Surface to Air

by Gérard de Villiers

  Preceding Somov into the living room, Molov didn’t see his visitor take out the pistol. Somov brought the end of the silencer close to Molov’s neck and pulled the trigger. The detonation was so faint, it wouldn’t even be heard through the door. Molov staggered forward and fell, first to his knees, then flat on his face. Somov carefully fired a second bullet in Molov’s head, pocketed the pistol, and headed for the door.

  When he climbed in next to Khadjiev, not five minutes had passed, and they hadn’t seen a soul.

  “Let’s go,” said Somov. “We’re going back to Moscow.”

  He relaxed only when they were on the M5.

  “Tonight you’ll be the one doing the work.”

  That meant killing a man who was getting too close to the one person who might give Somov away.

  —

  The four FSB agents showed up at the KBM factory at exactly eight o’clock. The plant manager, Ivan Babichev, welcomed them and made them comfortable in his office.

  “Anatoly Molov handles our inventory, but he’s late today,” Babichev said. “I’ll call him.”

  Which he did.

  “He’s not answering. He must be on his way.”

  After drinking some more tea, the FSB agents began to get impatient.

  “Why don’t we start without him?” one suggested.

  Babichev led them to the warehouse area, and an employee gave them the delivery and shipment logbook. Igla missiles lay in various stages of fabrication on a nearby assembly line.

  The agents got to work checking the inventory records, and Babichev went back to his office.

  He enjoyed a quiet morning of work until just before lunchtime, when one of the FSB investigators came into his office.

  “Gospodin Babichev, we’ve uncovered a serious discrepancy,” he said. “According to your books it’s not just one Igla-S that’s missing, but eight of them!”

  Babichev could hardly believe his ears.

  “Did you discuss this with Anatoly Nikolayevich?”

  “He still hasn’t arrived.”

  “He must be sick,” said the manager. “I’ll send somebody to his place.”

  “Don’t bother. Give us someone to show us the way, and we’ll go ourselves.”

  —

  As Colonel Tretyakov listened to the report from the team he’d sent to Kolomna, he could feel the blood draining from his face.

  “Eight missiles gone?” he spat. “And the inventory manager killed?”

  “Two bullets to the head,” said the FSB agent. “The local politsiya is investigating.”

  “I have to tell the chief right away.”

  When Tretyakov hung up a few minutes later, he was in shock. This whole thing was much more serious than he’d imagined. It was now a full-scale terrorist plot, and it could only come from the Caucasus. Just thinking of what criminally minded people could do with those missiles gave him cold sweats. Every day, hundreds of civilian planes took off or landed at Moscow. Securing airports was a monumental task, and if just one Russian passenger plane were shot down, it would traumatize the whole country.

  He called his secretary.

  “Anna, have a team go to the Hotel Belgrade and bring Parviz Amritzar’s wife here.”

  He couldn’t afford to overlook any trail. Maybe the FBI had made a mistake with Amritzar. Whoever had managed to steal eight missiles and commit three murders was no amateur.

  —

  “I’ll see you at Café Pushkin in an hour,” Gocha announced.

  Malko was about to leave for the embassy to report on his meeting with Marina, but he figured Sukhumi was probably calling him for more than just lunch.

  When he reached the restaurant, Gocha was at the bar.

  “I don’t have time to eat,” said the Georgian. “But I just heard something that’ll blow your mind.”

  When Sukhumi described what the FSB learned in Kolomna, Malko was open-mouthed. They were far from the innocent FBI sting. Along the way, something had gone seriously wrong. The seemingly naïve Amritzar had turned around and screwed his FBI handlers. He had made contact with terrorists in Moscow with inside connections, and they had stolen the missiles.

  “What is the FSB saying?” he asked.

  “They’re in a complete panic. They don’t understand what’s happening. There was nothing special about the guy who inventoried the missiles. He was killed to keep him from talking. Which means the terrorists were tipped off to the FSB agents’ visit to Kolomna ahead of time.

