My time of death? Craig wondered as he glanced at his watch. It was 9.07 PM. He glanced up at the elevator floor indicator. The elevator was climbing, and was just two floors below his apartment. He realized there’d been enough time for the elevator to go the ground floor and pick up the killer. Perhaps he’d even been waiting in the underground carpark, watching his car space?
That’s why the gun’s gone! He thought in a flash of understanding. So I can’t use it!
He ran to the fire exit, pushing the heavy door shut behind him, concealing his escape route as the elevator door opened. He waited, listening with his ear to the door for the jangling of keys indicating the arrival home of a tenant. After a few moments, he heard a clicking sound as Nogorev expertly picked his apartment’s door lock for the second time that day. Not waiting for Nogorev to discover he was gone, Craig crept down the stairs. He decided he couldn’t use his car in case it had been rigged to explode, the way McCormack’s car had been.
He stepped cautiously out of the fire exit at ground level. No one paid him any attention, so he hailed a cab and gave the driver Nikki’s address.
* * * *
Nikki’s doorbell rang three times in quick succession. When she answered, Craig stepped inside and locked the door behind him.
Seeing the tension on his face, she said, “Burglars aren’t going to follow you across town.”
“It was Goldstein’s and McCormack’s killer.” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “Now he’s after me.”
“Why?” she asked anxiously.
“I’ve got something he wants. He didn’t find it, but he took my gun.”
“You have a gun?”
“It was my old man’s. And Pete’s dead.”
“Your cat?”
“The bastard shot him!”
“Oh my god!”
He noticed she had set the dinner table with plates and cutlery. Two candles were placed in holders in the middle of the table, but had not yet been lit. “I have to go out again,” he said as he produced Yegor Demidoff’s phone and dialed, glancing at the set dinner table. “I’ll make it up to you. Can I borrow your car?”
“Sure. Where’s yours?”
“I had to leave it. I’ll explain later.” When a woman answered, he said, “Valentina, it’s me. Demidoff’s killer broke into my apartment. I didn’t see him this time, but I’m sure it was him. Can I meet you tonight so we can get this over with?”
“No, I’m at the airport. I’m about to board a plane.”
“You’re leaving?” Craig asked surprised. “Why?”
“When my superior found out Yegor had been killed, he decided it was too dangerous for me to remain here in New York alone. I’m being sent to London.”
“Don’t you want the file?”
“I do, but I can’t stay here.”
“What about my father?”
“I’m sorry. Be careful. If the killer is after you, he’ll never give up. You should leave the city. Go somewhere far away and hide.”
“Is there somewhere in London I can contact you?”
“Yes, the Irish Rose in Norfolk Garden, . . . I’m sorry we got you involved,” she said and hung up.
“I guess I’m staying for dinner after all,” he said as he hung up the phone.
“Craig,” Nikki said in a soft, uncertain tone, her normally brown eyes flashing green, “Who is Valentina?”
Chapter 3
Nogorev had been sitting in his rented Buick a block from Powell’s two story mansion for almost an hour. Around 10.30 PM, he climbed out of the car wearing black clothes and gloves and carrying a nylon sports bag. He started toward the house, carefully rehearsing the battle plan in his mind, determined to execute each step with clinical efficiency. He’d been watching the house long enough to know Powell was guarded by a police protection unit, and that they were unprepared for what was coming.
The protection unit members had been warned that the killer was armed with a high powered assault rifle, so they’d taken up protected positions inside the house. An unmarked police car was parked in the street and another in the driveway. The ground floor windows were all dark, telling Nogorev that was where the protection officers were stationed, while several top floor windows were lit, although the blinds were drawn concealing any occupants.
When he entered the grounds, he took a tube shaped launcher with two metal legs from his bag, and positioned it among the bushes near the driveway. He aimed the launcher at the large window near the front door and set the timer for six minutes. Nogorev then crept to the unmarked car in the drive, using it for cover as he pulled a small rectangular explosive from his bag. He set the incendiary’s timer for five minutes and placed it beneath the petrol tank.
Silently, he slipped into the shadows and made his way up the drive to the white fuse box mounted on the side of the house. When he opened the panel, its rusting hinges made a grinding metal noise, but no one emerged from the house to investigate. He placed a small explosive charge inside the fuse box, with the timer set for four minutes.
Nogorev replaced the fuse box cover, then crept to the rear of the house, where he memorized which of the top floor windows were illuminated. With a minute to go, he removed a gas mask and canister gun from the bag. The gun was fitted with a broad tube and a large rotating barrel magazine. He rolled the sports bag up tightly, slid it into a pouch that hung from his belt and counted down.
The unmarked car exploded first, consuming the vehicle in a torrent of fire. Knowing the attention of the occupants was now focused on the front of the house, Nogorev walked calmly out onto the back lawn, stopping beside the pool. He aimed the canister gun at the right side ground floor window. When he heard the pop of the timed launcher from the front lawn, he shot his first canister into the rear of the house. With precision and calm, he fired several more canisters, ensuring a wide spread through the ground floor. Before he’d finished, the fuse box blew, blacking out the house.
