Johnson grabbed a roll of paper towels from a table and wiped the blood from the floor outside the apartment door as best he could. There were also splatters of red on the white plastered wall between the Yezhovs’ apartment and the one next door, which he tried to clean with equally mixed results.
Finally, Johnson closed the apartment door. He walked to the window, opened it, and looked down into the street. There was no sign of police or other emergency services, no sirens wailing. The black Mercedes that had been parked outside the apartments had gone. His best guess now was that it had been used by the two men who had killed Varvara. He left the window open so they could hear if there was activity outside.
Katya, who was still crying, looked at Johnson. “Who are you?” she asked again.
Johnson decided to be honest; otherwise he would make no progress. She might assume he was from the FSB or the SVR. And now was the time to get her to talk, while she was still emotionally unbalanced, not when she had dried up in a day or two.
Plus, he needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. There was no time to waste. He either got some information now or whatever secrets the dead couple carried would be gone.
But he felt he could not speak out loud. The likelihood was that the Yezhovs’ apartment had been bugged. He looked around, found a pad and pen, and instead scribbled a note in Russian.
I am Joe Johnson, an American investigator. I work for the US government. I was due to meet your father in Berlin a couple of weeks ago to speak with him. But things went wrong, as you must know.
Katya wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and, still weeping, tried to focus on the note. “We can speak in here. We had this apartment swept for bugs only yesterday. It is safe. How do I know you are telling the truth? Are you carrying identity papers?”
Johnson paused, momentarily taken aback by the young woman’s evident grasp of security matters. “You can call me Joe. I’m not carrying my own US identity papers. I’ve been traveling under the name William Cadman. But I can prove my actual identity. I know where your father was going in Berlin and why—he was a good man who was doing the right thing. And I would like to help find out who killed him and who did this to your mother. Do you have any idea?”
“There were two men, both in black clothing, getting into a car outside. When I saw them my first thought was FSB.”
“Yes, I saw them on the stairs,” Johnson said. “I don’t know if they are actually FSB, but I’m sure they killed your mother. Did your father or mother ever talk about being under threat from anyone? Before your father traveled to Berlin, I mean.”
Katya looked down at her mother’s body. She burst into tears again, then took a deep breath and wiped her eyes, seemingly struggling to breathe evenly. There was a pause lasting at least a couple of minutes.
Johnson reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “Take your time.”
“My father told us that he was going to defect because he knew things that were important for world peace. He never said what.”
“He never told you what information he was going to pass on to us after he had defected?”
Katya shook her head. “No. He didn’t confide in me with that type of thing.”
Johnson exhaled. He hadn’t imagined for a moment that Gennady Yezhov would have handed over highly sensitive material to his daughter, but he nevertheless felt his hopes deflate yet further.
“But one thing I am sure of,” Katya said. “The information must have been something related to the intelligence service. My father had a lot of enemies in the SVR and the FSB, some of them dating back to the 1980s when they were called the KGB. Those people are my big concern now. I would not be surprised if some of them were the killers of my parents. We need to be careful—it is not safe to be here.”
Johnson’s initial impression of Katya was shifting by the second. Although in shock over her parents’ sudden violent deaths, she seemed to intuitively grasp the political backdrop to what had happened.
“Who were they, your father’s KGB colleagues, at that time?”
“One was Yuri Severinov, the billionaire, one of Putin’s circle. Everyone knows he was KGB before he made money in the oil industry. Another was—”
Johnson felt his stomach flip over inside him. “Hold on a minute. Did you say Yuri Severinov?”
“Yes, he was my father’s boss in the KGB at that time. Do you know him?”
Johnson nodded. “Yes, unfortunately I do.”
He felt stunned. The same Yuri Severinov with whom he had gone head-to-head in Afghanistan the previous year? The same Severinov who had locked Johnson in a cellar in Kabul, only to have the tables turned on him after Jayne masterminded a rescue by the US Army? And the same Severinov who had escaped justice for his war crimes, his genocides, in rural Afghanistan?
He was someone whom Johnson had subsequently sworn he would ultimately see brought to trial for his crimes, although how that would happen, he had no idea. The International Criminal Court did not seem interested in pursuing war crimes committed in Afghanistan prior to 2001.
So—Severinov had been Yezhov’s boss.
But it made sense.
Severinov had been a senior KGB officer in Afghanistan in the late 1980s, responsible for military intelligence, and Johnson knew he had done a stint in East Germany too.
It was then that the connection was made in his mind.
The second man he had seen earlier, running down the stairs, had been Severinov’s thuggish sidekick whom he had last seen while incarcerated in the Russian’s safe house in Kabul the previous year. His name was Vasily.
The recollection sent an immediate jolt of alarm through him: it must have been Severinov, then, who had been responsible for killing Varvara. He must have ordered Vasily to execute her.
