POST-CONCLUSION ANALYSIS
Having concluded that the subject, Vasily Borgneff, is determined to retire from the service of the Fourth Division of the Second Directorate of the KGB, his further course of action must now be analyzed.
Posit One: The subject is a highly intelligent man, a graduate of the Moscow Institute, and a holder of the Order of Lenin (privately awarded).
Posit Two: Having been a serving officer of the KGB for twenty-four years, he is fully aware of Bureau procedure.
Posit Three: Given the first two positions, he is certain to realize that he will not be allowed to retire.
Posit Four: His next logical assumption will be that in order to sever his connection with the Bureau safely, he will have to eliminate the entire top level of Section Nine (now known as the dachniki).
Posit Five: He will feel confident of his ability to accomplish this mission in view of his reputation as one of the finest designers in the world of unusual killing devices (UKD's), a reputation exceeded only by that of the American, Edward Mancuso (see file DIVER-77/4).
Posit Six: Subject will be aided in his attempt by the fact that he is now outside the borders of the Soviet Union on a buying mission in Switzerland. Thus, he is not available for immediate apprehension.
Posit Seven: Only members of the Five Group presently have direct contact with the subject. No one outside the Five Group is fully aware of his function within the Bureau. Therefore, Borgneff must eliminate the entire group of five officers in order to survive.
ANALYSIS:
That subject will attempt the elimination of the entire Five Group: 96.2%
Probability of success: 23.7%
Major Marchenko smoothed the crisp paper of the printout and laid it beside him on the broad desk behind which the colonel sat in his black leather swivel chair. Outside, it had begun to snow again in Zhukovka.
It was easy to understand why for years the Soviet elite had been drawn to Zhukovka. Only twenty-five miles southwest of Moscow, the village perched high on a bluff overlooking the gently flowing Moskva River. The pine groves that surrounded it were rich and resinous, with needle-packed floors, and at the end of the day the light in the sky was the off-white glow of the northern sunset, peculiarly Russian in quality. Stalin had established his dacha, or country home, there; so had Khrushchev and, after him, Brezhnev, Kosygin, and Andrei Gromyko. The dacha was the first of many status symbols that distinguished the privileged nomenklatura from the average Soviet citizen, and to have a dacha at Zhukovka was to have a seat at the feet of the communist gods.
Not far from Brezhnev's compound was a long, low dacha surrounded by the type of high green fence that Russians learn from childhood to avoid with care. Citizens in the area, most of them members of the Party and the ruling class, had also learned to ignore the unusual number of Zil and Chaika limousines that passed into the grounds daily, the unusual number of stolid-faced servants on duty there, and the odd fact that there was no registered owner or resident for such an impressive building. For in the Soviet Union when property belonged to no one it belonged to the state, and in the case of the dacha at Zhukovka the state meant the KGB—more specifically, the Fourth Division of the Second Directorate of Soviet Intelligence.
This division of the KGB had existed under many names, as befitted one of the oldest departments in Soviet espionage. Created by Dzerzhinsky to liquidate the enemies of the Revolution, it had become Stalin's personal instrument for ridding himself of his opponents within the government. During World War II under the name of Bureau One, and at times under the name of SMERSH, it had carried out the scorched-earth policy in the face of advancing German troops. Later, the section of the division responsible for state-sanctioned kidnapping and murder had been renamed Section Nine. In more recent times, when the section was removed from the main KGB headquarters in Moscow's Lu- byanka Building to the relative anonymity of the dacha at Zhukovka, its members had become known colloquially as the dachniki the boys from the dacha.
The meeting of the dachniki at Zhukovka bore more than a passing resemblance to the meeting of the Colonial Squad at Williamsburg. Even the physical arrangements were the same. The exterior of the country estate was of conventional stone-and- timber construction; but, as in Virginia, the interior was a maze of corridors, offices, and laboratories. The subsurface division was also similar: two levels beneath the earth serviced by an elevator, and at the lowest level the computer plant and printout room.
