Assassin

by David Hagberg

  “What were you doing at the flea market?”

  “I bought a couple of souvenirs for a friend in Brussels,” McGarvey said. He allowed a faint smirk. “This business is a two-way street, you know.”

  “Let me see the gun you used,” Ostrovsky said.

  McGarvey hesitated a moment, then leaned forward so that he could remove the Walther from its holster at the small of his back. He ejected the magazine, locked the empty breach block in the open position and handed it across the desk.

  Ostrovsky examined the gun, then sniffed the barrel. “This weapon has not been fired recently.”

  “I cleaned it.”

  The Mafia boss nodded. “You are an efficient man.”

  “Da,” McGarvey said. “There’s no problem importing cars to you. The only problem that exists at the moment is a place for me to stay for a few days. I would have thought that you would provide me the professional courtesy.” McGarvey inclined his head.

  Ostrovsky sat back, a big grin on his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Monsieur Allain,” he said. “I will be happy to have you as a guest of the club until my cars safely arrive.” His smile disappeared. “Since it’s only for a few days, I’ll require you to remain here, out of sight within the club.” Ostrovsky smiled again. “Think of it as a well-deserved vacation.”

  “That’s fine with me,” McGarvey said, returning the smile. “But you might warn your staff that I’m a light sleeper. A very light sleeper.”

  Aboard Tarankov’s Train

  Elizabeth McGarvey lay fully clothed on the narrow bed in the darkness of the tiny train compartment, trying without luck to catch at least a few hours sleep. Her heart refused to slow down, and her stomach ached from fear and worry.

  By now Jacqueline would have reported her missing, and word would have been passed to Tom Lynch in Paris, who would have in turn informed Ryan at Langley. But there was nothing any of them could do to help her, simply because nobody knew where she’d been taken.

  She had, for all intents and purposes, dropped off the face of the earth, because even if they somehow knew she’d been taken to Russia, even the Russians had no real idea where Tarankov’s train was located at any given time, nor did they seem to want to know.

  In a little more than forty-eight hours, Tarankov would sweep into Moscow, mount the reviewing stand atop Lenin’s tomb and tell his countrymen, and the world, that he was the new supreme leader of Russia, and would by whatever means necessary restore the old Soviet Union to all of its past glory. Sometime during the speech her father would try to kill him, but at that moment he would get the shock of his life. He would see his own daughter standing beside the madman, and there was no predicting what he would do about it. She was sick with dread.

  Chernov had told her all of that on the way out to the isolated spot where the camouflaged train was parked as if he were merely telling her about the weather, or about some sports team that was campaigning for a championship. What bothered her most was his easy confidence, and the obvious competence of the rugged-looking commandoes guarding the train. Nobody had maltreated her, or had even raised their voices. She’d been politely escorted to this compartment the moment she’d arrived. They’d given her a bottle of wine, a platter of breads, cheeses, pickles, herring and even caviar. A polite soldier showed her how to use the compact shower, asking that she conserve water because their tankage was limited, and supplied her with clean battle fatigues in her size, wool slippers, and a small kit containing a hair brush and a few basic toiletries.

  For the first couple of hours, expecting to be summoned by Tarankov, she refused to eat or drink anything, or take a shower and change into the clean clothes. It was an act of defiance on her part that finally seemed futile as time passed and her isolation deepened. She’d tried to open the window, but even the blackout curtains were locked in place. She’d listened at the door, but all she could make out were the sounds of machinery running softly somewhere, and the distant undertones of male voices, the words indistinct and impossible to make out.

  Around 11:00 by her watch, her hunger finally overcame her stubbornness and she finished half the bottle of wine and ate most of the quite good food on the tray. Afterward she’d taken a shower, washed her bra and panties and hung them up to dry, then got dressed in the fatigues and wool slippers. Well fed and freshly bathed, she’d shut out the lights, lay down on the cot and tried to go to sleep. But as dead tired as she was her mind refused to shut down, and she replayed the events since Riga over and over.

