A tactical “exercise,” arranged during the day, had been converted into the real thing just before midnight. By then the troops in their trucks had been confined to a series of closed garages. At two in the morning the drivers and detail commanders had been given their missions and the addresses they needed. For the first time in months surprise had been total.
The three warehouses had proved little problem. Four guards protecting the treasure stores had tried to resist and been gunned down. Eight more had surrendered just in time. The warehouses had yielded ten thousand cases of imported vodka, all without duty paid, that had rolled in from Finland and Poland over the previous two months. It was the wheat famine that had forced the biggest vodka-drinking nation in the world to import its own tipple, with prices rising to three times those in the countries of manufacture.
Other consignments in the warehouses turned out to be dishwashers, washing machines, televisions, video recorders, and computers, all from the West and all hijacked.
The two arsenals had yielded enough weaponry to fit out a full-strength infantry regiment, with types running from normal assault rifles up to shoulder-borne antitank rockets and flamethrowers.
Petrovsky personally had led the raid on the casino, which was still full of gamblers who fled screaming into the night. The manager continued to protest that his was a perfectly legitimate and city—licensed business until the desk in his office was removed, the carpet lifted, and the trapdoor to the cellar revealed. Then he fainted.
At midmorning the SOBR troops were still removing box after box of financial records, which were put in vans and taken back to the GUVD headquarters at 6 Shabolovka Street for analysis.
By midday two generals of the Presidium of the MVD, the Interior Ministry, five hundred yards away at Zhitny Square, had been on the phone to offer their congratulations.
The midmorning radio news carried the first bulletins of the affair, and at noon there was a fairly full report on the TV news. The number of fatalities among the gangsters, the newscaster intoned, had risen to sixteen, while among the rapid reaction force the casualties were limited to one seriously injured with a bullet in the stomach and one slight flesh wound. Twenty-seven mafiosi had been detained alive, of whom seven were in the hospital, and two were delivering lengthy statements to the GUVD.
This last allegation was not actually true, but had been released to the media by Petrovsky to cause even further panic among the leaders of the Dolgoruki clan.
The latter were indeed in a state of trauma as they met in a sumptuous, heavily guarded dacha well out of town, a mile and a half from the Archangelskoye Bridge over the Moskva. The only emotion transcending their panic was that of rage. Most were convinced that the sidelining of their two informers, the element of complete surprise the SOBR had achieved, and the accuracy of their knowledge pointed the finger in the direction of a major leak.
Even as they deliberated word came in from their street people that the buzz was about to the effect the leak had come from a loose-talking senior officer of the Black Guard. Considering the millions of dollars the Dolgoruki had put behind Igor Komarov’s election campaign, they were not amused.
They would never learn that the street rumor had in fact been started by the Chechens on the advice of Jason Monk. The clan chiefs resolved that before any further money was released to the UPF, there would have to be a serious explanation.
Just after three, Umar Gunayev, backed by heavy personal protection, came to visit Monk. This time he was living with a Chechen family in a small apartment just north of the Sokolniki Park Exhibition Center.
“I don’t know how you managed it, my friend, but a very large bomb went off last night.”
“It’s a question of self-interest said Monk. “Petrovsky had a considerable interest in pleasing his superiors right up to the office of the acting president during the week of the visit of the World Bank team. That’s all.”
“All right. Well, the Dolgoruki are in no position to launch a war against me. They will spend weeks trying to repair the damage.”
“And to trace the leak inside the Black Guards,” Monk reminded him.
Umar Gunayev tossed a copy of Sevodnya onto his lap.
“Have a look at page three,” he suggested.
There was a report from Russia’s leading opinion poll organizers to suggest electoral support for the UPF was at fifty-five percent and falling.
“These polls are mainly taken in the cities,” said Monk, “for ease and convenience. Komarov is stronger in the cities. The key will lie with the overlooked teeming masses in the countryside.”
“You really think Komarov can actually be defeated at the polls?” asked Gunayev. “Six weeks ago there would not have been a chance.”
“I don’t know,” said Monk.
This was not the moment to tell the Chechen leader that defeat at the polls was not what Sir Nigel Irvine had in mind. He recalled the old spymaster, still revered in the world of the Great Game as the ultimate practitioner of deception by disinformation, sitting in the library at Castle Forbes with the family Bible open in front of him.
“The key is Gideon, dear boy,” he was saying. “Think like Gideon.”
“You’re miles away,” said Gunayev. Monk snapped out of his reverie.
“Sorry, you were right. Tonight I have to visit the Patriarch again. For the last time. I will need your help.”
“To get in?”
“I think to get out. There is a good chance Grishin has the place under surveillance, as I told you. One man would do, but that man will call up others while I am inside.”
“We’d better start planning,” said the Chechen.
¯
COLONEL Anatoli Grishin was in his apartment preparing for bed when his mobile phone rang. He recognized the voice without introduction.
“He’s here. He’s here again.”
“Who?”
“The American. He’s back. He’s with His Holiness now.”
“He suspects nothing?”
“I don’t think so. He came alone.”
“As a priest?”
