The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  “You want me to shoot the house?” the BTR gunner asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” Karmanov said. “Blow a hole in that wall.”

  “The Prime Minister’s informant said they’re Spetsnaz inside,” Valentina said. The informant, a senior officer inside the GRU, knew there was a high value foreigner being interrogated inside the house. While the informant couldn’t determine the prisoner’s identity, he was known to have been transported from Britain. Valentina was certain, it could only be Craig Balard. “They’d kill us before we got to the front door. We’ve got to force them to take cover!”

  “Very well,” Major Vodin said. “One shell.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young BTR gunner said. “Loading Gun! High Explosive.” He pulled the breach back on the fifty millimeter light gun, slid in a shell, then cranked the gun down to zero elevation. “Ready!”

  “Fire!” Major Vodin ordered.

  The armored personnel carrier shuddered and rang with the deafening roar of the gun, then the front of the house exploded inwards and the roof collapsed.

  The BTR driver peered through his periscope at the pall of smoke and dust, with a satisfied look on his face. “Do you want us to shoot again, Major?” he asked eagerly.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Major Vodin replied as the infantry door cranked open in the rear of the vehicle.

  The paratroopers poured out, firing concussion grenades into the partially collapsed house, then charged towards the broken front wall. Valentina and Karmanov were the last out of the BTR, following behind the paratroopers. Up and down the street, surprised residents came running out of their houses to discover the cause of the explosions.

  Inside the house, the entrance hall was charred black and small fires burned in several places. Wreckage of the partially collapsed roof littered the floor, lying on shattered stone blocks from the front wall. The paratroopers moved cautiously through the entrance hall, then a single shot sounded from the rear of the house, and one of them went down clutching his chest. The other paratroopers replied with bursts of automatic fire, shooting blind towards the rear of the house and hurling stun grenades into the smoke and dust.

  Short bursts of gunfire struck the walls and fallen timbers, then a paratrooper hurled a high explosive grenade down the hall. A moment later, an explosion blew the interior walls apart, then a few erratic shots came from the rear. The paratroopers raked the back of the house with automatic fire repeatedly until Major Vodin called a halt. When no more gunfire came from the back of the house, the paratroopers pushed forward. Amidst the smoke and dust, they found the bodies of Drushkev and Pieltov, still clutching their weapons.

  Karmanov and Valentina followed them through the house, climbing over fallen beams and broken masonry. Valentina pried a short black gun out of Corporal Drushkev’s dead hand and held it up for Karmanov and Major Vodin to see. “What do you think?”

  Major Vodin took one look and nodded. “It’s a VZ61 Skorpion machine pistol. Definitely Spetsnaz.”

  Valentina dropped the gun on the ground as a paratrooper emerged from the rear of the house.

  “There’s an older man back there,” the paratrooper said, motioning towards where Dr Tatska lay dead, partially buried in the rubble. “Only the Spetsnaz were armed.”

  “Major! In here!” One of the paratroopers called from a partially collapsed room off to the side.

  Karmanov and Valentina followed Major Vodin to where the trooper stood beside Craig’s chair. It had been crushed when the old stone wall facing the street had blown in. Tattered rope ends and syringes were visible beneath the heavy stone blocks.

  “This must have been where they interrogated him,” Valentina said.

  “No body,” Karmanov said. “He’s still alive!”

  Another paratrooper approached and saluted Major Vodin . “The house is secure sir. Zanov is dead, Mikovsky’s lightly wounded. I’ve called for a helo to evacuate him.” The paratrooper saluted, then returned to tend his wounded comrade.

  Karmanov prodded the ropes and the remains of the shattered wooden chair. “Resourceful man, this Balard.”

  “We have to find him,” Valentina said, “Especially now.” At the back of the room, a window opened onto a narrow lane outside. “That’s where he went.”

  “With no money and no language skills, he won’t stay free for long,” Karmanov said. “God knows what condition he’s in.”

  “Internal security forces will be here soon,” Major Vodin said. “Unless you want a full scale battle, we should go.”