  “I think you better drop this, Malko. It’s a strictly Russian affair now. The FBI isn’t involved anymore.”

  “Thanks, Gocha. I’ll think about it.”

  Sukhumi apparently didn’t know what Julia had told him about Dagestanis, or about Marina and her taxis—though they could well have nothing to do with any of this.

  After polishing off some herring and a couple of vodkas, Malko left Gocha and headed for the embassy.

  —

  “My God!” cried Tom Polgar. “That’s incredible! I’ve got to alert Langley immediately.”

  The FBI sting had sparked a potential disaster. Because if someone had stolen the missiles, they must be planning to use them….

  “What else have you learned?”

  Malko described his meeting with Marina Pirogoska, then said:

  “It may have no connection with the missile business, and at this point I think we ought to back away from the whole thing. It would be nice to warn the FSB that a Caucasian network might be operating through this woman. They have better ways to get at the truth than we do. And they might see us as meddling in their affairs.”

  “Sorry, Malko, but I don’t agree,” said Polgar, shaking his head. “You have a trail, follow it. We may learn something interesting. These terrorists obviously have accomplices in the intelligence services. If we find out who they are, we’ll have a major bargaining chip to use down the road. So stay on the case.”

  —

  Malko was on his way back to the Kempinski when his cell phone beeped.

  “I’m in Moscow with nothing to do until dinnertime,” came Julia’s lilting voice. “We could have a drink.”

  “Come to the Kempinski.”

  “You know I don’t much like hotels,” she said. “Why don’t you meet me at Aist instead? It’s a café on Malaya Bronnaya Street, in the Patriarch’s Ponds district. It’s quiet and they serve all kinds of teas.”

  She hung up before Malko had time to argue, leaving him no choice but to change his itinerary.

  When his taxi pulled up at the Aist, Malko saw a floodlit building set among trees decorated with strings of lights. A statue of two dancing storks stood in a patch of gravel near the entrance. The Patriarch’s Ponds area was one of the most exclusive parts of Moscow, and the Aist was ostentatiously elegant.

  Chauffeurs with shaved heads lounged against the many Mercedes with tinted windows double-parked nearby.

  Julia was seated in a booth at the back, looking very self-possessed. She was the only woman in the place.

  Malko had to walk a gauntlet of tables of tough-looking guys with mustaches looking at him curiously.

  He slid in next to the young woman and smiled at her.

  “We would’ve been more comfortable at the Kempinski.”

  “Hey, I like this place,” she said. “It’s where rich Dagestanis go when they’re in town. I used to come here a lot when I was with Magomed.”

  “So this is a pilgrimage?”

  “People don’t bother single women here. There’s practically only Caucasians. See that table with four men near the entrance? That’s the mayor of Makhachkala and the airport director. Wealthy, dangerous people. They’re distant cousins of Magomed. If somebody bothered me, they would kill him. I’m like a part of their family.

  “If you ever have problems in Dagestan, these are the people you’ll have to deal with.”

  “Aside from your friend Marina, I don’t have anything to do with any Dagestanis,” Malko a
ssured her.

  “Did she turn out to be helpful?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “When can we see each other again?”

  Julia seemed to think this over, then said:

  “Tomorrow. Gocha is going to Yekaterinburg.”

  She was being almost faithful, which Malko found irritating.

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “No, but he’s exciting,” she explained. “And he’s in love with me. Does that bother you?”

  The arrival of a waiter with pots of tea prevented him from answering. Julia was being both distant and provocative. When their eyes met, Malko promised himself to take revenge the next time they made love.

  Just then, two youngish men in leather coats entered the restaurant. They had long hair, weathered faces, and neatly trimmed beards. They chatted with the four men sitting near the entrance, then took a long look at Julia and Malko’s table.

  Suddenly one of them walked over, and Julia stiffened. Malko saw her hand tighten on the tablecloth. The man stopped in front of them, and stared first at Malko, then Julia.

