“It's a hit,” he said. “Start up.”
The van's engine wheezed and caught. The taxi started rolling.
Waldo opened his door partway. He tore the MP5 from the bouquet and squeezed the bulb that lit the laser sight. A red dot blinked on. He moved it to the driver's left cheek. The window was down. He waited.
An inner voice was speaking to him. Now several voices. The loudest said, “Kill him.” Another argued for the man in back who surely had the gun. A third, a more distant voice, shouted that something was wrong here. Waldo felt that chill again. He knew what it was. That second pass. Those thick evergreens. There was another shooter there.
Waldo fired. The shot was too low. It slapped the soft tissue just below the jaw. Waldo saw the throat explode. But the man only stiffened as if in surprise.
Sudden movement near the Chaika. Belkin's driver had seen the taxi start to move. He didn't like it. He raised one hand toward the Belkin party, shouted for them to wait while he drew his pistol with the other. Everything was slow motion. The pistol was dropping in an arc and sighting across the Chaika's roof.
Waldo scrambled from the van. He knew that the taxi driver was finished. He knew that the man in the back had a weapon. But Belkin's driver had him covered and Waldo needed to cover that first tree. The red dot searched the branches. It found a solid shadow. Waldo squeezed off a burst. The shadow rocked.
But Valentin heard and saw him. Confused, he swung his pistol toward the van. The taxi was still rolling, no one steering. Lesko had Elena by the collar. He swung her like a doll, pressing her against the wall, his body between her and the guns. Belkin had the same thought. He moved toward her, hands raised, trying to make himself bigger.
The doorman was shouting a warning, pointing. Valentin swung his pistol again. Too late. A burst from the taxi's rear window had caught him high in the chest. His pistol flew from his hand. It clattered to the sidewalk. Belkin turned. He saw Valentin falling. He shouted his name and moved toward him.
A shot came from the juniper tree. Belkin staggered. A hand went to his hip. The taxi hit the Chaika, scraping along its side.
”I have the tree,” shouted Lechmann in Russian. His weapon was an MP5-K, same as Waldo's but short, no laser, no suppressor. He saw the muzzle flash. He emptied a clip at it. But the man in the tree had loosed another burst. Stone flew from the building's facade near Lesko's body. He shifted his bulk to envelop Elena. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the tree.
Lesko saw a man, now on his knees, trying to crawl. The man pitched onto his face. Lesko saw no weapon. He glanced to his right. He saw Belkin, still on his feet, lurching toward Valentin. He saw Valentin's pistol. He forced Elena to the sidewalk, shouted to her to stay there, stay low, then scrambled for that gun.
“The sniper is down,” Lechmann shouted, again in Russian. “I'm covering.”
Waldo had the taxi but no clean shot. He could kill the man in the back seat but Belkin was just beyond, reeling like a drunk. The same shot could kill Belkin. But the man with the Kalashnikov had no shot either, because the taxi had wedged tightly against the Chaika. The man in back was now shouting at the driver. He was shouting “Go!” in Russian. The voice suddenly went up in pitch. He yelled a name. Sounded like jack-off. It was just dawning on him, Waldo realized, that his driver was dead or dying. Nor did he seem aware of the other shots from the van. The grinding of metal against metal must have drowned out Lechmann's burst.
Good, thought Waldo. And he's got to come out this way.
Kerensky fought panic. He ducked low in the seat. He had no idea how Yakov had been shot. The windshield was intact. He had heard the Dragunov shoot twice but nothing else except shouted voices. This could still be done, however. Get out, shoot the rest of them, push Yakov over, and go get Feodor. He reached for the door handle, unlatched it, then kicked the door open with his foot. He backed out of the taxi and stood, using the door as protection.
Waldo, behind his own door, waited for his shot. He realized now that the laser sight was off, shooting low and left. Better not try a head shot. He aimed at the right shoulder blade and flipped to full automatic.
“Look out,” cried Lechmann.
The windshield of the van shattered. Two more shots in quick succession slammed into Waldo's door. One passed through but missed him. He saw the muzzle blasts. He saw Lesko behind them, shooting from a crouch.
