Assassin

by David Hagberg

  Tarankov’s raid on Smolensk got very little official attention inside Russia, and only a brief mention in the western media. It seemed as if the entire world was holding its breath until the June elections.

  As the clock in Chernov’s office slipped past midnight, he flipped his desk calendar over to the 23rd of April, eight days until May First, then got his jacket and went out. He’d been thinking about his mistress Raya Dubanova all afternoon, and he decided to spend a few hours with her tonight, because his nerves were on edge. The grinding stupidity and inefficiency of the FSK and Militia threatened to drive him crazy.

  Outside, he hesitated for a moment in the darkness. The prison compound was utterly still. If the assassin were anyone other than McGarvey, he would leave now, get out of Russia, perhaps to Switzerland. There was still plenty of work for men such as him. The problem was that he would not be able to ask the Militia for much help covering Red Square until the last minute. Otherwise Kabatov would order a trap to be laid not only for McGarvey but for Tarankov too.

  But he was going to have to stay, to play this little drama out to its end. For revenge, if nothing else.

  At the Russian Border

  By ten o’clock McGarvey left Riga behind, the morning overcast and cool, eastbound traffic fairly light. The Mercedes was running well, but he kept his speed within the posted limit of ninety kilometers per hour, which was less than sixty miles per hour.

  Their main highway that ran directly from Riga to Moscow followed the railroad. It was one hundred and fifty miles to the border at Zilupe, and another 395 miles to the Russian capital, most of the distance over indifferent roads. But traffic would be light most of the way.

  The second Mercedes had arrived late yesterday afternoon, and it took Zlite the rest of the day and into the evening to prepare the Russian transit and import documents.

  McGarvey had picked up the car before eight this morning, and handed the Latvian a bank draft for the remainder of the import taxes and handling fees.

  The car had been washed, polished and gassed, the two spare gas cans filled, and sat in the middle of the warehouse floor surrounded by a half-dozen admiring men. Zlite was practically licking his chops.

  He took McGarvey aside. “It’s nine hundred kilometers to Moscow, so naturally I had my mechanic check your car for defects. I’ll tell you something, that Mercedes is in perfect condition. Nothing wrong. Nothing!”

  “Did your man take the engine apart?” McGarvey asked.

  Zlite’s eyes narrowed. “Nyet.”

  “It’s a good thing, because he would have gotten a very nasty surprise. He might not have lived through it.”

  Zalite glanced over at the car. “But you will drive it all that way without a problem?”

  McGarvey nodded. “My little secret. And since there’ll already be a thousand kilometers on the car before I turn it over, no one will be able to blame me when something goes wrong.”

  “It’s a beautiful machine,” Zlite said. “Such a shame.”

  “Maybe when this is all over, I’ll get you a good one.”

  “Maybe I’ve changed my mind about Mercedes,” Zlite said sadly. “When does the next one come?”

  “Depends on how this trip goes. A couple weeks.”

  Twenty transport trucks, empty, were lined up on the Latvian side of the border waiting to have their papers checked. Only a few trucks, all of them heavily loaded, were waiting to get into Latvia with their Russian-made products. By evening the numbers would be reversed with more loaded trucks arriving and fewer empty trucks leaving.

  McGarvey had to wait nearly forty-five minutes before it was his turn. The Latvian customs official glanced briefly at his papers, stamped the exit section of his passport and waved him through. On the Russian side of the border, however, the policeman motioned him over to the parking area in front of the customs shed, where a pair of officials waited.

  McGarvey handed out his passport to one of the stern-faced officers, who studied the photograph carefully, comparing it to McGarvey’s face.

  “What is the purpose of your visit to Russia?” the official asked in Russian.

  “Business,” McGarvey replied. He handed over the papers for the car. “I’m importing this car for sale in Moscow. And if I get a good price, I’ll be bringing in more of them.”

