Assassin

by David Hagberg

  Tarankov dropped the cigarette into the snow, and when he looked up the second commando had disappeared without a sound.

  “What is your name, soldier?”

  “Lieutenant Ablakov, sir.”

  “Gennadi?”

  The man cracked a smile, pleased. “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes, sir. My wife is living with her mother in Yakutsk.”

  “It’s a hard life there, but she is out of harm’s way. Do you have any worries?”

  “No, sir. But I miss her.”

  “As you should, Gennadi,” Tarankov said gently. “Do you understand what we’re doing?”

  Lieutenant Ablakov straightened slightly. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  It was a good answer, Tarankov thought. Ablakov and the others were respectful of him, but not fearful. That, of course, would have to change in time. But for now it was a useful attitude. Stalin understood that the people around him in the beginning would develop a familiarity that in time would become unacceptable. Diminishing his absolute authority. It was the reason for many of his early pogroms. Penicillin cured the infection, but too much penicillin killed the patient so it had to be flushed out.

  Chernov came out and together they walked to the last car beneath the netting where Tarankov lit another cigarette.

  “They don’t like you wandering off alone,” Chernov said.

  Tarankov looked into his chief of staff’s eyes. The man had been the best Department Viktor killer the KGB had ever fielded. Even better than the legendary Arkady Kurshin who’d worked under the old Baranov regime. Those had been hard times, which demanded hard men. But, Tarankov mused, these were even harder times.

  “Without you there would be no movement. Drankov and his men would be gone within the hour.”

  “What about you?”

  Chernov shrugged. “There’s always work to be done. I might return to Moscow. I have friends.”

  “You need an organization.”

  “Such institutions exist.”

  Tarankov chuckled. “In Iran, perhaps?”

  Chernov cocked his head. “They could use a steady hand,” he replied. “What’s troubling you tonight?”

  Tarankov looked away. They were in a forest here, the shadows dark, and mysterious. Russian shadows, he thought. Hiding something. “No one in Russia would raise a hand to kill me.”

  Chernov said nothing.

  Tarankov turned back to his chief of staff. “Yeltsin has ordered my arrest because of Kirov.”

  “That’s not unexpected.”

  “They’ll be waiting for us in Nizhny Novgorod. Army, Militia, FSK helicopter gunships. A real coordinated effort.”

  “It’ll take more than that.”

  “Five thousand troops under arms.”

  “Nizhny Novgorod is a city of over a million people. If they rise up, the entire Russian Army could do nothing but watch,” Chernov said. He studied Tarankov’s eyes. “Do you want to call it off?”

  “This time they mean business, and they have four days to impose a curfew and make it stick. It takes a Russian a lot longer than that to rebel.”

  “Then we’ll go first thing in the morning, before they’re fully prepared,” Chernov said. “If you avoid Nizhny Novgorod because of the army, they won’t have to arrest you. Yeltsin will have won his point. Even a Russian will be able to see that.”

  “If the army shows up,” Tarankov said.

  Chernov was suddenly bemused. “You’ve already thought this out,” he said. “You know exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “Da.”

  “Do you have a timetable?”

  Tarankov nodded, content for the moment to let Chernov work it out for himself.

  “Am I to be told, or do you intend keeping all of us in the dark?” Chernov asked with some irritation in his voice. He was afraid of no one. It was his greatest strength as well as his greatest weakness.

  “We’ll go to Nizhny Novgorod next week. But first we’ll hit Dzerzhinskiy in the morning, and then I’ll send you to remove our biggest obstacle.”

  Chernov’s eyes narrowed. “If you mean to do what I think you mean to do, there could be dangerous repercussions. Not only in Moscow, but in the West as well. At the moment Washington sees you as an internal problem, vexing only to the Kremlin. If I do this thing, that perception will change.”

  “True, but it takes Americans even longer than Russians to react. Look how long it took before they moved against Castro or Noriega or Saddam Hussein. By then it will be a fait accompli, because Russia will be mine.”

  “This is different.”

  “Yes, because we will once again become a definite threat to their security. But by the time Washington realizes the fact, our missiles will be fully reprogrammed and operational.”

  “What missiles are left.”

  “You only need to kill a man once to ensure his death, not ten times.”

  “Very well,” Chernov said after a moment. “I’ll brief Drankov and his unit commanders. What are we targeting in Dzerzhinskiy?”

  “The Riga electric generating facility.”

  A slow smile curled Chernov’s lips. “The nuclear power station.”

  “Da.”

  Dzerzhinskiy, A Moscow Suburb

  The train slowed to a crawl in the chilly predawn darkness. Two commandoes leaped from the lead car and raced thirty meters ahead to the mechanical switch, shot the lock off, and moved the lever to the right which shunted them off the main line and onto the spur which served the power station.

  They placed a small shaped charge on the switch, backed off ten or fifteen meters, and turned the firing plunger. The small explosion destroyed the switch making it impossible now for the tracks to be easily moved back, which could trap them on the spur.

  As soon as the men were back aboard the train, it gathered speed past an abandoned brick works and a tumbled down foundry, slowing again to a crawl five hundred meters farther just before a tall chain-link gate guarding entry to the station.

