Black Gambit

by Clark, Eric

  He chose a seat near the centre of the airplane, on the aisle. As he sat, he was conscious of some jostling for the seat behind him. He took the magazine from the rack on the back of the seat in front of him. He skimmed through an article on Van Gogh. Other passengers were still boarding.

  Behind him, a young man had seated himself. Zorin felt the man pushing a small case forward beneath his seat. The aircraft seemed to be taking an endless time to fill.

  It was 11.25. By now the aircraft, which was due to leave at 11.30, should have been beginning to taxi out on the runway. It was still attachéd to the pier, and the last passengers were boarding.

  *

  Raviv was trying to read a newspaper but could not concentrate. He wondered what was in the case and how much his actions would advance the cause and whether this was just the start. He looked at the back of Zorin’s seat. When would the man make contact?

  *

  Zorin had closed his eyes. The brandy had mellowed him. He was thinking of Tanya. He realized someone was talking to him. It was a stewardess. First she tried Dutch, then English. It took a little time to focus. ‘… and if you wouldn’t mind, it would be nice …’ At last he realized he was being asked if he would change his seat; something to do with two people who wanted to sit together.

  He followed the stewardess along the aisle. He was a dozen seats away, beginning to edge himself into his seat, the aircraft still grounded, when the bomb went off.

  The sound came first, drowning every other noise, awful in its suddenness.

  Before there was time to react, the blast-wave hit. It struck Zorin hard, pitching him forward into the aisle. As he fell, the right side of his face hit the edge of a fold-down table that had been forced away from the seat ahead. But he felt nothing. It was like a dream being acted in slow motion.

  After the blast there was a silence, and Zorin found himself thinking that if this was death there was nothing to fear.

  Then, almost simultaneously, came the cracks of pieces of broken aircraft and luggage hitting the sides of the cabin — and the screams.

  Zorin felt people beginning to move around him. Terrified that he would be trampled to death, he managed to get to his knees, screaming and shouting now but not realizing it.

  He turned towards the site of the blast. The cabin lights had gone out; the immediate scene was lit by daylight that entered through a jagged hole in the ceiling. The air was full of small pieces of fluttering paper and material. Some of them were alight.

  He gazed at it all, seeing but not feeling.

  Then his mind opened itself to the screams and the people and the smell of burning. He could just make out what must be bodies — a beam of light picked out a hand, incredibly white, lying limp over the edge of a seat.

  As Zorin watched, a body rolled over into the aisle. He could see only its shape, but there was something strange about the head. Zorin could not know: it was Raviv, a seven-inch long piece of metal embedded in his skull.

  He saw a stewardess emerge from the smoke. The heat produced by the released gases, over two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, had set fire to her uniform. She stumbled down the aisle, her hands to her face, flames leaping from her hair and clothes.

  Her mouth was open, gasping. But Zorin could hear nothing from her — other screams, continuous, high-pitched, drowned them.

  He began to clamber for the door. Another stewardess was vainly trying to hold people back.

  For the first time Zorin felt the blood pouring down the side of his face. Yet even as he struggled and pushed, realization welled up inside him.

  The explosion must have taken place within feet of where he had been sitting. He had been the target. Someone had tried to kill him. Suddenly he was out of the aircraft, back on to the bridge linking it with the pier. His feet echoed on the corrugated iron.

  On the pier he finally sank to the ground and began to sob. A group gathered round him. Police were flooding into the area. Someone was saying ‘Get him somewhere quiet’ and another ‘No, don’t move him.’ But two men lifted him and carried him behind one of the partition walls.

  There he lay, a coat under his head, hidden from the crowds who were now just sounds. Now the men who had carried him were being ushered away. Someone was wiping the blood from his face and talking in Dutch.

  ‘Help me, help me,’ Zorin whispered.

  Despite the panic his mind was working. He knew what he would do now. They had tried to murder him, but he had survived.

  He had been crazy to follow instructions. What did he owe anyone? Why should he do what he was told? All that mattered was staying alive, and Tanya.

  He would learn from his mistake. He would go to the Dutch authorities or the American embassy and surrender himself. They would protect him and get him to Israel. He would take no more risks.

  ‘You’re all right. Fine. Hardly hurt,’ said a voice in English. The words were meant to be reassuring, not factual: the facial cut was superficial but Zorin looked as though he had been trampled on; there might be internal injuries or broken ribs.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ he explained. ‘Airport emergency.’

  The doctor pulled a bag towards him and took out a hypodermic. This case would keep. There were obviously more serious ones at the site itself.