Nogorev raised the canister gun, and fired projectiles into each of the top floor windows that had shown a light. The last window on the left was small, made of frosted glass, and had been brightly lit before the power had gone out. He took a few extra seconds to aim at the tiny target, then fired the canister perfectly through the window. Nogorev shifted the bulky launcher to his left hand, donned the gas mask and drew the pistol he’d stolen from Craig’s apartment. He waited patiently for the nerve gas to spread through the house, then walked calmly to the back door and fired once into the lock before kicking the door in.
Nogorev stepped through into the kitchen. It was foggy with gas and a protection officer lay unconscious on the floor beside a gun. He fired a canister into the lounge room and waited for the gas to do its work before entering. A second unconscious man lay at the foot of the stairs and a third slept beneath the front windows. Once he confirmed neither man was Powell, he launched a canister into the hall above. Again, he waited for the gas to spread, then climbed the stairs. Another protection officer lay face down in the hall, still holding a pump action shotgun in one hand.
Nogorev moved down the hall purposefully, opening doors and identifying the occupants of each room. A young boy lay in bed in one room, a teenage girl slept in another. Two thirds of the way along the hall, he opened a door facing the front of the house. The window was open and a gentle breeze fluttered through the drapes. A floor board creaked to his left. Nogorev spun and fired as a barely conscious officer, holding a handkerchief over his mouth, staggered toward him trying to shoot. The officer crumpled, firing once into the floor, then Nogorev continued towards the last door.
At the end of the hall was the master bedroom where Powell’s wife lay unconscious in bed. She was blonde, pretty and much younger than Powell, clearly his second wife. Nogorev barely glanced at her as he followed the sound of running water into the en suite. Phil Powell lay slumped in the shower, water beating down on his naked body. On the floor in a corner of the bathroom, a canister hissed gas. Nogorev
confirmed Powell’s identity, then shot him once in the temple. Blood and brain tissue spilled into the steaming water, smearing the shower with red swirling stains.
Nogorev turned and strode out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and through the front door. He passed the furiously burning unmarked car, retrieved the gas grenade launcher from the bushes, and tossed Craig Balard’s pistol into the bushes where even the most incompetent police investigator would find it.
Satisfied, he hurried back to the parked Buick a block away, not removing his gas mask until he was safely inside the car. Neighbors had heard the police car explode and several gun shots. Several had called the police and all had stayed inside. The wail of approaching sirens drifted through the darkness, but they were already too late. Nogorev put his equipment into the sports bag, then drove away, staying well within the speed limit.
It had been an easy kill.
* * * *
Harriman watched the main street with binoculars from the second story of the building opposite the warehouse. To his left, two derelicts slept on the sidewalk. When they had first settled there, Harriman had considered moving them in case the killer showed up and thought they were police, then realized they probably slept there every night and if they were gone the killer might wonder why.
Further down the street, a pretty young woman leant against a wall wearing revealing skin tight clothes, speaking with two men. They’d been there for hours, masquerading as a working girl negotiating with her Johns. Half a block away, two addicts laughed as they sat on the sidewalk smoking dope in front of their car, both highly trained ESU officers waiting for the signal to move in, while less than three minutes away, a police helicopter was on permanent standby.
Harriman was beginning to wonder if the killer really would show, when a dark colored Buick appeared, moving slowly down the road. “We have a looker,” he radioed.
Woods sat by another window, hidden in the darkness, holding a camera with a fast telephoto lens. The digital camera’s light sensitivity was pushed as high as possible, in the hope of getting a picture of the suspect’s face, even though there was little chance of a good shot in the darkness. He raised the camera, ready to start snapping pictures as soon as the car came into view.
The Buick slowed as it passed the repaired side door. Harriman focused his binoculars on the driver, getting a clear look at Nogorev for the first time.
“He’s checking the door,” Harriman radioed. “Heads down, I have eyes on the suspect.”
The Buick rolled past the repaired door slowly, which Nogorev studied with routine care, before moving on past the warehouse.
“He’s now checking the bum’s sleeping near the bench . . . and the cars.” Harriman said.
Woods focused manually, snapping pictures of the driver and the car’s license plates. “The light over the plates is out. Don’t think I got it,” he whispered as the Buick turned into the first side street.
“Hold your positions,” Harriman said. He put the radio down and picked up the telephone, dialing fast. As soon as there was an answer, he said, “I want the chopper in the air, now! Tell him, no lights.”
“Did he make us?” Woods asked.
“I don’t think so,” Harriman said as he hung up.
No one spoke for several minutes. After an agonizing wait, car headlights shone down the alley beside the warehouse. Harriman picked up the radio, finger poised on the send button. When the same Buick turned into the street, he radioed the team.
“He’s back! Stand by.”
The Buick turned in towards the warehouse, then Nogorev got out and opened the roller door. He failed to notice the patch job on the front door, or the screw in the padlock, but the new splash of graffiti momentarily caught his attention. After glancing up and down the street, he returned to the car and drove into the warehouse, then pulled the roller door down.
Once the door was locked, Nogorev checked the layout of the warehouse, lit by the car’s headlights. He had a habit of making a mental picture of his base before he left. Now, his mind’s picture did not match what he saw. The chair was in a slightly different position. So was the cable from the telephone to the wall. He’d laid the cable out in an S shape across the floor – now one end was straightened.
