Assassin

by David Hagberg

  The three highways funneled into Moscow, so the farther east he got before turning south, the closer he would be to the Ml. If he got off the M9 now, he might get bogged down in the countryside and never reach the other highway. But if he remained on the M9 too long, the helicopter that had just passed might turn around and overtake him. One hour, he decided, as he watched the receding lights of the helicopter. Then, no matter how far he got, he would turn off the M9 and head across country to the south.

  Abandoning the speed limit, McGarvey barreled down the highway at ninety to one hundred miles per hour, slowing only for small towns and villages, and the occasional truck still on the highway. Each time he saw the oncoming lights of another vehicle, he slowed down and prepared to douse his own headlights and pull off the road until he made certain that what he was seeing wasn’t another helicopter.

  It was a few minutes after nine when he came upon an unmarked paved road heading south. He’d been watching his rearview mirror, but so far there’d been no sign of the returning helicopter. Nonetheless he figured he’d pushed his luck far enough, and turned onto the secondary road. Within five miles he came to a collection of a half-dozen peasant houses, shuttered and dark, and on the other side of this village the road continued, but the pavement stopped.

  The winter had been a harsh one, and the spring very late in coming so that the road, which at times was little more than a dirt track, was still reasonably firm. In a couple of weeks it would turn into a ribbon of deep sticky mud that even the big Mercedes might not be able to manage.

  For stretches he was able to push the Mercedes to speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour, but for most of the way he had to keep below forty, and sometimes he was even slowed to a crawl as he had to detour around ruts that were five or six feet deep.

  He was passing through mostly farmlands, he could tell that much but little else in the dark. Occasionally he passed through tiny villages of eight or ten crude hovels, and for twenty minutes he had a conglomeration of lights in sight, low down on the horizon to the west, which he took to be a factory, or possibly a power station.

  But he never saw the helicopter again, so by 10:30 when he finally reached the M1 near the town of Gagarin with the outskirts of Moscow barely one hundred miles away, he dropped back to the posted speed limit of 90 kilometers per hour and lit his first cigarette in two and a half hours.

  West of Moscow

  For nearly four hours there was no sign of the gray Mercedes anywhere on the highway between the Latvian border and the outskirts of Moscow. Given the time since McGarvey had crossed the border, he could have made it to Moscow by now. So far Petrovsky had received three radioed reports of Mercedes four-by-fours in Moscow, but in each sighting the cops on the ground checked the license tags with the motor vehicle department and found them to be legitimate. In all three sightings the officers reported that the drivers were not alone, they carried passengers, something Chernov didn’t think McGarvey would do.

  “Where the hell did he go?” Petrovsky asked a little before midnight. “He couldn’t have disappeared into thin air, unless he’s hiding somewhere.”

  They’d touched down in a farm field just off the highway three hundred kilometers from Moscow to take on fuel from one of the air force Mi-24s, and stretch their legs.

  “He might have spotted the helicopters and done just that,” Chernov said, staring into the darkness. “He’s not a stupid man.”

  “If that’s true than he knows that it’s all over for him. He’ll probably ditch the car and try to make it to the nearest border. He might be hiding somewhere in Volokolamsk, changing his identity and waiting for the morning train.”

  “Do we have anyone watching the station?”

  “No, but I’ll see to it. We’ll close that place up so tightly that even a mouse couldn’t get through,” Petrovsky said. “It’s his only option now. He’s not on the M9, which is the only route from Riga into Moscow, so he has to be in Volokolamsk.”

  Petrovsky went back to the helicopter to radio his instructions, leaving Chernov standing by himself in the darkness.

  He shook his head, tiredly. McGarvey was smart, but he wasn’t a fool. If he had seen the helicopters, and realized that they were searching for him, he would have to turn tail and run. But he had not run. Chernov was certain of it, because men like McGarvey never did.

