Sokolov scanned the opposite street. There. A white Mercedes van parked curbside at the corner of Tverskaya. The roof-mounted equipment gave away the telltale signs of a surveillance van—various antennae, cameras, and a 360-degree periscope. The FSB surveillance vans owed their submarine nickname to the unmistakable gear.
He’d spotted the spotters. Now he had to lose them.
Sokolov took off, dashing to the subway entrance of a pedestrian underpass.
The tunnel—dimly lit, tile-walled, reeking of waste—was almost empty, save for a few people going about their business, seemingly oblivious to the shooting above. No cops or cameras. Sokolov crossed it quickly, catching his breath, pushing the grief to the far corner of his consciousness. He willed his mind to switch into mission mode. He had to stay calm as if he were in the midst of a rescue operation if he was going to stay alive. The only difference was, it was himself he had to salvage. And someone else if she could still be saved. The time for sorrow would come later. Pain would replace the numbness which he felt right now.
Find her.
The last words of his dying friend echoed in his head. The voice was impossible to ignore.
The underpass split at a juncture, giving him a choice. He could easily make his way to the underground parking lot of the mall where he’d left the Jeep. He also had the option of the Metro station, where he’d disappear in the crowd. Instead, he chose to go on the offensive while the watchers were on the back foot. Little doubt remained that Klimov’s killers belonged to the Russian security service. A private individual was no match against state actors, especially in Russia, but it hardly deterred Sokolov. They were human, too. They made mistakes. And he’d make them pay for the biggest mistake of their lives.
At an intersection, he turned toward the exit leading to Tverskaya Street.
He emerged back into the open, finding the Mercedes Sprinter van rooted to the spot where he’d sighted it. Tinted rear windows, with blackout curtains drawn to conceal the interior. Sokolov raced toward the vehicle, capitalizing on the human factor, acting in the time frame between the tracking sensors picking him up again and the watchers becoming aware of his immediate presence. With the element of surprise on Sokolov’s side, he yanked open the passenger door and hopped inside the cabin, next to the driver. The double-chinned man stared panic-stricken at the barrel of the gun which Sokolov was pointing at his head. He sat motionless, lacking the training of an assassin to react to the threat.
Sokolov swung the TT and knocked him out with a strike to the temple. The driver’s limp body sagged in the seat, the safety belt tight around his pouchy gut.
Reaching behind the seat, Sokolov opened the sliding bulkhead door to the rear compartment and squeezed through the entrance.
In the tight confines of the secret compartment, a man with a crew cut sat stooping at a workstation, his deep-set eyes intently fixed on a bank of monitors, stubby fingers tapping on a keyboard and controlling the periscope with a joystick. His foul body odor permeated the air.
The intrusion made his head turn sharply but before he could emit a futile shout in the soundproofed compartment, he met with a lateral chop of the TT that cracked his skull. He fell over the console.
The guy’s denim jacket was draped over the back of the swiveling seat. Sokolov checked the pockets. Sure enough, he found the red flip cover ID of an FSB officer. Someone named Balaban. He kept it as extra proof of the FSB carrying out Klimov’s murder. Next, Sokolov shoved the unconscious FSB man to the floor and took his seat to review the impressive snooping equipment. The row of displays showed night-vision and thermal imaging feeds, and a computer terminal. The picture from the periscope provided a green-hued view of Mokhovaya Street and the spot where Klimov had been assassinated. He could almost make out his friend’s body, still lying sprawled there before the arrival of first responders.
He examined the other hardware, finding a printer and an external hard drive connected to the console.
The video was recorded and stored on the drive, he realized. Klimov’s murder had likely been captured in its entirety. He snatched the drive, yanking the cable out from the port, and stuffed it in his pants pocket.
What about Paulina Pavlova? Would he be able to find her?
Shifting to the computer console, he accessed the FSB database and ran a search, his fingertips flying over the keys.
The results frustrated him. There were hundreds of women living in Moscow named Paulina Pavlova. He had no time to look for the right one. Even if he found her home address, what of it?
He closed the window and ran through the other capabilities of the computer interface. He was muddling his way around the system but he found what he was looking for.
The interface was linked to a central FSB system called SORM, a mass-surveillance program that spied on all communications in the country. It monitored all phone conversations and Internet traffic, geolocation data, every email sent, every message texted, every payment transaction made. It gathered information about every Internet user, their interests and relationships. It tracked every website visited, every link clicked, every download saved, video watched, image viewed, meme shared. It scanned the files of every cloud storage or web-connected drive. Full online history over a user’s lifetime, mapped and cataloged. Totally breaching every last shred of privacy, the intrusive system gathered a growing digital file on every person in Russia and put it at the FSB’s disposal instantly.
Now Sokolov was going to take advantage of the leviathan spy program.
The system was highly intuitive, offering several search options. But no matter what keyword combinations Sokolov tried, he came up with nothing relevant. He needed to know where Paulina Pavlova was right now. Instead, he came up empty. No calls or texts, no social media activity or credit card bills in the last few days. None of it helped him at all.
Then it dawned on him.
