A Wild Justice

by Craig Thomas

  Not yet, anyway, not just yet They sat in the car, the engine and the heater off, where Lubin had parked it on K Street, one block from the entrance to Panshin’s club. The Cafe Americain was closed and lightless.

  Panshin’s car was parked at the rear, as was the BMW driven by Kasyan. There were two other cars, small and Russian — but no transport in which half a dozen people could be easily smuggled lo another location. Lubin was watching the rear of the club, eager to erase any sense of insubordination his concern for Marfa might have’evoked.

  ‘You think they’re still inside?’ Vorontsyev asked.

  ‘Maybe — maybe not. Panshin’s in there, for sure. Let’s ask him, uh? How many other guys would be around at this hour?’

  ‘Three, perhaps four. The place has been closed for about an hour. In this weather, and with what he’s been hiding in the attic, he might not even have opened.’ He shrugged. ‘There could be more than four. Extra guards. Lock, we won’t know

  ‘what we’re walking into —’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Lock’s expression was bleak and introspective; dangerous to himself a’nd those in his immediate vicinity, Vorontsyev concluded. ‘It’s the only shot we have. We have to take it, both of you know that.’

  Dmitri sighed, but he was nodding, however reluctantly and with however much reservation.

  ‘We’ll need Marfa — she can watch our backs.’

  ‘We need to go in now/ Lock said levelly. There was, once more, the sense of an actor rehearsing a role that did not quite suit, one that required another voice, a stranger’s mentality.

  Vorontsyev remembered Lock’s CIA background. This was a field agent resurrected; bad old habits, recovered instincts. ‘Kasyan’s been back maybe twenty minutes now. They’ll have called for back-up. We don’t have much time.’

  ‘If she walks in blind, she could get herself killed!’

  ‘Then call her!’

  Vorontsyev handed the phone to Dmitri, who dialled his own number.

  ‘Yes?’ Marfa sounded distant, removed.

  ‘AH right?’

  ‘Dmitri-!’ she burst out.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing!’ she snapped back. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘We’re going in to Panshin’s now. When you get here, wait outside, watch our backs. We don’t know who’s in there or how many. We may be coming out in a hurry — be ready for us.’

  Dmitri snapped off the phone.

  ‘OK?’ he asked.

  Vorontsyev nodded. The click as Lock slid a round into the breech of the Makarov was startling, bell-like in clarity. Dmitri exhaled noisily.

  ‘OK.’

  Lock opened the door and got out, shutting it softly behind him. Vorontsyev looked darkly at Dmitri and murmured:

  ‘Don’t let anything he does get you killed, old friend. Remember that. We watch out for each other, not for him. Understand?’

  Dmitri’s expression was a conflict of acceptance and disappointment, good sense struggling with some bright new loyalty that embraced the American. Then he said:

  ‘Understood — sir.’

  Vorontsyev snapped: ‘Lock is dangerous to everyone around him, whichever flag they’re carrying. Just remember that! All he wants — still wants — is Turgenev dead. He’s humouring us.

  Don’t let him humour you into your pine box!’

  THIRTEEN

  Members and Outsiders

  ‘Very well, Hamid — very well!’ His exasperation was like a broken bone thrust through the surface of their conversation; the polite mincing game he was forced to play kept tearing like ricepaper. ‘I will personally supervise your departure on my aircraft.’

  There it was again, that note of pressure in his voice, that admission of the Iranian’s superiority.

  It is temporary, he reminded himself, merely a negotiating ploy.

  He was weary of the storm and his own narrowed focus, forced upon him by Hamid — above all he was weary of the small, neat, efficient Iranian. This’is temporary. He repeated the mantra, comforting himself.

  ‘Good, good — my friend, I realise I am trespassing on your patience and time.’ He shrugged. ‘I Śmyself have people I must please, even if that is not your situation. Thank you for helping me.’

  Turgenev grinned and rubbed his hand through his thick fair hair. The apology was sufficiently generous for him to accept it; it smoothed him like a woman’s hand.

  ‘Accepted.’ He raised his hands. ‘We continue to need each other, Hamid — it’s best that we work closely together.’ Even as other, more important matters piled up, he added to himself.

