“I did.” Sokolov’s voice sounded from the room.
Seeing him, Mischenko’s eyes bulged and he threw himself forward, arms swinging wildly.
“You! You bastard!” the big man roared. “You killed him! How dare you show up here! Murderer!”
Netto and Zubov grabbed him, trying to restrain him, but Mischenko charged at Sokolov like a raging bull. He shook Netto off and dragged Zubov behind him.
“Get a grip! Have you lost your mind?” Sokolov snapped. “Look! Look at this!” he pointed at the freeze frame on Netto’s screen.
Still seething, Mischenko stopped in his tracks and shifted his gaze to the computer display. Slowly, the image seemed to register in his mind and so did its meaning. He comprehended that Sokolov wasn’t Klimov’s true killer.
“My God,” Mischenko said, unmoving. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, Gene … I’m so sorry.”
“I couldn’t risk by filling you in beforehand and there was no other way to set up a meet. I’m on the run.”
“From Klimov’s killers? Or the FSB?” Zubov asked.
“They’re the same,” Sokolov replied. “I have the evidence captured on video, right here.”
“I never believed it was you,” said Zubov.
“I never doubted you, Serge.”
“I’m sorry,” Mischenko muttered again, struck with shame, staring blankly. “I must’ve gone mad with grief.”
“We all make mistakes,” Sokolov reassured him. “And the Kremlin propaganda machine can brainwash the sanest of men. Let’s move on.”
“Agreed,” Netto said conscious of his own role in the disinformation campaigns. “You need a drink to clear your head, Yuri.”
There was no argument.
“I think we all do,” Zubov added.
The four former members of the EMERCOM Extra-Risk Team sat around a table in the compact kitchen. Netto decanted some vodka, in memory of their old boss. His friends downed their drinks but Sokolov barely moistened his lips.
Zubov knew what that meant. Their leader was on a mission.
“Now, Gene, tell us why you brought us here.”
12
After a sleepless night spent at the Lubyanka office, at 6:13 A.M., Minski summoned Golub in order to castigate him for his lack of progress. Venting his frustration on his subordinate was one of the job’s perks.
“Well, have you found them?” Minski asked as he stubbed out a cigarette, exhaling a puff of smoke, his eyes blood-shot from the lack of sleep.
“Sokolov and Pavlova?”
“Who else?”
“Negative,” Golub admitted.
“How is this possible?” Minski demanded. “In our day and age when every scrap of digital communications is instantly intercepted? When you have the world’s most advanced mass-surveillance system, procured from our Chinese comrades, scanning every street corner? How?”
“They must be staying completely offline or using black-market devices we can’t easily detect. As for the facial-recognition technology, it’s true that the hardware came from China but so did the software. It’s still buggy, for all their advances in the field.”
“What about good old human intelligence? With 100,000 men at our disposal in Moscow prowling the streets—informants, watchers, snitches—I won’t have any of your excuses. What are they good for? That doesn’t even include regular FSB and police officers. You’re effectively in charge of the biggest manhunt this city has ever seen. Why has your bumbling army of idiots come up empty?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know, you moron? Where could Sokolov and that broad run to? Any friends he had have either betrayed him or inevitably turned against him. His brother is somewhere outside Russia, unable to help them.”
Golub kept silent but the color of his face was turning beet-red.
Minski threw his hands up in the air emphatically. “So? What am I supposed to report to the President?”
“They vanished,” Golub said through gritted teeth. “But we’re doing everything we can to find them. It’ll take time.”
“That’s not good enough. There’s no time. Any trail goes cold after the initial twenty-four hours. Fortunately, I got a breakthrough not ten minutes ago.”
“Really?” Golub blurted.
“Yes, really. Cheer up, I’ve just kept you in your job, despite your incompetence. Luckily for you, I still have my own intel sources.” Minski grinned triumphantly. “They’re holed up in some run-down apartment, in some junkyard of a place between Izmaylovsky Park and Enthusiasts’ Road.”