Johnson felt suddenly certain that the look Vasily had thrown him while running past him on the stairs had been one of vague recognition, despite the black glasses that Johnson had been wearing. Something had clicked in the man’s mind—he had seen it. Presumably he had been focused on getting out of the building as quickly as possible; he would have had no reason to expect to see Johnson there, and he had run on. But now Johnson felt that there was a significant danger that Vasily would put two and two together and return. He knew Severinov and Vasily wanted him dead.
He walked to the window and looked out. There were no cars parked along the street outside the apartment. He scanned the street, carefully checking the few pedestrians on the sidewalks. When he was finally satisfied there was no imminent danger, he turned, folded his arms, and scrutinized Katya.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me strangely like that?”
He pursed his lips. “I think the men who killed your mother were sent by Severinov. In fact I’m quite certain they were.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I had a battle with Severinov and his men last year, in Afghanistan. I recognized one of his men running down the stairs as I came up. And I have a feeling he might have recognized me.”
What Johnson didn’t add was, if indeed it was Severinov’s men who had killed Varvara, why had they done so? And why had they done it just when he was due to visit? It was the timing.
How did they know?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
St. Petersburg
The bare floorboards in the first-floor apartment creaked as Yuri Severinov paced up and down. Across the other side of the room, his former KGB colleague and longtime friend Leonid Pugachov sat in an armchair, chain-smoking his favorite LD cigarettes, a pack of which lay open on the table in front of him.
The two men were waiting just a kilometer away from the apartment building where, Severinov hoped, Vasily Balagula should have completed the task he had been given by now. It should have been the easiest of kills, but nevertheless, Severinov was anxious as always to know it had gone smoothly.
Pugachov, who at fifty-eight was a co
uple of years older than Severinov, was a colonel in the FSB. Now with short white hair and a mustache to match, he had studied economics with Severinov at Moscow State University and had joined the KGB at the same time in 1980. They did some of their initial training together and, although they subsequently ended up in different parts of the KGB, had always kept in touch.
The difference was that whereas Severinov had left the KGB in 1991 when the Soviet Union broke up and had thrown himself into business, Pugachov had stayed on, working in the new FSB, the domestic intelligence service based at the former KGB headquarters at the Lubyanka.
Pugachov had given Severinov assistance on various operations over the years since, in return for either generous transfers into a special numbered bank account that he held in Vienna or old-fashioned bundles of rubles.
This would be another one of those jobs, of which Severinov currently had two on his plate. He had found out about both within an hour or so just the previous morning.
First, he had received an update from London telling him that Joe Johnson was investigating Gennady Yezhov’s death and as part of that was planning to visit his widow, Varvara. There had been no indication of timing.
The intention behind such a visit was clear, and just as clear were the risks to Severinov, who decided very swiftly that there was a quick solution to the problem: if Varvara was dead, Johnson would struggle to speak to her.
The second job on his list tied very neatly into the first: he had received a call from Dmitry Medvedev’s slimy assistant, Mikhail Sobchak, passing on orders from the president’s office that Severinov was to have Johnson eliminated by whatever means was necessary.
To Severinov’s irritation, Sobchak had also told him that this was an unofficial job and that under no circumstances was he to request assistance from the Kremlin. The unspoken but unmistakable subtext was that the leadership was still mightily pissed with him following the Afghanistan debacle. Was the instruction a test of his loyalty? It felt like it.
Exactly how and when a hit on Johnson was to be arranged was an issue yet to be determined, although it would be another one for Balagula, that was for certain. Severinov would take this one step at a time: Varvara Yezhova would come first.
Within an hour of receiving the missive from London and the instruction from the Kremlin, Severinov made contact with both Balagula and Pugachov, who was also based in Moscow. On Monday afternoon he flew the two men to St. Petersburg on his private Cessna Citation. Most of the flight was spent making plans for Varvara, although Johnson was also discussed.
The plan was that for Varvara’s execution, Pugachov would cover any local difficulties that might arise involving FSB or police, while Balagula would deal with the wet work.
Now Severinov and Pugachov were sitting in an FSB safe apartment that they were using as an operations center, less than a mile away from Varvara’s apartment.
Severinov didn’t generally prefer to get too involved in such operations—like most oligarchs with almost unlimited funds, he found it far easier to simply pay someone whatever was required to do his dirty work for him. But this case was different: it was deeply personal.
The front door security buzzer sounded—a long beep followed by four short ones. That would be Balagula and Roman Gurko returning. Gurko was one of Pugachov’s trusted FSB men based in St. Petersburg who had been brought in for this operation. It was his job to act as cover for Balagula, if required.
Severinov strode to the apartment door and opened it, listening as Balagula’s and Gurko’s footsteps came up the wooden staircase; they walked slowly and in a relaxed fashion as instructed. He held the door open as they entered the apartment, then closed it swiftly behind them.
“Well?” Severinov said. “Is the job done?”
