“I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t know who the hell you think you are, or what the hell you’re trying to do—”
“Mac always said you were even more stubborn than he was,” Rencke cut in. “But he said you were a smart and honorable man. Watch this.”
Before the call Rencke had entered the CIA’s computer system. He brought up the monitor on Murphy’s desk, and downloaded the Bykov-Chernov file he’d generated, along with copies of the net chat he’d had with Elizabeth, and the records of the phone trace to the Riga apartment.
“Your phone line and computer access codes are supposed to be super-secure,” Rencke said. “Remind me one of these days, and if I have the time I’ll show your people why they’re living in a dream world and how to fix it.”
There was another silence on the line, this time for nearly a minute.
“I see what you mean,” Murphy said. “I’m not going to ask right now how you got this information, but it’s all new to me. I had no idea that Ryan was using Elizabeth McGarvey to find her father.”
“You picked him as your DDO, General,” Rencke said harshly. “The man is a dangerous fool, and because of him there’s a very good chance that Elizabeth will be killed unless you do something about it right now.”
“Even if Tarankov has her, he won’t do anything until after the elections, which gives us several weeks.”
“Wrong answer,” Rencke said. “Tarankov will make his move in Red Square tomorrow. And Mac will be there to try to kill him.”
“My people tell me differently.”
“Your people are wrong. We’re not talking about political correctness here, General. This isn’t what the White House wants to hear, this is the truth. Unless something is done immediately a lot of good people are going to get hurt, friends of mine. Not only that, Washington is going to end up with its trousers down around its ankles, as per usual. Use your friggin’ head, Murphy!”
“Listen here—”
“You listen,” Rencke shouted. “If you want to play games with me, I’ll crash your entire system. I’ll set a supervirus loose in every intelligence and Department of Defense computer in the country! That’s something else your analysts tell you is impossible. But, Mr. Director, you can’t believe how simple it would be to do.”
“What do you want?” Murphy demanded.
“I’m not going to ask you to take my word, Mr. Director, I may be naive but I’m not stupid. Check with Ryan, and find out exactly what that bastard has been doing. In the meantime I’ll download everything in my files on Tarankov and what’s about to happen over there. When you’ve got all that, take it to President Lindsay. The Russians asked for his help, well he’s in a position now to do just that.”
“How?”
“Jumped up Jesus, do I have to explain everything?” Rencke said. “The Russians have to arrest Tarankov before the May Day rally in Red Square tomorrow. No matter what it takes. Because if Tarankov is sitting in a jail cell there’ll be no reason to hold Elizabeth.”
Murphy sighed. “I see what you mean. But I don’t know if the President will go along with such a suggestion.”
“Try, General,” Rencke said. “At least do that much. Mac has done a lot for his country, maybe it’s time that his country does something for him and his family.”
Lefortovo
“We found the car,” Petrovsky shouted. “It’s parked on Marx Prospekt around the corner from the Bolshoi, about a hundred meters from the Ploshchad Revolyutsi metro station.”
“Is there any sign of McGarvey?” Chernov demanded.
“Not yet, but we’ve got plenty of men down there so that if he shows up he won’t have a chance.”
“What about the metro station itself, you fool? Have you got any men inside?”
“Yeb vas, no.”
“If he spots your people that’s where he’ll go, if he hasn’t already simply walked away. I want you to shut down every metro in the city, and station men at every stop. We might still have a chance to catch him.”
“I’ll get on it right now,” Petrovsky said.
“If your people see him, shoot him on the spot,” Chernov ordered. “I’m coming down there myself right now.”
Downtown Moscow
The bellman Artur wasn’t expected back at the Metropol for another hour.
McGarvey hung up the telephone. He’d already been here too long. He had to put as much distance between himself and the BMW as possible, because by now the word might have gotten to the Militia. But it was hard to think straight for fear of what Elizabeth was going through at this moment. He wanted to lash out right now, strike back, but he was powerless.
A train had arrived at the metro station and a crowd of people came up the fast moving escalators and surged for the exit. McGarvey picked up the satchel and fell in behind them. Like Astimovich, Artur had connections in the city. But if he couldn’t or wouldn’t help with a place to stay, McGarvey would have to find an out-of-the-way workingman’s hotel where he could bribe the desk clerk into not requiring identity documents. It would be risky, but he had to get off the streets as soon as possible.
The crowd slowed down and stopped. There seemed to be some sort of a bottleneck at the exit, and a commotion started. McGarvey stepped to one side in time to catch a glimpse of at least three Militia officers in riot gear, pushing their way through.
They had found the damn car.
McGarvey turned and walked back to the turnstile leading to the down escalator, the babushka in the glass booth watching him.
“Halt! Halt!” someone shouted from behind.
In three steps McGarvey was at the barrier, and he leaped over the turnstile, nearly catching the satchel handle, and tumbling down the rapidly moving escalator. But he regained his balance and took the moving stairs two at a time.
