Next to him, Eugene sat stony-faced as Constantine read out the details. The story had impacted them both deeply.
Constantine opened a different folder and scrolled through the files. It was the Red List directory. Crimes hidden in alphabetical order. He located the file marked BYSTRYKH.
Scanning it, he groaned.
“What is it?” Eugene asked.
“Vladimir Ivanovich Bystrykh. The Last Veteran. The living legend of the Second World War, the stalwart patriot …” Constantine sighed heavily. “It turns out that he's a total fraud.”
Then he told his brother the rest.
Eugene gripped the gear stick until his knuckles turned white.
17
SOKOLOV SWIFTLY COMMITTED TO action. His decision was final. He consulted the Breitling on his wrist. Mere hours remained for them to formulate the plan and effect it. His brain switched into mission mode. Calm, assured calculation had taken over, honed over the years of completing critical assignments. The strict time limit spurred his mind, but his pulse steadied. He performed best under stress. In a way, it would be no different from a rescue operation. They would have to go into the hazard zone, carry out the job with effective precision and get out unscathed.
As always, he would be risking his life to save others. Only this time, the mission would boil down to liquidating General Bystrykh. The man who had pulled the trigger, murdering his great-grandfather. A key figure behind the EMERCOM attacks. Amid the list of titles and decorations in the general's official CV, one entry did not immediately catch the eye. Bystrykh had founded the Veterans Committee For Soviet Armed Forces and apparently still presided over it. Sokolov remembered that organization from the IDs of the gunmen who had trailed Zubov. Undoubtedly, Bystrykh had been trying to kill them.
Constantine recited Bystrykh's unofficial biography. It exposed his secret, dispelling the aura of reverence. The Red List file indicated his fake military background.
“He's younger than he claims to be. Quite a few years younger. He never fought against the Nazis. In fact, he missed the Second World War by a good decade.”
General Bystrykh was a myth, perpetuated by Soviet propaganda. His brief stint of Soviet service involved abuse of gulag inmates in the 1950s. A sadist cloaked in the guise of a fictional war hero.
All of the respect he commanded, his reputation, glory and fake medals weren't worth a damn.
“A lowly prison guard. But why the meteoric rise? Why did he get picked to play the role?”
“Not so lowly. He had connections. The gulag was just his first step on the KGB career ladder. It opened the road to Moscow. And his father was an influential communist henchman. Actually, the father has his own entry in the Red List. Former NKVD. You're not going to believe what he did during the war.”
As Constantine recounted the details, Sokolov climbed into the back of the Land Rover to take stock of the inventory.
He unzipped the gun cases to inspect the Saiga shotguns. They were the export versions of Saiga-12, and quite impressive. A similar modification had been sold to the FBI Hostage Rescue Team in Quantico, Virginia. Although the FBI used the Saigas for door breaching, these short-barreled shotguns packed immense firepower. In semiautomatic mode, a Saiga unleashed a full magazine of three-inch magnum shells within seconds. The gun case contained several boxes of ammo alongside extra mags. Sokolov noticed that each Saiga had been converted with a custom folding stock, pistol grip, improved trigger and night-vision optic sight.
Together with the Kedr submachine guns, the Saigas constituted a sufficient arsenal for the task at hand.
He also picked the other tools they would need: a flashlight, gloves, flares, a bolt cutter and the dive knife.
Loading the trademark AK banana magazine, he said, “Brace yourself, my dear brother. The path we're about to step on leads to death, one way or another. We've assumed a duty to kill or be killed, and there's no way back.”
“Revenge?”
“As Cossacks, we are obliged to retaliate in a blood feud. But vengeance is only a part of our responsibility,” Sokolov said. “First and foremost, we're going to war. The hundred-year civil war waged against us by the Soviets. The massacre with no end date, but one to which we'll try to put an end.”
18
USING EMERCOM'S PRE-INSTALLED satellite mapping software, Sokolov studied the layout of Usovo. In particular, he explored the area around Bystrykh's estate. Dacha Number Three.
