“Whom were you trying to call?” asked Max. “Were you trying to summon your Spetsnaz soldiers? It’s too late for that now.”
Viktor Gusin grasped Max’s wrist with unexpected strength and pulled Max close. Max put the barrel of the Makarov to Gusin’s head.
“You’re the boy who was sitting outside the salon.”
Max smelled Gusin’s rotten breath. His hand cramped again.
“The power skipped a generation. Just like Yakov and Vasily, Jakob Anger was a disappointment.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t need to be like this, Max. There’s an alternative for you.”
Max found that he had lowered his arm somewhat. He raised the pistol to Viktor Gusin’s head again.
“Who was Tatyana Sedova? How did she die?”
“As a traitor,” said Gusin.
Max pressed the muzzle of the Makarov to the older man’s forehead, midway between his eyes.
“She was your wife.”
Gusin shook his head. “I suppose you’ve been in my office.”
He started laughing. Blood sprayed into Max’s face. Disgusted, he wiped it away with his hand.
“Haven’t you gone over all that with Borgenstierna? Isn’t he the one who sent you here?”
“What should I have talked about with Borgenstierna?”
“About the summer of 1943. The visit to the residence in Kuntsevo and the dark door that opened to admit her. The nightmares that tormented her every night afterward.”
The Goose rubbed his chin against his shoulder, wiped away blood.
“You haven’t understood yet, then. You still don’t know the truth, Max Anger.”
Max was having difficulty breathing. The Goose’s words were poisoning him, making the ground under his feet sway.
You’re lying. As you have all your life. You’re lying to save yourself.
“Why did you murder my father?”
Gusin smiled again. There was no human warmth in his smile. “Because I was ordered to do so.”
“Who ordered you?” Max cocked the hammer of the Makarov.
“Listen to what I’m saying,” pleaded Viktor Gusin. “You’re destined for bigger things.”
“Who gave the order?”
“His father,” said the Goose.
He seized Max’s arm again. “There’s an alternative to this, Max.”
For a moment, it was as though everything in the room were floating. The Goose’s words sent his thoughts in directions in which he’d never wanted to think.
He pulled free of Gusin’s grasp.
“There’s no alternative for you,” he said. “None.”
He pulled the trigger, kept his eyes on Viktor Gusin’s face while the echoes of the shot faded.
90
A strong gust of wind made the window rattle. The wind whistled around the house, and Sharik, who was lying on the floor with her bad hip pressed against the warm radiator, howled in harmony with it.
“You know there’s a storm coming, don’t you, my friend?” said Gachov. “We’ve lived through a number of those over the years. Nothing to complain about.”
There was a loud bang, and Sharik lifted her muzzle from the floor.
Gachov had long since given up the hope of getting any sleep this night. Despite the fact that dawn was approaching, he was sitting in his favorite armchair with his feet on the patched footrest, reading.
The TV was on, but neither he nor the dog was paying any attention to what the screen showed. Gachov listened for more bangs but heard only the waves crashing against the breakwaters and the quay, a sucking sound followed by a dull slap and then a smattering of water spreading across the concrete of the marina.
The images he remembered from that morning walk were never far away. They had avoided the beach promenade since then, sought out other paths around the Baltic Point to meet Sharik’s morning needs.
Gachov had been tormented by a guilty conscience ever since that morning. Even though Mishin had strongly advised him against it, Gachov had asked himself the same question again and again: Shouldn’t I call the police? During the nights since that terrible morning, Gachov had heard increasingly strange sounds from the area around the old marine center.
In the middle of the night, he had stood looking at the windowless, graffiti-covered concrete giant and wondered what had been brought to life. He had heard voices, screams, a lament—sounds that continued to haunt his dreams. This had been going on for so many days now that he wondered whether he might be imagining things out of fear. Like the loud bang just now.
It had sounded like a pistol shot.
Then he heard another. And another.
Mishin had asked Gachov about the area and the various buildings. He had said he was trying to find something, something that might once have been located in the vicinity of the harbor. Something that belonged to a bygone time and a branch of the military no one was allowed to know anything about.
This hadn’t exactly calmed Gachov’s nerves. But Mishin was a wise man and a good friend, so if he needed help, Gachov was, of course, at his disposal.
Sharik got up. Her howling became barking. She left her warm place by the radiator, laid her front paws on the windowsill, and peered out into the dark night.
He should have called the police long ago. A neighbor had talked to him about illegal nightclubs, whorehouses, and violence in the area. She had called the police to express her concern, but the police hadn’t bothered to come out there.
But this. Cannibalism. Pistol shots in the night. The possibility that secret military units were operating in the area. Gachov suddenly felt he was living in a war zone. He walked over to the window and patted the bloodhound’s back.
“What do you see out there, Sharik?”
There was a new gust of wind, so strong this time that the window made a cracking noise and the cold came through the glass and Gachov felt it on his face.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
More shots.
He had had enough now. Gachov quickly walked to the hall, dialed the police emergency number, and waited.