“Drive,” he snapped. “Get out of range.” He scrambled into the van, crouching behind the dashboard. Lechmann pressed the pedal and flicked the lights on full, hoping to blind Lesko. He kept his head down. He cut the wheel left and steered from memory.
“Fucking Lesko. Where'd he get a gun?”
“Hold it.”
“Stop here ”
They were abreast of the first juniper. Waldo wanted another shot. He looked back, knowing that Lesko would have no more time for them. He'd have to go for that other moose or get shot himself. Waldo saw his back. He had rounded the front of the cab. The moose had ducked behind the door but was rising now to aim the Kalashnikov. It hit metal. The top of the door. A half clip, by the sound of it, sprayed the air over Lesko's head. Lesko raised the pistol. Nothing. It must have jammed. He did not break stride. One foot came up. It kicked the door, hammering it against the moose.
Suddenly Lesko had the assault rifle. He'd plucked it out from the moose's hands. He held it by the barrel. The moose stumbled free of the car, backing away into the middle of the street. He was yelling a name. “Feodor! Feodor, shoot!! ”
”I think that's Feodor,” Lechmann said, pointing.
Waldo followed the finger. There was a man, the second shooter, still alive; he looked like the moose. Blood on his face and shirt, one arm broken, one leg dragging. He was hanging onto a parked car, trying to pull himself up by the hood ornament. ,
“Kill him,” said Waldo. “I'll give you some room.”
Once more, he hopped into the street. Lechmann fired. Waldo heard the slap of bullets against flesh but he did not bother to look. He squeezed his bulb and the red dot found the man who was frantically backing away. Waldo held his fire. The moose had stopped. He was weaving now. Circling Lesko. He had raised both fists. Waldo blinked. He did not believe this. From the moose's actions, he was daring Lesko to drop the gun and fight him.
”I hear whistles,” said Lechmann. “They're close.”
Waldo heard them. He should shoot and go. He knew that. Still, he wanted to see this guy take Lesko on. But Lesko was in no mood for sporting gestures. He turned the Kalashnikov, tried to fire it. Again, nothing. The moose had emptied the clip when he panicked. Now the moose let out a roar and charged.
“You coming?” Lechmann hissed at Waldo. “Otherwise, I'll say good night.”
Lesko had caught him flush. He'd swung the butt. It straightened him. The moose staggered. Lesko moved in. He hit him four more times that Waldo saw. All short chops to the elbows or the face, none meant to finish him. Waldo could almost hear Lesko.
“You like to hurt people?”
Whack.
” You like to see pain ? ”
Whack.
“How's this, you fat fuck?”
Crunch . . .Crunch.
The van was rolling. The last Waldo saw, Lesko was dragging the moose back to the taxi, smashing his face against the trunk.
52
Irwin Kaplan sat in his kitchen waiting for the wall phone to ring. He had the house to himself. His wife and his youngest daughter were down at the high school watching his oldest play field hockey.
It was twenty minutes since his call to Swissair. Plenty of time for Clew, who had surely listened in, to go running to Fuller.
The phone rang.
He was tempted, as he reached for the receiver, to say “Hello, Mr. Fuller.” But he didn't. Nobody likes a smart ass. Besides, it might be Bannerman.
“It's Bart, Irwin.”
He cleared his throat. “Hello, Mr. Fuller.”
“Have you tried to rea
ch Paul?”
“You told me not to.”
”I know what I told you. I asked if you tried.”
Okay, he thought with a sigh. The game is Let's Pretend.
“Yes, I did,” he answered. “Swissair's going to radio the cockpit. Ask him to call.”
A pause. ”I could prevent that, you know.”
”I know. But at least I'll have made the effort.”
Silence.
“Mr. Fuller, did you know Susan's with him?”
“Yes.” Another pause. “How did you know that?”
”I called Anton Zivic ”¯
And another silence. But this one was gratifying. Kaplan had called Zivic from his car phone out front. It was nice to know that his car, at least, didn't have ears.