  “You go,” Karmanov said. “We’ll look for Balard. He can’t have gone far.”

  “Thanks for the help,” Valentina said before following Karmanov through the open window to the narrow lane outside.

  * * * *

  Craig staggered along a suburban street lined with two story buildings several blocks from the interrogation house. His ears still rang from the blast that had destroyed the front of the house and would have killed him if not for Mariena’s warning. He’d crawled to the far side of the room moments before the stone wall had exploded, raining destruction upon the wooden chair he’d been tied to. Once through the window, he’d picked a direction and ran on rubbery legs still weak from the drug. He headed towards a busy main road bustling with traffic, hoping to hail a cab, although he had no clear idea where to go. With no passport, he couldn’t simply go to the airport and fly out, yet he feared if he went to the US embassy, they’d arrest him.

  He pressed his hands against his ears, trying to silence the ringing as he staggered towards the main road. When he arrived, the trucks and cars he’d seen from a distance had strangely vanished, leaving the highway completely deserted. He looked up and down the road, confused. Flashing lights of police cars were visible in the distance, coming down either side of the main road toward him. For a moment his heart raced, thinking they were after him, then he noticed the thin black haze in the air behind the cars, and the two streams of light grey vehicles following the police escort.

  Craig drifted into the crowd that was gathering along the sides of the road. Everywhere, he heard whispers in Russian, words he couldn’t understand, but their tone betrayed their fear and confusion. Police cars led two columns of vehicles past at forty kilometers an hour, followed by hundreds of T-72 main battle tanks and almost two thousand armored personnel carriers loaded with troops. The soldiers were young and withdrawn. None waved to the crowd, while the onlookers stared back in solemn silence.

  Craig didn’t wait for the armored division to pass on its way in to central Moscow. He hurried along the sidewalk until he saw a woman in a police uniform standing in the center of a side street holding up traffic, giving the tank division right of way. Cars were banking up in the side streets and their occupants were standing by their vehicles watching warily.

  Craig decided the police woman was just a traffic cop, so he walked over to her and smiled. “Excuse me,” he said very slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, “I want to go to the American Embassy.”

  She looked at him with more than a little irritation, then shrugged and muttered something in Russian.

  “American … Embassy?” he repeated.

  She babbled incomprehensibly again, this time in a sharper tone.

  Craig stepped back, nodding, holding up his hands, “OK, OK, I get it.”

  A short distance away, the driver of a small truck honked his horn, flashing a broad grin, waving for him to approach. Craig took a few wary steps towards the truck as the driver stuck his head out of the window.

  “Speaks English me,” the truck driver said jovially. He wore a grimy short sleeve sheet unbuttoned half way down, revealing a hairy chest.

  “I want to go to the American Embassy,” Craig said.

  “Speaks English me,” he said again, grinning.

  “Right, and I’m a cosmonaut!” Craig smiled back, nodding. “Can you give me a ride?” Craig asked, pointing to the passenger seat.

  The old driver no
dded vigorously, “Da Da. Go Lyublino? Lyublino?”

  “OK,” Craig said. “Anywhere’s better than here.”

  The truck driver pushed the passenger side door open, then pointed to himself once Craig had climbed aboard. “Yevgeny! Speaks English me.”

  “Craig,” he said pointing to himself, “And I speak Russian about as good as you speak English.”

  “Ahh.” The driver nodded seriously, despite having no idea what Craig had said.

  Yevgeny reached down and turned on his scratchy radio. “Musika.”

  Craig recognized the Nutcracker suite, in spite of the static reception. “Russian top forty?” Craig asked amiably, not realizing every radio station was playing similar music. “Nice.”

  “Da. Good,” Yevgeny agreed.

  The tail end of the tank division was now crossing in front of them, trailed by more police cars. Once they’d passed, the police woman moved to the sidewalk, signaling the waiting traffic could go. A man and a woman, each carrying Makarov pistols, ran up to her with identity badges held up. The man spoke quickly as Craig realized the woman with him was Valentina.