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out something round and black, set it on the table, and walked away.

  Malko’s heart thudded in his chest.

  It was a grenade!

  Then he realized that the pin hadn’t been pulled. It wasn’t going to explode.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

  Julia looked upset.

  “That was Karon, Magomed’s cousin. As he sees it, I still belong to his cousin, and he wanted to remind me of that. What he did is pretty common in Dagestan. Everybody there walks around with grenades like this one in their pockets. It’s a Diakonov 33; it doesn’t do much collateral damage.

  “Karon didn’t mean any harm. Moscow is civilized territory. In Dagestan he might have killed you.”

  She had picked up the grenade and held it out to Malko.

  “Here, take it.”

  He slipped it into his coat pocket.

  “Throw it down a sewer,” she suggested. “I shouldn’t have come here with you. I’m very sorry.”

  Malko was calling to the waiter.

  “The check, please.”

  “I don’t have much time,” she said.

  As they made for the exit, the four Caucasians at the table gave them long, unfriendly looks.

  When Malko told the cabdriver to take them to the Kempinski, Julia didn’t object.

  —

  Malko didn’t even have time to take the grenade from his coat pocket. The moment they were in his suite in the Kempinski, Julia threw herself into his arms, as if asking for forgiveness. He twisted her curly red hair into a ponytail and pulled her head back.

  “You know what you have to do now, don’t you?” he said, looking her in the eye.

  After a brief moment of hesitant defiance, her gaze softened. She smoothly sank to her knees onto the thick carpet in front of Malko. Like an obedient courtesan, she unzipped his trousers, reached around his underpants for his cock, and took it in her mouth.

  Leaning against the sofa and gazing at the Kremlin through the bay window, Malko felt her warm mouth enveloping him.

  She clearly wanted to be forgiven.

  Gripping the ponytail, he guided her head back and forth, in and out. It felt wonderful.

  It was like training a horse, that moment when a willful animal suddenly starts to obey you. Until now, Julia Naryshkin had hardly behaved like an obedient woman. Now she was giving him a magisterial blow job, taking him as deep in her throat as she could, her eyes closed.

  She was so skillful that Malko soon felt his orgasm rising, and forced himself even deeper into her mouth.

  She tried to pull away, but he grabbed her by the neck and yanked her close. A moment later, he came. She almost gagged, but swallowed anyway, even though he had released her head.

  Julia stood and faced him then, her eyes moist. She was still wearing her coat and the blouse that showed off her nipples. She put her right hand under her skirt for a moment and pulled a scrap of black lace down her leg.

  Her panties.

  Leaning back on the sofa, she lifted the long skirt up over her hips, revealing a reddish, well-tended bush. Malko was approaching her when the room telephone rang, and he picked it up.

  “This is Ghazi-Mohammed,” said a man’s voice in Russian with a rough Caucasian accent. “Gospozha Marina wants to see you. She sent me to pick you up.”

  The night before, Malko had given his room number to the driver who’d brought him to the Kempinski. So Marina wasn’t dropping him. The timing was good, because he might be able to follow the Dagestani trail through her.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m coming down.”

  He zipped his pants and faced Julia.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “This is business. Besides, you said you didn’t have much time.”

  If looks could kill, Malko would have died on the spot.

  “You’re treating me like a whore!” she hissed, slowly straightening her skirt.

  As he went out and closed the door, he could almost feel the woman’s laser-like gaze burning into his back.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Downstairs, a purple Lada double-parked to the right of the Kempinski entrance awaited him. The driver was a young Caucasian with large, dark eyes and dirty hair. A few whiskers sprouted from his narrow chin. It wasn’t the same man who had driven Malko the night before.

  “Good evening, gospodin,” he said with a guttural accent. “Gospozha Marina is expecting you.”

  Malko got in the backseat and the car took off along Raushkaya Embankment. A little later they crossed the Moskva, heading for the Garden Ring. They reached the Taganka district but passed Hot Dog’s and continued on the ring road.