He caught up with a knot of people halfway to the bottom and bowled his way through them. He didn’t think that the Militia would be desperate enough to fire in a crowded escalator or subway platform. But they wouldn’t let him get away either. All the stations on this line would be covered.
At the bottom he pushed his way through the packed corridor through the arch and onto the crammed platform with its vaulted ceilings from which hung huge ornate crystal chandeliers. A train, its doors open and crowded with passengers, was not moving. The public address system was announcing that because of technical difficulties the metro was temporarily shut down, but to have patience.
The platform was a hundred yards long, and by the time he reached the far end, a buzz of excitement was growing behind him, spreading like a tidal wave. The Militia were clearing a path down the middle by shoving the people to one side or the other, and it was obvious that it would take them only a minute or so to reach the end of the platform.
With nowhere else to go, McGarvey jumped down to the track level, and raced into the black maw of the tunnel. People on the platform shouted for him to come back, and before he got twenty yards the beams of several flashlights appeared behind him.
The next stop would be two or three hundred yards away, and by now the Militia would be heading down the tunnel from that end meaning to catch him in the middle.
His suspicions were confirmed in the next minute when he spotted the pinpoints of several flashlights in the distance ahead. But at that moment he also spotted his way out, a low steel door set in a recess in the tunnel wall, and secured by an old-fashioned iron padlock.
Standing to the side to protect himself from bullet fragments, he fired three shots into the padlock, the third finally springing it.
The Militia at either end of the tunnel, thinking they were being fired upon, opened fire with automatic weapons, bullets and sparks and stone chips flying off the tunnel walls, ceiling and tracks.
McGarvey pulled the ruined padlock away and forced the heavy steel door open on rusty hinges. In what little light there was he could see narrow concrete stairs leading down into the absolute darkness. A cold breeze wafted up fr
om below, bringing with it the damp smells of water and sewage.
He stepped through the door as something hot and very sharp slammed into his left armpit, shoving up against the open door, and nearly dropping him to his knees. But then he straightened up and raced headlong down the stairs.
Chernov shined the beam of his flashlight on the few drops of blood in the doorway off the metro tunnel. The trains were still being held, and the tunnel was busy with Militia cops searching the tracks centimeter by centimeter.
“At least one of your men got lucky,” Chernov said to Petrovsky. “Why didn’t anyone follow him?”
“Do you know what’s down there, Colonel?”
“Yes, I do.”
“With a man of his caliber I think we need reinforcements before I send any of my people into that maze. There are thousands of places where he could wait in ambush.”
“He only has so many bullets.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel, but I won’t give that order until the Army shows up. They’ll be here within a half-hour, and we’ll have a good chance of flushing him out.”
“In the meantime he could be anywhere.”
“He won’t get very far in the condition he’s in,” Petrovsky said. He shined his flashlight down the trail of blood droplets finally lost in the darkness. “If he keeps losing blood he’ll probably pass out or become too weak to fight back.” Petrovsky looked into Chernov’s eyes. “The sewers aren’t such a healthy place to be for a wounded man.”
“Neither is Lefortovo for a healthy man,” Chernov said. “Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chernov walked back out to the tunnel, and up on the street General Yuryn beckoned him over to the limousine. He climbed in back and they took off.
“Tarankov will be at the rally in Red Square tomorrow and yet with all the resources at your command you have failed to stop one man,” Yuryn said coolly. “Are you going to merely stand by and let him succeed?”
“He’s wandering around in the dark sewers, wounded and losing a lot of blood,” Chernov said indifferently, although he was seething inside, and he was beginning to have his doubts that they’d ever had a true measure of the man.
“But I’m told he still has that shoulder bag. And we all know what that might contain.”
“The Army will be here in a few minutes, and they’ll make a systematic search of every hiding place down there.”
“That would seem an impossible task given the time remaining.”
“It might flush him out if he’s not already dead.”
Yuryn laughed humorlessly. “Maybe Tarankov should postpone his appearance.”
“He won’t do that,” Chernov said. “Neither will he send a double.”
“I didn’t think so,” Yuryn said. “So tomorrow it’ll come down to you versus Mr. McGarvey. I wonder who the better man is?”
THREE
MAY
FORTY
Red Square
Chernov mounted the stairs to the reviewing stand atop Lenin’s Mausoleum as the bells inside the Kremlin finished tolling midnight.
Workmen were busy putting the final touches on the platform for President Kabatov and the several dozen dignitaries who were expected to show up. Lights, banners, and a sound system were being installed here, as well as across the vast square that had been blocked off from all normal pedestrian traffic.
Soldiers and Militia officers manned the barricades and checked the papers of everyone entering or leaving, in part because McGarvey still had not been flushed out of hiding, but also because such precautions were normal for these kinds of events. This May Day parade and celebration was supposed to be the biggest in twenty years because Kabatov had made his conciliatory gesture to the Communists by assuming the party chairmanship.