Despite the picturesque countryside location, it felt as though the dacha stood in the middle of a restricted, highly-guarded zone, surrounded by more security than a strategic nuclear missile base. Usovo was wedged between the posh Zhukovka suburb, inhabited by public figures and government officials, and the expansive retreat at Novo-Ogaryovo, one of the presidential residences. The space between was riddled with the vacation houses of Kremlin staffers and dotted with checkpoints. Surveillance cameras abounded, in all likeliness perched on every tree.
The attack would have to be clinical.
Even the undeveloped plots around the dachas were fenced off, as if anyone could steal the insanely-priced land.
The fence around Dacha Number Three seemed like an impregnable wall. It was extremely thick, made from brick or stone, and judging by the shadows evident in the imagery, at least a good four meters tall. Barbed wire ran over the top. The driveway led past a lodge which housed Bystrykh's bodyguards. Plenty of trees were scattered around the vast acreage, with what appeared to be a small guest cabin placed amid the pines. The wooden dacha itself was positioned centrally. Stretching behind the main loghouse, the dacha's territory extended all the way to a riverbank which edged its western limits.
Constantine drove the Wolf while Sokolov gave him the concise photorecon description. In a few minutes, they hoped to see the dacha with their own eyes.
Zhukovka gave off vibrant luminescence, really coming alive in the middle of the night. Streetlights blazed at full power. Luxury cars beamed with xenon and LED headlamps. Restaurants and nightclubs glittered, wrapped in neon. Ferrari and Maserati dealerships highlighted their logos in a soft glow, and so did a neighboring string of the world's top designer-brand boutiques. If there was one place in modern Russia which could outshine Tverskaya, it was Zhukovka. Being the nexus of the Russian nouveau-riche elite, it was also slightly less crowded.
Adhering to his brother's directions, Constantine turned from the main road. The farther they drove away from the suburbs into the real countryside, the more the road deteriorated, from pavement to gravel to dirt. The ground got bumpier as they followed ruts cutting through a thicket. It was surprising how much vegetation still existed there.
The Land Rover angled down a steep incline.
“The dacha has one weak spot,” Sokolov said. “Bystrykh appropriated a chunk of the riverbank for his own private beach.”
“Not too shabby.”
“I'm sure he enjoys a swim in the summer, or goes fishing. But that makes the grounds leading to the shore more vulnerable. The river is a natural barrier against intruders, but the access is unprotected against D-Day.”
“Meaning that we're going to catch him by surprise?”
“We'll stage an amphibious assault.”
They navigated the tree-lined slope, reaching the waterfront. Constantine shut down the engine and switched off the headlights. They got out of the Land Rover, shotgun slung over Sokolov's shoulder. The earth felt soft under his boots. Grass and mud. The luminous dial of the Breitling showed five minutes to four. In contrast to Zhukovka, pitch-black darkness shrouded everything. He flicked on his flashlight, setting it to low brightness to avoid detection from the opposite the shore.
Some invisible critters rustled in the grass. Sokolov trained the flashlight on the source to glimpse a hedgehog shuffling away.
Ahead, the river flowed in a murky mass of water. The riverbed was about twenty-five meters wide.
“Is it the River Moskva?” Constantine asked.
�
�One of its inlets. Fortunately, it wasn't too deep to begin with, and it's dried up a bit now compared to the summer. I think it can be forded.”
“How?”
“Our ancestors swam across the Vistula on horses. We have the Land Rover to get past this muddy creek. Should make it just fine.”
“If you say it can be done, that's enough for me. It's a sound plan,” Constantine agreed. “And it's the only one we've got. Storming the front gatehouse would be suicidal.”
Sokolov handed Constantine the flashlight and inched closer to the riverbank. Through the night-vision scope of the Saiga, he peered at Bystrykh's artificial beach on the other side of the shoreline. The high ground above the water's edge had been flattened and topped with a sizable deposit of sand. The landscape only lacked palm trees, but the towering pine forest more than made up for it.
