“I’m sending you a car and backup. We can’t abandon the stakeout, and there’s no way you can spend the night in the lobby.”
Hathaway decided to wait until the next day before raising the alarm in D.C. He was fully aware that the consequences for the White House might be catastrophic.
—
Malko’s taxi made good time and soon passed the MKAD Ring Road. It slowed as they approached Peredelkino, and Malko spotted a big wooden building strung with Christmas lights on his left.
“It’s over there,” he told the driver.
Malko paid him 2,500 rubles and got out. A spotlight lit up the izba’s porch and front door. He rang the bell for number 6, and Julia’s melodious voice answered on the intercom.
“I’ll buzz you in,” she said. “My apartment is at the end of the hallway, facing you.”
The place smelled of pinewood and fresh paint. Julia was standing on her threshold, framed in a rectangle of light. As he got close, Malko noticed she was wearing perfume, which few Russian women did. She stepped aside to let him in, and their eyes met.
“It was nice of you to come out here,” she said. “It’s a long way.”
She was wearing a long black skirt with a wide belt, high heels, and a black blouse that molded to her breasts, which were unconfined by a bra, as before. Except for a touch of blue under her eyes, she wore no makeup.
Julia’s apartment was very cozy, with paintings, carpets, and lamps everywhere. A wooden staircase led up to a loft.
She took him into the kitchen, where she’d set out plates of food: herring, pickles, smoked salmon, salad, and zakuski, along with a bottle of Tsarskaya.
Julia opened the vodka, poured two glasses, and handed one to Malko.
“Welcome,” she said.
They clinked glasses, and he tossed his vodka down at a gulp.
“You drink like a Russian! Better take it easy.”
Her comment could have two meanings, and Malko didn’t know quite how to approach her. They hadn’t touched, and aside from her lack of a bra, Julia was dressed very conservatively.
They sat down at the table and attacked the herring.
Soft Russian folk music filled the apartment, and no sounds could be heard from outside. It felt like a throwback to a bygone era. Julia was very attentive, putting pieces of smoked fish on Malko’s plate and refilling his glass.
“Gocha told me a lot of fascinating things about you,” she said. “You must have stories to tell.”
She was looking at him almost hungrily.
—
The Tsarskaya bottle was now half-empty, and Julia’s eyes were shining. Relaxed by the vodka, Malko was eager to take their relationship to the next level.
The young woman stood up and stretched.
“Come upstairs with me,” she said. “I want to show you my paintings. You can tell me if you like any of them.”
She started up the stairs with Malko on her heels. The loft held a kind of office with modern paintings hanging on the walls, and a big bed in the back.
Julia turned to him and said:
“Which do you like?”
Malko wasn’t looking at the paintings, however, but at the young woman’s chest. Once again, their eyes met. Daringly, he reached out and put his fingertips on her right breast. Feeling the nipple stiffen gave him a jolt of adrenaline. He repeated the gesture with his left hand, with the same result.
Julia didn’t seem to react, but her breath came faster.
Malko moved his hands over the fabric, circling the now firm nipples. His crotch began to ache.
Leaving her breasts, Malko shifted his hands to her hips, squeezing the warm flesh. Julia immediately moved toward him, close enough to touch. As if drawn by a force field, their two bodies hurtled toward each other. The young woman’s mouth landed in the crook of Malko’s neck, her warm lips moving over his skin. When he seized her breasts again, she moaned.
Eyes closed, she raised her face to his. Their lips came together quite naturally. She kissed him with the delicacy of a cat, teasing him with the extraordinarily agile tip of her tongue.
Malko felt as if his cock were on fire. He pushed Julia against a desk and lifted her long skirt, revealing heavy black stockings held up by garters.
Leaning against the desk, Julia let him raise her skirt completely, revealing she was naked. When he set his finger on her swollen cunt, she moaned again and shuddered, coming immediately.
He started tearing at his clothes. The moment his cock was out, Julia grabbed and squeezed it. Leaning backward, she spread her legs and said just one word:
“Now.”
