Assassin

by David Hagberg

  Chernov looked up suddenly.

  “Gives us nine weeks to catch him,” Paporov said. “Because if he makes it this far, and gets mixed up in the crowds, he’ll be impossible to spot. There’s going to be a lot of confusion that day. Some violence too. Maybe some shooting.”

  “We don’t have nine weeks,” Chernov said, his eyes going back to the maps, specifically to Red Square.

  “Not if we want to catch him before election day.”

  “Not election day,” Chernov said. He was amazed by the simplicity of McGarvey’s plan. The brilliance of the man. His audacity.

  “What do you mean?” Paporov asked.

  “Tarankov is going to come to Moscow on election day. Everybody knows that. Everybody is counting on it. It’s the one day he could come to Moscow and be safe, because nobody would order his arrest. The people would rise up, claiming the election had been fixed.”

  “That’s right,” Paporov said. “In the confusion McGarvey could take his shot, and get away with it.”

  “All our efforts are being directed to that one day, that one place—Red Square. We have nine weeks, so time is still on our side.”

  Paporov nodded uneasily, not yet quite sure where Chernov was taking this.

  “But McGarvey has another plan, because he figured out something that the rest of us have overlooked.”

  Sudden understanding dawned on Paporov’s face. “Yeb vas. May Day.”

  “Very good, Aleksi.”

  “Surely Tarankov won’t risk coming in to Moscow so soon.”

  Chernov smiled distantly. “You can count on it,” he said. “And that’s the day on which Mr. McGarvey will try to kill him. The day that he himself will die.”

  Moscow

  “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Yemlin told Valeri Doyla at the Magesterium. “But I have the resources to rectify my error before it goes too far.”

  He and Doyla lay naked next to each other in the wide bed, soft music playing from the hidden speakers. This time he’d refused vodka and the cocaine, because, as he explained, he wanted to enjoy himself. He wanted his head to be clear. And he was not using the anti-surveillance device, because he wanted to be overheard.

  “What are you talking about, Viktor? Being here like this?” Doyla asked cautiously.

  Yemlin chuckled, and caressed the young man’s flanks. “Heavens no. You’re an old man’s comfort.”

  “You’re not so old.”

  “What would you say if I told you that I hired someone to kill the Tarantula? What would you think about that?”

  “I don’t get involved in politics,” Doyla said. He giggled. “It makes my head hurt thinking about it.”

  “Mine too,” Yemlin said. “But the bastard has to be arrested, not gunned down by some hired gun who doesn’t care about the Rodina. I’m going to call him off. He can keep the money—it wasn’t mine in the first place—and he can get out of Moscow, or wherever he is.”

  “Can you do this?”

  “I’ll figure a way,” Yemlin said. He slapped Doyla’s rump hard enough to leave a red mark, bile once again rising sharply in his throat. “In the meantime let’s talk about something much more pleasurable, shall we?”

  Riga

  McGarvey rose at 8:00 A.M., after a solid twelve hours of sleep, and after he showered and shaved he got a copy of the International Herald-Tribune from the newsstand in the lobby, and had breakfast on the terrace overlooking the river and the old city.

  In an article on the op-ed page, the writer gave a reasonably accurate, if superficial, summary of the political upheaval going on in Russia as the country headed toward the general elections. Kabatov was the front runner in every poll in which Yevgenni Tarankov’s name was omitted. The general opinion across the country, however, was that although the Tarantula could easily win in any election, why bother? Any time he wanted the country it was his for the taking. The military was corrupt and would not stop him, nor would either division of the old KGB which was itself in a fierce internecine battle. The nation was in disarray, and like it or not, Tarankov was likely the one man to bring it together.

  An hour later he walked down to the car park, where he retrieved the Jetta, and headed to the train station where he cruised the neighborhoods for a few blocks in a rough triangle bounded by it, the post office and telephone exchange, and the central market. After stopping to ask at several cafes and markets he finally found a black market apartment for rent not registered with the Federal Rent Control Association.