  One of the armed Militia officers drifted over, and looked longingly at the Mercedes. It was something that he could not afford to buy with a lifetime of earnings. A certain amount of resentment showed on his face because like the customs officials, he knew that the only people in Moscow who could afford it were either corrupt politicians, the new businessmen, or the Mafia.

  The customs official opened the car door. “Release the hood, then step out of the car and open the rear compartment.”

  McGarvey did as he was told. A third customs official came out with a long-handled mirror, which he used to inspect the undercarriage of the Mercedes, while the other two officials searched every square inch of the car, as well as McGarvey’s single overnight bag and laptop computer.

  As they worked, McGarvey took a picnic basket from the passenger side, and sat on the open cargo lid. The officials kept eyeing him as he opened a bottle of good Polish vodka, took a deep drink, then started on the bread, cheese, sausage and pickles.

  On the way out of Riga this morning, he’d stopped at the Radisson and had them make up the gourmet picnic lunch, which also included a good Iranian caviar and blinis, some imported foie gras, smoked oysters, Norwegian salmon, and Swedish pickled herring.

  The customs officers opened the gas cans stored in the cargo area and shined a flashlight inside, then bounced the spare tire several times to learn if anything might be hidden inside. Working around McGarvey, they also removed the primary spare tire from its bracket on the cargo lid, and did the same thing with it.

  McGarvey finished his lunch an hour later, about the same time the customs officials were done. The one with the paperwork stamped the documents and handed them back to McGarvey.

  “Take care that you violate no Russian laws,” he cautioned harshly.

  McGarvey nodded. “I’ve eaten all that I want. May I leave the rest of this here, with you and your men?” He held out the picnic basket.

  The customs official hesitated for only a moment, then took the basket. The others watched the exchange.

  McGarvey glanced at the paperwork, then started to raise the cargo lid, when he turned back. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?” the customs officer demanded sharply.

  “The import duty is supposed to be five hundred marks more than what I paid in Riga,” McGarvey shrugged. “I noticed the mistake after I’d left. I thought you people might catch it.” McGarvey shrugged. “But if you say it’s okay—”

  The officer handed the picnic basket to one of his men, took the import duty form from McGarvey and studied the document for a few moments. When he looked up he was wary. “It looks as if you’re correct.”

  “I thought so,” McGarvey said. He pulled out five hundred marks, and handed it to the official. “As I said, if my business goes well in Moscow, I’ll be bringing in more of these cars. Maybe as many as a dozen or more a month, so I want to make absolutely sure that everything is as it should be. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, thank you,” the officer said, hardly able to believe his luck. “I’ll look for you next time.”

  “In a week or two,” McGarvey said.

  Paris

  Elizabeth sat hugging her knees to her chest in the window seat of her father’s apartment, staring dejectedly down at the street, all but deserted at this hour of the morning. Her father was gone. It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole. For all any of them knew he could be buried in some unmarked grave somewhere. Her mother said it had been his greatest fear.

  “Here it is again,” Jacqueline said from across the room where she sat in front of the laptop computer. “That makes three referenc
es tonight.”

  “What is it?” Elizabeth asked, looking up. She was dead tired, her back ached and her eyes burned from staring at computer screens for the past couple of weeks.

  Jacqueline, an expression of barely controlled excitement on her face, brushed her hair back. “He’s coming on the net now.” She sounded breathless. “What was that special food you told me that Rencke was fond of?”

  “Twinkies,” Elizabeth said. She got up and padded over to Jacqueline.

  “Well, take a look at this, ma cherie.”

  From: an162885@anon.samat.po

  Subject: CIA CLANDESTINE SERVICES

  4/24/99 02.17

  You guys don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Why don’t you get real or something. If the company was so bad and had a police state stranglehold etc why the hell does every swinging dick asshole want to come to the states? How many of you little darlings are shitting in your pantaloons to immigrate to Iraq, or Haiti, or some other paradise? Get real!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  (twinkieitem4)

  “That’s him,” Elizabeth cried excitedly. “My God, you’ve found him!”

