Serge. They snatched Netto this morning. After this, your own life is in jeopardy. Lie low for a while.”
“Don't worry about me. And I'll bail Netto out.”
“I don't think you'll be able to.”
“I'll try.”
Sokolov hid the newly-appropriated firearms under a tarp behind the spare cans of petrol and locked the Wolf's rear door.
Zubov gave him a bear hug before getting back to the Nissan and driving away.
Sokolov climbed inside the Land Rover, his brother following suit.
“What a beast of a car,” Constantine said.
At the turn of the ignition, the huge diesel roared to life, puffing black exhaust fumes.
Sokolov shifted the gear. In contrast to the ultra-modern Audi, everything inside the Land Rover felt clunky.
“No electronics, no sat-nav systems, no tracking devices. This car i
s as secure against detection as any we can get. It's ownership is either completely off all records or traceable only to the Defense Ministry. That gives us some freedom of movement. The question is, are you sure about where you want to go?”
“Absolutely,” Constantine replied. “Now more than ever.”
5
HIS NAME IS ANTON Minski. He was a freshman when Nina and I were already senior students, but early on he made a name for himself as Fisenko's protégé. Everyone at the University knew the reason for Minski's privileged status: he was an FSB informant. Nobody made a secret of it, including Minski himself, not least because it was the very reason he got admitted. His uncle was a powerful FSB general with good connections ever since his KGB days.”
“So little Anton was spying on his fellow students.”
“And teachers. He reported any hint of dissent that he eavesdropped on. He noted every criticism of the Kremlin or sympathy towards the West. Sometimes, of course, he made it up, citing anonymous sources. In effect, that was his main work and he didn't have to study to get his grades. He enjoyed complete immunity. Thankfully, I didn't get to meet him very often and graduated the next year. But his efforts were apparently prolific; I know of at least three or four students who were discharged as a direct result of his activity.”
“What a nasty slimeball.”
Constantine nodded.
“Later, he went on to become the head informant, processing all of the dirt delivered to him by a growing network of cronies. And then the scope of his interests extended beyond the campus, to Moscow's private parties which he wormed his way into thanks to his uncle's connections. By the time he graduated, he had collected some very discrediting dossiers on the offspring of the new Russian elite. Naturally, he rose up the ranks in the FSB proper—at a time when this agency was regaining its might. I imagine that he leads a lavish lifestyle now.”
“What makes you think he has kept strong ties with Fisenko?”
“In recent years, Fisenko mentored only one Ph.D. student as an academic advisor. It was Minski. Allegedly, Minski's dissertation contained heavy plagiarism, but Fisenko promptly squashed any scandal. The professor was rumored to be grooming Minski to eventually take over his position at the faculty, and it pissed off quite a few people. Nobody considered Minski to be qualified in any scientific field.”
Eugene said, “But he's more than qualified in espionage.”
“Now that we know the professor's true identity, the reason becomes clear. It was Chagin he was intended to succeed in every role, not Fisenko.”
“So he should know something about the Red List.”
“Yes. Or he should be familiar with someone else who does. We'll find that out soon enough.”
6
THEY DROVE NORTH. Up ahead, the outline of the 540-meter Ostankino Tower rose over blocky buildings, pointing up like a giant syringe. The Wolf's engine chugged rhythmically, adding exhaust fumes to the grayness of the sky and the city.
“How do we approach Minski?” Sokolov asked. “As a high-flying intelligence officer, he must have a sophisticated security system at home.”
“It's a risk we can't take,” Constantine said. “Even if we managed to get in and confront Minski, we'd get busted in five minutes. It would only take a button press, or not even that if his apartment is wired. No, we'll find leverage through someone close to him.”
“The uncle?”
“His uncle passed away a few years ago. His death even made the news. To the best of my knowledge, his parents still live some three thousand kilometers away from here, outside Krasnoyarsk. And he's not married.”
“I see. We're going to visit his girlfriend, then.”
“Close enough,” Constantine said. “His boyfriend.”
Sokolov raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Really?”
“Yes. Minski is gay.”
“I hope you don't mind my asking, dear brother—but how would you know, of all people?”
“Back at uni, in the brief few months when our paths crossed, I noticed Minski trailing Nina. That was before our break-up of course, and that made me quite jealous as I thought he was hitting on her.” Constantine paused, flooded with emotion as he mentioned her. “Only later did I realize he was snooping on her. Anyway, I took him for a man-to-man talk.”
“In other words, you roughed him up.”
“A little. As a result of our conversation, he swore that he had no romantic interest in Nina, or any other women for that matter.”
“And you believed him?”
