by Alex Lukeman
"Valentina. There has been a change in plan."
Vysotsky's voice rasped in her ear. He's been at the vodka again, she thought, smoking those peasant cigarettes. He'll never change.
"Yes?"
"It has been decided a more obvious demonstration is called for concerning our troublemaking friend."
"What do you mean, obvious?"
"It is no longer necessary that his death appear natural. On the contrary, the more public and disturbing, the better."
"May I ask why?"
"It's not your concern. You have your orders."
"Our friend has scheduled another speech. He will be speaking from a balcony in front of his hotel tomorrow morning. It will provide an opportunity."
"Good."
"I need a weapon. A Dragunov SVD or something similar."
"I thought you might," Vysotsky said. "It is already taken care of. Go to this address." He rattled off the street and number. "Ask for Vlad. When you are finished, come home." He broke the connection.
Home.
Home was a small apartment off Leningradsky Prospeckt in downtown Moscow, convenient to the Zamoskvoretskaya line of the Moscow Metro. Moscow in winter could be fun if you had the money for the clubs but Valentina preferred being in the field and away from the temptations of the city. It was dangerous for her to loosen the rigid control she kept on her inner demons. She had found that out the hard way.
There'd been a time when she'd explored the dark side of Moscow nights, careful to avoid notice by the watchdogs of her service. A memory flooded over her, unbidden.
She came awake naked and cold, in a strange hotel room, lying in a bed soaked with blood, next to a dead man. She couldn't remember anything except that she'd been drinking with him in one of the clubs earlier that evening.
The knife that had killed him was still in her hand. His blood was spattered over her, over the bed, on the walls.
She couldn't remember!
She got out of bed and made sure the door was locked. Her clothes were scattered on the floor. She went into the bathroom and rinsed off blood. She came out and dressed and went around the room, wiping down anything she might have touched. It took no more than a minute. Dawn was just cracking the Moscow skyline when she slipped out of the room. The door locked behind her.
She headed for the emergency staircase at the end of the hall. As the door to the stairs eased shut behind her, three large men came down the hotel corridor and stopped at the room she had just left. The leader raised his fist and pounded on the door.
She hadn't stayed to see what happened next. She'd left the hotel by a back entrance, unseen. For weeks she'd waited for the knock on the door in the middle of the night. It never came.
She'd struggled to remember anything about that night, without success. The only thing she knew for certain was that someone had set her up. It had been during a time when a power struggle was in full bloom between the Federation's internal security service, the FSB, and her own agency, SVR.
There was no way to know who was behind it. The experience frightened her and heightened her normal state of paranoia. Since then she'd avoided the clubs completely. Waiting in Moscow between assignments meant spending time in her apartment or in public places like the gym or library, where she could see everyone around her.
She shook off the unpleasant memories and walked to the address Vysotsky had given her. The apartment building was on Miroslav Krieza Street, blocks away from Alexander Square. She entered the building and found the apartment she was looking for on the third floor. She knocked on the door. Footsteps sounded on the other side.
"Yes."
"I am looking for Vlad."
"Who sent you?"
"A mutual friend in Moscow. You have something for me."
She heard a chain rattle on the other side. The door opened part way.
"What is your name?"
"Valentina."
The door opened all the way. "Come in."
The man was about fifty. He had a large mustache stained yellow with nicotine. She wrinkled her nose against the smell of stale garlic, body odor and tobacco that hung around him in a noxious cloud. He was shorter than Valentina and walked with a limp. He closed the door after her.
"Follow me."
He led her down a narrow hall that smelled of cabbage to the back of the apartment. A television played in one of the rooms to the side of the hall. A long box from a florist shop lay on the kitchen table, wrapped with a red ribbon and bow. Vlad slipped the ribbon off the box and opened the lid. Inside was a rifle in pieces, a short barreled Dragunov SVU. The specialized bull pup Spetsnaz variation was designed for quick takedown and concealment. Next to the barrel lay a Pritsel Snaipersky Optichesky, a PSO-1 sniper scope. The pieces fitted nicely in gray foam lining within the innocent looking box.
Valentina gave a small sound of approval. She picked up the barrel and held it to the light and looked down the bore, at the shining steel and the rifling spiraling away to the muzzle. She set the barrel down and examined the receiver. The weapon was clean.
"It will do," she said.
Vlad snorted. "You know how to assemble it? It is very powerful. Have you fired one before?"
Vlad looked into Valentina's eyes and felt a sudden chill. He looked away.
"There is no need to return the weapon when you are finished with it. It cannot be traced."
"I don't intend to."
Valentina packed the pieces back into the box, closed the lid and replaced the ribbon. Except for the weight, it easily passed for a box of flowers.
"I was never here," she said. "You are clear about this?"
"Yes, of course. Never here."
Valentina nodded, once. She picked up the box.
"Thank you," she said.
Vlad looked surprised by the politeness. Valentina stifled an urge to laugh.
She was careful to close the door behind her as she left.
CHAPTER 16
"How much farther?" Nick asked.
They had been driving for about ten minutes and had reached the edge of the town. The houses here were older, rundown. They passed a wooden cart being pulled by a donkey along the side of the road.