  Decent housing, especially in Riga, was scarce, and between discrimination against Russians, and price-gouging which had created a lot of tensions, the government had stepped in. First choice went to registered Latvian voters, which made up only thirty percent of the population. Second choice went to well-heeled western businessmen, and the dregs went to Russians. The problem was, that the federal government levied a heavy tax on all registered apartments, so the black market thrived.

  The old woman who rented McGarvey the efficiency apartment three blocks from the train station didn’t even ask to see his passport once she was satisfied that he wasn’t a Russian. The rent was 125 latis, or $250, a week. He paid for a month in cash, which included an old plastic radio, a small black and white television, and postage-stamp-sized private bathroom. A pay phone was located in the downstairs hall. The apartment was surprisingly clean, and looked down on Gogala Street, busy with truck traffic.

  By the same process, but asking at a different set of cafes and markets, McGarvey found a secured parking stall in what once had been a warehouse near the train station, and only three blocks from the apartment, paying the rental fee of fifty latis per week a month in advance.

  On the way back to the hotel he bought a heavy duty combination lock from a variety store, then parked the Jetta in the lot near the hotel, and was back for a late lunch a little before two o’clock.

  He spent the remainder of the afternoon touring the old city on foot, partially to kill some time, but mostly because he’d been cooped up for so long that he needed fresh air and exercise.

  There was a subtle air of sullenness among the Latvians he saw. Although the cafes and shops were filled, the streets were busy with traffic, the beer gardens humming, and every third person seemed to be speaking on a cellular phone, a sharpness of attitude was prevalent. All of Riga seemed to be pissed off. In part, McGarvey supposed, because they were finding that independence and freedom were not easy. Latvia and the other Baltic republics were still dependent on Russia for their day-to-day financial stability. The Russian economy was coming apart at the seams, yet Latvia’s future remained wedded to Russia’s, and nobody liked it.

  Back at the hotel by six, he stopped at the front desk and told them that he would be checking out in the morning after breakfast, and would need his car out front by 8:00 A.M.

  He had room service send dinner up to his room, and watched CNN with a detached interest. The real world didn’t seem to exist other than as a fantasy on television. It was a strange feeling, one that always came over him at this point in a mission. It was as if he had removed himself from the human race for the duration.

  In the morning he would park the Mercedes in the garage he’d rented, come back for the Volkswagen, pick up a few groceries at the market, and settle in the apartment to wait for the other Mercedes to arrive from Leipzig. He was being hunted for. It was time to lay low to see if anyone was coming after him before he made the next move.

  Tarankov’s Train

  By 10:00 P.M., Chernov was on the M1 motorway out of Moscow heading toward Smolensk a little more than three hundred kilometers to the southwest. The BMW seven hundred series was in excellent condition, and the evening sky, though moonless, was clear and star-studded. The highway which ran nearly straight through the lake country was all but deserted, and he was able to push the car well over 130 kilometers per hour. The windows were up, and the tape deck played Mozart, so that he felt very little sensation of hurtling throu
gh the night.

  He’d called a blind number in Moscow, identified himself by the code name Standard Bearer, and received the cryptic message Alpha-one-three-one-stop. It was a grid reference for Tarankov’s train stopped on a siding fifty kilometers east of Smolensk.

  “I’ll arrive before midnight,” Chernov said.

  There’d been no answer, nor had he expected any. But his message would have gotten through to Tarankov that his chief of staff was on the way.

  Since Chernov had been dispatched to Moscow, Tarankov had conducted no further raids. The first was scheduled for the day after tomorrow on the former Lithuanian trade capital on the Dnieper River, which was why the train had been moved to within fifty kilometers of the city.

  The highway was totally deserted when he stopped a few kilometers west of the small city of Safonovo around 11:45 P.M. He entered Tarankov’s coordinates into a handheld GPS satellite navigator, which showed that the train was another five kilometers due west.

