Assassin km-6

by David Hagberg

  “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 re sighted

  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 As timovich 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 was, 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 ear 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,“I 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.”

  “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 brash 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 slig
ht reaction in Liesel’s eyes. “General 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.