The five KGB officers in the printout room had normal Russian names, patronymics, and surnames, but just as Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov had chosen to be called Lenin and Josef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili had chosen the harsh name of Stalin, the tall, thin, dark-haired officer in charge of Section Nine was traditionally known as Colonel Fist. The other four were Major Boris Marchenko, Captains Pyotr Suvarov and Igor Durin, and Lieutenant Yuri Krasin. Their ranks were meaningless. Either of the captains outranked any full colonel in the Red Army, and Major Marchenko, with a scrawl of his signature, could have ordered the clandestine assassination of an admiral in the Soviet Navy—and in fact, in 1975, upon reading a section from one admiral's secret memoirs dictated to his wife, had done precisely that.
The power of Colonel Fist was virtually unlimited. He was in charge of murder in the Soviet Union.
All eyes were on the slender colonel now as he shook his head in exasperation and tapped the printout that Marchenko had dropped on the table. Looking directly at Marchenko with his angry charcoal eyes, the colonel said, "Boris, this is your man. You've been controlling Vasily Borgneff, if you can call it that. So you will kindly tell me if you are responsible for allowing him to leave the Soviet Union at a time like this."
Marchenko returned the look calmly. A powerful, straw-haired man in his early forties, he had the perfectly chiseled features of a Russian film star and the bland blue eyes of a calculating killer. He was a man not easily intimidated, not even by Colonel Fist.
"Borgneff has been abroad a few dozen times. He has money. He likes women and he likes to ski. He considers himself above most rules. We've allowed that. You know him almost as well as I do, Colonel. And, in addition, he left five days ago." Marchenko tapped the printout himself with a thick forefinger. "Five days before the existence of this."
"Yes, all right." The colonel was more annoyed at himself than at Marchenko, for he considered himself a man who overlooked nothing. He should have known. Sighing, he turned to Captain Suvarov.
"Find out where he is now."
Suvarov, the oldest of the group at fifty, a plump, bespectacled, mild-looking man with a mind only slightly slower than a second-generation computer, pressed a button on a gray telephone. He spoke softly for a few minutes, then waited. The entire room waited with him. No one spoke. Durin smoked nervously and let the ashes fall from his cigarette to the floor. Marchenko hummed absently, a melody from an American musical comedy he had seen recently in London. Colonel Fist drummed his long fingers lightly on the table and then shoved an ashtray across to Durin. Finally, with a grunt, Suvarov hung up the telephone.
"He finished his business in Zurich yesterday. He bought certain chemicals. Nothing unusual—for Borgneff, that is to say. He told our office in Zurich that he was taking the rest of the week off for a skiing holiday. He is in Grindelwald now, skiing."
"And plotting how to kill us," Durin muttered, grinding out his cigarette.
"No, not yet." Once again, the colonel nodded at the computer printout from CYBER. "If that is correct, and we shall assume it is, the thought has only passed through his mind and has yet to find purchase there. Before it takes hold of him, gentlemen, I suggest we end this unfortunate matter and grant Comrade Borgneff s wish for an early retirement. I know your dossiers, but I don't follow you like a bloodhound. We will keep this little matter in the family, so to speak. Kindly tell me, who among you skis well?"
Four hands shot into the air.
"All right, then, who skis expertl
y?"
Only Suvarov lowered his hand, shrugging. The others stayed casually erect.
"Very well, who skis the best? I don't need heroics and I don't require any gestures of faith. I am asking a question of fact."
Major Marchenko's hand came down immediately, followed then, reluctantly, by Durin's. Lieutenant Yuri Krasin's hand stayed up. He was a ruddy-faced, cheerful-looking man of thirty-six. At the age of nineteen he had assassinated an African premier with a single shot from an SVD Dragunov rifle at a range of six hundred yards, and more recently, he had set a charge aboard a light plane at Vladivostok Airport that caused the mysterious death of three visiting members of the Peking government as well as the Russian flight crew. Now, Yuri Krasin was grinning.