  A couple of kilometers farther, a narrow dirt road led west away from the M1, and Chernov followed it, turning off his headlights as he came over the crest of a hill. Below, nearly invisible in the dark night, the train was parked on a siding, camouflage netting completely covering it from satellite or air reconnaissance.

  Chernov waited patiently for a full five minutes until he was certain that he’d spotted the six commandoes who’d established a perimeter a hundred meters out.

  They would know that he was up here because he’d made no effort to mask his approach. Standard operating procedure was for him to remain here until Tarankov was informed, and someone was sent up to escort him down. The delay was only slightly irritating, but Chernov approved of the routine.

  He got out of the car, and leaned against the fender when headlights flashed in the trees from the direction he’d come. He pulled out the bulky Glock-17 automatic from his shoulder holster, glanced down toward the train to make sure no one was coming up toward him, then got off the road and sprinted through the trees to the crest of the hill, keeping low so that he was not silhouetted against the starry sky.

  A car, its headlights off now, bumped slowly along the dirt track. When it topped the crest, it suddenly stopped and backed down. Chernov could see that it was a dark blue Mercedes. Paporov’s car from Lefortovo. The bastard had followed him.

  Paporov turned the car around, then, leaving the engine running, got out, entered the woods and noiselessly hurried back to the top of the rise, passing within a few meters of where Chernov stood behind the bole of a tree.

  At the top he dropped to one knee and studied the train through a pair of binoculars. Chernov, careful to make no noise himself, came up behind him.

  “What are you doing here, Aleksi?”

  Paporov, startled, looked up over his shoulder, his eyes wide, his face white in the starlight. “That’s Tarankov’s train.”

  “Yes it is, but what are you doing here?”

  Paporov’s eyes went to the gun in Chernov’s hand. “You’re working for him, aren’t you?”

  A pair of Tarankov’s commandoes wearing night vision goggles appeared out of the darkness to the left.

  “Who is this, Colonel Chernov?” one of them asked.

  “An unfortunate mistake on my part,” Chernov said, not taking his eyes off Paporov, who’d lowered his binoculars and let them hang by their strap from his neck. “I didn’t see anyone on the highway. How’d you follow me?”

  Paporov glanced at the commandoes. “So it’s Chernov, not Bykov. Is General Yuryn in on this operation?”

  “How did you follow me?”

  Paporov shrugged. “I wondered about you from the start. You know too much for an ex-KGB officer living in Siberia. There’s a beacon transmitter in the trunk of your car.”

  “We picked up the signal while you were a couple of kilometers out,” one of the commandoes said.

  “So now what?” Paporov asked. He was resigned. “I don’t suppose it would help if I said I’d be willing to keep my mouth shut and continue helping you find McGarvey?”

  “No,” Chernov said. “The pity of it is that I was beginning to like you.”

  “What can I say to make a difference?”

  “Nothing,” Chernov said. He raised the pistol and shot Paporov in the head.

  The captain’s body flopped on its side.

  “Take the car and the body back to Moscow tonight, and leave it a few blocks from Lefortovo. Take his watch, academy ring, wallet, money and anything else of value.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the commandoes said.

  Chernov holstered his gun, and drove his car down to the train. Tarankov and Liesel were drinking champagne and watching CNN in their private car.

  “We heard a shot,” Tarankov said.

  “It was Captain Paporov,” Chernov said, helping himself to a glass of champagne. “His body will be returned to Moscow tonight, and made to look like a robbery.”

  “Will this cause you any trouble?” Liesel asked.

  “No,” Chernov replied indifferently. “You don’t mean to wait until the elections, do you,” he told Tarankov.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you won’t pass up the opportunity of the May Day celebration in Red Square. If you get that far, the people will be behind you and there’ll be no need for the election. But McGarvey will be there as well.”

  “What do you suggest, Colonel?” Liesel demanded. “That we hide like rabbits because of some foreigner that you’re unable to catch?”