“Death Valley?”
“That’s right. Here’s the exact address.” Minski slid a piece of paper across the desk. “Now don’t waste any more time and bring our hit team to wipe them out as soon as possible. I want the best of the best. We can’t let them slip away.”
“Consider it done. I’ll call up the Vympel boys immediately. Just one question, if I may ask you.”
“What is it?”
“Who tipped you off?”
Minski smirked. “Out of desperation, the bastard went to see his old pal. And also, an old asset of mine. Pavel Netto. It was a foolish mistake that will cost him his life. As soon as Netto learned the whereabouts of Sokolov’s hideout, he turned him in.”
13
A military green BTR armored personnel carrier rolled along Budyonny Avenue.
It was a common enough sight in such savage provinces as Chechnya, Dagestan, some parts of Siberia, or even the Crimea.
But not in east Moscow.
The entire block had been sealed off by police as the FSB moved into Death Valley. The heavy transport carried members of the Vympel Counter-terrorism Unit in full gear. Tactical uniforms, armored vests, balaclavas. Helmets with the men’s call signs written on the back. Holstered Glocks and combat knives strapped to their thighs. AK-74M3 rifles with plenty of spare mags.
They came to kill.
Arrests were not part of their tactics.
All of them were combat veterans with missions in Syria and Ukraine under their belts.
The BTR stopped in front of the five-storied house where the suspects were holed up and the armed men rushed out.
Across the street, Minski and Golub oversaw the operation from the safety of a Mercedes-Benz G63 AMG luxury SUV.
Golub drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.
“Stop doing that,” Minski growled annoyed.
His nerves were getting the better of him. He knew that the outcome of the operation was of vital importance to the Kremlin. Success would propel his FSB career, paving his way to unimaginable power and wealth that the Chekists enjoyed as Russia’s owners. Perhaps he would get rewarded by President Frolov for the elimination of his personal enemies.
Failure, however, would entail swift punishment for everyone involved. Minski’s head would be the first to roll.
It was a make-or-break moment.
“This address shows up as an unused land plot,” Golub commented. “No wonder our search came up empty. This old crapper of a building shouldn’t be here at all. Pretty smart. I’d hate to fight my way through each of these units, though. Would give them plenty of time to escape.”
“According to Netto, they’re in number fourteen. Third floor. The rest of the units are empty. They’d better be. I’ve instructed Vympel to clear that building. Shoot on sight. Period. I don’t care about collateral damage. Everyone within that building is a terrorist as far as I’m concerned. Put that down in your report as well, Golub. Nobody is getting out of there alive, man, woman or child.”
Minski’s walkie-talkie chirped.
“Leader One, this is Leader Two. Awaiting your orders.”
His palms felt sweaty. Sokolov and Pavlova were cornered like rats. No way out for them now.
“Leader Two, this is Leader One,” he spoke. “Go.”
The Vympel team gained entry. Two operators crashed the front door with a battering ram. The raiding party burst inside the building in a
single file and rushed up the stairs.
Minski held up an iPad. It displayed live video streaming from the GoPro camera mounted to the LShZ-1+ tactical helmet of the Vympel leader. The effect of being right there in the thick of the action was breathtaking. It reminded Minski of a first-person-shooter. Weapons aimed and ready to fire, feet rushing. The camera followed the point man leading the line in a dystopian setting.
But this was a different kind of game with the highest stakes.
Seconds later, the assault team hit the third floor and reached the door marked 14.
So far, the team had encountered zero resistance. The building appeared deserted.
The radio cackled again.
“Leader One, this is Leader Two. We’re in position,” the Vympel officer reported.
Minski gave the killers the final go-ahead.
“Proceed.”
The operators wielding the battering ram stepped forward and smashed the flimsy door open.
The point man went in first, followed by the leader and the rest of the team, AKs sweeping.