  Something brushed her lips and she woke with a start, her heart accelerating. The corridor door was ajar and in the dim light she made out the narrow, thin-lipped features of a woman standing over her.

  “I mean you no harm,” the woman said quietly in heavily accented English.

  Elizabeth fumbled for the bedside light switch, flipped it on, then sat up.

  The woman stepped back. She was slightly built with deep-set, expressive eyes, and medium-length blonde hair. She was dressed in UCLA sweats. A little color had come to her high cheeks and forehead.

  “Who are you?” Elizabeth asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

  “I’m Liesel Tarankov,” the woman said. Her eyes lowered slightly. “You’re not what we expected.”

  Elizabeth looked down at the front of her fatigue shirt. The top three buttons were undone, exposing her bare breasts, and her stomach did a slow roll. She clutched her shirt together. “Get out you bitch,” she tried to shout, but she swallowed her words.

  Liesel laughed. “I don’t think that you’re in any position to give orders, my dear.”

  “When my father shows up—”

  “By then it will be too late for you,” Liesel said. She reached back and closed the door.

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  “I haven’t had that pleasure since my college days. But seeing you on that bed like Sleeping Beauty, some of the old memories came back.” Liesel cocked her head to listen for something.

  “I won’t be so easy.”

  “Oh, come on, Elizabeth, you can’t tell me that you didn’t fool around in the dark at that school of yours in Switzerland.”

  Elizabeth looked around for a suitable weapon, her eyes lighting on the half-full wine bottle. She lunged for it, but Liesel was too quick for her, snatching the bottle off the tray before she could reach it.

  “I believe you’re going to be even more interesting than I imagined,” Liesel said, and she smiled with anticipation.

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to scream.

  “Please go ahead and cry out for help, you might learn something about the real world,” Liesel said. “Washington and New York might be dangerous places for a young woman, but you can always call nine-one-one, yes? Help is just a telephone call away.” Liesel shook her head, her lips down-turned. “I’m so sorry little girl, but there is no nine-one-one for you here.”

  “Then I’ll kill you.”

  “You may try, but I’m older and more experienced. And before you tell me about the wonderful hand-to-hand combat training you received at the CIA’s school, it is a lie. We have checked. You have received no training.”

  “Maybe my father taught me,” Elizabeth shot back, for want of anything else to say. Nobody was coming to her rescue. She was going to have to work this out herself. One thing was certain in her mind, however, and that was if Liesel Tarankov touched her she was going to kill the woman.

  “Your father was never home long enough to teach you anything. He couldn’t keep his wives, nor can he even manage to sustain a relationship with any of his whores.” Liesel chuckled. “Of course what can you expect of a man whose parents spied for us?”

  The woman had picked the wrong topic. Although Elizabeth was still frightened, a calmness came over her.

  “You’re nothing more than an ignorant slut, but then what can you expect from an East German,” Elizabeth said in Russian, and she was satisfied to see a slight reaction in Liesel’s eyes. “Ge
neral Baranov had that story about my grandparents planted years ago, and by now everybody knows it for what it is, nothing more than a crude lie. I don’t even think Colonel Bykov, or should I say Leonid Chernov, believes it.”

  Liesel gave her an appraising look. “Of course if you prefer, there are two hundred boys here who’ve been without a woman for months. They might not be so gentle.”

  “What’s the trouble, are they tired of you already?”

  Before Liesel could make a move, the door opened and Yevgenni Tarankov stuck his head in.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  It took a moment for Elizabeth to recognize him, because he was older looking than in the photographs she’d studied, and it took a second longer for her to realize that he seemed slightly vexed and realize that she could take advantage of the moment because Liesel looked guilty.

  “If you mean to use me to lure my father here, I can understand that,” Elizabeth blurted.

  Tarankov looked mildly at her.