  Deals, negotiations, reports, analyses were stacked in his mind as blatantly as would have been billions of dollars heaped in neat piles on the desk in front of him. Those matters were worth such sums, but he had to superintend the boarding of half a dozen nuclear scientists and technicians onto his private jet for the flight to Tehran, like some damned steward in an airline uniform. He continued levelly, his voice pleasant: ‘The weather window is forecast to appear around eight, soon after full daylight. It could last two hours, or twenty minutes-‘ The Iranian’s features darkened with annoyance. ‘- they can’t be more accurate, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I understand,’ Hamid said slowly.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘They are prepared?’ He made them sound like meals that would be served on the aircraft.

  Turgenev nodded. ‘They are. Safely hidden but fully briefed.

  They know what is happening to them, and they have been handsomely down-paid.’ One or two of the early people had panicked at the last moment. A few had tried to back out, even to Jeave Iran or wherever, disgruntled and homesick. Pour encourager les autres, they had not been allowed to return. ‘It’s not like the early days any longer, Hamid. Moscow treats them like dirt now. They want to work for you!’ He laughed.

  ‘What time shall we be leaving?’

  ‘Six, Hamid, not before.’ It was as if he heard the blizzard more clearly for an instant, bellowing about the hunting lodge.

  A window rattled somewhere. The snow had drifted to first floor level outside the heavy curtains of the vast, panelled sitting room. The storm seemed intent on burying his home. He smiled, toasted the strict Moslem with his whisky, then swallowed the last of the drink. He felt almost at ease, despite the Iranian’s presence — until he remembered Bakunin and the business of Lock and Vorontsyev.

  He wished to hear of a successful conclusion to that fiasco before he left for the airport.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Hamid enquired with fastidious politeness.

  ‘No — nothing,’ he replied evenly, without emotion, ‘Nothing.’

  Vorontsyev listened, head cocked to one side. Dmitri’s noises at the front door were barely audible, even in the sheltered car park behind the Cafe Americain. Lock stood beside him, softly stamping his feet against the cold or his own tense impatience.

  Lubin, features pinched with cold beneath the fur hat, waited with what might have been reluctance for his next order.

  Dmitri’s yelling and buffeting of the front door was suddenly carried to them clearly by a freak of the wind and Vorontsyev nodded to both his companions. At once. Lock moved clumsily forward, as if released from some huge restraint. His borrowed pistol was gripped in one gloved hand, stiffly at his side. Vorontsyev’s own gun was in his left hand. He’d had Dmitri strap him more tightly together — paradoxically the recollection of Dmitri’s description caused him to smile — so that it was difficult to swallow the icy air as he breathed. He was on the edge of grogginess because of the painkillers.

  He stumbled once and Lubin caught his arm to steady him.

  Then they were in the shelter of the porch, trampling on drifted snow. Lock banged on the rear door of the club, which masqueraded as its members’ entrance. Other punters used the door on K Street.

  ‘Open up — GRU!’ Lock bellowed in Russian, startling his companions.

  ‘Come on, you lazy s
hits, the Colonel’s here and wants to talk to Panshin! Open up, you bastards! He wants to know how you managed lo cock it all up!’

  Lubin was smirking in open admiration of the American, even as the door opened and a face Vorontsyev recognized as belonging to one of the bouncers inspected them, then began protesting.

  ‘Keep the fucking noise down! You want to?’

  Lock struck him across the bridge of the nose with the barrel of the Makarov and thrust the door against him as he screamed in pain. The bouncer was shovelled back into the corridor like a sack of something. Lock bent over him and withdrew the pistol from the waistband of his trousers, then at once stood up. His movements were jerky, adrenalin-filled, under only the most effortful restraint. His eyes were as wide as a cat’s on seeing a small rodent break from cover.

  ‘Where?’ he snapped.

  ‘That way!’ Vorontsyev replied, pointing down the corridor.

  They would have to cross the floor of the club, through the tables, to reach the offices. The corridor remained empty. A smell from the lavatories and stale cigarette smoke. Inside, away from the storm, they could hear raised voices as Dmitri argued with whoever had opened the front door to an apparent drunk.