  He knew she could help him, but he’d double crossed her, giving her good reason to arrest him. He didn’t want to be a Russian prisoner again, so he turned his head away while Yevgeny put the truck in gear. It rolled forward as the traffic cop pointed at them. Valentina cried out, but Yevgeny didn’t hear her over the roar of the engine. Before she could reach the truck, they were on the main road, picking up speed, leaving Valentina and Karmanov behind, watching helplessly.

  Craig knew it was only a matter of time before the police would stop the truck, so he tried to communicate with Yevgeny one more time. “American Embassy?”

  Yevgeny glanced at his new friend and shrugged helplessly. “Da?”

  “OK, how about a train station? Train. Railway?” Craig said desperately, making train noises.

  “Metro?” Yevgeny guessed.

  “Yes. Da. Metro!” Craig exclaimed.

  “Metro! Metro!” Yevgeny grinned. “Yevgeny English speaks good!”

  Chapter 8

  Louis Rogers pinned a dozen color photographs to a board in one of the embassy’s bug proof conference rooms. Harriman and Corman sat around a table watching as Rogers pointed to pictures of a Russian APC and paratroopers assaulting the safe house.

  “They hit it fifty minutes ago,” Rogers said. “The markings on the APC belong to the Kantemirovskaya Tank Brigade, and these soldiers are from the Parachute Division. Both are crack units based outside Moscow. These two civilians are part of the SK, the Russian FBI. There was a shoot out in the house, one paratrooper was killed, but no sign of Balard. Twenty minutes ago, Moscow police put out a detain on sight bulletin for a truck seen leaving the area with a suspect matching Balard’s description. He’s to be immediately handed over to Chief Criminal Investigator Alexander Karmanov.” Rogers tapped the photograph of the male civilian. “Him. We can assume therefore, that Balard is alive and on the run.”

  “We have to get to him first,” Corman said.

  “I’ve got every available resource on it,” Rogers said. “We’re listening to all the police channels. We’ll know where he is as soon as they do.”

  “At least some of the military are resisting the coup,” Harriman said.

  “Which brings me to the next item.” Rogers walked to a large wall map of the sprawling Russian Federation. “Our intel indicates armored and infantry units are currently moving to occupy Moscow, St Petersburg, Nizhny, Omsk, Novosibirsk and Volgograd.” He pointed to each city in turn. “Other cities have police on the streets, some have militia units mobilizing. There are reports of an armed uprising in Grozny, but all other cities are quiet. There’s no word on the President, but the Prime Minister broadcast on local radio that he’s resisting the coup. We’ve heard nothing since, because Internal Security shut down the transmitter.”

  “What are the Russian Air Force and Navy doing?” Corman asked.

  “Nothing,” Rogers said. “The Russian fleet is sitting in port. There are no heat blooms in any of their nuclear powered vessels, and ships at sea have been ordered to return to base. As for the air force, it’s grounded. Nothing is flying, not even routine maritime patrols.”

  “Interesting,” Corman said thoughtfully. A single announcement had been made over state controlled television declaring that an Emergency Committee was now in charge of the country. Defense Minister Tarkovskoi was Chairman and Marshal Baranov, Chief of the Army, was his deputy, while the rest were hard line political types from the Duma. “No one on the Emergency Committee has an air or naval background. You can bet the air force and navy won’t like being left out in the cold on something this big.”

  “Maybe they’re not a part of it?” Harriman suggested.

  “The army controls Russia,” Rogers said. “That’s where the power is.”

  “What about their nuclear weapons?” Corman asked.

  “Whoever’s in control isn’t stupid.” Rogers said. “They know Uncle Sam is watching. All the ICBM silos are sealed shut, the SS-20’s are crawling back to their bases, and something we’ve never seen before, their boomers are on the surface!”

  Corman nodded appreciatively. The big nuclear missile boats never revealed their positions when on patrol. Having them surface was a clear sign that this was not a prelude to an attack on the West. “Unconventional, but smart. I bet there’s a few pissed off admirals in Severomorsk right now.”