  “But if that includes your wife trying to rape me while I’m asleep, then your plan won’t work. Because she says that she’ll kill me if I resist.”

  Liesel laughed out loud.

  Elizabeth removed her hand from her fatigue shirt to show that it was unbuttoned, and then opened it to expose her breasts. “When I awoke she was kissing me and fondling my breasts. And believe me, I think I’m in big enough trouble as it is without imagining something like that.”

  Tarankov’s forehead creased and his wide eyes narrowed.

  Liesel looked from Elizabeth to her husband. “I don’t care what you believe, Zhennia, because now I don’t think either one of us will let the other fuck her.”

  Liesel brushed past her husband and disappeared down the corridor, leaving him staring at Elizabeth.

  Lefortovo

  Chernov called a meeting in his office for 9:00 A.M., with Gresko and Petrovsky. It was dawn before every person and vehicle at the Dinamo Stadium flea market had been thoroughly checked out, and McGarvey had not turned up. The only news of any interest, at least to the Militia, was that twenty-seven arrests had been made for everything from illegal arms dealing to counterfeiting documents, and illegal financial transactions. Some of those who’d been picked up had been on the Militia’s most wanted list for two years or more. Before last night there’d never been the initiative to clean out the flea market. But if anyone had seen McGarvey, they weren’t talking.

  “He was there, for maybe as long as an hour,” Chernov told them. “Which gave him plenty of time to buy anything he needed. A weapon. Papers.”

  “But he left the KGB uniform behind, which means that part of his plan has been ruined,” Petrovsky pointed out.

  “Maybe it was a ruse,” Gresko suggested. “To make us believe that’s how he was going to get close to Tarankov.”

  “I don’t think so,” the Militia captain argued. “I agree with Colonel Bykov that he showed up at the flea market to pick up a weapon, but when he realized that he was cornered he ran.”

  “To where?” Gresko asked.

  “Maybe back to the border. Or, maybe the bastard has help.”

  “It wasn’t Yemlin.”

  “No, but there are others in Moscow who’d be willing to do it for a price. And McGarvey is a rich man. He could buy his way out of just about everything. Look at that pussy wagon he brought over. It has to be worth plenty.”

  Gresko threw up his hands. “Then we’re back to square one. He’s in Moscow, and we’ve got two days to catch him. That is if Tarankov actually shows up for the May Day celebrations.”

  “He will,” Chernov said absently, thinking of something else.

  “What makes you so sure about that, Colonel?” Gresko asked.

  Chernov dismissed the obvious question with a gesture. “Everybody in Moscow knows it by now. Everyone in the entire country knows it.”

  “Then why not concentrate our efforts on arresting him when he gets here?” Gresko said. He glanced at Petrovsky. “The military is obviously incapable of doing the job, but we could pull it off. We don’t know where McGarvey is, but we do know where Tarankov will be and what he’ll be doing.”

  “A fine idea, Major, except for two problems,” Chernov said. “In the first place our job is to find and stop McGarvey. Nothing more.”

  “If the situation was explained to General Yuryn, I think he’d see our point.”

  “Maybe he’d see that we’ve failed so far,” Chernov pointed out. “But be that as it may, the second problem is Tarankov’s followers. There’ll probably be a million of them in Red Square the day after tomorrow. Now, if you want to march up to the speaker’s platform and clap handcuffs on the man in front of all those people, then be my guest.”

  “I see what you mean,” Gresko said. “But I think that if the army doesn’t arrest him before May Day, and McGarvey fails to kill him, then we’re all lost.”

  “How do you mean that?” Chernov asked calmly.

  “Tarankov will take over the government. I don’t think anybody doubts it.”

  “That’s politics,” Chernov said. “In the meantime we have our orders, unless you want to quit.”

  Again Gresko glanced at Petrovsky, but then he sighed. “No, Colonel, we won’t quit. But frankly McGarvey is a lot better than any of us ever expected.”