“Calling Zivic,” he said, “is how I got the flight they're on. Would Bannerman be bringing Susan if he's looking to start a war? Would Zivic even have told me where he is?”
“What's your point?”
”I think he's on damage control. I think he's going to snatch Carla and get her the hell out of Switzerland.”
“Irwin ... I'm afraid Carla's dead.”
Kaplan closed his eyes. He moaned inwardly.
“It just came in. That Swiss special-forces unit found her. They were too late.”
“Was she . . .”
“Beheaded? No!”
Kaplan took a breath. Small comfort. He waited.
“Her killer may have tried, however. The commander of the raiding party says that her throat was deeply cut. The man who seems to have done it—your Sicilian apparently—was also found dead at the scene. Someone broke his neck and then propped him up so that he wouldn't die too quickly. One assumes that this was so that he could answer questions. He was left that way to be gnawed on by rats. Roger thinks that this sounds like the sort of thing Billy McHugh might do.”
Kaplan pictured the scene in his mind. He felt no pity. He offered no comment.
“Billy ... or whomever . . . was also too late to save Carla. She was dead or dying when he arrived. He then took the time to wash her face, fix her hair, and lay her out on her bed as if she were asleep.”
Kaplan was seeing that as well.
“This happened, Irwin, at about the same time that Ronny Grassi was being called upon. It would seem that—Susan or no Susan—Paul Bannerman has already mobilized his people.”
If he hasn't, thought Kaplan, he sure as hell will now.
“Mr. Fuller . . . what do you want from me exactly?”
“You said it, Irwin. Damage control. What I don't want is Bannerman running wild until I know what happened to a shipment of nerve gas, who is selling it, where it's going, and what is its intended use.”
A thoughtful pause. “Nerve gas, huh?”
Fuller heard the doubt. “Speak your mind, Irwin.”
“You knew who Corsini was long before the wedding. You've had him under surveillance right along.”
“Among others, yes.”
“And whatever this thing is, you've got your own people inside it. You're worried Bannerman won't care about sorting them out.”
This silence, and a little hissing sound, said, “There's such a thing as being too smart for your own good, Irwin.”
Yeah, well. Fuck you.
“And this isn't about nerve gas, is it. It's not about drugs and it's not even about smuggling.”
Fuller found his voice. “On the contrary,” he said firmly, “both are very much a part of the equation. Get this through your head, Irwin. No one has lied to you.”
Kaplan tried to believe him. No outright lies. He'd only danced around the truth a little.
“Okay, but let's talk nerve gas. There was a story a few months back. There's this town in Russia ...”
“Vigirsk. Near Yekaterinburg.”
“That's the place. Did it happen?”
“Yes.”
“From more stolen nerve gas?”
“From the same shipment. One canister did that, Irwin. There were eighty canisters in all.”
Another pause, longer than the last. Then, “That's pretty scary, all right.”
''Yes,it is.''
“Somebody ought to do something.”
A patient sigh. “Irwin ... drop the other shoe.”
“It's what I asked you this morning. What makes this a State Department problem?”
“Because this nerve gas, scary as it is, is only one little part of an infinitely larger smuggling operation. If our information is correct, the same people who are moving that gas—and everything else that isn't nailed down—are the people who have also been moving some one hundred billion dollars in missing Communist-party funds.”
Kaplan was silent for a long moment. “You said billion?”
“The amount, if you have trouble grasping it, is roughly equal to the gross national product of Sweden. Any part of that money, if recovered, can make the difference between anarchy and relative stability in the former Soviet Union. Helping to assure that stability, Irwin, is clearly within the purview of the State Department.”
The DEA man sniffed. “As opposed to the Russians themselves? I mean, I assume they've noticed that someone cleaned out the vaults.”
Fuller ignored the flippancy.
“Okay. You're saying that the people who'd know how to look for it are probably the people who took it.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And your real interest in getting it back, aside from that stability business, is so this country doesn't have to make up the shortfall.”
“Right on the button, Irwin. This country among others.”