  “Not yet, but we’ve made a start,” Jacqueline said. “The address is an anonymous remailer in Poland, I think. But I can check on it.”

  “It means he could be anywhere.”

  “That’s right, Liz. Could even be in the apartment across the hall. But I have a friend who’ll know about this remailer. If it’s legitimate, we’ll have a shot at finding out Twinkie’s real location.”

  She reached for the telephone, but Elizabeth grabbed her arm.

  “If this gets back to Lynch or Galan, they’ll screw it up.”

  Jacqueline grinned. “Don’t worry, this is our little secret for now.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes strayed to the hole in the wall where they’d disabled the first of the bugs they’d found. For the moment, they were secure in this apartment. She was frightened. But she was no longer tired.

  Moscow

  McGarvey arrived back at the Metropol Hotel around noon. He gave the car keys along with a good tip to Artur the bellman, who promised that the Mercedes would be parked in a secured spot, absolutely safe from interference. After he checked in, he used a pay phone in the lobby to call Martex Taxi Company, and left a message for Arkady Astimovich to telephone him, giving the number of the pay phone.

  He bought a copy of the Paris International Herald-Tribune from the gift shop, then sat drinking coffee and reading the newspaper a few feet away. Astimovich called twenty minutes later.

  “You’re back,” the cabby said excitedly.

  “That’s right. What’s your brother-in-law’s name?”

  “Yakov Ostrovsky.”

  “I want you to set up a meeting for eleven o’clock tonight at the club. Tell him I’m bringing a proposition that he won’t be able to refuse. One that will make all of us some money. Then I want you to meet me in front of the Kazan Station with your cab twenty minutes early.”

  “What if there’s a problem, can I call you again at this number?”

  “No,” McGarvey said. “If you’re not there I’ll take this deal to somebody else.”

  “I’ll be there,” Astimovich promised.

  McGarvey had a surprisingly good corned beef on rye sandwich and an American Budweiser beer at the expensive lounge in the lobby. The service was excellent but if any of the hotel staff, other than Artur, remembered him from his previous visit, they gave no sign of it.

  Afterward he went up to his room, took a shower and slept lightly until 7:30 P.M., when he awoke with a start. For a brief moment he was slightly disoriented, but the sensation passed immediately. He got up and went over to the window, which looked down on the Bolshoi Theater. People were crowding into the theater, as cabs drew up, dropped off their passengers and went away. The big banner on the facade said GISELLE, which was one of the more famous ballets performed by the company.

  He stood smoking by the window, until the crowds thinned out around 8:00 P.M., when the performance was scheduled to begin, then took another long shower, shaved, and got dressed in dark slacks, a turtleneck, and black leather jacket.

  He switched the television to CNN, turned the volume up, and removed his gun and a spare magazine of ammunition from his laptop computer. The pistol went into a speed draw holster at the small of his back. He pocketed the silencer, and magazine.

  At half-past eight he presented himself at the hotel’s main dining room where he had a light buffet supper, and a bottle of reasonably good white wine. He took his time over his coffee and brandy afterwards. The restaurant was barely a third full, but preparations were being made for the after theater crowd, when the dining room would fill up.

  McGarvey paid his bill, then retrieved his car from one of the bellmen, who turned out to be Artur’s cousin. He tipped the man well, and was heading through heavy traffic up to the Kazan Station by 10:15 P.M.

  It took nearly a half hour to get across town, and Astimovich was leaning against his cab as he watched the people emerging from the railway station. McGarvey powered down the passenger side window and pulled up next to the cabby, who turned around in surprise, the expression on his face changing from mild irritation to incredulity.

  “I’ll follow you to the club,” McGarvey shouted out of the window.

  Astimovich looked the Mercedes over with round eyes, like a kid in the candy store. “Is this the deal?”

  “Do you think he’ll go for it?”

  “Him and every other big deal hot shot in town. I hope you’ve got more of them.”

  “A lot more,” McGarvey said.