  Aggressive and indifferent, he was demanding a drink. ‘Hurry!

  I don’t want Dmitri out there for too long.’

  They whirled their way between the tables, neatly stacked with their upturned chairs, across the width of the club towards a velvet curtain that masked the corridor to Panshin’s offices and the stairs to the accommodation above the club. The first shot surprised them, biting at one of the chairs Lubin was negotiating, leaving a white, bonelike scar even in the dimness of the room’s poor light.

  Lock, crouching behind a table, fired twice towards the curtains.

  Vorontsyev, squinting after the muzzle flashes, saw no one. There had been no cry.

  He stood beside Lock, who quietly growled: ‘It was wearing a uniform. How many of them, Vorontsyev?’ His demand for information was intent.

  ‘I don’t know. How many would Bakunin spare to?’

  ‘Alexei?’ The cry of a father as Dmitri came hurtling into the club from the corridor leading to the front entrance. His gun was waving wildly, his head moving like that of a threatened prey-animal. Two shots from within the velvet curtain and Dmitri ducked back as Lock returned fire.

  ‘Dmitri?’ he yelled.

  ‘AH right!’

  ‘Lubin?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Watch the stage!’ Lock called out, then scuttled away between the tables, on all fours like a quick dog. Vorontsyev flinched as shots were directed towards the sound of his voice.

  His ribs were like hot needles thrust into his side and chest, and his arm, immobilised though it was, shrieked in concert with his torso. ‘There — I’ he heard Lock call, and was blinded by the muzzle flashes.

  Someone tumbled back, making a poor stage exit, a dim shadow disappearing. The club reeked of explosives. He watched as Lock clambered swiftly up onto the low, narrow stage where the musicians performed, saw him scuttle towards the side of the stage, then disappear.

  There were no orders, he realised, no noises of command and disposition — and he began to fear they were too late. Kasyan had called Panshin or someone else from the car, the moment he had recognized Dmitri. There had been time, too much time, for them to move the scientists. Dmitri appeared beside him, breathing like a beached whale.

  ‘You were right,’ he gasped, ‘he’ll have us all dead before morning at this rate! Are they here, Alexei?’

  Vorontsyev shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Shit! Where are they?’

  Two shots directed at them whined overhead. Dmitri returned fire, as did Lubin. Then Vorontsyev heard Lubin scrabbling to a new position. Two more shots from behind the curtains, then they parted violently as a figure was thrown through them, dragging them aside. A uniformed greatcoat, the dim patch of a white face, then Lock’s figure appeared, his arm raised and waving them forward.

  They hurried towards him. His face was twisted with angry disappointment.

  ‘There aren’t enough of these GRU guys!’ It was as if he wanted more killing. ‘They’ve gone!’ He studied their faces and realised they had reached the same conclusion. Lubin joined them, his face shiny with perspiration and excitement. ‘Where would Panshin be?’

  ‘Upstairs, or in one of the ‘

  Vorontsyev fired twice, almost resting the gun on Lock’s shoulder.

  Kasyan’s slight figure ducked back into the doorway from which it had emerged. Lock whirled round on the empty corridor.

  A smell of dust and explosives mixed with their tension.

  ‘Panshin!’ Lock bellowed. ‘I’m here for you, man! I want yew!’

  He looked at them. ‘Dmitri, watch the corridor while we check upstairs. You, Major, stay with him. Come on, kid.’ Lubin hurried behind Lock up the flight of narrow stairs to the apartments and changing rooms above the club. Lock thrust out his hand at the head of the stairs, pushing it into Lubin’s chest to halt him. Then he glanced slowly, carefully around the corner, along the landing. Blank doors of veneered board, the smell of cigar smoke and expensive, over-employed aftershave.

  He grinned, turning to Lubin.

  ‘Don’t get in my way. Keep behind me. OK?’

  Lubin nodded.

  How many of them were there? He knew, with a sick, enveloping disappointment, that Turgenev had moved the scientists.

  That would have taken the majority of the GRU men away, too.