“No. All in black, but civilian dress. The Patriarch seemed to be expecting him.”
“Where are you?”
“In the pantry, making coffee. I must go.”
The phone disconnected. Grishin tried to control his elation. The hated American agent was almost in his grasp. This time there would be no East Berlin. He called the leader of the inner-core group of the Black Guards’ enforcers.
“I need ten men, three cars, mini-Uzis, now. Seal both ends of a street called Chisti Pereulok. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”
It was half-past midnight.
At ten minutes after one o’clock Monk arose and bade the Patriarch good night.
“I don’t suppose we shall meet again, Your Holiness. I know you will do the best you can for this land and people you love so much.”
Alexei II arose also and accompanied him to the door.
“With God’s good grace, I shall try. Good-bye, my son. May angels guard you.”
For the moment, thought Monk, as he descended the stairs, a few warriors from the North Caucasus will do nicely.
The fat valet was there as usual, holding out his coat.
“No coat, thank you, Father,” he said. The last thing he needed was something to slow him up. He took out his mobile phone and tapped in a number. It was answered at the first ring.
“Monakh,” he said.
“Fifteen seconds,” replied a voice. Monk recognized Magomed, the senior of the protectors Gunayev had assigned to him. Monk pulled the street door open a few inches and peered out.
Down the narrow street a single Mercedes waited near a dim streetlight. It contained four men, one at the wheel and three with mini-Uzi machine pistols. The white plume rising from the rear in the bitter night indicated the engine was running.
In the other direction Chisti Pereulok debouched into a small square. Waiting in th
e shadows of the square were two other black cars. On foot or four wheels, anyone wishing to leave the alley would have to pass the ambush.
At the end where the single car waited, another vehicle approached, its “Taxi” light burning yellow above the windshield. The watchers let it come abreast. Clearly it had come to pick up their target. Bad luck for the taxi driver; he would die too.
The taxi came abreast of the Mercedes and there was a double clink as two grapefruit-sized pieces of metal hit the icy road and skittered under the sedan. Hardly had the taxi cleared it than Monk, behind the street door, which was by then an inch open, heard the double whump of the grenades going off.
Simultaneously a large delivery truck rolled into the square at the other end, rumbled across the entrance to the alley, and stopped. The driver leaped from the cab into the road and began to sprint down the alley.
Monk nodded once at the trembling priest, opened the door wide, and stepped into the street. The taxi was almost opposite him, rear door swinging open. He threw himself inside. From the front seat a strong arm reached back and dragged him the rest of the way in. The running truck driver followed.
In reverse gear the taxi roared back the way it had come. From behind the immobile truck came a spray of bullets as someone flat on the ground used a submachine gun. Then the two charges under the chassis of the truck went off and the firing ceased.
One of the men had managed to get out of the Mercedes and was standing groggily by the rear door, trying to raise his gun. The rear fender of the taxi caught him in the shins and sent him flying.
Out of the alley, the taxi slewed sideways, skidded on the ice, recovered, moved into forward gear, and sped off. The gas tank in the Mercedes exploded and finished the job.
Magomed turned from the front seat and Monk caught the flash of his teeth beneath the black Zapata moustache.
“You make life interesting, Amerikanets.”
In the small square at the far end of the alley Colonel Grishin stood contemplating the ruined truck that blocked the access. Beneath it, two of his men were lying dead, killed by the two small charges lashed beneath the chassis and triggered from inside the cab. Peering around the edge of the vehicle he could see his other car burning at the far end of the narrow street.
He took his mobile phone and punched in seven numbers. He heard the mobile phone he had dialed trill twice. Then a panicky whisper said, “Da.”
“He got away. You have what I want?”
“Da.”
“Usual place. At ten this morning.”
¯
THE small church of All Saints of Kulishki was almost empty at that hour. A verger tended the altar and two babushkas, cleaning women, were dusting. A young priest entered, genuflected at the altar, crossed himself, and disappeared through a panel in the wall toward the vestry behind the altar.
Father Maxim was standing by the right-hand wall, holding a guttering candle bought from the store by the main door, when Colonel Grishin appeared beside him.
“The American got away,” he said quietly.
“I am sorry. I tried.”
“How did he guess?”
“He seemed to suspect the residence might be under some kind of surveillance.” As usual the priest was sweating. “He produced a mobile phone from his waistband and called somebody.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“He arrived about ten past twelve. I was about to go to bed. His Holiness was still up, working in his study. He always is, at that hour. The street doorbell rang, but I did not hear it. I was in my room. The Cossack night guard answered it. Then I heard voices. I came out of my room and there he was, standing in the hall.
“I heard His Holiness call from upstairs. ‘Show the gentleman up,’ he said. Then he leaned over the banister, saw me, and asked for some coffee. I went back to my pantry and phoned you.”
“How long until you entered the room?”
“Not long. A few minutes. I hurried as fast as I could in order to miss as little as possible. I was there within five minutes.”
“And the tape recorder I gave you?”
“I switched it on before I went in with the coffee. They stopped talking when I knocked. While putting down the coffee I spilled some sugar lumps onto the floor, and went down on my knees to pick them up. His Holiness said not to bother, but I insisted and while down there slipped the recorder under the desk. Then I left.”