"He's all yours, then," the colonel said decisively. "Major Marchenko will brief you more fully about Borgneff. Captain Durin will arrange transport and whatever else you might need. Get to Moscow this evening and take the first available civilian transport. Travel as an American. Bureau Six will provide the usual papers—Suvarov, see to that, please. And, Krasin—"
"Sir?"
"Make it look like an accident, please. In Switzerland, Comrade Borgneff is known as a distinguished Soviet chemist. A messy death would almost certainly cause a conscientious inquiry. You know the Swiss. An accident, then. A skiing accident would be most appropriate."
4
Vasily Borgneff was a happy man. He was happy as he came booming off the outrun of the Faulhorn crouched low over his skis and riding the washboard undulations smoothly, his thighs and ankles happily aching, his ears atune to the happy hiss of snow. He raised up from his crouch and clicked his skis from side to side, slowing himself, working himself into the pattern of colorfully dressed skiers lazily cruising round the chairlift station and the warming hut. A girl cut across his path, poling rapidly, the sleek crimson of her trousers stretched tight to display the chalice of her hips and thighs. He didn't know the girl, but the momentary sight and image brought another girl to his mind, and he decided that he would call her. Tonight? Why not? The thought made him smile, and he was doubly happy. Poling leisurely, he skated on the hard-packed snow toward the warming hut, the thought of tea filling him: hot, strong lemon tea with, perhaps, the one cognac he allowed himself in a day of skiing. The thought of the tea made him even more content. Then he saw Yuri Krasin.
I'm dead, he thought. I'm truly dead.
Muscles flashed messages. His left ankle bent and his right heel slipped over in the beginnings of a move that would turn him away. The movement was instinctive. Twenty-four years of service in the world's largest intelligence organization had taught him to disbelieve entirely in coincidence. For Yuri Krasin to suddenly pop out of the snow like an anemone in springtime, dashingly dressed and with shiny new skis on his shoulder, could only mean that he had come to kill.
Me, he thought. They know. I don't know how, but they know. And I'm dead.
But he never completed the turn. Ankle and heel relaxed as he saw the smile on Krasin's face no more than twenty feet away, the killer's face split in a warm and welcoming smile, the friendly arms outstretched, and the voice booming out in perfect Midwest American, "Hey, old buddy, howya been?"
No point in flight. Vasily changed the movement to a turn that brought the two men face to face. He slowed to a stop and looked around him. He was surrounded by skiers busily crisscrossing over the snow, indifferent to the two of them, yet he felt naked and exposed. He had never before met another agent this way: openly, casually, unexpectedly. His insides felt weak and loose, but he knew the words he had to say.
"What are you doing? . . . What is this?" he whispered harshly. "This is against all procedure."
"Not at all, calm yourself," said Krasin in an easy, natural voice. "Something has come up, an emergency. We need your advice in a hurry."
"How did you find me here?"
"The Zurich people. You told them."
"Yes, I did," he admitted, his brain whirling wildly, thinking, Yes, I told them, but the rest is merde, and the emergency is merde. He's here for extraction. That's his job. He's no courier.
"Take off your skis and let's go someplace where we can talk," said Krasin.
I'm all right here, Vasily thought, bending over to release his bindings. He can't use anything conventional; he has to make an accident. He can't use a gas out here because of the wind, and I'm safe from a spray if I keep his hands in sight. Watch his hands and stay away from anything sharp. And think. Think—my God, I don't even have a pocketknife on me. The most lethal instrument I have is a screwdriver.
He straightened up and put his skis on his shoulder. Together the two men walked to the warming hut and locked their skis into the rack against the outside wall. New Head skis with Samco safety bindings, Vasily noted. The swine, I'll bet he keeps them. A nice bonus for a job like this.
"Where do we go?" he asked.
"Anyplace out here where we can talk safely."
"I want some tea." He knew that he sounded like a small boy complaining.
"Later, after we have talked. Come."
They walked aimlessly over the snow, slapping gloved hands together, stooping at times to stamp their feet like horses in stalls. They walked without conversation for a while. Vasily wondered if breaking the silence would seem like a weakness and decided to wait. Eventually, Krasin said:
"It's an unusual job. That's why we need your advice."