  “Where are we going?” asked Malko.

  “Home.”

  With the usual tie-ups, traffic was slow. About a mile farther the driver turned off the ring road, heading toward the Kursky railroad station through a shabby area with vacant lots and few lights. Marina clearly didn’t live in a fancy neighborhood.

  Suddenly the car sputtered, stopped, then started again. The driver cursed.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Malko.

  “Damned fuel pump,” grumbled the Caucasian.

  It was a perennial problem with the Lada 1500. In the old days, Russians used to carry spare fuel filters in their wallets.

  The car started sputtering again, and the driver slowed, pulling over at an empty lot.

  For some reason, Malko felt ill at ease. The driver had switched on the dome light, and when Malko caught his eye in the rearview mirror, he immediately sensed he was in danger.

  The car hit a rock as it slowed, and the impact threw Malko forward, giving him a glimpse of the front seat. An open newspaper had fallen to the floor, revealing a big pistol with a silencer.

  He leaned back in his seat, unsure whether the driver realized he’d seen the gun. His brain was whirling. The car came to a stop just inside the lot. A perfect place for an ambush.

  He watched as the man reached across the seat. All he had to do was to grab the gun, turn around, and shoot Malko at point-blank range.

  And Malko had once again left the Glock 26 back at the hotel.

  But he wasn’t completely defenseless, he suddenly realized. Taking the grenade Julia gave him from his coat pocket, he pulled the pin and tossed it toward the driver. Then he yanked his door open and dove out.

  He was flat on his stomach when a dull explosion and burst of flame erupted behind him. The car’s doors were violently blasted open and its windows shattered. The interior started to burn.

  Malko looked up. The driver’s body hung partway out of the car. The grenade had exploded in his lap, gutting him. His mouth was open, and his chest and belly were a single bloody mass.

  Red flames were starting to lick at the car’
s bodywork. Malko was about to leave when the flickering light illuminated a shiny black object on the ground next to the car. A cell phone. Malko stuffed it in his pocket and ran toward the train station. When he turned to look back, the Lada was ablaze. Fortunately, the street was deserted.

  Sighting the Kurskaya metro station, he sprinted for it. He bought a ticket, went down to the platform, and boarded a train that left moments later.

  As it rumbled toward Teatralnaya, the next station on the Number 3 line, Malko examined the phone he’d found near the Lada.

  It was a Nokia. When he switched it on, a photo of a smiling young brunette in a head scarf appeared onscreen.

  It took Malko a moment to recognize her: it was Benazir Amritzar! He had somehow retrieved her husband’s cell phone from the dead killer.

  —

  When Malko emerged from the Teatralnaya station near the Duma, his head was buzzing with questions. Why would Amritzar give the unknown Caucasian his cell phone? And why had that man tried to kill him?

  Only Marina could have sent the driver, so she had to be connected to the missile business. But Malko didn’t know anything beyond what Sukhumi had told him.

  It didn’t take him more than half a minute to flag down a cab. The driver, a fat, cheerful woman, was delighted to earn five hundred rubles to take him to the Kempinski.

  He now had an urgent task: find Marina, if she hadn’t disappeared. It would be interesting to see how she reacted to seeing him.

  —

  Parked on Lesnaya Street across from the wholesale fruit store, Somov had been waiting in his Mercedes for almost an hour. Arzo should have returned long ago, he thought.

  Somov’s orders had been clear: kill the CIA agent, dump his body in a vacant lot, and come back to drive the truck with the missiles to Dagestan.

  Marina had provided some extra drivers who didn’t know what they was carrying. Somov was careful to keep things compartmentalized.

  He’d decided to have Linge killed when he started getting too interested in Marina. He figured he wouldn’t be suspicious when Khadjiev phoned him, pretending to be one of her drivers.

  But something had gone wrong.

  Khadjiev wasn’t there, and he wasn’t answering his phone.