  “If so, they aren’t talking,” Rogers said. “Only Zharkev and Usilov have made any moves against the coup. Other than trying to spring Balard, Zharkev sent a small detachment of troops into the city, although we’re not sure why. They haven’t made any public statements.”

  “They’re too junior,” Corman said. “Divisional commanders don’t cut it in this game. If there’s to be any real opposition from inside the army, it’ll have to come from higher up – army group or military district commander level.”

  “With the Prime Minister free,” Rogers said, “the Emergency Committee has a big problem.”

  “That’s why they need Balard,” Corman said. “They need that money to pay for their revolution – to buy loyalty – which means we can spoil the party by keeping Balard out of their hands.”

  “You don’t need to kill him now, if he’s free,” Harriman said.

  “I’d settle for stopping him falling into the wrong hands,” Corman said. “But that’ll be no easy task. You can bet, everyone is looking for him now.”

  “Which is why I have a car ready,” Rogers said. “We’ll head into the city, and my people will radio us if there’s any word on his location. If we’re lucky, we might get to him first.”

  * * * *

  Fenenko parked the car behind Yevgeny’s truck, while Karmanov and Valentina approached the driver. The Moscow Police had scoured the southern suburbs until they’d found the truck outside a supermarket, making a delivery. A blue and white police car was parked in front of the truck and two uniformed officers were interviewing Yevgeny, who was vigorously protesting his innocence.

  Karmanov flashed his SK Identity card at Yevgeny, silencing him with a look.

  “We saw you pick up a man,” Valentina said. “Where did you take him?”

  “I have done nothing wrong!” Yevgeny declared.

  Valentina held up her hands, trying to calm him. “You won’t be in any trouble if you tell us what we want to know.”

  “This is a national security matter,” Karmanov added sternly.

  Yevgeny sobered. “National security?”

  “Just tell us where you took him,” Valentina said urgently.

  “Cheryomushki metro. I had no idea he was a spy. He couldn’t even speak Russian!”

  “He’s not a spy. How long ago did you leave him at the station?” Valentina demanded.

  “Ten minutes.”

  Valentina and Karmanov ran back to the car. Karmanov told Fenenko to head towards the metro station whil
e Valentina radioed a request for the police to seal off the Cheryomushki Metro station.

  * * * *

  An unmarked Interior Ministry Mi-24 Hind helicopter landed on the roof of the Cheryomushki Metro station shortly after Valentina’s radio transmission had been intercepted and relayed to Nogorev. The chopper’s wheels had barely touched down when Nogorev and half a dozen Spetsnaz jumped out and ran for the stairs. All wore civilian clothes, carried miniature radio transmitters and multiple concealed weapons. They charged down several flights of concrete steps to the crowded station, then fanned out searching for Craig. Each member of the team had memorized his photograph and had a description of what he was wearing when last seen.

  Some of the men covered the exits, others took up positions inside the station, while Nogorev led two of his men towards the overcrowded train platforms. With martial law clamping down on the Russian capital, the suburban trains were all running late, causing the station to fill with increasingly irate passengers.

  When Nogorev and his two men reached the platform, they split up to search through the mass of frustrated commuters. Two thirds of the way along the north bound platform, Nogorev pulled himself up onto a vending machine to see over the crowd. Through a sea of angry faces constantly checking the arrivals board, one face never looked up. Nogorev’s attention became riveted to that one evasive face that avoided showing itself.

  Finally, Craig looked up, first glancing at the indicator board, then locking eyes with Nogorev. For a moment, time froze, then Craig turned away and started frantically pushing through the crowd. Nogorev spoke into the microphone sewn into his sleeve, alerting his team as he jumped down and pushed through the wall of commuters, knocking aside anyone in his path. Men and women protested as they fell against each other, or were knocked onto the tracks, but there were so many people in his way, he made little progress and quickly lost sight of Craig. He drew his pistol, unscrewed the silencer and fired three spaced shots into the concrete ceiling. Screams filled the platform as people dived to the floor or surged towards the stairs.