She kept her eyes on his cock as he pushed against her.
But Malko had a hard time entering her. It was as if she weren’t ready for him, which hardly seemed to be the case. At the same time, it almost felt illicit, which was incredibly exciting.
Julia reached down and seized his cock. She knelt and took it in her mouth quite naturally, but only for a moment. Leading Malko to the bed, she made him lie down on his back.
Then she pulled off his pants and underwear and straddled him, an eager glint in her eyes.
“I’m very tight,” she murmured. “This way, you’ll manage better.”
Grasping his cock, she moved it to her pussy, and waited, motionless.
Malko got the message. He pushed upward, past an initial barrier. Biting her lips, Julia seemed to be in pain. But then she grew wetter, and he slipped in, inch by inch, until he couldn’t go any farther. She was as tight as a virgin.
Chest upright and eyes closed, Julia was panting. She gave a little cry.
“There you go!” she said. “You’re all the way in.”
She seemed to get off on her own words. Then she began rocking back and forth. And gave another sharp cry.
Malko could feel her getting soft and juicy. She had just come a second time. But that apparently wasn’t enough, because once again she began to sway like a metronome while Malko twisted her nipples. With another spasm, Julia came a third time, then slumped onto his chest.
“I’ve wanted to make love with you ever since I first laid eyes on you,” she murmured. “It was like an ache in my belly. It’s better now.”
“Why did you want me so much?” asked Malko, smiling.
“Because I sense things about you that I like. My old lover Magomed was a brute. He mounted me like a bull and didn’t care if I came or not. But he was a strong, dangerous man, like you.”
As she gently stroked Malko’s chest, he thought he could feel her getting wet again.
“Some other time,” she said, almost with regret. “I’ve come enough for one night. I’ll drive you back to town.”
“I thought your car had broken down.”
Julia gave him an angelic smile.
“I don’t like having sex in hotels, and I decided I wanted you tonight.”
She pulled away from him, and kissed his prick. Then she shook her head, running her fingers through her curly mane.
“Next time you can fuck me right on the desk, like a muzhik. I like that too.”
“Do you always put on stockings when you want to have sex?”
She smiled.
“Gocha said you liked that. I wanted to give you something to remember me by.”
—
Jeff Soloway shook himself as his vision of the Hotel Belgrade façade began to blur. He and the other FBI agent who’d brought the car had taken turns watching all night long, but Amritzar hadn’t shown up.
Soloway decided to try one last time. He phoned the hotel and asked for Room 807. Benazir answered, sounding both tense and sleepy.
“Good morning. I’m looking for Parviz,” he said.
“I don’t know where he is,” she said, “and I’m terribly worried. He hasn’t come back and he hasn’t phoned. He must’ve had an accident. I’m going to call the police. Who are you?”
“A friend of his,” said Soloway, hanging up.
He turned to his partner and
said:
“It’s all over.”
The FBI operation had turned into a nightmare. A terrorist armed with an advanced surface-to-air missile was now on the prowl and determined to shoot down the president’s plane.
CHAPTER
16
Rem Tolkachev gazed thoughtfully at his office door as it closed behind Alexander Bortnikov.
The FSB chief had brought over the file on the theft of the Igla-S in Kolomna and the killing of the two men transporting it. But the missile still hadn’t been found.
The service had apparently followed Tolkachev’s orders to the letter. In Moscow, an FSB team waited for the missile to be delivered to FBI agent Jeff Soloway and his buyer, Parviz Amritzar.
Two arrests were then supposed to be made by the FSB agents: Amritzar for arms trading, and Soloway for espionage.
Neither had happened.
Once the Kolomna FSB field office had reported the theft of the missile, the Fifth Directorate agents immediately canceled their part in the operation, as did their Moscow FSB colleagues.
As a result, neither the FBI agent nor the Pakistani American had been implicated. Soloway returned to the American embassy, and Amritzar went back to his hotel.