Kaplan considered this. He found comfort in it. He was always more comfortable when conversations got past moral principle and got down to money. Money or power. It was always one of the two.
“Well . . .” He shrugged. “You know that Grassi knows where it is. Some of it, anyway.”
“Some, no doubt. But that missing hundred billion includes an estimated sixty tons of gold, one hundred fifty tons of silver, and eight tons of platinum, not to mention a rumored fortune in precious stones. I don't think Temptress has quite that much cargo capacity.”
Fuller, having said this, let it hang in the air.
Okay, thought Kaplan, I'll bite. “What does, Mr. Fuller?”
“Sudanese ore carriers, if you want a wild guess. The Sudanese ship a lot of copper and chrome to Black Sea ports.”
Wild guess, my ass.
“How does the Sudan figure in this?”
“The Sudanese government has a number of ambitions. One of them is to replace Switzerland/Luxembourg as the premier tax haven of the next century. Khartoum is licensing banks left and right. Their laws don't allow much in the way of auditing nor do they permit the freezing of accounts. The Sudan, incidentally, is where Saddam Hussein kept his traveling money.”
Kaplan waited.
“In addition, we know that the Sicilian Mafia controls the second and third largest banks in Khartoum. The Islamic proscription against drug use does not extend to drug-profits. Nor would they discriminate against a group that knows more about laundering cash than the Swiss and more about smuggling than the Hong Kong Chinese.”
This last part, Kaplan assumed, was to convince him that he should care. But he already knew about the Sicilians.
Fuller continued.
“The primary ambition of the Sudanese is to become the center of the militant Islamic world now that all the others are either discredited or showing signs of reduced religious fervor. Already, no Arab needs a passport to travel in or out of the Sudan. The various terrorist groups find this to be a considerable convenience. The Sudanese intend to use them, not only against Israel, but against any Islamic government which embraces a more moderate view.”
Kaplan was grimacing. “Which brings us back to nerve gas,” he said.
Fuller nodded. “Do you begin to see the scope of the problem, Irwin?”
Kaplan muttered something. It was u
nintelligible.
“Irwin?”
He shook his head, clearing it. “Anyway, ” he said, “all you want from me is to get Bannerman to cool it?”
“For the time being.”
“What if something else happens?”
“Ah, yes.” Fuller covered his mouthpiece. He was asking a question, probably to Roger Clew. He came back on. “The Lesko-Belkin party is out to dinner at the moment. We think we know where. As soon as they're found, they will be whisked to the embassy compound in a bulletproof Lincoln.”
Kaplan grunted softly, thoughtfully. He knew that he should call Zivic first. Tell him about Carla and that he'd just now heard. Maybe Zivic could help get Bannerman to go easy. But he doubted it. Bannerman, he suspected, would sooner hit at random than be thought not to be hitting at all. That's what makes him such a frightening son of a bitch.
”I might have to deal,” he told Fuller. “What can I give him for Carla?”
“Corsini's control... that name was Viktor Podolsk?”
“He's a KGB major, yeah.”
Fuller covered the phone again. More mumbling. Then, “You can give him Major Podolsk, Irwin.”
53
John Waldo was angry. Mostly at himself.
He knew that he should have seen the hit coming. At least, he should have assumed it and made some kind of a move the moment that taxi showed up for a third pass.
That's when he should have known. The first pass was to look things over, the second pass was to set up cross and covering fire, and the third was for the hit itself. The thing was, a hit was about the last thing he expected.
Even when he saw it building, it was too stupid to be true. All those witnesses. The doorman out front. Six or seven chauffeurs dozing in their cars, any one of whom could have decided to follow the shooters home or maybe even cut off their escape. Any one of them probably could have done it because that wheelman driving the taxi wasn't worth a shit.
The guy was pathetic, thought Waldo.
A wheelman, for openers, never ever gets out of the car. This one not only got out but he decided, apparently on his own, that he would go and pop Belkin's driver himself. Belkin's driver, however, does not cooperate. He doesn't roll down his window even when little Hawk-face gets all pissed off and kicks his door.
Bannerman's Promise Page 33