“I don't see any cameras,” Sokolov said. “The fence behind the beach is wire-mesh. Padlocked gate. No guards or dogs.”
He lowered the Saiga and turned to his brother.
“Are you ready?”
Despite the obligatory military training at his university, which made him a reservist officer, Constantine was first and foremost a scholar: a good shot, always physically fit but largely unaccustomed to combat situations.
“Yes,” Constantine replied. “Let's go.” His eyes didn't show a trace of nervousness. His mental attitude was excellent.
They got back into the Land Rover. This time Sokolov sat behind the wheel again.
They both ascertained that every window had been rolled shut, doors firmly closed, air vents sealed.
Constantine said, “I didn't know this monster was amphibious, but I'm not surprised.”
“It's winterized but also waterproofed. Not exactly amphibious without the buoyancy, but it should get us through. We'll drive across the bottom and pray that the river's not too deep.”
He turned the ignition, shifted into first gear and released the clutch, working the gas pedal with care. The Wolf crept towards the river, sliding down the bank at an extreme angle. At the touch of the accelerator, the huge Michelin tires treaded over the marshy soil and waded into the water, its dark surface rippling.
Splashing, the Land Rover submerged gradually. The water sloshed, embracing the Wolf.
The diesel rumbled.
With its snorkel jutting out, water rising around it, the Wolf went into the river like a diving submarine. As the vehicle traversed the bottom, the water level rose dangerously. It quickly spilled over the bonnet and swished up the windshield. Inside, the enveloping blackness was claustrophobic. The unevenness of the riverbed rocked them in their seats.
The current proved stronger than they had expected. It swept the Wolf sideways. The car started veering away, downstream. Even a metal beast such as the Wolf, weighing almost two tonnes, was no match for the force of nature. At any moment, they risked sinking the vehicle.
Desperately, Sokolov stomped on the accelerator, turning the wheel. The Land Rover lurched, slogging towards the shoreline. The waterline sloshed above the middle of the windscreen. The Wolf pitched down sharply, about to go under.
Miraculously, the Land Rover dragged itself forward. The wheels caught traction as the riverbed elevated. The Wolf broke clear, water cascading. The front wheels clung onto the mud. The rear wheels spun, skidding. Sokolov hit reverse, backed away slightly, and pushed forward again. The Wolf remained stuck halfway out of the water, clinging to the shore.
On the second attempt, the powerful all-wheel drive hauled it from the water. The Land Rover landed on the sandy beach, water dripping.
“Thank God,” Constantine breathed. “For a moment I thought the water would flood in and we'd drown.”
So had Sokolov.
With no time to waste, he grabbed the gear, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder and pocketing the rest. Then he opened the door and jumped out. Constantine did the same, carrying the bolt cutter.
They crossed the beach, which was fenced off by wire mesh. Coils of barbed wire crowned it. The USSR had been the largest producer of barbed wire, Sokolov knew, as if the Communists had wanted to wind it around the entire globe. Which was almost true, he thought. Perhaps it gave Bystrykh a sense of security like it did in the gulag. Sokolov aimed the flashlight at a sign which read, “DANGER! NO TRESPASSING!” and then shone the beam on the padlock. Constantine placed the blades of the bolt cutter around the shackle and squeezed the long handles. The shackle snapped and the padlock fell into the sand. Sokolov pushed the gate open. A footpath lay in the pine grove beyond.
Constantine returned to the Land Rover to put the bolt cutter back inside and retrieve his Saiga. As he walked back to the fence, his gaze locked on the pines behind it.
“We might be in trouble,” he said, pointing to the trees.
It was too dark to see at first, but then Sokolov noticed a blinking red dot.
There was a miniature surveillance camera.
Their element of surprise had been blown out of the water.
19
QUICK!” SOKOLOV SAID. “Come on.”