Since then, nothing. There was no sign of the Igla-S or the thieves. With the FBI and its Pakistani puppet out of the picture, the conclusion was simple: this was a strictly Russian affair, and Tolkachev had to find the people responsible. So he had taken the matter in hand, and started casting about for information.
He began by questioning Anatoly Kostina, the deputy head of Rosoboronexport. The general said he’d suggested they not help the FBI with its sting operation and then forgotten about the matter, since he knew the Kremlin would make the final decision.
The GRU confirmed asking the KBM factory for an Igla-S, to be shipped to a Moscow address furnished by the FSB.
From their modus operandi, Tolkachev figured that whoever stole the missile must be Chechen or Dagestani. The separatists hated Russians, which would explain why they’d shot the two truckers.
Tolkachev had to get the missile back. But beyond that, it was vital that he identify the separatists’ sources within the Russian intelligence establishment.
As a last straw, Parviz Amritzar, the so-called terrorist the FBI brought to Moscow, had vanished from his hotel on the afternoon of the failed Igla-S delivery. The FSB hadn’t thought to put surveillance on him, so nobody knew what had become of him.
The only consolation? Given that FBI agents were staking out the Hotel Belgrade, the Americans didn’t know, either.
None of this would have especially interested Tolkachev, except that it suggested a disagreeable hypothesis.
Amritzar didn’t know anyone in Moscow, yet just before he left the Belgrade he had received a phone call that probably precipitated his departure. The FSB had traced the caller’s phone number to a Dagestani man from Makhachkala who had died three years earlier.
So how had the caller known about Parviz Amritzar? The most obvious answer was that he had joined up with some real terrorists connected to the Caucasus.
The ringing of his office doorbell interrupted Tolkachev’s thoughts. One of the men in gray brought him a note from Colonel Tretyakov, saying that the head of the FBI had requested an urgent meeting. The FBI and the U.S. Secret Service were handling security for President Obama during his voyage in Russia and needed to coordinate procedures with the FSB.
This was becoming a matter of state, thought Tolkachev. If a Salafist boivik downed Air Force One with an Igla-S, it would cause a huge loss of face for the Kremlin. It would lead to a serious confrontation between Russia and the United States, and everyone would blame the Russians.
Feeling frustrated, Tolkachev promptly drafted a note for the president, to warn him of the situation. Then he lit one of his pastel-colored cigarettes, wondering how he was going to find the missile. It was the only way to solve his problems.
—
The mood in Bruce Hathaway’s office was grim. The FBI chief was pale, and from the look on his colleagues’ faces, you’d think the Titanic was sinking.
Benazir Amritzar had gone to 38 Petrovka Street to report her husband’s mysterious disappearance, without being able to give the police a single clue.
Breaking the silence, Hathaway summed up the situation.
“Our ‘terrorist’ Parviz Amritzar has disappeared. Everything suggests that he was tricked by whoever stole the missile. The FSB is being tight-lipped, but I doubt they know any more than we do. So we now have one or more terrorists running around with a weapon capable of shooting down the president’s plane.”
Agent Jeff Soloway raised his hand.
“Is it possible that Amritzar conned us? Maybe he really did have contacts with terrorists. They could have spotted him when he was in Vienna. It might’ve come from there.”
Hathaway nodded.
“Anything’s possible,” he said. “I’m going to shake up the Russians. Unless they deliberately set out to screw us, they must be seriously worried.”
Hathaway fell silent, and the heavy gloom returned. Then he spoke again.
“Gentlemen, I have to draft a detailed report on this situation for the White House. It’ll be up to them to take the necessary measures.”
In other words, canceling the president’s trip.
Hathaway said nothing more. He now had to explain to the White House that an FBI operation had gone awry and loosed a terrorist with the most effective antiaircraft weapon currently available. It was enough to turn your hair gray.
—
Malko slept late, past the Kempinski’s breakfast hours. An erotically satisfied Julia Naryshkin left her stamp on a man. He wondered if he shouldn’t stay on in Moscow, to see her again.