  Chernov thought about it, putting himself in McGarvey’s position. His mission was to assassinate Tarankov, for which he had a plan. He would understand that things could go wrong, they always did, and he would have planned for them. McGarvey would be able to think clearly on the run. Even backed into a corner, he’d find a way. His extensive file made that quite clear.

  Chernov turned and looked at the helicopters. The fueling operation was complete, and the squadron commander, who was a young man barely out of his twenties, started over to where Chernov was waiting.

  Petrovsky was wrong. It came to Chernov all of a sudden. The M9 was one way into Moscow, but not the only highway. To the north was the M10, and to the south the M1, either of which could be reached with the right vehicle. Such as a half-track or, now before the fields and dirt road had turned to mud, a Mercedes four-by-four.

  The squadron commander saluted. “Your helicopter has been refueled, Colonel. Do you want us to make another sweep back to the border, or should we concentrate our efforts toward Moscow?”

  Petrovsky jumped out of the Hormone-D and came across the field in a dead run.

  “Return to base, Lieutenant,” Chernov said. “Thank your people for me, but your work is finished for tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” the squadron commander said. He saluted and went back to his helicopter.

  Petrovsky came up in a rush. “The bastard’s in Moscow. He must have been spooked because somehow he made it to the M1. They spotted him on the outer ring road.”

  “They didn’t try to stop him, did they?” Chernov demanded.

  “Nyet. They’re just following him for the moment. There’s enough traffic that they think they can pull it off without being spotted themselves, especially if he’s tired and he thinks he’s home free.”

  He and Chernov hurried back to their helicopter. “Inform your people that I’ll have their heads if they lose him. All we need is one hour to get up there.”

  “The sonofabitch has made a big mistake after all,” Petrovsky said triumphantly.

  “Don’t count on it,” Chernov said.

  Moscow

  McGarvey parked on the outer fringes of the bustling Dinamo flea market amongst several rows of big Mercedes and BMW sedans, each with one or two bodyguards who eyed him cautiously. He shut off the engine and lights and sat in the darkness smoking a cigarette, the window down. He was very tired. His eyes were gritty, his throat was raw from too many cigarettes and his stomach was sour from lack of food. Several times he thought he might have picked up a tail. But each time he doubled back it was only a Moscow police car on ordinary patrol.

  With luck they were still searching for this car somewhere along the M9, figuring that he had pulled off the highway and was hiding under cover. In the morning they would flush him out. Unless Bykov or the people with him were smarter than that. For the next two days, he thought, he would have to lay low. They knew he was coming, and by morning they would know that he had reached Moscow. It made his task even more difficult, but still not impossible.

  He tossed the cigarette away, checked the load on his gun, then locked up the car and walked around to the west side of the huge parking lot where the entrepreneur Vasha was leaning up against an American HumVee and talking to a couple of surly-looking men. When he spotted McGarvey he said something to them, and they left.

  “Ah, Corporal Shostokovich returns,” the beefy man said. He stank of stale sweat and booze. He looked beyond McGarvey. “I just saw Arkady. Did he bring you out here tonight? He has a lot of money these days. Maybe an inheritance?”

  “Something like that,” McGarvey said. “Maybe you
’ll have an inheritance too.”

  The salesman got a bottle of vodka from the HumVee, cracked the seal and gave it to McGarvey, who took a big drink, then handed it back. Vasha took a deep drink, and smacked his lips.

  “Do you want to purchase another uniform?”

  McGarvey shook his head. “This time my needs are more specific, and perhaps even difficult to fulfill.”

  Vasha motioned toward his Russian army supply trucks. “I have a lot of good stuff here. Some of it pretty damned important, you know.” He shrugged. “Of course if you want a MiG it would take a little longer. But I can get one.”

  “A Dragunov,” McGarvey said quietly. “Two magazines of ammunition, ten shots each, a good telescopic sight, and a bag big enough to carry it all when the rifle is partially disassembled.”