“Not before I had proof. At a party, Minski introduced me to a good-looking young man. With a wink, he told me that this was his special friend. Then late one evening, I secretly followed Minski to a rendezvous in North Moscow. He had a date with the same man, so the story held true.”
“You spied on a spy?” Sokolov chuckled.
Constantine shrugged. “Love can make you do crazy things.” Then he fell silent, his thoughts no doubt returning to Nina.
After a few minutes, he said, “Philip, he called himself. Lili for short.”
“All right, but that happened some years ago. Are you sure that Minski is still with Lili?”
“Tough to judge but it did seem like a long-term relationship at the time. In any case, we can go on from here. I believe that I'm one of the very few people in the world who knows about Minski's homosexuality.”
Sokolov understood why. Once Minski's sexual tastes became disclosed, his career would end in tatters—especially with his uncle no longer around to protect him. The FSB and the Kremlin found such revelations highly damaging to their public image, or at least their perception of it. A man close to power coming out as gay could find his life made very uncomfortable indeed, becoming a pariah. Such was the state of affairs in Minski's environment. It was a question of uniformity, not morality. To those people, a gay in their ranks signified a deviation that tarnished them all—a break in conduct that raised suspicion and ended trust. A few of Minski's direct superiors had publicly backed the recent anti-gay laws.
“This is just what we need,” he said. “Minski will have done all the hard work for us. He makes sure that his boyfriend's place isn't bugged, that he isn't followed en route, and that there's no chance of surveillance outside. Lili's home is essentially a safe house.”
“Exactly. And the key to his secret will unlock all of the rest.”
7
FINDING THE BLOCK THEY needed provided somewhat of a challenge. The dreary northern districts of Moscow began to look very much alike, dominated by the grim, featureless architecture of late socialism. Every one of the neighborhoods appeared miserable, the depressing looks not helped by leafless, skeletal trees. They passed one drab, square building after another. Inadequately-spaced lamp-posts were already struggling against the onset of dusk.
“We've already been here. We're going in circles,” Sokolov said.
“Hold on,” Constantine cut in. “This is it. That's right, there's the pharmacy. I remember it. The house is around the corner. Pull over.”
Sokolov parked the Wolf in front of the pharmacy and cranked the handbrake. He got out, opened the rear door and rummaged in one of the nylon bags until he found a roll of duct tape and the dive knife. Constantine carried the Kedr submachine gun under his trench coat. They covered the last hundred meters on foot, past some decaying Khrushchev-era five-story structures which seemingly threatened to collapse at any moment. Save for a elderly woman walking her poodle, the street was desolate.
Lili's apartment house was in decent shape, a newish twelve-story 'high-rise' built during the perestroika.
The entrance door bore a flyer advertising pizza delivery. No alarm warning stickers to ward off burglars and no security cameras—just an old multi-apartment intercom system. All EMERCOM rescuers were required to memorize the access codes to different door-phone models. Sokolov punched in a series of numbers on the keypad and the electromechanical lock clicked open.
They were inside.
The empty elevator greeted them with a flickering light and the stench of urine.
“Which floor?”
“Apartment thirteen,” Constantine said. “That's not a number I easily forget. Must be the fourth floor, then.”
It was.
As they stepped out of the elevator, the door marked 13 beckoned.
Sokolov turned slightly away from the spyhole when he pushed the buzzer. Constantine reached inside his coat, gripping the submachine gun.
Impatiently, Sokolov pressed the button again. The bell kept chiming. From behind the door, his acute hearing picked up padding footsteps.
“Who is it?” sounded a deep male voice.
“EMERCOM,” Sokolov replied honestly.
“The hell do you want?”
“There's a gas leak somewhere in the building. I need to check your piping.”
The voice grumbled.
“It will take just a minute,” Sokolov added. “You don't want to get blown up, do you?”
An exasperated sigh from the other side. “All right, come in.”
The door swung open.
Sokolov faced a short, paunchy man in his mid-thirties, draped in a green silk robe. He had curly black hair and pink, fleshy, clean-shaven cheeks.
“But make it quick, or—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Sokolov punched him square in the jaw. The man crashed backwards, into the corridor, out cold. Sokolov rapidly entered, dragging the senseless body away from the entrance as Constantine followed his brother inside, shut the door and locked it. The break-in had taken only a few seconds.
Old wooden furniture and several oil paintings adorning the walls rendered a measure of style to the single-bedroom apartment. In the pocket of the man's trousers thrown on the bed, Sokolov found a wallet, and inside it a driver's license which indeed identified him as one Philip Baida. Framed on the bedside table was a photo of another man, and Constantine ascertained that it was Anton Minski.
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