The video lagged a couple of seconds behind real time, so Minski felt the force shaking the Mercedes reverberate through his body with an ear-splitting bang, just before a white-hot flash filled the iPad screen.
It went blank as connection was lost but Minski had already dropped the tablet to the floor.
Dazed, Minski turned his head to see that the blast wave had blown out the car’s windows and he was covered in glass shards.
Next to him, Golub was yelling something, blood trickling down his face from a few small lacerations but Minski’s ears were ringing, so he could hardly hear him.
Agitated, Golub was gesturing wildly at what was going on in the street.
It was difficult to see anything through a dust cloud but as it settled, Minski peered at the apartment building.
Half of it was gone.
There was now a yawning chasm, centered around the third floor where apartment 14 had been, with a pile of smoking rubble and debris below.
Only a part of the structure remained, licked by tongues of flame while much of the concrete frame had collapsed, destroyed by the massive explosion.
Minski stared at the scene of devastation in numb shock.
Any surviving Vympel team members were trapped under the wreckage. Buried alive.
Minski didn’t give a damn about them as long as Sokolov and Pavlova were also dead. Everyone else was expendable.
As his initial stupor faded, Minski let out a mirthless laugh.
14
Moscow’s Vnukovo airport served as the base for the Kremlin and FSB fleet as well as other high-level government aircraft.
The empty VIP terminal was designed to provide a hassle-free experience to various dignitaries. An otherwise uneventful day was marked by two persons entering the private area to pass through immigration.
Later, Maria Baranova, the forty-two-year-old FSB border guard officer on duty, would plead that she couldn’t have possibly smelled something fishy but nonetheless, her mistake would condemn her to two years in Siberia.
There was nothing to arouse suspicion in the mannerisms or appearance of the tall man wearing sneakers, jeans, and a pressed shirt, muscles bulging underneath. He approached the desk and presented the two passports which Baranova swiped through her scanner. Certainly, no indication that he was a person of interest for the Russian intelligence services. The name in his passport didn’t trip any red flags in the database. The ice-cool gaze of his azure-blue eyes projected confidence. His strong physique and the air of dominance around him hinted at a military background.
He was accompanying an elegantly dressed woman who carried no luggage except a stylish handbag. Besides the designer clothes and accessories, the woman wore a post-op compression dressing which wrapped around her chin and neck, and a bandage covering her nose. The recently performed rhinoplasty had resulted in dark purple bruising under her eyes.
It was all the craze among the wealthy Russians to fly out to top Swiss clinics to perform cosmetic surgery, from facelifts and nose jobs to cheekbone implants and jawline correction. Ever neutral, Switzerland remained one of the few Western countries which hadn’t imposed sanctions against Russian kleptocrats and still welcomed their money.
Sure enough, the rich bimbo was due for aesthetic treatment in Zurich, with a special flight chartered out of Vnukovo at three hours’ notice.
Only one thing struck Lieutenant Baranova as unusual. The chartered plane, a VIP version of the Sukhoi SuperJet-100, belonged to EMERCOM. But with the new man in charge of the agency and in the face of budget cuts, EMERCOM was known to engage in questionable commercial activities to get some money on the side. Such as luxury shuttles to Europe for medical tourism or shopping sprees.
Dismissing any lingering doubts, she stamped the non-biometric passports and, despite her disdain, wished the couple a safe journey.
Once they had boarded the sleek white jet, Paulina ripped off the bandages and slumped in a sumptuous leather sofa.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “That was crazy. My heart is still banging in my throat. I expected that FSB broad to raise the alarm at any moment. I can’t believe we’ve done it.”
“Faith moves mountains,” Sokolov replied.
The Sukhoi Business Jet, as the luxury version of the SSJ-100 was known, boasted a high level of interior comfort and refinement. The front section had been converted into a lounge featuring the large sofa, leather chairs, coffee table, TV, as well as a bar, galley, and a spacious lavatory complete with a shower.