  “An interesting choice,” Vasha said. The 7.62mm rifle was the Soviet sniper weapon, very simple, lightweight and extremely accurate. “Would there be anything else?”

  “A pair of good bolt-cutters.”

  “A small explosive device might be more effective, if you could tell me your exact need.”

  “Too noisy.”

  “What about the noise of the rifle? Given a few days a suitable silencer could be manufactured that would not seriously deteriorate the weapon’s accuracy.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  The salesman took another drink and passed the bottle to McGarvey.

  “What currency would you pay me for this … equipment?”

  “American dollars.”

  Vasha thought about it for a moment. “Five thousand.”

  “For that amount of money I could hire a shooter who would have his own weapon and there would be no need for me to come back to you for more equipment in the weeks to come.”

  Vasha licked his lips. “Then this is not the big project?”

  “Only one of many to begin with.”

  “How do I know that you will come back?”

  “You don’t,” McGarvey said. “My top offer is one thousand.”

  “I’d need three—”

  “One thousand, and I need the equipment right now.”

  Vasha hesitated only a moment, then grinned and nodded. “Trust is very important among businessmen,” he said. He started to turn, but McGarvey grabbed his arm in an iron grip.

  “It would be unfortunate if the rifle you sold me was anything less than perfect. A misfire at the wrong moment could be fatal to you.”

  “Trust is not only important, it is a two-way street,” Vasha said, evenly. “Now if you have the money with you let’s do our business.”

  McGarvey followed him to one of the supply trucks where the salesman produced a pair of hydraulic bolt cutters that were nearly a meter long, and a soft leather carryall with shoulder straps and lots of zippered compartments.

  From a second truck he pulled an aluminum case out of a large wooden crate, and opened it on the tailgate. Nested in foam rubber cutouts was a used but apparently well-maintained, oiled and disassembled Dragunov sniper rifle, and powerful scope.

  “The factory new rifles can be temperamental and often need adjustments. But this gun is nearly perfect. It’s sighted in for a range of one hundred fifty to two hundred meters. If your range is outside those limits, the gun will have to be resighted.”

  McGarvey inspected the components as Vasha got two magazines of ammunition for the rifle, along with a gun cleaning kit and oil. “This is exactly what I wanted,” McGarvey said. He counted out the money as Vasha carefully placed the rifle, magazines and cleaning supplies in the leather bag.

  “Anything else?”

  “No,” McGarvey said, handing the salesman the money. “If all goes well, I’ll see you in a few weeks for more equipment. Maybe something quite a bit larger.”

  “I’ll be here,” Vasha said.

  Slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder McGarvey walked away, taking a roundabout route back toward where he’d left the Mercedes.

  A hundred yards from the car, the cabby Arkady Astimovich pulled up beside him, at the same moment he heard the sound of a helicopter coming in low and fast from the west.

  “Climb in and I’ll get you out of here,” Astimovich said urgently.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got another Mercedes—”

  “Yeb vas, I know,” Astimovich cut in. “I saw you drive up. But the goddamn cops were right behind you. They’re all over the place now.”

  The helicopter was getting closer.

  He hated to leave the uniform, but he’d removed Voronin’s name from the lining, and there was nothing in the laptop computer that would lead back to Rencke. But Chernov was damned good, even better than his brother.

  He clambered into the cab, and ducked below the level of the windows as Astimovich took off in the opposite direction from the Mercedes on the heels of dozens of police cars coming out from the city, their lights flashing, their sirens blaring.

  It was 1:15 A.M. when the helicopter touched down at the edge of the vast Dinamo Stadium parking lot. Chernov and Petrovsky dismounted and hurried over to the knot of policemen standing around the Mercedes four-by-four.

  “Who is in charge of this operation?” Chernov asked mildly, though he was seething with rage.

  A Militia lieutenant was summoned from one of the patrol cars, where he’d been busy on the radio. He saluted crisply.

