The Russian president and prime minister both had approved Tolkachev’s text.
Though not a major figure, Bout was a former GRU agent and, more than that, he was Russian. You don’t abandon your people.
It was now just a matter of delivering the offer to the American embassy.
—
Malko took yet another look at his watch. It was 7:30 p.m. The day had passed slowly.
He’d had no news from Polgar, and didn’t dare call him. Outside, the Kremlin was ablaze with lights. Nice weather had returned to Moscow.
The station chief called at 8:15.
“Let’s have dinner at the GQ Bar in half an hour,” he said.
Polgar sounded tense, and Malko figured he was going to be the bearer of bad news.
—
The usual women were sitting around, their provocative outfits limned by the GQ’s soft lighting. Malko was seated in front of a fake fireplace when Polgar arrived. The station chief’s features were drawn, and he looked tired.
“Before we start, I need a drink. Meanwhile, read this.”
He handed Malko a folded sheet of paper. It was the Russians’ proposal of exchanging Bruce Hathaway for Viktor Bout.
By the time Malko gave it back, Polgar had drunk two shots of vodka from a bottle of Tsarskaya in an ice bucket.
“I was expecting this,” said Malko. “What does Washington think of it?”
“The president said the idea of exchanging a respected official for an arms dealer was outrageous. Especially in an election year. The Republicans would crucify him.”
“So they said no,” said Malko.
Polgar gave him an odd look.
“You ought to thank them,” he said. “Because of that refusal, they’ve agreed to your plan. They weren’t enthusiastic, but I got the go-ahead directly from the White House. Without that, I don’t think it would’ve worked.”
It was now Malko’s turn to attack the Tsarskaya.
He was taking on a crushing and dangerous responsibility.
And not just for himself.
—
It was nearly eleven when he phoned Julia.
“Have you thought it over?” he asked.
“I’ve decided to do you this favor,” she said equably. “I’m coming into town for my broadcast tomorrow. Let’s meet at the Café Vesna at three. It’s on Novy Arbat, next to Radio Moscow.”
So the dice were thrown. Alexei Somov wouldn’t pass up a chance to see a pretty woman he was dying to sleep with.
CHAPTER
25
Alexei Somov was in seventh heaven, though physically he was on the fifth floor of the Aquarium, in an office he occasionally used. Good things always come in threes, he reflected. In a few days he would get his commission on the eight million dollars for the Igla-S; killing Marina had bought him peace of mind; and now a woman he’d long lusted after was throwing herself at him.
Somov already sensed that Julia Naryshkin was attracted to him back in Makhachkala, but in those days she was taken.
He looked at his gold Rolex.
Two more hours to go.
He would leave his office at six o’clock in his personal car, without a driver. By flashing his police light, he would be in Peredelkino in forty minutes.
He could already taste it.
Just in case, he took a bottle of Viagra from his desk drawer and swallowed two of the blue pills. He was confident of his sexual prowess, but he wanted to give Julia something she’d never forget.
Their trip to Dagestan together was going to be pure pleasure. It would certainly be the first time he’d fly to the Caucasus with such eagerness.
—
Malko got to Julia’s izba at six, driving an agency car with Russian plates. He was carrying a Glock loaded with hollow-point bullets, and wearing a bulletproof vest under his jacket.
He smiled at Julia, who looked very sexy, if a bit pale. She was wearing a fuchsia blouse without a bra, a long, tight black skirt, and high-heeled boots.
They both jumped when the doorbell rang, and Malko felt a rush of adrenaline. Everything hinged on what would happen in the next hour.
Julia stood up but waited for a second ring before going to the door. In walked Somov: six and a half feet tall, shaved head, tailored suit. He gallantly kissed the young woman’s hand and gave her a bouquet of red carnations.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go put them in water.”
Julia headed for the kitchen, and Somov stepped into the living room, to find Malko seated on the sofa. He froze, suddenly on the alert.
“What is this bullshit?” he thundered.
“This isn’t a trap, Gospodin Somov,” said Malko. “I just want to talk to you. I’m a representative of the American government.”
“I know perfectly well who you are,” he shouted. “You’re a goddamned spy! A criminal!”
Just then, Julia came back from the kitchen holding a vase with the flowers. With a backhand slap, Somov sent her and the vase crashing against the wall.
“You double-crossing bitch!”
As Julia struggled to her feet, Somov’s hand went to his waistband.
“Don’t touch that gun or I’ll kill you!” shouted Malko.
Standing just ten feet away, his eyes on the barrel of the Glock Malko was aiming at him, Somov was a fearsome figure, a grizzly about to charge.
If he makes a move, he’ll have time to strangle me even if I empty my clip in him, thought Malko.
But Somov didn’t want to die. He stood standing, arms akimbo. In a dull, raspy voice he said:
“I’ll have you shot!” Turning to Julia, he added, “And as for you, you bitch, I’ll kick your fucking ribs in.”
A red bruise rising on her ashen face, Julia didn’t answer.
With his gun barrel, Malko waved Somov over to a sofa.
“Sit down facing me,” he said. “I didn’t come here to fight, but to talk. Afterward, you can decide what you want to do.”