Her bank.
He ran a search for VIB, waiting for the results to pop up with bated breath.
Bingo.
A match as recent as three hours ago.
Someone had used a VIB corporate card—nameless, as anonymous as one could get—for a hotel booking. And it wasn’t just any hotel room.
It was a suite at the Ritz-Carlton Moscow.
It had to be her.
Or someone else from her bank, connected to the affair.
There was zero probability of coincidence.
Then another realization hit him. The hotel’s address. Tverskaya Street. The van’s position was on the doorstep.
Sokolov wriggled out of the bloodstained camo jacket, making himself presentable wearing only the polo underneath it.
He leaped out of the van through the side door and found himself right in front of the hotel’s eclectic façade.
The Ritz-Carlton Moscow rose eleven stories high, recently built in place of the demolished Intourist, and was styled to resemble early twentieth-century architecture.
Sokolov strode through the massive main entrance, held open for him by a white-gloved doorman.
5
Anton Minski had begun his FSB career by reporting on the ideological shortcomings of his fellow college students. A snitch as the bastards had called him. Today, he commanded his own army of informants and agents. And his own operations team.
The police had cordoned off Mokhovaya Street but it was the FSB running the show. Minski had arrived on the scene within minutes of the shooting. Formally, to lead the investigation. Informally, to tidy things up.
Seeing the dead body of Daniil Petrovich Klimov had given Minski immense satisfaction. The entire FSB had hated Klimov’s guts. Now Klimov’s guts and the rest of his body had been taken away to an FSB morgue for autopsy.
There was another corpse which bothered Minski because it was not the one he’d expected at the start of the operation. The cyclist hitman. Dead. The plan had gone haywire. The body would have to be cremated as soon as possible. The cleaners, both of them alive but crit
ically injured, had failed to do their job, and Minski would have to decide what to do with them later.
He watched as on his instructions a fire truck was hosing the crime scene, the water jet erasing the remaining traces of forensic evidence. The crimson pools of Klimov’s blood, like the man himself, took some effort to get rid of, but finally, the asphalt looked nicely washed. That’s it, then.
The bodies. His mind returned to that problem. There should have been two corpses—two hits. A female body alongside Klimov. The whistleblower. But there was no sign of the woman.
Klimov had been with someone else instead. A bodyguard? Unlikely. Klimov had never hired personal security contractors. A friend? But only a highly trained professional was capable of killing the hitman and shaking off the cleaners. And Minski knew of only one person who fit the profile. He hated to be proved right.
Minski called up his assistant, Golub, a beefy man in an ill-fitting suit. Golub wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box but he performed his duties diligently. His criminal background meant that he didn’t shy away from dirty work. As far as torture methods were concerned, Golub was quite adept with a cordless drill.
“Golub! Anything from the submarine? I need that surveillance footage. I want to know who’s responsible for this mess.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t possible.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The submarine has been attacked.”
“Attacked?” Minski echoed.
“Somebody broke in and neutralized the watchers. Balaban and Nazarov. Good men. Someone knocked them out and stole the hard drive. The video recording’s gone.”
Minski spat out a string of choice obscenities.
Yeah, he knew who it was. No doubt. None whatsoever.
“Sokolov.”
“I thought he was dead,” Golub said.
“Wishful thinking. He’s very much alive but I want you to rectify that. Find him. And find that woman, Pavlova. Deal with them both. I’ve had enough headache for one night.”
6
The Ritz-Carlton Moscow ranked among the world’s top hotels—and also the most expensive. That became immediately obvious as Sokolov set foot in the marble-floored lobby with its gilded columns and massive chandeliers.
Sokolov crossed the cavernous space which was so vast that it dwarfed the grand piano placed in the middle, shimmering black under the dazzling chandelier glow.
The lounge was packed with guests as well as provocatively dressed prostitutes with augmented lips and breasts vying for attention. A couple of stern-faced security guards seemed to pay them no heed but in fact, they acted as the procurers. Only high-class hookers were allowed on the premises for a cut of their hard-currency earnings. The security kept a watchful eye to keep unauthorized competitors from coming in off the street.
Sokolov sneaked past the front desk where a rude female receptionist was arguing with a weary business traveler attempting to check in. Some things never changed, Sokolov thought. They might as well have kept the Soviet-era Intourist intact.
As he reached the marble-framed elevators, a uniformed lift operator ushered him in. He hit the button for the top floor.
The Club Level.
It was a hotel inside a hotel, with its own concierge and the Club Lounge offering complimentary food and beverages courtesy of the Executive Chef.
As Sokolov approached his desk, the skinny, thin-lipped concierge eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.
“Where do you think you’re going? This is a Platinum Members-Only area!”
Sokolov flashed the credentials he’d taken off the FSB officer.
“Federal Security Service. Chief Investigator Balaban, Directorate K.”
Sokolov made sure that his finger obscured the mugshot but the stunt worked. The FSB was a far more exclusive club than the Ritz-Carlton Platinum, and its members’ ability to ruin a life at the snap of the fingers gave their requests significantly more weight.