When a man answered, Gachov blurted out an account of what he had been hearing.
Some time passed before the man said anything further.
“From where exactly did you say you heard the sound of shots?”
“I think they came from the old Soviet center for marine research on the Baltic Point.”
“The Baltic Point?” said the man. “I’m going to transfer your call, Mr. Gachov. I’m connecting you with Inspector Papanov.”
There were several minutes of silence. Then, in a calm, controlled voice, a man said, “Tell me exactly what you have seen and heard.”
Gachov did as the man had said.
“And what is your name?”
“Sergey Gachov.”
“And your home address?”
Gachov gave the man the address.
“Are you home alone?”
“I have Sharik here. She’s an old bloodhound. Why?”
The conversation with this policeman suddenly felt very strange. He seemed not to feel any particular unease or worry over what Gachov had told him. It was as if something else interested him more. “Are you home alone?” Why was that a relevant question?
“Stay where you are, Gachov. I’ll come to see you in a short while.”
91
Ilya had grown even paler, but Max could still feel his pulse. He took his shirt off and tied it around Ilya’s wounded shoulder to reduce the flow of blood as much as possible. Ilya had been hit by at least three bullets, and if Max didn’t manage to get him to a hospital soon, he wouldn’t make it. But he had to find Pashie first.
Ilya’s body hung heavy and slack as Max dragged him all the way through the hangar, out into the courtyard, and through the gates to the street.
Max thought he could hear a distant sound coming nearer. Was it the wind making that tooting sound? No, it was some
thing else.
He laid Ilya in the front passenger seat of his jeep, with his heavily bleeding shoulder in an upright position.
“Hang in there,” he said, but Ilya didn’t react. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes. Then I’ll drive you to a hospital.”
As fast as he could, Max ran across the courtyard and into the hangar. The same question throbbed in his head again and again.
Pashie, where are you?
He ran down the stairs to the basement. There was only one place he hadn’t looked. He opened the door with the frosted glass onto a deserted inner courtyard. The ground was covered with mud and wet snow. A cold rain was falling from the sky, and the wind was battering the roof.
At the other end of the inner courtyard was a shed, and when he came closer he could hear sounds coming from it.
Scraping sounds. Panting sounds.
Max ran toward the shed. The scraping and panting changed to wild, desperate jerking, and then there was complete silence.
When Max entered the shed, his legs almost folded under him. Pashie. She was hanging there, immersed in filthy water, apparently lifeless, chained to the walls and naked to the waist. The chains continued to move a little; they were rattling even though her body hung from her shackles, completely limp.
He threw himself toward her. Tried to pull off the shackles around her wrists, but they were made of steel. Nails were missing from her fingers. Scrape marks had created a pattern of grooves and lines up and across the slime on the walls of the shed. Her head hung down on her chest.
“Pashie, can you hear me?”
He lifted her head.
It couldn’t be true. Not after all this. He laid two fingers against her throat. First he felt nothing; then he found a weak pulse. He laid his lips against hers. She was as cold as ice. But then came a little breath of warmth.
She’s still alive.
Max lifted her eyelids. He saw only the whites of her eyes.
He pulled out his Makarov. He had two shots left, and they were all he needed.
When the second metal cuff released her, he was there to keep her from falling. He lifted her out of the pit and carried here into the courtyard. It felt as if all the volume had been sucked out of her. Her arms and legs hung limply from her trunk.
He laid her carefully on the ground and tried to warm her with his own body.
“I’m here, Pashie. I’m here,” he said, caressing her cheeks.
Then he heard that sound again; it had come closer, and now there could be no doubt about what kind of sound it was. It was a police siren. He didn’t dare assume they were coming to his aid.
92
Two young police trainees walked slowly across the floor of the hangar. They saw traces of a bleeding body that had been dragged out of the building. Behind one of the old airplanes, a dead man with long black hair and a bushy beard sat slumped over. Around him was a pool of blood.
One of the recruits looked up and pointed at a black Mercedes that had been driven through a glass wall and had crashed into the opposite wall. In that room, damaged fluorescent tubes gave off a flickering light. Above the hood of the car, they could glimpse the face of an old man. An old man with a bullet hole in his forehead.
The recruit started walking toward the car, but his colleague stopped him.
“We should wait for Papanov,” he said. “You remember the instructions on the radio, don’t you?”
They stood still and silently tried to figure out what had happened in the hangar.
As usual, Papanov arrived alone, walking along the dark corridor behind them with a flashlight in his hand.
“Stay where you are,” he said.
First, he approached the dark door they had both passed on their way into the hangar. He very soon emerged from the room and ran down the metal stairs to the lower floor. As quickly as he had disappeared, he returned.
He walked over to the two recruits.
“The thieves who broke in have been seen running along the beachfront promenade. Hurry after them. I’ll take care of things here.”
“The thieves who broke in?” said one of the young trainees.