"Just a few minutes now," Viktor said. "It's up there, around that curve."
The road climbed ahead of them and curved off behind an old church that was in tumbled ruins. They came around the turn. Two cars placed in a V blocked the road ahead. From somewhere behind the abandoned church, two more cars appeared. They came up fast behind the VW and boxed it in. Men got out of all four cars. They wore black balaclavas.
"Shit," Lamont said.
"I would advise not doing anything stupid," Viktor said.
There was a gun in his hand, an ugly Makarov. He held it to Selena's head.
The men from the other cars pulled open the doors. Two of them carried Kalashnikov assault rifles, the ever-popular AK-47. The leader had a pistol.
"Get out," the leader said.
"Do as he says," Nick said to the others.
The leader was a big man, bigger than Nick. He wore a thick leather jacket, a knitted scarf and a woolen cap. His hands were raw and red from the cold. The cold didn't seem to affect his grip on the pistol he pointed at Nick. He gestured with it.
"Hands behind your back. You will come with us."
"We're an accredited news team," Nick said. "You are making a mistake."
"Shut up," the leader said. "Tie their hands. Put the hoods on them."
Harsh hands pulled Nick's arms behind his back and cinched a plastic tie around his wrists. Then a rough sack of burlap was pulled down over his head. It stank of cow dung and ammonia. Hands went through his pockets and took the satellite phone and his wallet. He was pushed forward and stumbled to his knees in the snow. Someone yanked him upright and shoved him into the back of a car.
Nick couldn't see what was happening with the others. He heard car doors slam. The engine started and the car began moving. Under the
sack he could see nothing. He could hardly breathe through the choking fumes of the burlap.
I guess we found our terrorists, he thought.
After what he estimated was half an hour, the car slowed and turned. They bumped over a rough road for several minutes and came to a stop. Work hardened hands pulled him from the car. Someone took his arm and pulled him along. His boots crunched in snow. He heard the others stumbling along behind.
A door opened and he was pulled into a warm space. Someone pushed him down onto a hard chair and yanked off the burlap hood. He blinked at the sudden light and looked around.
The room was large, the walls made of wood. Overhead, exposed wooden joists held up a steep, peaked roof. A stone fireplace took up one end of the room, radiating heat from a roaring fire. Mounted animal heads hung on the walls, dusty trophies of hunts long past. The windows were covered so that no one could see in or out. They were in a hunting lodge somewhere in the mountains. For all Nick knew, they could be in Macedonia or Albania.
Ronnie, Lamont and Selena sat on a hard wooden bench nearby. Nick's hands were still cinched tight behind his back. He couldn't feel his fingers.
A thin man wearing a black leather jacket and a black leather cap came into the room from the back of the building. He wasn't wearing a ski mask. Pale blue eyes studied Nick from under heavy, black eyebrows. His face was sallow and tired looking, unsmiling, with bloodless lips tightly compressed under a thin, black mustache. He wore a large pistol in a military style holster on his belt. The man looked as though he'd stepped from a photograph taken during the days of the Russian Revolution.
"You are the leader?" he said to Nick. He spoke English well, with an American accent.
Probably educated in the states, Nick thought. Up north somewhere.
"I am," Nick said. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"My name is Josef."
Josef pulled up a chair and sat down across from Nick.
"As to what we want, it is more about what you want. You were asking questions in the market about what happened in the capital. About who people thought was responsible, who set off the bomb. Is this not true?"
"Sure it's true. That's our job, to ask questions. The bombing is big news. Everybody wants to know more about what happened and who's behind it."
"We are the Macedonian Patriotic Front. You have heard of us?" Josef asked.
Another damned terrorist group, Nick thought.
"No."
"Our goal is the removal of the current regime by any means necessary."
"Are you the ones behind the bombing?"
"No. That is one of the reasons we decided to invite you here."
Nick laughed. "Some invitation. Why didn't you just ask?"
"Because you need to understand the seriousness of the invitation," Josef said, "and because we want to make sure someone listens to our demands."
"You have my attention," Nick said. "Consider us invited. You still haven't told me why we're here."
Josef took out a knife and began cleaning his nails.
"Mitreski calls us terrorists but we are patriots. You are here to present our message to the world. We want everyone to know the truth."
"Whose truth? Yours? Why would I believe a bunch of thugs who grab me and my friends and put a sack on my head?"
Josef gestured with the knife. "Would you have come otherwise? The hoods were necessary to keep you from knowing where we are."
Nick couldn't feel his hands behind his back. The plastic ties had cut off the circulation.
"If you want me to listen to you, you'll have to stop treating us like prisoners. Cut the ties on our hands. Consider it a goodwill gesture."
Josef gave him a careful look. "Give me your word you will not cause trouble. My men are nervous and some of them don't like Americans. There could be an accident. You understand?"
"Do it, Nick," Selena said. "It's the only way we're going to get the story."
"You should listen to her," Josef said.
"All right. I give you my word. No trouble. Now cut these damn ties before my hands fall off."