Somov dropped onto the sofa, his huge hands on his knees and his coal-black eyes fixed on Malko. He looked like a wild animal eager to rip its trainer to shreds. Malko figured it was time to seize the psychological high ground.
“Alexei Ivanovich, I have in my possession a cell phone that Arzo Khadjiev used to call you,” he said. “It belonged to Parviz Amritzar, the so-called FBI terrorist.
“The FSB now knows that Khadjiev killed Amritzar, the two men transporting the Igla-S missiles, and the factory manager who released them.”
Malko paused.
“However, the FSB doesn’t yet know about the call Khadjiev made to you on that cell phone. If they did, you would be immediately arrested, in spite of your position. The phone is in the possession of the Moscow CIA station chief. If anything happens to me, it will be immediately given to Alexander Bortnikov. Are you prepared to listen to what I have to tell you?”
Somov seemed to have shrunk by a good six inches. His eyes were now dark slits in a chalk-white face. If looks could kill, Malko would have been dust.
Silence fell, and it went on and on.
Julia looked as if she were on some other planet. Malko kept his eyes locked on Somov’s. The man’s hatred was so intense that if he’d had the chance, he would have killed Malko and Julia without a second thought, and without worrying about the consequences.
At long last, Somov spoke.
“So what do you want?” It came out as a cavernous rumble.
Malko tried not to show it, but he relaxed a little. It was like dealing with hostage takers. Once you start talking, the danger eases.
“We want those missiles,” said Malko. “The eight Igla-S you arranged to have stolen from the Kolomna factory. They can hit the United States president’s plane. Where are they?”
“They’re far away,” said Somov. “And they won’t be hitting anything.”
“I can’t take your word for that, Alexei Ivanovich. We need to get them back.”
“That’s impossible
.”
“Why?”
“It’s just impossible, that’s all.”
Somov had tensed again, radiating hair-trigger hostility.
Malko didn’t insist.
“If that’s your decision, Gospazha Naryshkin and I will be leaving now. The FSB will get Khadjiev’s cell phone this very evening.”
He paused.
“Incidentally, I found out how you met him. It was during the Dagestan Airlines hijacking, wasn’t it? But I’m sure the FSB knows a lot more about that.”
As Somov sat slumped on the sofa, Malko slowly stood up and carefully edged away, keeping the Glock aimed at him. He’d almost reached the door when Somov barked:
“Come back!”
Something other than menace had crept into his voice. Malko turned around and sat down.
“Have you decided to talk?” he asked.
“The missiles are in the Caucasus,” he said. “They’re going to be delivered to a separatist Wahhabi group in Dagestan. They’re never coming back to Moscow.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Malko. “I want to hear the whole story. I need to understand what’s happening.”
Silence fell again, and Malko went on:
“In any case, the FSB is going to be investigating you soon anyway. Killing Marina Pirogoska was stupid. They’ll find out that you knew her.”
Malko was bluffing, but from Somov’s expression, he saw that he’d scored a point.
“So, are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“It was just business,” Somov finally said. “When I heard about the FBI plan, I figured I’d use it to get some Igla-S. I knew I could sell them in Dagestan for a lot of money.”
“To Wahhabists? You’re betraying your country.”
“No, I’m not,” he snapped, but without explaining.
Sensing that Somov was on the ropes, Malko delivered his final thrust.
“Alexei Ivanovich, I need to know everything now,” he said, emphasizing every word. “Otherwise there’s no deal.”
“Oh, fuck it! All right. I sold the missiles for a million dollars apiece. I’m going to Makhachkala tomorrow to get the money.”
“What will happen to them?”
“I’m telling you, they won’t do anybody any harm. They’ll be destroyed. I’m not a traitor.”
They had reached an impasse, and Malko figured he wouldn’t get anything more.
“Very well,” he said. “Here’s what I suggest. In a little while, you’re going to leave here. We won’t say anything to the FSB for now. I’ll meet you in Makhachkala, and you’ll give me proof that the missiles were destroyed. I realize it would be easy for you to kill me there, but the evidence against you will stay in Moscow.”
“How will I find you?” asked Somov.
“I’ll phone you. When you give me some solid evidence that the missiles have been destroyed, we’ll be square. We won’t tell the FSB what we know.”
At that, Somov jumped to his feet. For a moment, Malko thought the big man was going to rush him. Instead, he marched out and slammed the door. Moments later Malko heard a car engine roar to life and the squeal of tires as Somov sped away.
Julia came in from the next room. Her swollen cheek made her look like a hamster.
“He’s going to kill me, you know,” she said calmly.
“No he won’t,” said Malko. “He won’t get the chance.”
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “He’ll send people to do the job for him.”
“You’re leaving with me,” said Malko. “I’m taking you to Gocha’s place in Moscow.”
“What will I tell him?”
“Say you were mugged as you were getting out of your car. That somebody tried to steal your purse.”
“He may not believe me.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage to convince him. Go get ready.”
The hardest part still lies ahead, thought Malko. Alexei Somov would do everything he could to escape from the trap. It was lucky Malko held an ultimate weapon over his head.