  Zorin stared at the hypodermic. He tried to lift his arms. ‘No! No!’ His voice was full of horror.

  The doctor was impatient to move on. ‘Only to help you … Come on.’

  A second face joined the doctor’s in Zorin’s vision. For the first time he realized there was another man present, a border policeman in his blue shirt and trousers. Zorin could not understand what was being said, but finally the doctor put away the hypodermic and stood. He paused for a moment, reluctant, and then smiled. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said to Zorin in English. ‘Just fine. I’ll be back soon.’ Then he was gone.

  The policeman took his place. He was a big man. Kneeling was obviously difficult. ‘I told him go tend the rest and I’d stay with you.’

  Zorin smiled his thanks. He felt safe. The guard pulled aside his gun holster and fumbled.

  ‘Cigarette?’ He held out the packet.

  Zorin tried to extract one and failed. The policeman placed one in his mouth. Zorin saw him look up and around. Then the policeman offered his lighter. Zorin watched it come close. It was bright yellow, just a cheap throw-away lighter. He suddenly realized it had passed the end of the cigarette and was under his nose. The policeman spoke. Zorin looked up, surprised. He had spoken in Russian. The man had his face half-turned away and it looked as though he was holding his breath. Then Zorin felt the jet of cold spray and gasped as the bitter sweetness filled his nostrils. His body tried to arch, but a hand was being pushed hard against his chest.

  He was dead within thirty seconds.

  *

  Still holding his breath Kovalev rose and walked out on to the main pier. He looked back. The body, pushed close against the far side of the partition, could not be seen.

  In the chaos he thought there should be at least fifteen minutes, but five would do. In the air-conditioning the vapour, which was very slightly lighter than air anyway, would have completely dispersed by then. Not even that odour variously described as peach-blossom or bitter almond would remain around the body. And in practice very few people could detect the smell anyway.

  Kovalev took a deep breath. He did not think he had inhaled any of the vapour. He had certainly not taken in enough to kill, but he would be nervous for the next hour or so, watching for warning signs of a small dose — the watering eyes, the headache, the salivating mouth, the irritated throat.

  Perhaps better to be absolutely safe. As he walked he took an ampoule from his pocket and broke it into a handkerchief. He lifted the cloth and inhaled deeply. He gasped at the amyl nitrite and felt his heart begin to pound.

  Kovalev neared the departure lounge. Men working on the new fourth pier had gathered together and were talking excitedly and staring towards
the scene of the explosion.

  He turned and walked through them. Beyond was the room where the men changed from outside clothes into overalls. Hooks were covered with jackets. Against one wall were lockers where the workmen left their belongings.

  Kovalev took a brightly checked jacket from the hook where he had left it earlier and slipped it on.

  The third locker from the top on the extreme left was unlocked, as arranged. From it he took his travel case, leaving the black holster in its place. That would be collected later.

  No one looked as he walked out.

  The man who entered the departure lounge seconds later was no longer a policeman, but a tourist.

  There was not much to do now. He’d have to get rid of the empty lighter. Any drain would do for that. It was, after all, a throw away lighter.

  As such it had intrigued him from the start. It was an almost perfect poison spray. He had converted it partly as a second line of attack, and partly because he found himself with the time and the right equipment and chemicals.

  He was glad he had. A lot had obviously gone wrong. The aircraft had been delayed. And the bomb had gone off ten minutes earlier than he had planned. And the case could not have been near Zorin.

  But throughout his career he had always tried to anticipate failures — and to have a standby scheme ready to put into action.

  It had been such a simple idea. He had drilled a hole in the bottom of the liquid gas container and drained out the liquid. He replaced this with hydrocyanic gas in liquid form, mixed with a fluorocarbon propellant he had found in the laboratory.

  The other modifications were minimal. He removed the flint and slightly enlarged the valve so that more gas would emerge when the lighter was worked.

  Suddenly his legs felt tired. He found an empty bench and sat.

  The elation started to diminish. He realized how close he had been to failing — and no matter how important you were failure never went unpunished.

  But he hadn’t failed! He began to feel contentment again, and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he pictured a body — a man lying hurt, eyes questioning. Kovalev shuddered. It had been a long time since he had been operational. For a few seconds he felt pity and disgust, and then he forced them down. He had done what he had to.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘HEY,’ SHE SAID, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Parker turned onto his side, rolling himself in the blanket, revelling in the dream.

  She kissed his forehead again.

  Parker opened his eyes. Anna was leaning over him, smiling. She was wearing a white nylon nightdress, the front decorated with frills. By Western standards it was very short — a good three inches above the knee. She had produced it from the bottom of a chest the previous evening. ‘My decadent reminder of the West,’ she had told him, lifting it high in front of her as she crouched on her knees.