  “You were told to follow this car, not mount World War Three,” Chernov said.

  “We did follow the car, sir,” he said. He gestured toward the flea market. “But the driver disappeared in there someplace, so I ordered the entire parking lot surrounded. My people are letting them out one by one after a thorough search. We’ll find him.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied enthusiastically.

  “Very well. But if you don’t find him here tonight, you will be placed under arrest and tried for failure to follow orders. Is that clear?”

  The lieutenant’s face fell. “Yes, sir.”

  “I suggest that you get on with it,” Chernov said, and the lieutenant scurried back to his radio car.

  “Over here,” Petrovsky said, from the Mercedes.

  Chernov walked over. A KGB general’s uniform was laid out in the backseat, along with a laptop computer.

  “Well, we know how he planned on getting close,” Petrovsky said. “Now that he doesn’t have this, maybe he’ll finally give up.”

  “He won’t quit,” Chernov said. He glanced toward the flea market. “He came here to buy a weapon, and he means to use it.”

  “Then maybe we’re lucky, maybe he’s still here.”

  Chernov shook his head. “He’s gone. As soon as he spotted the first police car he got out. It’s just as much my fault as it is that lieutenant’s.”

  “Were you serious about arresting him?”

  “Either that or just shoot him and get it over with, I really don’t care which,” Chernov said. “In the meantime McGarvey has made it to Moscow, and it’s up to us to find him in the next forty-eight hours, whatever it takes.” Chernov gave Petrovsky a hard stare. “And I do mean whatever it takes.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Club Grand Dinamo

  McGarvey sat across the large desk from Yakov Ostrovsky, his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette and sipping French champagne, while he maintained an outward calm. Astimovich waited with Ostrovsky’s bodyguards and ferret-faced accountant in an outer office, while the boss talked serious business with the Belgian who’d apparently gotten himself in some big trouble. No one else in the busy club knew what was going on, and Ostrovsky agreed to let it remain that way for the moment, although he was extremely suspicious and therefore wary, but curious. It was this curiosity that McGarvey planned on using to his advantage over the next forty-eight hours.

  “I’m told that there was some excitement at the flea market this evening,” the Mafia boss said. “You had to leave the car you were bringing to me.”

  McGarvey
shrugged indifferently. “There are ten more coming by transport truck from Riga in a few days.”

  “If you were stopped because of one car, what makes you think that you’ll be successful bringing in ten?”

  “Because the next shipment won’t be traceable to me. They’re coming directly to you if we can make a deal. But I’ll have to lay low here until they arrive.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll be returning to Riga to arrange for further shipments,” McGarvey said. “That is if you want more cars.”

  “Situations change,” Ostrovsky said, a calculating expression in his eyes. “Maybe we’ll have to rework the conditions of our business arrangement. Maybe the risk has become too great for me. I have a serious position to maintain.”

  “I’m listening,” McGarvey said.

  “It strikes me that the Militia went to a lot of trouble to corner an ordinary smuggler tonight.”

  “But that’s just the point, Yakov, I’m not an ordinary smuggler. In fact you’ve already verified that the papers for the car are valid. It’s the same for the car I had to abandon tonight. The Militia was after me because I killed two of their officers outside of Volokolamsk.”

  “Now that’s a crime those boys do take seriously,” Ostrovsky said quietly. “Why did you do it?”

  “I was speeding, and since I was driving such an obviously expensive automobile they suggested that I needed protection.”

  “Why didn’t you pay it?”

  “I would have been forced to pass on the extra cost to you.”

  Ostrovsky shrugged.

  “The fact is I don’t like to be pushed around,” McGarvey said, allowing a hard edge into his voice. “I was tired, they were being unreasonable, and when I told them to fuck themselves they ordered me to get out of the car. So I shot them dead, dragged their bodies into the ditch, and drove the rest of the way here. Somebody must have seen something, maybe a farmer, I don’t know. It was just rotten luck.”