  “Send a double. The effect will be the same. And if McGarvey should succeed, it won’t matter, because he won’t escape, and afterward you’ll miraculously rise from death like a new messiah.”

  Liesel was livid, but a smile spread across Tarankov’s face. “That’s quite good, Leonid. But are you telling me that you cannot guarantee my safety from McGarvey?”

  “He was the one who killed General Baranov, and Arkady.”

  “Your half-brother. Yes, I know this,” Tarankov said, his gaze not wavering. “It’s why you were selected to stop him. It was thought that you would have the proper motivation. Instead, you seem to be admitting that he’s better than you. Your thinking has been colored by … what, Leonid? Fear? Has your judgment slipped so badly that you allowed a FSK captain to follow you?”

  “I didn’t come here to play semantic games with you, Comrade,” Chernov answered coldly. “I am respectful of Mr. McGarvey. In fact I am very respectful of his determination and abilities, as you should be. I came here to confirm that you plan on being in Red Square on May Day, and to warn you that if McGarvey somehow manages to slip past me, you should send a double to make your speech. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  Liesel’s face had turned red. She jumped up, snatched a pistol from the table beside her and pointed it at Chernov with shaking hands.

  Chernov didn’t bother looking at her. “With all due respect, Comrade Tarantula, keep your wife away from me, and out of sight until afterwards. Just now Russians have no love for foreigners. Any foreigners.”

  Tarankov nodded but said nothing.

  Chernov turned, and left the train, Liesel’s enraged screeching clearly audible all the way over to where he parked his car.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Moscow

  For ten days Chernov went about his work alone at Lefortovo, briefing General Yuryn at irregular intervals. But he was operating under a handicap now. Everyone believed that if McGarvey struck here in Moscow, it would be on election day when Tarankov was expected to make his triumphal entry into the city. If the assassination attempt came sooner, it would take place outside of Moscow. In some other city.

  Kabatov and the fools he surrounded himself with hadn’t put it together yet, that Tarankov had no intention of waiting for the general elections. His was to be a socialist victory. And May First was the day for the international socialist movement.

  But McGarvey had figured it out. Chernov didn’
t know how he knew this, but he was just as certain that McGarvey would be in Red Square on May Day, as he was that Tarankov would not send a double.

  With little more than a week to go, Chernov was beginning to admit to himself that McGarvey wasn’t going to make a mistake. On May First he was going to be within shooting range when Tarankov took to the reviewing platform atop Lenin’s tomb to speak to his people.

  Even after all this time Gresko conceded that McGarvey’s photograph had been distributed to less than twenty percent of Russia’s border crossings, and there was even some doubt how widely the information had been spread in Moscow. At this rate it would take several more weeks to get the job done. But the FSK task force did not seem to be overly concerned, because the general elections were still more than seven weeks away.

  The CIA and SDECE seemed to be having the same sort of luck as well. They’d lost McGarvey’s trail somewhere in Paris, which was actually a moot point, because in Chernov’s estimation they’d never had his trail in the first place. No one knew if he was still in Paris, or even in France. No one knew how he’d gotten to Moscow, or how he’d gotten back out of Russia, if in fact he’d even been here. The whole story could have been Yemlin’s invention to somehow misdirect their investigation.

  Nor had stationing a man at the Magesterium to eavesdrop on Yemlin’s homosexual love nest produced any results other than the story Yemlin was telling his queer that he was calling McGarvey off. That story for certain was a fiction, because Yemlin’s every move was being watched, now even inside the SVR. He’d never contacted McGarvey or made any effort to do so.

  Paporov’s body had been found about the same time Chernov had reported him missing. The autopsy took five days after which the Militia came to the conclusion that he’d been shot to death during a robbery. They refused to speculate why the Mercedes the captain had been driving had not been stolen as well.

  Chernov refused another assistant, though secretly he wished Paporov were still around. It had been a stupid mistake on his part allowing the captain to follow him to the train. He’d underestimated the man, something he would have to be careful not to do with McGarvey.