  The same two commandoes leaped off the train and placed charges on both sides of the gate. Moments later the much larger explosion ripped the gate off its hinges, sending metal parts and chain link fifty meters into the air, and just as effectively shattering the morning stillness.

  Riga Nuclear Power Station Number One, which had opened eight months ago despite massive protests, was an engineering marvel by any standard. Constructed as only Russians know how, the huge containment dome and twin cooling towers rose above the shabby suburb of factories, houses and apartment complexes that were little more than hovels. The enormous amounts of water needed to cool the two reactors was drawn from the Moscow River and piped underground in concrete races ten meters in diameter; large enough so that during construction the largest earth movers were dwarfed.

  By building the power station in Dzerzhinskiy the Kremlin sent three clear messages to the people and to the rest of the world. Russian engineering could solve any problem, even making it possible to build a nuclear power plant so far away from a water source. The Russian government was in charge of the nation and knew what was best for its people. And, since the facility was less than six kilometers as the crow flies from the Kremlin, the people were assured that Yeltsin believed the Riga station would not become another Chernobyl. Riga was safe.

  So far unpublicized, but generally known in the suburb, was that in the first eight months of operation the complex had suffered four major accidents including one that SCRAMed the system less than ninety seconds before a total meltdown occurred.

  The reactor was like a sword of Damocles hanging over the neighborhood. No one who lived in Dzerzhinskiy worked in the complex, but everyone in the suburb had to live with the threat.

  Because of the sensitive nature of the power station, and the demonstrations against it, the complex was heavily guarded by crack FSK troops, some of whom had served in Afghanistan, and others in the battle for Chechnya. It amuse
d Tarankov, as the train again gathered speed for the last kilometer to the loading docks and Central Control, that although Chernov and the others did not want him wandering around alone in the dark countryside for fear of a sniper, they were willing to let him go with his troops into a hornet’s nest.

  He watched from his operations center on the observation deck in the rear car with Liesel, Chernov, a communications specialist and a weapons officer. His personal quarters on the lower deck were polished wood and brass, but up here the deck was equipped with state of the art communications and radar equipment, as well as firecontrol for 22mm automatic cannons fore and aft, and a smaller version of the navy’s close-in weapons system, capable of radar-tracking incoming targets, including incoming aircraft and missiles, and firing 12.5mm depleted-uranium slugs at a rate of six thousand rounds per minute. This one car presented a formidable force by itself.

  “They know we’re here,” comms specialist Junior Lieutenant Yuri Ignatov, said. He entered the information he was picking up by radio into his battle planning computer, which was similar to the BSY-1 used on nuclear submarines. In this case the computer would spit out weapons and tactical options based on real time information it was being fed, and relay it to Colonel Drankov and his unit commanders.

  Even as the information came up on the display screen, they could see the troops spilling out of the bunkers to the southeast of Central Control. A pair of rocket launchers came up from a tunnel and started to turn toward the train.

  “Take them out,” Chernov ordered.

  Their weapons officer, Lieutenant Nikolai Zabotin, entered the new targeting data into his console, and as they got within two hundred meters of the rocket launchers, cannons on the lead car ripped both trucks apart, shredding metal, rubber, plastic and human flesh indiscriminately. Both launchers went up in huge balls of flame, scattering burning debris and ordnance over the FSK ground troops pouring out of the bunkers.

  “We’re a hundred fifty meters out, prepare to dismount,” Chernov radioed Drankov. He reached up and braced himself against the overhead.

  The others did the same, as the train’s coordinated braking system, which operated much like anti-lock brakes on a luxury car, slowed them almost as quickly as a truck could be slowed in an emergency, and ten times faster than any ordinary train could slow down.

  As soon as their speed dropped below twenty kilometers per hour, the battle doors on each car slid open, hinged ramps dropped down, and Drankov’s commandoes aboard their armored assault vehicles shot from the train like wild dogs suddenly released from confinement, firing as they made sharp turns into what remained of the FSK’s first response force.

  Tarankov keyed his microphone. “This is Tarankov. Send Units Three and Four to blow the main gates.”

  “The alert has been called to the main Militia barracks,” Ignatov said.

  “The people will fill the streets before they can get here.”

  “The Militia might run them over,” Ignatov said.

  “Three and Four enroute,” Drankov cut in.

  They could see the two units peel off toward the west, while One and Two headed toward the main electrical distribution yard on the opposite side of the complex.

  By the time the train came to a complete halt across from the Central Control building, Drankov’s main force had taken out the last of the FSK troops, and his men were racing through the building, blasting their way through doors leading into each level, then leapfrogging ahead.

  Within eight minutes from the start of the assault the main gates were down, and the first of thousands of people from the suburb were pouring into the compound, the main electrical distribution yards which covered more than fifty hectares were destroyed, the two reactors were shut down, the four water races were collapsed with heavy explosives, the control room with its complex control panel and its computer equipment was completely demolished, and every on duty guard, engineer or staff member was dead or dying.