From her handbag, Paulina extracted a makeup set, and examining herself in the pocket mirror, proceeded to wipe away the fake purple circles under her eyes.
Sokolov’s new passport, provided by Goldstein, stood up against scrutiny quite well but Paulina’s had presented a problem. She couldn’t use her real one, so a new passport had been hastily acquired through a dead drop from a random Dark Web seller. Unfortunately, the original owner pictured in it bore almost no likeness to Paulina. The disguise had required a bit of improvisation but luckily it had gotten her through.
With the pre-flight checks completed, the SBJ taxied out on the runway.
Then it halted as the pilots—Zubov and Mischenko—waited for the takeoff clearance from the control tower.
A few nervous seconds later, the Sukhoi accelerated and lifted off.
Soaring into the sky, the plane left Moscow behind.
When the SBJ finished its climb and began cruising, Paulina let out a joyous cry.
Sokolov knew that her elation was premature.
They hadn’t broken clear of danger just yet.
As long as the plane was still in Russian airspace, the FSB could still get them.
Paulina poured herself a glass of red from the bar, consumed it quickly, and curled up on the sofa like a feline. She was sound asleep within minutes.
Sokolov turned on the wall-mounted TV and watched the Kremlin-controlled news channel on mute. The breaking story, like everything else on the propaganda network, aimed to deceive. The headline screamed MOSCOW GAS EXPLOSION while the ticker provided live updates.
An obvious lie because the building hadn’t been connected to a natural gas line.
In reality, the blast had resulted from ANFO, ammonium nitrate fuel oil mixture, the widely used industrial explosive utilized in mining and construction, more commonly known as the fertilizer bomb. Sokolov had obtained it from EMERCOM supplies with the help of his friends and set the blasting cap to go off if any trespasser entered the apartment.
Victory over domestic terrorism had been the Kremlin’s trump card which legitimized the regime as a whole. Admitting that the explosive used in the blast was the one favored by every terrorist group in the world including the Chechens would be tantamount to a PR disaster highlighting the FSB’s incompetence. The state media stuck with the natural gas story.
The blast was being reported as a mishap with no mention of a coun
ter-terrorism raid which had led to it. Any casualties among the FSB assault team would also be brushed under the carpet. Judging by the images which showed only a few fire engines, and the firemen’s lackluster efforts to douse the debris with water, the FSB prioritized shrouding the operation in secrecy over rescuing their men from under the rubble or even recovering their bodies.
They wouldn’t get a proper burial. The Motherland always turned her back on her own.
Sokolov felt no sympathy for the fallen enemy. The uniformed killers lived by the savage rules of their Kremlin masters—but they weren’t prepared to die when their victims hit back.
The bomb had gone off when Sokolov and Paulina were already approaching Vnukovo, so he was content to learn that his IED had worked as intended, inflicting no damage on innocent civilians.
Daniil Klimov, explosives expert, would have been proud. He’d taught Sokolov well.
He punched the off button on the TV remote and shut his eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. Images of Beslan haunted his mind. The charred school building destroyed by explosives, grenade launchers, flamethrowers, and tank shells in a false-flag FSB op which had left 333 dead.
Sokolov himself had barely survived, shot in the back while attempting to rescue a child from the inferno.
Today, the tables had turned. For once, the killers had found themselves on the receiving end.
A Gulfstream V executive jet descended for landing at Zurich airport. The clear skies offered a wonderful view of the snow-capped Alps below.
Constantine paid no attention to the impressive sight. His mind wandered elsewhere. He glanced at his wristwatch again, counting down the minutes until the plane finally touched down.
Flying out of Dulles International Airport, the Gulfstream was operated by a CIA front company registered in Delaware. It was used as a transport for the CIA’s extraordinary rendition program. The rendition aircraft secretly traveled between destinations in the Middle East and Europe, bringing terrorist suspects to various black sites for detention and interrogation. The pilots certainly knew their stuff.
Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Page 6