  Astimovich jumped in his cab, and took off, McGarvey right behind him.

  The Grand Dinamo club occupied an out-of-the-way corner of the Dinamo Soccer stadium on the way to Frunze Central Airfield. McGarvey had picked up the Russian corporal’s uniform at the flea market set up on the opposite side of the sprawling sports complex. But here the front entrance was brightly lit and security was very tight with armed guards and closed circuit television cameras.

  Astimovich pulled his cab off to the side, but McGarvey parked the big Mercedes under the overhang at the main entrance.

  One of the guards saluted, then opened the car door. “Good evening, sir. Are you a member?”

  Astimovich ran over. “Not yet. But he’s here to see Yakov. We have an appointment.”

  A ferret-faced man came out of the club with a clipboard, as McGarvey got out of the Mercedes. “Are you Pierre Allain?” he asked. He was wearing a tiny lapel mike and an earpiece.

  “Da,” McGarvey said.

  “You’re late. Mr. Ostrovsky is a busy man—”

  “Fine, I’ll take my deal elsewhere, you little prick,” McGarvey said, and he started to get back in the car.

  “Wait a minute,” Astimovich cried.

  McGarvey turned back.

  “You’d better tell Yakov that we’re here,” Astimovich told the man with the clipboard. “We’re importing cars. A lot of them.”

  The ferret glanced indifferently at the big Mercedes. “Moscow is full of car salesmen, who if they want to make a deal, show up on time.”

  “Fifty thousand deutchmarks,” McGarvey said.

  The ferret chucked. “You’ve come to the wrong place. No one here buys used cars.”

  “It was new when I picked it up in Leipzig last week. And I can bring a dozen a month.”

  A corpulent man with heavy jowls came out of the club. He wore a silk shirt open at the collar, several heavy gold chains around his thick neck, a gold Rolex on his wrist, and a huge diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand. He looked amused, as if someone had just told him an off-color joke. He sauntered over.

  “Yakov,” Astimovich said.

  “Good evening, Arkasha,” the heavyset man said. He turned his intelligent eyes to McGarvey. “I’m Yakov Ostrovsky. Did I hear the price correctly? Fifty thousand deutchmarks?”

  “That’s right,” McGarvey said.
>
  Ostrovsky glanced inside the car, then slowly walked around it. “What’s the catch, Monsieur Allain? With import duties, even if you could get this machine at wholesale, you’d have to sell it to me for ninety, perhaps a hundred thousand marks.”

  “I don’t buy them at wholesale.”

  McGarvey got the car’s paperwork and gave it to the Mafia boss, who handed it to the ferret.

  “Do you have partners?”

  “None who you’ll have to deal with.”

  “Where would you deliver these cars?”

  “Anywhere in Moscow.”

  “For fifty thousand marks, my cost?”

  “Fifty-one thousand,” McGarvey said. “I think your brother-in-law deserves a finders fee. He’s already been of some assistance to me.”

  “The documents are legitimate,” the ferret said. “But it says that you paid nearly ninety thousand including fees.”

  “That’s about what you’d expect to pay,” McGarvey said with a faint smirk.

  Ostrovsky pursed his lips after a moment, then shrugged. “How would you like to be paid?”

  “American hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Ah,” Ostrovsky said, smiling broadly now. “Not so easy to counterfeit yet.” He put out his hand. “I think we can do business, Monsieur Allain.”

  McGarvey shook hands. “I thought you might say that.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Riga

  McGarvey decided that although his Pierre Allain work name had held up to this point he would leave Russia from St. Petersburg. The search would be concentrated for him in Moscow, and security at the three airports would be too tight for him to take the risk. He had an excited Astimovich drive him up to St. Petersburg in the morning, a distance of 350 miles, where he explained that he had further business. Astimovich was so bedazzled by his good fortune that he didn’t ask any questions, though during the seven-hour drive he kept up a running commentary about what he was going to do with twelve thousand marks every month once McGarvey’s business fully developed.