“Yes. Didn’t you hear what I said? What are you waiting for?”
When the two had left the building, Papanov took out his cell phone. He called the mayor’s office, spoke with his boss.
“It’s as I feared. The Goose is dead.”
The mayor’s right-hand man rattled off instructions for Papanov quickly, efficiently, without emotion.
“I understand, boss,” said Papanov. He ended the call.
The order had been clear, and Papanov went back to his patrol car on the street and took out two large plastic bags. He walked across the shards of glass and into the room where the Mercedes and the Goose were. Quickly but carefully, he took the maps down from the wall and put them in one of the plastic bags. Then he hurried over to the Goose’s office and collected the things his boss had specified. When he was done, he laid the bags in the trunk of the patrol car and then checked that the trunk was properly locked.
He had retrieved everything his boss had mentioned. Except two items: the photograph in the bookcase and the Goose’s satellite telephone.
Papanov suspected he would never again have to clean up after someone who had feasted on human bodies out here. He wasn’t going to miss that part.
He got in the car and opened the glove compartment. Took out the silencer for his pistol and screwed it on. He took out the sheet of notes he had made at the police station.
Gachov. Lone man with dog.
He read the address to himself once.
Then he slid the silenced pistol into his jacket pocket and began walking toward the address.
93
The door of the intensive care unit of the American Medical Clinic finally opened. A middle-aged man with curly blond hair walked slowly over to Max and introduced himself as Dr. Cleaver.
“Your friends are in pretty bad shape,” he said.
“Are they going to survive?”
“There are grounds for guarded optimism, but it’s too soon to be certain. The woman has serious mouth injuries and multiple infections. And she’s been exposed to the cold for a long period. A strong woman.”
Yes, she is.
“And Ilya?”
“He was shot four times and has lost a great deal of blood. Miraculously enough, no critical organs were hit. He was lucky, but he’s not yet in stable condition.”
A strong woman and a lucky man. That was a more positive summary than he’d dared to hope for.
“The woman has a good insurance policy via her employer in Stockholm. She can stay here or be moved to any other hospital. The man, on the other hand, appears to have no insurance whatsoever.”
Max told the doctor what he wanted to do with Pashie. They went through the steps necessary to make this happen. Max had to fill out a number of forms and leave the hospital a copy of his passport, his address back home in Stockholm, and relevant information about Vektor and the insurance company in connection with the coverage of costs.
“And Ilya?” asked the doctor when they were done. “What do we do with him?”
“I would like to make a payment for Ilya in advance, in cash.”
“Cash in advance? In a case involving four gunshot wounds, most hospitals would contact the police.”
“Do not call the police,” said Max. “I will give you fifteen thousand dollars now.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Anger, but that’s not even going to cover—”
“And you’ll receive further payments from Stockholm until he’s ready to leave the hospital. Add those costs to the others.”
The doctor nodded. Like many other foreigners who had lived in Saint Petersburg for some time, he was no stranger to unusual solutions. It would be better both for the patient and for the doctor to agree to what Max was proposing than to turn Ilya over to Russian authorities, who would very likely dump him in the gutter.
“Will
Pashie make a full recovery?”
“Your plan will ensure that she receives the best possible care.”
Max nodded.
“Are you planning to travel with her as she’s transported over there?”
“No, I’ll meet her there.”
On his way out of the hospital lobby, Max took out his cell phone and dialed Sarah’s number. Then he thought about how Sarah had said Vektor’s phones might have been tapped. He ended the call and called her home landline instead. Nothing. Not even the beeps that would have indicated her phone was ringing.
Max shook his head and called the office. He heard the call being transferred.
“Vektor. This is Charlie Knutsson speaking.”
Max started. Their board chairman had never answered the telephone before.
He knew how close Sarah and Charlie were. Everything he had wanted to say to Sarah, he could say to Charlie.
“It’s Max. I found Pashie. She’s alive.”
“Oh, thank God. Finally some good news.” Charlie’s voice was tense.
“What is it?” asked Max. “What’s happened?”
“I have terrible news, Max. A bomb exploded in Sarah’s home. We don’t know how things went—what’s happened to her.”
Another bomb. In an instant, the relief Max had felt since his visit to the hospital evaporated.
This wasn’t over yet.
He remembered how the Goose had been punching the buttons on his telephone in the hangar. Had he detonated the bomb with his telephone from the room where Max had been with him? Was that why he’d bought himself time by talking all that nonsense?
You bastard. You had to try to take one more human being down with you. As if you hadn’t killed enough people already.
“Max?” said Charlie.
“Yes?”
“The police are involved, and we’re trying . . .”
Max stopped listening. He took out the satellite phone Gusin had been holding in the hangar during the final moments of his life. It was larger, clumsier, and heavier than an ordinary cell phone. Max opened the menu system and looked through the numbers dialed most recently. The last call Gusin had tried to make was to a number associated not with an individual’s name but with that of a country.
Ask No Mercy (Max Anger Book 1) Page 33