I’m blown! he realized.
He ran to the car’s trunk, knowing he only had seconds. Lying on one side of the trunk was a heavy machine gun, which he was tempted to use, but couldn’t be sure how many people he faced. Instead, he grabbed the German machine pistol, a black metal hook and a flashlight, then set the timer on the last and largest of his incendiaries to fifteen seconds – barely enough time to escape.
Nogorev sprinted towards the concrete road barrier at the far end of the warehouse, silently counting seconds. He leapt over the barrier, rolled on the hard floor, squeezing his eyes shut and placing his hands over his ears.
* * * *
“The rat’s in the trap,” Harriman yelled. “Go now! Go!”
Harriman jumped out of his chair, and ran for the door, followed by Woods and two uniformed officers. The working girl and her two Johns ran across the street, both men now showing guns in their hands. One threw a pistol to the girl as they ran towards the warehouse entrance. To the right, one of the addicts climbed in behind the wheel of their Chevy, while the second retrieved a pair of shotguns from the trunk and jumped into the passenger side. The car started rolling forward slowly at first, so as not warn the killer with screeching tires, then it picked up speed.
Harriman started across the road as the two ESU men crashed their car into the roller door, tearing it out of the wall. An instant later, a fiery blast erupted from the warehouse, and the entrance disappeared in a wall of flame. Windows blew out of every building within fifty meters and every cop in the street was blown off their feet.
Harriman hit the pavement hard, feeling a wave of heat wash over him. For a moment, he was stunned and deaf, then through unfocused eyes, he caught sight of the warehouse. It was a blazing inferno that had completely swallowed the two ESU men and their car.
* * * *
Nogorev’s ears rang from the blast, but the concrete road barrier had deflected the shock wave, saving him from the worst effects of the explosion. He stumbled to his feet, trying to clear his head as he staggered the last few meters to the back of the warehouse and the rusted old metal ladder that reached to the ceiling. Every window at the back of the warehouse had blown out, and air was now being sucked in to feed the flames engulfing both the Buick and the Chevy.
He fell against the ladder, then forced himself to climb two rungs at a time. When he was halfway up, he glanced over his shoulder without slowing. The burning cars blocked the warehouse entrance as flames climbed the front wall. Soon the entire warehouse would be ablaze, threatening adjoining buildings. Through the roar of the fire, he heard men yelling, and hammering at the padlocked front door.
Nogorev climbed to a precarious metal catwalk suspended beneath the rafters, then staggered along it to a rusted metal door. He pushed it open, tumbling out onto the roof where he fell to his hands and knees, gulping down fresh air. After a few seconds, he climbed to his feet and stumbled across to the edge of the roof, where he threw himself across onto the adjoining building, landing heavily.
Overhead, the beat of approaching rotors grew louder. A searchlight flicked on, dazzling him in its brilliance, and a loud speaker blared down at him from above. “STAY WHERE YOU ARE! THIS IS THE POLICE!”
He shielded his eyes with one hand as he fired a short burst at the light with the machine pistol. The searchlight winked out, plunging him into darkness again. He fired a second burst, shattering the pilot’s window, forcing the police chopper to bank sharply away.
Nogorev sprinted across the second building’s roof to its fire escape, blinking hard to regain his night sight. He’d carefully researched his escape route, rehearsing it several times until he could run it almost blind. He leapt onto the building’s old iron fire escape and clamb
ered down, crashing into the railing several times and jumping the last few meters into the dark alley. Hiding in the shadows, he heard the beat of the helicopter’s rotors approaching again, this time with a sniper in the open side door. He started running, staying in the shadows close to the wall. Halfway down the alley two street thugs appeared as silhouettes out of the shadows. The glint of a blade in the hand of one of the thugs caught Nogorev’s eye.
“Hey motherfucker! I’ll take your wallet, or I’ll take your life!”
The other man laughed and sucked hard on his joint.
Nogorev didn’t break stride. In one fluid motion, he brought the machine pistol up and fired a short burst into each man. He cursed silently, knowing the muzzle flashes might have given him away, but as he ran on, it became evident the chopper hadn’t seen him fire.
At the end of the alley, he stopped and changed ammo clips. The sound of rotor blades continued to fill the air above while the growing number of sirens told him police were coming from everywhere.
Nogorev checked there were no police in sight, then ran to the manhole in the center of the street and used the hook to haul up the metal cover. Before he’d killed Goldstein, he’d spent over an hour forcing the manhole cover open, coating the edges with grease to ensure it would come away easily. Now his preparations were rewarded as the cover slid easily aside. He quickly climbed down into the narrow shaft and pulled the cover back into place moments before the helo passed overhead, unaware of his hiding place.
Nogorev climbed down the narrow ladder into the tunnel’s blanketing darkness before switching on the flashlight. The tunnel was filled with the drip of water and the occasional squeal of rats, neither of which concerned him in the least. He had hours of splashing through stinking dark tunnels ahead of him, but he knew he’d escaped.
The Kremlin Phoenix Page 6