  But Panshin and Turgenev would have guessed that he and Vorontsyev would come here, so how many had they left as a protection force? The ground floor was silent. Whatever Kasyan was planning, it wasn’t immediate. But there weren’t enough people with him to take any risks … how many does that leave up here, with the man with the aftershave and the cigar?

  ‘What does Panshin look like?’

  ‘What?’ Lubin was surprised. ‘Short, round, grey hair. Lots of rings, bracelets’

  ‘OK, let’s find him.’

  The place was turning like a coin between Turgenev’s fingers; a safe house was becoming a trap. If they hadn’t left more than a handful of soldiers, then Turgenev wanted him and his team inside before anything happened. He kicked at one flimsy door and it flew open. He flinched back, but had not been in any firing line. The room was dark, smelt of food and cigarettes. He reached beside the door and switched on the light. A table, four half-empty plates, cutlery, glasses, an ashtray. His disappointment was as heavy as a stone in his stomach.

  Then he quickly kicked at another door.

  ‘Panshin, get out here!’ he roared.

  ‘Watch — I’ was all Lubin had time to cry out.

  Lock dropped to one knee, gun stiff-armed before him, the trigger squeezed three times as the magazine of the Kalashnikov was sprayed along the walls and ceiling of the corridor and the soldier staggered backwards under the impact of his shots. Then the finger slackened on the trigger as the man fell. The corridor was filled with smoke and plaster dust. Lock looked round towards Lubin.

  The young man was sitting against the wall, inspecting his fingers as he took them from his temple, a kind of bleak wonder in his eyes. His hand was shaking violently. Then he saw Lock and grinned shakily, even held up his hand. Flesh wound.

  Lock nodded. Heavy, hurrying footsteps on the stairs. Lubin whirled round, gun ready, as Dmitri lumbered into sight, blurting:

  ‘All right — Christ!’ Plaster dust settled in a fine down on his wet shoulders. Vorontsyev paused at the head of the stairs, doubled up as he fought for breath. ‘Where’s Panshin?’

  Lock indicated the door from which the soldier had emerged, waggling his gun at it. Then he lunged forward towards the open door and the* upturned boots of the dead soldier. He crouched beside the doorway. In the pool of light offered by a standard lamp and a desk light, Panshin sat like an effigy, a caricature of a gangland boss. His plump, b
eringed hands were clearly in view on the leather top of the desk. His eyes watched Lock watching him without expression. There was no fear. Lock realised, getting to his feet.

  He kicked the door wide, but Kasyan was not directly behind it, instead to one side. Lock fired the Makarov as he held it close against his side. His stomach felt the heat of the barrel, the two shots. Kasyan collapsed against the far wall of the study and slid gently into a sitting position, his features retaining their surprise, even their cleverness for a moment. There was a second door to the room. Kasyan must have used a flight of stairs that linked the study to the ground floor. Panshin’s hands had barely moved on the desk before Lock turned to him.

  Slowly, Panshin’s round face, which seemed designed to express no range of emotions beyond confidence and a cunning superiority, slid into the discovery of fear. His eyes flickered beyond Lock as the others filled the doorway, then came back to the American; the stranger, the threat. Lock crossed the room to the desk, rounded it and stood beside Panshin.

  He leaned his face towards the Russian.

  ‘I hear you’re the main man, Panshin,’ he announced. ‘You’re into heroin and people-smuggling, the real big time.’ The Makarov was out of sight at Lock’s side. ‘Cut me a deal,’ he added mockingly.

  A clock that ticked in unison with his breathing had begun in Lock’s head. Panshin was unnerved, but not in disarray, even though his eyes strayed to the slight, dead form of Kasyan sitting like a dosser against the wall. Reserves of confidence, yes; untouchability, too. The familiar presence of Vorontsyev and the others diminished the threat of Lock, for they had always been containable, dismissible. And the GRU were looking after him now and there weren’t enough dead bodies visible to Panshin to make him really afraid.

  ‘You’re American,’ Panshin managed in innocence, as he glanced at the small carriage clock on his desk.

  Lock swept the clock to the floor. Panshin flinched.

  ‘Let’s take him, Lock,’ Vorontsyev suggested, not moving from the doorway.