Balagula nodded and took off his jacket. His barrel chest stuck out, black hairs protruding above his shirt buttons. A python tattoo writhed down each of his forearms. “Easy. She answered the door, and it was all over in a few seconds. There was nobody else in the apartment—we checked.”
“Nobody saw you do it? Her kids weren’t there?” Severinov’s eyes searched Balagula’s. He had been concerned that one or both of Yezhov’s children, Katya or Timur, would be there and cause complications.
“No—and the suppressor did its job, so little noise. No one came out of the other apartments.” He paused. “Just one thing. On the way down the stairs, we were hurrying out, and we passed a guy dressed like a waiter, with a waistcoat and tie, who was coming up. I’m not certain about this, but I thought I recognized him.”
“Who?” Severinov said sharply. He didn’t like the sound of this.
“Johnson, I think.”
“Johnson?”
“Yes. I think it might have been him. We were in a hell of a rush, and it didn’t register with me immediately. I think he was wearing glasses, which threw me a bit too. I just put a name to the face on the way back in the car. A tall guy, mainly bald, with graying hair.”
Severinov stood motionless. That figured if so. It was in line with what Shevchenko had told him, although Johnson had moved much more quickly than he had expected.
“How sure are you?” Now his voice was abrasive and rapid-fire.
Balagula shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe seventy percent.”
“Where did you leave the body?”
“In the apartment door. We fired and ran,” Balagula said.
“Were you wearing the balaclavas?” Severinov asked.
“On the landing outside the apartment door, yes.”
“No, I mean when you saw Johnson, or who you thought was Johnson?” he snapped.
Balagula shook his head. “We took them off on the stairwell.”
“So when Johnson saw you, they were off?”
Balagula hesitated for a beat. “Yes.”
“Idiots.”
During a planning phase, the group had held a long discussion about the merits of wearing balaclavas at different stages of the operation. Severinov had wanted the two men to wear them until they were back in the safe apartment. All the others had argued that they should be worn only while carrying out the actual killing. Pugachov’s argument was that while they were useful to avoid being identified while firing guns, wearing them in other public areas would only set alarm bells ringing and attract attention.
Severinov tried to put his anger to one side, thinking quickly. If it was Johnson, it was unlikely that he would just walk away upon seeing a dead body. If he was trying to find out more about Yezhov and what he knew, then it was almost certain he would go into the apartment and search it.
His hand went instinctively to the Makarov pistol that he had stuck in his belt. This seemed like an unexpected opportunity to get both jobs on his list done together. “Let’s get back to that apartment. Move, let’s go.”
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
St. Petersburg
“You think Severinov ordered this?” Katya asked. “I don’t understand why he would want to kill my mother.”
“Probably because he thinks your mother knew something that he didn’t want told,” Johnson said. “Maybe the same thing your father knew.”
The sound of a car engine and a slight squeal of brakes drifted through the open window from the street below. Johnson strode to the window and looked out. Down below, a black Mercedes had pulled to a halt outside the apartment building. Not two men, but four, all in black clothing, got out and moved in a businesslike fashion toward the doors.
Shit.
Johnson felt another jet of adrenaline spurt through him. He didn’t wait to try and get a better view of who they were. He knew.
He turned to Katya. “Listen, we are in some danger right now. I think the men who shot your mother have just come back. There’s four of them now. Can you help us get out of here—fast?”
Katya jumped to her feet and then looked at the body on the floor. “What about my mother?” She looked as though she was about to burst into tears again.
&
nbsp; Johnson momentarily felt pulled in two directions. The girl’s mother had just been murdered in front of her in cold blood, not long after her father had been killed, and he felt terrible about it. But then self-preservation took over.
“Katya, I will help you take care of your mother later, but if we don’t leave right now, we will also be dead. They are coming back. We need to move—right now. We’ll have to leave her.”
Johnson thought quickly. If there were four men, and he had to assume they were all trained security services guys, they would know how to seal off a building. It was virtually certain that they would have checked out the apartments carefully before their operation to kill Varvara and would know the layout.
“How many sets of stairs and elevators are there?” Johnson asked.
“Two stairs, the main ones and the emergency escape stairs at the back of the building. And two elevators. The main one and a small service elevator at the rear.”
“There’s no exterior fire escape?” Johnson asked.
Katya shook her head.
Johnson assumed they would have one guy guarding the elevator doors and stairwells at street level at the front, another doing likewise at the back, and two that would most likely come to the apartment.
“Is there anywhere we could hide?” Johnson asked.
“There is a neighbor’s apartment. An old couple. We keep an eye on it for them. They may be at home, but I have a key if not.”
“Get it.” He would have to hope the neighbors were not at home. If they were, they would have to act to keep them quiet if necessary.
Katya ran to a row of hooks above the kitchen countertop and grabbed a key. Then she turned back toward Johnson and stopped, her face visibly stressed.
“We have two pistols. Shall I bring them?”
This woman’s tougher than she looks, Johnson thought.
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