  Parker had not asked ‘reminder of what?’

  He sat up and took the cup of black coffee that she held out to him. He sipped it immediately, with pleasure; he had been in Russia long enough to know what a rare delight fresh coffee was.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ he urged.

  Anna looked at her watch. Then, almost coyly, she slid back under the covers. They both, Parker realized, smelled of sweat and sex.

  ‘Where’s your coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘I drank it.’

  Parker was not sure whether she was telling the truth or whether there had only been enough for one. Whichever way, he by-passed the answer.

  ‘Let me put my head on your shoulder,’ he said.

  Anna leaned back against the pillow, and Parker eased himself until his head rested on her breast, her arm around him.

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said at last.

  ‘Me too.’

  They lay still for perhaps five minutes and then Anna shrugged and pulled herself up. ‘I must get ready.’

  Parker made no move to stop her. Sitting up nursing his cup, now half empty, he watched her begin to dress.

  ‘Must you really go tomorrow?’

  ‘You know so.’

  She was naked now, but with her back towards him, shy at showing her breasts. They had made love each time in the dark.

  When she finished dressing, she turned to face him. She wore a patterned dress, red with white flowers. It was too young for her, but he smiled his approval.

  ‘You’ll get yourself breakfast?’ He nodded.

  She left a few minutes later. He was still in bed. ‘Till tonight.’ She blew a kiss from the door.

  Parker rose minutes later. The apartment was almost unnaturally quiet. He found eggs and boiled two. It felt strange being alone. He could still smell sex on himself. He washed in the kitchen sink while the eggs boiled, not daring to use the communal bathroom on the landing below.

  After eating he checked his watch. It was 8.50. Parker reached deep into his breast pocket and took out the photograph of Susan that Cory had given him in London. He stared at her for a long time. Her eyes were almost impossibly blue.

  It took him a little while to find paper. Using the back of a brown paper bag, he wrote hesitantly in Russian: ‘Thanks,’ in large letters. And then he added, ‘I’ll never forget you.’ He propped it on the kitchen table.

  It was a task of only minutes to pack his Air Canada bag. He took great care in tying on the bright red address label — a precautionary touch added by Cory. The idea was that if the militia were harassing visitors arriving at the embassy, as they sometimes did, the Marine guards on duty could easily pick out Parker and escort him inside.

  Even though both elevators were now working, he took the stairs to the street. The morning rush was over and there were few people at the Metro station.

  It was 9.45 when he emerged into the street again. There was a fine drizzle and he enjoyed the feel of it on his face.

  He was to arrive at the gate to the embassy at 9.55. His timing, he realized, was perfect.

  At 9.50 the American embassy compound came into sight. Parker stood on the far side of the road, facing the heavy iron gates behind which stood the old, nine-storey building.

  Nearby he could see the militiamen who stood on duty twenty-four hours a day to ‘protect the embassy from vandals and gatecrashers.’ They were chatting together, taking no special notice.

  Parker waited for a lull in the traffic and began to cross the street. On his right he saw the doors of a parked car open. It was grey. Four men got out. From their manner and their clothes, Parker knew immediately that they were KGB men. They began to walk in his direction.

  He felt a stab of fear but did not change his pace: he was on the sidewalk near the embassy and the KGB men were still fifty yards away.

  Parker neared the gate to the compound, conscious now that his heart was pounding, not with effort but with nervousness. He looked back over his right shoulder. The men were still walking in his direction, spread out four abreast, not hurrying at all.

  The gate was no more than ten yards away now. Behind it, he could see a US Marine guard. There was no reason, but Parker quickened his pace.

  In seconds he would be safe. He felt his mouth forming into a smile. He wanted to giggle hysterically.

  He watched the guard focus on his Air Canada bag with its tag. He thought he saw recognition in the man’s eyes.

  Parker looked back again. The KGB men were still keeping up their slow steady pace. Then he realized that the Marine guard had moved.

  The guard slammed the lock on the gate, turned, and marched away.

  Parker could not know, but from 8,000 miles away Scott had made sure there were no loose ends.

  At first Parker could not believe it. He reached the gate and grabbed the bars with both hands. He pushed, but nothing would give. He pushed again. He looked back. The four men were nearer. Parker sank to his knees, his arms spread above his head, his hands tight around the bars. He began to bang his head against the gat
e.

  Then he heard the footsteps.

  If you enjoyed Black Gambit check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.

  For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.

  Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.