Josef said something and one of his men came forward and cut the plastic ties around Nick's wrists. Nick brought his hands around front. The skin was dead white and he could feel nothing at all. His fingers were useless.
"My friends, too."
"Be careful," Josef said. "A false move would be a very bad thing for you to do."
"I heard you the first time," Nick said.
Josef motioned and the same man who had cut Nick's ties went behind Selena and cut hers. Then he went to Lamont and Ronnie. When he was done, he stepped back and leveled his AK at them.
"I'm listening," Nick said.
"We support the 11 October movement," Josef said. "That alone should convince you that we are not the ones who tried to kill Todorovski."
"If you didn't do it, who did?"
"The Russians."
Nick was surprised. He hadn't expected that. "Why do you think it was them?"
"That pig Mitreski gets his instructions from Moscow. You saw how many people came to the square to hear Todorovski speak. Macedonia is on the verge of a color revolution that will sweep Mitreski from office and put Todorovski in his place. Mitreski knows it and so does everybody else. I know Todorovski. He is a true patriot and he fears the Russian bear. He will be a strong ally for the West. The Russians are worried about him."
"That doesn't prove they tried to kill him," Nick said.
"We know it was them because we have someone within Mitreski's circle. During the last week Mitreski has been in daily contact with Moscow. The Kremlin is unhappy about Todorovski. Mitreski has asked for new military supplies. He has been discussing the coming revolution and requested assistance. Moscow regards Todorovski as the voice of the resistance."
"What kind of assistance does Mitreski want besides weapons?"
"Volunteers. Fighters to uphold his regime. The excuse is the stability of the Macedonian state and internal threats to our Slavic heritage. "
Russia had long considered itself the protector of Slavic culture and Orthodox Christianity in the Balkans. Moscow's obsession with the area had been evident during the Yugoslavian wars when the Serbs acted as surrogates for Russian ambition. But this wasn't the 90s. Things were different now. The planes were faster, the missiles more deadly, the rhetoric more rigid. Everything had become much more dangerous. With Orlov established in the Kremlin, Russian paranoia was higher than ever.
"Like in the Ukraine," Nick said.
"Yes."
"Shit. That would complicate things."
"You begin to see," Josef said.
Feeling was coming back to Nick's hands. He waited for the pain he knew would come. A little longer tied like that and he might've lost a finger or two.
"When we left Skopje, Mitreski was sending troops toward the Albanian border," Nick said.
"He thinks war with Albania will divert the people's attention. He's wrong. We will fight to defend our homeland if we have to but it will not change anything. Mitreski must go. There is still time before war begins, but not much. You must tell the West that Mitreski is conspiring with Moscow to provoke war with Albania and use it as an excuse to retain power against the popular will."
Nick's hands began to burn as the blood came back with a vengeance. They felt like they were on fire.
"If the Russians want Todorovski out of the way they'll try again," he said.
"It will be difficult. He's been warned now and has surrounded himself with protection."
"What you have told me cannot be verified."
"I can only tell you that it is the truth," Josef said.
"It will be disputed."
Josef shrugged. "I can't help that. Do you believe me?"
Nick looked at him and saw a man who believed what he was saying. Something about him seemed authentic. He had freed up their hands, something the terrorists Nick had known would never do. Cutting them free spoke to Josef's natu
re. For Josef at least, the story was true.
"Oddly enough, I do," Nick said. "What you said makes a lot of sense, as much sense as any other explanation."
"You will tell the story?"
"I'll do my best," Nick said.
As soon as I can get hold of Harker.
"Then we're done here. My men will take you back to your car. You must wear the hoods one more time."
"We need our phones and belongings back."
Josef said something and one of the men brought their belongings to them. He gave another order and once again the suffocating hood was slipped over Nick's head.
Someone began arguing with Josef. He wasn't speaking English. Nick couldn't understand what was being said but Selena would know. He thought it might be Viktor speaking. Josef's reply was flat and hard. There were more harsh words. The door opened and then slammed behind someone leaving.
Nick heard Josef's voice. "If you see me again it will be after the revolution has been accomplished," he said in English. "Goodbye, American."
Someone took Nick's arm and led him outside. After the warmth of the room the outside was cold and raw. He was put in the back seat of a car. After the hard chair it felt luxurious. He felt Selena settle next to him. Lamont and Ronnie were in a second car.
The car started and they began to move. She took his hand and leaned close and whispered. He could just make out the words.
"Someone didn't want to let us go. That's what Josef was arguing about. I think there's trouble."
Nick squeezed her hand.
They drove for a little while and then turned onto a rough dirt road, following tracks in the snow. The car came to a stop. Nick resisted the urge to pull off the hood. The car door was yanked open.
"Get out." The voice was Viktor's. It wasn't friendly.
"Ditch the hood," Nick said.
He pulled the sack off his head and threw it on the floor of the car. Selena's followed. They had stopped in the middle of a snow covered clearing in the woods. The second car was right behind them. Lamont and Ronnie were getting out. They had taken off their hoods as well. One of Josef's men was pointing his rifle at them. A second man was looking at them as if he didn't quite understand what was happening.