"I'm listening."
"And not just because you're our man on UKD's. There's that, of course, but it's also because you are a skier as well."
"I beg your pardon?"
Krasin grinned at him. "I said it was unusual. You see, we have to take out a man on a ski slope. A place like this. And it has to look like an accident, a skiing accident. You understand?"
Do I understand? Mother of God, he's asking me to plan my own execution.
Keeping his voice steady, he said aloud, "I understand. You're right—it's an unusual job. Does it have to be an accident?"
"Absolutely. Untraceable."
"Can you tell me more? Where and when?"
"You know better than that." Krasin's smile was patronizing. The specialist was never told operational details.
"I see." Vasily rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "No weapons, no gases. How about toxics?"
"Too risky."
"How about heavy metal? Just a drop in his ski boot and three months later he's gone."
Krasin, irritated, said, "You haven't been listening. It has to happen on the ski slope and it has to be immediate."
"Of course. I'm sorry. I'll have to think about this one," he said, and then thought, I have to get him inside and then I need five minutes free. Less—three minutes will do. "How about that tea? I can think just as well sitting down. Better, in fact."
Krasin nodded. "Tea would be good. Remember, no discussion inside."
"Of course."
Inside the warming hut, the odors rose in layers to challenge the tiers of smoke: wet wool and perspiration, beer, tobacco, and tea. They found a tiny table near the door, collected mugs of tea from the counter, and drank it Western style, stirring in sugar and sipping delicately. Krasin wrinkled his nose to show what he thought of the brew.
"Just like Mother used to make," he said sarcastically.
Vasily stood up. "I'm having another. Shall I get you more?"
"Better than nothing. No, I'll come with you."
Cautious, thought Vasily. Not taking any chances on lethal drops in his tea—and if I only had some on me I'd use them. Even chloral hydrate would do.
After the second mug of tea, Krasin looked pointedly at his watch. "Time is passing. Have you thought about the problem?"
"Yes. I have the beginnings of an idea," said Vasily, thinking, I have one hell of an idea and all I need is three minutes away from you. Have some more tea, Yuri. What are you, a machine? Standing out in the cold all morning, and now two big mugs of tea. Don't you ever have to piss? Come
on, Yuri, for the glory of the Party and the Workers' State. Come on, Krasin, go and piss.
"More tea?" Vasily suggested.
"Not for me. If you have an idea, we should go outside and discuss it."
The son of a bitch has a cast-iron bladder, Vasily thought. I'm cooked now, finished.
"All right, let's go," he said. He stood up.
Krasin stood up with him, started for the door, and then stopped. "Nature calls. Wait for me outside," he said, and added sternly, "Don't wander."
"Never fear."
Never fear, comrade; just take a long, relaxed piss and give me three minutes with your skis. Even two.
He was out the door and down the rack of skis, searching, one hand already in the kit at his belt . . . oil, bandages, where? . . . yes, screwdriver, there . . . now where the devil are they? . . . new Heads with Samco bindings . . . there. Rate of spring on the Samco something more than a hundred--but that's psi: makes it how much? Multiply by 70.31 into grams per centimeter, say 742--makes it? . . . how are these damn screws set, counter or clockwise? . . . there . . . makes it how much? Drop it by half; no, a little more--don't want him walking right out of them. Two turns clockwise does it . . . there, and there. Screwdriver back. Done. Time? One minute fifty.
He was standing with his own skis on his shoulder and a show of impatience on his face when Krasin came out the door and down the line.
"Why the skis?" asked Krasin.
"It would be easier to demonstrate my idea on the mountain than to explain it."
"Excellent. Business with pleasure."
He wants to go up, thought Vasily. That's where he wants me, and that's where he'll make his move.
Aloud, he asked, "How well do you ski? How high shall we go?"
Krasin said proudly, "I was first in my course."
Yes, you bastard. KGB Training School Number 311 in Novosibirsk. First in the course, were you? Good. I don't want you slow and sloppy, I want you fast and hot.
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 3