But when he phoned, he got her voice mail. Better not alert Gocha, he thought. Stealing the Georgian’s girlfriends was becoming a habit, and Malko wasn’t sure Gocha would like it.
Before leaving, he decided to do some shopping at Eliseevsky on Tverskaya. He had just entered the famed food store and was admiring its richly decorated gilt ceiling when his cell phone rang.
“Malko?” It was Tom Polgar, sounding unusually tense.
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“At Eliseevsky, shopping. My flight’s at five.”
“You aren’t leaving. I want to see you at the embassy as soon as possible. If you can’t get a taxi, I’ll send a car.” The Moscow station chief sounded panicky, which wasn’t like him.
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” said Malko. He didn’t ask any questions, just left the store and hailed a cab.
Ten minutes later he was at the embassy’s north gate, giving his name to the Marine on duty. The guard glanced at a paper in front of him and promptly said:
“You’re expected, sir. We’ll escort you.”
Polgar looked like he was having a bad day. He carefully closed his office door before speaking.
“The bureau has really stepped in shit this time,” he said.
Malko couldn’t help but smile.
“That’s no skin off your nose, is it?”
But the station chief shook his head, clearly upset.
“I don’t mind if they screw up on their own time, but now they’ve put us in the hot seat. I just got a message from Langley passing on the White House’s instructions. They’ve fucked up big-time, and we have to clean up their mess.”
The document he handed Malko revealed what operation Vanguard had produced: a terrorist with an Igla-S was on the loose a week before the U.S. president’s arrival.
Exactly as the Pakistani-born businessman had intended.
“Amritzar doesn’t seem very dangerous,” remarked Malko. “After all, the FBI created him.”
Polgar gave him a pitying look.
“Created him? Are you kidding? He screwed them. You don’t think he stole that Igla-S all by himself, do you? Amritzar supposedly didn’t know anybody in Moscow, yet he
managed to go underground. He must have accomplices here, and now they’re running around with a surface-to-air missile.”
“But this isn’t your problem,” Malko objected.
“It is now,” said Polgar wearily. “The FBI is in the doghouse, and they don’t have many contacts in Moscow. So the White House instructed the director to take over and track down the damn missile.”
“If Amritzar has partners, they must be Caucasians,” said Malko. “The Salafist groups continue to harass the Russians. A few months ago a guy blew himself up at Domodedovo Airport. He’d come from Dagestan. And it wasn’t revenge, just nastiness.
“The Caucasus is one big powder keg. But if the Russians aren’t able to keep a lid on it, what can the CIA do?”
Polgar looked at him somberly.
“You’ve already worked wonders here, Malko. You know people. It’ll be a lot easier than your previous assignments, because you won’t be fighting the Kremlin.”
“What you want me to do?”
“Go rattle some cages. Start with Gocha Sukhumi, and then others, if you can.”
The station chief walked around his desk, opened a drawer, and handed Malko a Glock 26 in an ankle holster. Then he picked up what looked like an attaché case.
“It unfolds this way and makes a shield,” he explained, demonstrating. “GK makes them in France, and we bought a couple. This way, you’ll have some protection.”
Polgar handed over the case.
“Better get going right away,” he said. “This is an emergency.”
“What about you?” asked Malko. “What will you be doing?”
“I’ll talk to some of my counterparts. I know an FSB colonel who might tell me something.”
“All right, I’ll tackle Gocha.”
In a way, Malko wasn’t too unhappy about staying in Moscow. He still had Julia’s taste in his mouth. But Polgar had given him a mission impossible.
—
“I was going to call you, to come have dinner this evening with Julia and me at the Turandot,” said Sukhumi. The Turandot was an over-the-top restaurant where the waiters dressed like eighteenth-century valets. It was next to Café Pushkin on Tverskoy Boulevard. “And I want to talk to you about something.”
Surface to Air Page 12