“And at the end?”
“He came downstairs alone. I was waiting with his coat, but he did not want it. The Cossack was in his small room beside the door. The American seemed nervous. He produced a mobile phone and dialed. Someone answered, and he just said, ‘Monakh.’ ”
“Nothing else?”
“No, Colonel, just Monakh. Then he listened. I didn’t hear the answer because he kept the phone close to his ear. Then he waited. He pulled the street door open a little way and looked out. I was still holding his coat.”
Grishin considered. The old Englishman could have told Monk he had himself been traced via the hotel limousine. It would be enough to warn the American the Patriarchal residence could be under surveillance.
“Go on, Father.”
“I heard the roar of a car engine, then two explosions. The American tore the door open and ran. Then I heard gunfire and jumped back from the open door.”
Grishin nodded. The American was smart, but he had arrived at the right answer for the wrong reasons. He, Grishin, had indeed had the Patriarchal residence under surveillance, but from the inside, from the renegade priest.
“And the tape?”
“When the explosions took place outside, the Cossack rushed out with his gun. The American had left the door open. The Cossack looked out, shouted ‘Gangsters,’ and slammed the door closed. I ran upstairs just as His Holiness came out of his library to lean over the banister and ask what was going on. While he was there I recovered the coffee cups and the tape recorder.”
Without a word Grishin held out his hand. Father Maxim delved into a side pocket of his cassock and produced a small tape, the sort used by miniature recorders of the type the priest had been given at their last meeting.
“I hope I did the right thing,” said Father Maxim tremulously. Grishin sometimes felt he would dearly like to strangle the toad with his bare hands. Perhaps one day he would.
“You have done exactly the right thing, Father,” he said. “You have done exceptionally well.”
In his car on the way back to his office Colonel Grishin looked at the tape again. He had lost six good men during the small hours, and lost his quarry. But he held in his hand the record of exactly what the interfering American had said to the Patriarch, and vice versa. One day, he vowed, both would pay for their crimes. For the moment, so far as he was concerned, the day would certainly end much better than it started.
CHAPTER 18
COLONEL ANATOLI GRISHIN SAT ALL THE REST OF THAT morning, through the lunch hour, and into the afternoon locked in his office listening to the tape of the conference between Patriarch Alexei II and Jason Monk.
At times there were mumbles or the tinkle of cups being stirred, but most of the passages were clear enough.
The tape began with the sound of a door opening—Father Maxim entering the room with a tray of coffee. The sounds were muffled because at that point the recorder had been in the side pocket of his cassock.
Grishin heard the tray being placed on the desk, then a muffled voice saying, “Don’t bother.”
There was an equally muffled response as Father Maxim knelt on the carpet, presumably picking up the dropped sugar lumps.
The sound quality improved as the recorder was slipped under the desk. The voice of the Patriarch was clear enough saying to Father Maxim: “Thank you, Father, that will be all.”
There was silence until the sound of a door closing, the withdrawal of the informer. Then the Patriarch said:
“Now, perhaps you will explain what you have come to tell me.”
Monk began to speak. Grishin could distinguish the slight nasal twang of the American speaking fluent Russian. He began to take notes.
He listened to the forty-minute conversation three times before he began to write a verbatim transcript. This was not a job for a secretary, however trusted.
Page after page was covered in his neat Cyrillic script. Sometimes he paused, played back, craned to hear the words, and then resumed writing. When he was certain he had every word, he stopped.
There was the sound of a chair moving back, then Monk’s voice saying, “I don’t suppose we shall meet again, Your Holiness. I know you will do the best you can for this land and people you love so much.”
Two sets of footsteps moved across the carpet. More faintly, as they reached the door, Grishin heard Alexei’s reply: “With God’s good grace, I shall try.”
The door evidently closed behind Monk. Grishin heard the sound of the Patriarch resuming his seat. Ten seconds later the tape ran out.
Grishin sat back and mulled over what he had heard. The news was as bad as it could conceivably be. How one man, he reflected, could cause such systematic damage was hard to understand. The key of course was that damnable act of stupidity by the late N. I. Akopov in leaving the manifesto lying around to be stolen. The damage caused by that single leak was already incalculable.
Monk clearly had done most of the talking. The earlier interventions by Alexei II had been to indicate that he understood and approved. His own contribution came toward the end.
The American had not been idle. He revealed that immediately after the New Year a concerted campaign would begin to destroy the electoral chances of Igor Komarov across the country by a process of discreditation and massive publicity.
General Nikolai Nikolayev, it seemed, would resume a series of newspaper, radio, and television interviews in which he would denounce the UPF, calling on every soldier and ex-soldier to repudiate the party and vote elsewhere. There were 20 million veterans among the 110 million enfranchised voters. The damage that one man would do could scarcely be contemplated.
The shutdown of all publicity for Igor Komarov being exercised by both commercial TV channels was the work of the bankers, three out of four of them Jewish, and the leader and inspirator of them all Leonid Bernstein of the Moskovsky Federal. That constituted two scores that would have to be settled.
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