  “He’s just a man. He makes mistakes. Already he’s lost his car, and the KGB uniform.”

  “And he’s lost money,” Petrovsky said. “The documents show that he was importing the car from Leipzig via Riga. Which means he had a buyer for it here in Moscow. Find the buyer and we might find McGarvey.”

  “Who in Moscow can afford such a vehicle?” Chernov asked.

  “A few politicians, some businessmen,” Petrovsky said. “The Mafia. But they won’t talk to us—”

  “Wait a minute,” Gresko broke in. “McGarvey was importing that car from Leipzig, right? Maybe it wasn’t the first. Maybe he brought others across, to establish himself as an importer. Somebody who paid out a lot of bribes, and was well liked by the people who could hide him.”

  “Back to the Mafia,” Chernov said. “Check vehicle registration to see who bought a similar vehicle or vehicles over the past couple of weeks. It might provide us with a lead, if your people have the balls to ask the questions of the right people. Find his buyers and we might find McGarvey. He’s made at least one mistake so far, maybe he’ll make another.”

  At the door on the way out, Petrovsky had another thought. “What did you do with his daughter?”

  “We had a chat, but she’s just as much in the dark as the rest of us,” Chernov said matter of factly. “So I dropped her off at her embassy.”

  “Just as well,” Petrovsky said. “We don’t need to get into it with the CIA right now.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Club Grand Dinamo

  McGarvey woke very slowly from a profoundly deep, dreamless sleep. His mouth was dry, his muscles ached, he had a tremendous headache, and as he struggled back to complete consciousness he realized that he must have been drugged. Normally he awoke instantly. It was a habit of self-preservation that every field officer who survived for long developed.

  He was naked under the covers, although after he had eaten he had flopped down fully clothed on the bed to catch a few hours rest. At the time he’d thought it was possible he’d been drugged, so that they could disarm him and check the contents of the leather satchel, but there’d been little he could have done to prevent it. He needed food and rest.

  The lights were on, and when he opened his eyes, Ostrovsky, who was seated astraddle a chair at the end of the bed, smiled wide with pleasure.

  “Ah, you’re finally awake, Mr. McGarvey. We thought you might sleep another night through.”

  “What time is it?” McGarvey mumbled, feigning more drowsiness than he felt. The son of a bitch knew his name already. He probably had a source within the SVR.

  “Six in the evening,” Ostrovsky said. “You’ve
been sleeping for more than fifteen hours.”

  His ferret-faced accountant was perched on the arm of a couch across the room, and two very large men, in shirtsleeves, large caliber handguns that looked like Glock-17s in their shoulder holsters, watched alertly from where they stood on either side of the door.

  The leather satchel lay open on the floor next to a table on which the bolt-cutters and the component parts of the sniper rifle were laid out.

  “Christ,” McGarvey said. He shoved the covers back and struggled to sit up, swinging his feet to the floor. He hunched over and held his head in his hands. “I feel like shit. What the hell did you put in my drink?”

  “In your food actually, but it was just a sedative,” Ostrovsky said.

  McGarvey looked up, bleary-eyed. “Can I have a cigarette?”

  Ostrovsky tossed him a pack of Marlboros and a gold lighter. When McGarvey had a cigarette lit he looked over at the Mafia boss as if something had just occurred to him.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Your name is Kirk McGarvey, and from what I was told you are certainly inventive and a very dangerous man,” Ostrovsky said. He nodded toward the gun parts on the table. “You’ve come here to assassinate someone with that rifle. My guess is the Tarantula. Given half a chance and a little better luck, you might have succeeded. Which brings up some very interesting possibilities.”

  McGarvey smiled wanly in defeat.

  “So you have me. Now what?”

  “Now what indeed?” Ostrovsky said. “That depends in part on your cooperation, because I think you are a very valuable piece of property. The question is would you be just as valuable dead, or are we going to have to see that you remain alive? It’ll be a matter of propaganda.”