But the carnival would backfire on them when Tarankov swept into Red Square at the head of his column of commandoes and announced to his people that he was returning the Rodina to them, the same message he’d been repeating for nearly five years. This time everybody would believe it.
Unless McGarvey killed him.
Chernov stood at the parapet and let his eyes drift across the periphery of the square, which tomorrow afternoon would be crammed with a million people. Special riot police and anti-terrorism squads would be dispersed throughout the crowd, but even Chernov had to admit to himself that spotting one man in that mob would be next to impossible.
“Let’s see your identification,” a gruff voice demanded.
Chernov turned to face an older man dressed in the special Militia uniform worn by guards detailed to Lenin’s Mausoleum. He handed his identification book over, then glanced up at the Kremlin walls towering over the rear of the mausoleum.
“Pardon me, Colonel,” the guard said, handing the booklet back. “But we can’t be too careful.”
“Who are you looking for?” Chernov asked.
“Anyone who doesn’t belong up here,” the guard said.
“Aren’t you aware that we’re looking for someone? Weren’t you briefed before you came on duty?”
“No, sir. When we closed up downstairs I was ordered to help check everyone who came up here.”
“You weren’t shown a photograph?”
“No, sir,”
Chernov took McGarvey’s photograph out of his jacket pocket and gave it to the guard.
“Ah, the Belgian gentleman. He was here, visiting Lenin, about three weeks ago, I think. Name is Allain, if my memory serves.” The guard looked up. “What’s he done?”
Chernov fought to keep his temper in check.
“There must be a thousand people visiting here every day, many of them foreigners, and yet you can recall this one?”
The guard shifted his stance. “He wasn’t like most of them. He was respectful. He even brought flowers.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Just a few words,” the guard responded diffidently, suspecting that he was in trouble. “But he seemed genuinely interested.”
“So he came to visit the tomb, he dropped off some flowers, you and he had a little chat, and then he left. Is that correct?”
“No, sir. He wanted to come up here so that he could stand where so many … great men had stood.”
“You brought him here?” Chernov demanded harshly.
“Yes, sir,” the guard said miserably. “But he only stayed for a minute.”
“What did he do while he was up here?”
The guard shrugged. “Why, the same thing you did, sir. First he looked down at the square, and then he looked back up at the Kremlin wall.”
“Do you know how to use your gun?”
The guard looked down at the Makarov pistol in its holster at his side. “Yes, sir.”
“The next time you see your gentleman, I want you to shoot him. Don’t ask any questions. Don’t stop to chat, or admire the scenery, just shoot him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chernov raced back to his car, and got on the phone to the Kremlin locator to find Kabatov’s chief of security, General Korzhakov, in his car heading home.
“The son of a bitch was carrying a KGB general’s uniform. He’s going to try for a clear shot at Tarankov from inside the Kremlin, and make his escape in the confusion.”
“That’s inventive,” Korzhakov said. “But he’s not going to last until June in the sewers.”
“I want security in and around the Kremlin tightened up.”
“After we get through today’s nonsense I’ll review our procedures with you—”
“Do it tonight, General.”
The line was dead for a moment.”
“Tarankov wouldn’t dare show his face in Moscow now.”
“Just do it.”
“Where are you getting your information?” Korzhakov demanded angrily.
“It’s common knowledge on the street, General. I’m not saying that Tarankov will show up, but a lot of people believe he will. Maybe McGarvey does too.”
“You
have a point, Bykov,” Korzhakov said. “I’m turning around now. I’ll be back in my office in a half hour.”
Aboard Tarankov’s Train
Sometime after midnight, by Elizabeth’s reckoning, she finally managed to work a corner of the window’s blackout shade loose so she could look outside. But it was pitch black and there was nothing to see except some woods across a narrow clearing.
In the thirty-six hours since Liesel had tried to molest her, she’d been left on her own. Except for the pleasant soldier’s bringing her meals at 8:00 A.M., noon, and 8:00 P.M., nothing had happened and she was half-crazy with fear and boredom.
She sat back disappointed, then got up and pulled down the tiny sink so that she could splash some water on her face. Her eyes in the mirror were bloodshot because she’d not been able to get any sleep since the incident with Liesel. Nor had she allowed herself to get undressed so that she could take a shower. She was worried that Liesel would return and catch her in a vulnerable position.
During the day it had been easier for her, because there’d been a great deal of activity in and around the train. She’d heard machinery running, men talking and laughing, and a constant stream of footsteps past her door. Once she’d heard a woman’s voice raised either in laughter or in a shout, she’d not been able to tell which. But she thought it must have been Liesel, because she didn’t think there were any other women aboard.
She’d thought that perhaps they were getting ready to move out, but by the time her evening meal was delivered the activity had all but ceased, and they’d gone nowhere.
Drying her face, she went to the door to listen, but there were no sounds. She knew that she was in the last car of the train, but other than this compartment she had no idea what was in the car or who shared it with her.
Assassin Page 42