  “Five minutes and we’ve got to be out of here,” Chernov said. He’d donned a headset and was listening to the military radio traffic between the Dzerzhinskiy Militia and the main barracks downtown.

  “Sound the recall,” Tarankov said.

  Liesel was beside herself with excitement. “This’ll teach the bastards a lesson,” she said.

  “One they won’t soon forget,” Chernov shot back.

  Tarankov opened the hatch and climbed out onto the catwalk as the crowds swarmed across the vast parking lot toward the train.

  “Five minutes,” Chernov shouted.

  “COMRADES, MY NAME IS YEVGENNI TARANKOV, AND I HAVE COME TODAY TO OFFER YOU MY HAND IN FRIENDSHIP AND HELP.”

  THREE

  Tarankov’s Train

  “Have you had any sleep?” Tarankov asked.

  Chernov shook his head as he placed the last of three cases of Marlboros into the trunk of the Mercedes 520S parked beside the tracks. The top two layers of cartons actually contained cigarettes. He closed the trunk, leaned back against the car and accepted a cigarette from Tarankov, though he hated the things.

  “It went well this morning,” Tarankov said. “Moscow is going to have to deal with power outages for a long time. It’ll make things worse for them.”

  “Yeltsin and his cronies have access to emergency generators. And if things get too bad they can always escape to the dachas.”

  “You don’t approve,” Tarankov said crossly. He was tired too.

  “On the contrary, Comrade. I neither approve nor disapprove. But I’m a realist enough to understand that it’s the ordinary people on the street who make revolutions possible. Once the leader is in power, he can do anything he wants, because he’ll control the guns, and the butter. But if he loses the people in the beginning he will have lost the revolution.”

  “A good speech, Leonid. But you failed to take into account the fact I was cheered.”

  “By the people of Dzerzhinskiy who were afraid of the power station. By next winter when the snow flies again, and still there is not enough power in Moscow, the rest of the city will remember who to blame.”

  Tarankov smiled faintly. “By then the power will be restored.” An event, he thought, that Chernov would not be alive to witness.

  “That’s as optimistic as it is naive, I think,” Chernov said.

  They were parked in a birch woods two hundred fifty kilometers north of Moscow. Tarankov gazed across a big lake, still frozen, his eyes narrowing against the glare from the setting sun, as he tried to keep his temper in check.

  “Throughout the summer I will divert military construction battalions from as many division as it will take to get the job done in ninety days,” he said.

  “You do have a timetable,” Chernov said, flipping the cigarette away. “If you’re right, Dzerzhinskiy can be turned into an advantage. And Nizhny Novgorod can be important if the situation doesn’t become untenable after tomorrow. But you still need Moscow and St. Petersburg. We can’t kill them all.”

  “Only those necessary.”

  “They’re not stupid. They’ll figure out your plans, and try to block you somehow.”

  “It’s already too late for them,” Tarankov said. “You’re close to me, have you figured it out?”

  Chernov smiled. “It’s not my job. I’m nothing more than a means to your end.”

  “What about when we come into power?”

  “I’ll leave, Comrade Tarantula, because I will no longer be needed. And we know what happens to people in Russia who are not needed.”

  “Maybe I’ll kill you now,” Tarankov said with a dangerous edge in his voice.

  Chernov’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t think that would be quite as easy as you might think,” he said in a reasonable tone. He pushed away from the car, and Tarankov backed up a half-pace despite himself. “I have work to do, unless you have second thoughts.”

  “You’re confident you can do it?”

  Chernov nodded seriously. “Yeltsin could have been eliminated
anytime over the past couple of years, but nobody wanted to take responsibility for it. He’s not been worth killing until now.”

  “Am I worth killing, Leonid?” Tarankov asked.

  “Oh, yes. Especially after tomorrow,” Chernov replied. “And believe me they will try. Someone will almost certainly try.”

  “You will see that they fail.”

  “That, Comrade Tarankov, is my job.” Chernov pointed to the cigarette in Tarankov’s meaty paw. “But they won’t have to send an assassin if you keep that up.”

  Tarankov grunted. “You sound like Liesel.” He smiled. “One nag is enough.”

  “She’s right.”

  “Good of you to say so,” Tarankov said. “We’ll wait for you at Kostroma. But if you get into trouble you will have to rely on the usual contacts in Moscow, we won’t be able to come for you. Not until after Nizhny Novgorod.”

  “I’ll be there,” Chernov said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get a few things before I leave. I want to be in Moscow before midnight.” He abruptly went back to the train and boarded the second car from the rear, not seeing the intense look of anger and hatred that flashed across Tarankov’s heavy features.

  Chernov’s car contained the officers’ wardroom and kitchen, as well as quarters for him, Colonel Drankov and the four unit commanders. The colonel and two of his officers were smoking and drinking tea in the wardroom when Chernov passed. They did not look up, nor did he acknowledge them. Their relationship was exactly as he wished it to be: one of business, not friendship.

  In his compartment, which consisted of a wide bunk, a built-in desk and two chairs, a closet and a well-equipped bathroom, Chernov laid out the uniform of a lieutenant colonel in the Kremlin Presidential Security Service, then pulled off his boots and combat fatigues.