Constantine stayed close behind as they entered the fake general's fiefdom. Moving along the edge of the pine grove, they followed the trail to the dacha, hunched low, weapons ready. In the total gloom, Sokolov stepped forward warily. The high, damp grass flattened under his boots. Even the stars had dimmed in the dark sky. The night was dead silent. The only light came from inside the guest cabin a few dozen meters ahead. Somewhere farther away, Sokolov tried to discern the outline of Bystrykh's house.
Suddenly, the cabin's door burst open and a hefty figure came out. The uniformed man was toting a Kalashnikov. Two other armed guards joined him immediately, hurrying across a clearing toward the footpath. The first man flicked a switch, killing the lights inside the cabin, and their silhouettes vanished in the dark.
“Over there,” one shouted to the others. “They're coming from the beach! Kill them!”
Sokolov took a flare out of his pocket, removed the cap, ignited it and hurled the flare as far as he could. As it landed, the flare erupted in a flash of red flames, illuminating the three human shapes.
Without warning, the guards opened fire. Kalashnikovs chattered.
The billowing smoke hindered their aim. The slugs tore through pine trunks, splinters flying not far away from Sokolov. He and Constantine took cover behind the trees. Sokolov blasted a couple of shots back, the Saiga booming. Constantine fired his submachinegun.
Shouting and cursing, the guards scampered away. One lay bleeding in the grass. The other two ran to the cabin. The hefty guard went back inside and fired through a window. Outside, his partner pressed his back to a wall and popped off single AK rounds from around the corner. Muzzles flashed. They could bide their time waiting for reinforcements. Sokolov couldn't.
He handed Constantine his Kedr and trotted through rows of trees, circumventing the cabin. Constantine kept firing two-handed at the cabin, holding the guards off.
Breaking from the cover of the pine grove, Sokolov rushed through the clearing and dove to ground. He crawled the last few meters to the cabin and crept up on the guard shooting at Constantine from behind the wall.
Sokolov unsheathed the dive knife.
Reloading his AK, the guard mumbled, “You bitch bastards, you're dead.”
“Wrong,” Sokolov whispered. “You are.”
The guard spun, raising the Kalashnikov.
Sokolov stabbed the knife between the guard's ribs. The serrated blade cut through his heart. The would-be killer slumped to the ground. Sokolov wiped the blood off the knife with the sleeve of his mud-stained parka and sheathed it.
Reports of the remaining guard's assault rifle cracked loudly.
Leaning against the wall, Sokolov lit another flare and tossed in front of the open window. Smoke blew into the cabin. It also signaled to Constantine to cease fire. He didn't want to get hit by a stray bullet. Carefully, he approached the door, which was slightly ajar. Tu
rning from the window, the guard saw motion and fired a salvo. The bullets perforated the door just as Sokolov rolled inside. Lying on his back, he leveled the Saiga. The shotgun thundered, hitting the guard in the chest. With a guttural croak, the guard toppled.
Sokolov picked himself up from the floor and exited the cabin. He saw a shadow charging at him. Ready to shoot, he pulled the shotgun away at the last moment as he realized it was Constantine.
“Don't do that again. I nearly killed you.”
“The shooting stopped so I thought you might need a hand.”
“No more guards here. Let's check the house.”
The night had become silent again. Dead silent.
As they started towards the loghouse, a window on the second floor lit up.
They climbed the steps to the sprawling porch. The simple wooden door was locked, but the entrance did not seem to have any security. The dacha's defenses had been concentrated around the perimeter of the land plot.
Constantine had already disposed of the submachine guns, so he unslung his Saiga and aimed at the door. The shotgun exploded, tearing a hole where the lock had been.
Sokolov kicked the door in and entered the house while Constantine watched his back. Crossing the threshold, he flicked the light switch. A row of massive crystal chandeliers illuminated every space.
As his vision adjusted to the bright electric light, he scanned the living room. The area was clear of guards, and it was richly decorated with wooden and leather furniture. An antique brick fireplace and a hand-carved oak staircase acted as the centerpieces. Suddenly, he heard someone dashing down the stairs from the upper floor.
Sokolov shot his leg and the man crashed from the steps, spinning and bouncing.
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