Immediately, the concierge’s attitude changed. Color drained from his face and his narrow mouth parted in a forced, subservient smile.
“How may I help you?”
“A few hours ago, a guest checked into your Presidential Suite.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I need the key to that suite,” Sokolov demanded.
The concierge complied wordlessly, placing a keycard on the desk. A master key utilized by the cleaning and turnover attendants. He was bending the rules but he’d do anything to deflect attention from the other misdeeds going on in plain view. Whoremongering on the hotel premises could get the employees slapped with criminal charges.
Sokolov snatched the keycard and proceeded down a lavishly carpeted, windowless hallway which led to the Ritz-Carlton Presidential Suite.
American presidents used to stay there with their families during their visits to the Russian capital. Not anymore. Sane diplomatic relations between the two countries seemed like a distant memory.
He found himself at the black-lacquered door, decorated with gold accents, and felt his heartbeat racing. He gripped the TT semiautomatic.
Whether or not Paulina Pavlova was behind that door, he would get one step closer to the truth. He’d find out why Klimov had been killed—or follow his friend to the grave.
He inserted the keycard. The lock’s electric mechanism clicked and the dot-sized LED light turned green.
He turned the gilded handle gently and let himself in.
No sooner had the door closed than the concierge grabbed the receiver of the phone on his desk. The dial tone droned through the speaker. He punched in the number which he’d committed to memory through repeated use. The number he had been instructed to call whenever he saw anything suspicious. After a few rings, he made contact with his case officer.
The Ritz-Carlton Presidential Suite was chic and gigantic. A classical nineteenth-century design with rococo elements attempted to emulate the Russian Imperial style. More gold everywhere. It was over-decorated.
But the cream-and-beige-colored surfaces of the carpeting, upholstery, and textile-covered walls made the 200-square-meter area look almost homey. The living room contained a library and its own grand piano.
He found her cozied up in an ivory-textured sofa, her legs tucked under her. She was sipping a glass of red wine and gazing absently at the panoramic view of the Kremlin through the wall-to-ceiling window.
She presented a tantalizing view in her own right. Her slender body reflected her lifestyle—a modern businesswoman’s commitment to a fitness regime which kept her flawless figure in top shape. A deep-neck silk crepe de chine blouse paired with skinny pants showed off her all-natural curves. A tousled blonde bob framed her refined face, unmarred by cosmetic surgery. Only the hint of crow’s feet at the corners of her huge cornflower-blue eyes betrayed her real age, pushing toward the wrong side of forty. She wore just enough makeup to highlight her radiant beauty.
The gorgeous look could make any other man lose his mind.
Not Sokolov. Not tonight.
“So, this is what twenty thousand dollars per night buys you,” he said. “Plus a few more grand for the wine.”
She snapped out of her reverie with a start. The wine glass slipped from her French-manicured fingers and smashed into shards against the hardwood floor.
“Who are you?”
Seeing the gun in his hand, she gasped.
“Oh, my God! They’ve sent you to kill me,” she decided. Tears welled in the bottomless eyes.
“My name is Sokolov.”
“Eugene Sokolov?” She sounded relieved. “Yes, Daniil told me about you. We were supposed to—oh, God…”
“I didn’t come here to kill you. But I will unless you convince me otherwise.”
“What? Why? What are you talking about?” Her voice quivered.
“You set him up.”
“Who? I don’t understand.”
“You baited him and set him up. Daniil Klimov. He’s dead.”
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She shook her head in disbelief.
“No. God, no. It can’t be true.”
“Look outside. Down there, in the street. Can’t you hear the sirens? He’s just been assassinated. Because of you.”
“No! No, I swear!”
“Then why are you here? Why didn’t you follow the arrangement?”
“I—I don’t know! I got scared! I copped out at the last moment! So I went here instead!”
He put the gun away. “Okay, calm down. I believe you.”
And Sokolov did. He trusted her actions, not her words. At the end of the day, she’d done the right thing. Not showing up at the meeting was the only reason she stayed alive. Her instincts had saved her.
“Why here?”
“Why not? It’s nice here and the windows are bulletproof. Why settle for less? The bank will write off the expenses, anyway. I paid with a corporate card for anonymity.”
“There’s no such thing as anonymity.”
“I bribed the hotel manager to remain incognito. At first, he thought I was an escort. Probably still does,” she chuckled, a little tipsy from the wine, failing to comprehend the gravity of the situation.
“Paulina, you must understand that if I was able to find you, so will the people who killed Daniil. You may have won us some time but it’s really not that hard to figure out where you are. Once the killers are inside, the bullet-resistant armor won’t help you.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Get out of here as fast as you can.”
“And then what? I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“I’ve got a car parked a few blocks away. And a hideout where nobody will ever look for you.” He had no time to waste on arguing. “Just do as I say, okay? Do you have the flash drive with you?”
“In my purse.”
He swooped up the purse which she’d dropped off carelessly in a chair and tossed it to her.
“Let’s go.”
“Okay,” she conceded slipping into her loafers.
By the time she needed no convincing, it was already too late.
Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Page 3