—
In his car, Somov pounded the steering wheel, drunk with rage. If Arzo Khadjiev were still alive, he would strangle him with his bare hands. How could Amritzar’s cell phone wind up in the Americans’ hands?
Suddenly he understood. The CIA agent who was blackmailing him had somehow gotten the phone after Khadjiev’s death. Which meant he must have killed Khadjiev, though Somov still didn’t know how.
His absolute priority was now to get the money for the Igla-S and wrap up the operation. He would then decide what to do. Once the missiles were destroyed, the FSB couldn’t accuse him of being a traitor. That was something, at least.
Just then, Somov experienced an odd feeling in his crotch. It took him a moment to realize he was getting an enormous erection.
Then he remembered the Viagra.
By the time he got back to Moscow, his cock was aching. I can’t go on like this, he thought. He drove to the Metropol and walked into the bar. There were a lot of people there, including some women alone.
Somov picked out the least ugly one of the lot. A chubby blonde with too much makeup and a scattered, bovine expression. At any other time, he wouldn’t have given her a second look. When he went to stand in front of her table, she gave him a sly look and asked:
“Want to have a drink?”
“No, I want to fuck. Come with me.”
“It’s three thousand rubles.”
“Fine.”
Somov yanked the woman upright and propelled her ahead of him toward the elevators.
The moment they were in the room, he shed his jacket, flopped into an armchair, and unzipped his pants. When he pulled out his huge, swollen cock, the woman gaped.
“Bozhe moy! You’re hung like a bull!”
“You’re going to suck me off until I lose my hard-on.”
He lay back, eyes closed, wondering how he was going to get out of the jam he was in. He decided he would start with that bitch, Julia Naryshkin.
The blond woman raised her head for a moment, out of breath.
“You’re huge!” she gasped.
Somov slapped the top of her head, shoving his cock deep down her throat. She had a tough customer on her hands, she realized.
When Somov was younger, he could have killed a man with a slap like that.
—
Malko parked and watched as Julia entered the House on the Embankment. She would be safe there.
Then he took off for the embassy, to return the car and bring Polgar up to date. The embassy offices were nearly all closed, but the station chief was waiting for him.
On tenterhooks.
“We’re in business!” cried Malko.
But after hearing what happened with Somov, the station chief didn’t seem completely reassured.
“He’s going to do everything he can to screw you,” Polgar warned. “Especially in Makhachkala. People there kill each other at the drop of a hat.”
“In that case you still have the nuclear option,” said Malko philosophically. “He’ll be arrested the moment he gets back to Moscow.”
“And you believe that story he told you?”
“Yes, it makes sense. It’s the kind of double-dealing that happens all the time in Russia. And Somov did serve in the Caucasus for a long time.”
“So how does he plan to neutralize the missiles?”
“Frankly, I have no idea,” Malko admitted. “I’ll find out when I’m down there.”
The station chief went to the bar and poured himself a scotch.
“If we’re sure about the missiles, that’s all well and good,” he said. “But we haven’t made any progress on springing Bruce yet.”
“Jesus, Tom, you’re never satisfied! Anyway, I didn’t say this was a sure thing. And now I’m going to bed. This has been exhausting.”
“You’re sure he won’t try to kill you?”
“I’m not sure
of anything,” said Malko, “but I’m too tired to care.”
A lot still remained to be done.
Traveling to Dagestan would be like jumping off a building without a net. In Makhachkala, Somov probably had ten thousand ways to kill him.
CHAPTER
26
A white Jeep SUV with tinted windows was waiting on the tarmac next to the small Makhachkala terminal. Two athletic-looking men were seated in front. As soon as the Dagestan Airlines Tu-154 rolled to a stop, the car drove over and stopped at the foot of the stairs.
Alexei Somov was the first passenger to emerge. He walked to the SUV and warmly embraced one of the men.
“Salaam alaikum,” he said.
“Alaikum salaam,” came the answer.
Somov wasn’t quite in Russia anymore.
A few minutes later, the car drove out through the airport fence, respectfully saluted by a guard. Everybody knew that the armored SUV belonged to Rasul Khisri, Makhachkala’s new mayor, and nobody would dream of inconveniencing one of his guests.
The SUV drove along the shore of the Caspian Sea and crossed the city to the mayor’s waterfront villa. It was a sumptuous residence, midway in style between a Mediterranean villa and a military blockhouse. A small-wheeled tank guarded the entrance, and walls of sandbags kept potential enemies from assassinating the mayor.
When the car stopped at the front steps, a man entirely dressed in black came out of the villa to meet it. Khisri was almost as tall as Somov, but much more padded. After hugging, the two men went into a living room and sat down at a coffee table.
Khisri opened a bottle of Torkon and filled a couple of glasses. After the brandy was down the hatch, Somov excused himself.
“I have to go take a piss,” he said.
The bathroom fittings were solid gold, as were those in the villa’s seventeen other bathrooms. The new mayor liked gold almost as much as he liked marble, which covered pretty much everything else.
When Somov returned to the living room, he noticed that his host had set a gold-plated Beretta 92 on the coffee table. Khisri slid the pistol toward him.
“It’s for you,” he said. “I had three of them made.”
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