But someone had grabbed him. Stopped his fall. The first message from his brain was one of relief. Then confusion.
A thick arm crossed over his face, pulling him against a body twice the size of his own. Be careful of the nose, whoever you are. But the arm was not supporting him. It was crushing him. It felt like steel against the sides of his neck, and his feet could no longer reach the floor.
His face swelled to bursting. Dried blood and fresh blood spewed from his nose. He tried to kick with his legs but two other arms seized them. Two men. They were holding him. Carrying him. Now putting him down.
Suddenly, he knew where he was. Day had turned into night and spring into winter, but he knew this place. He saw the walls of the pit. He was lying in it, among frozen pigs and sheep, looking up. He heard the approach of the bulldozer and now he saw it, pushing a car through the snow and mud. It was not the Zil. It was his silver BMW. Oh, no! He wanted to scream but he could not.
Above him, he saw many faces looking down at him from the edge of the pit. He knew some of those men. The lorry driver with his helpers. The driver of the flatbed. All eating the food he had brought them. He saw his colonel standing with them.
He tried to call out. Help me, he wanted to say. Colonel? You were always a good sort. I never felt right about any of this.
But his colonel only waved and turned away. They all turned away. There was only the bulldozer, coming to cover him.
Lesko released his choke hold.
They set Sostkov down on the dining-room carpet. Waldo went through his clothing. He took his pistol, found the keys to the Zil. Lesko, regaining his breath, knelt to check the Russian's throat for a pulse. He felt a blip, heard a bubbling in the throat, then nothing. He reached for the edge of the Persian carpet and folded it over the gaping face.
“You ready?” Waldo asked quietly.
Lesko stood up slowly. He took the Beretta from his belt, and snapped the safety back off. He looked at Waldo and nodded.
Waldo made no sound as they entered the main hall. Lesko hesitated. He walked, lightly but not silently, to the front door where he paused to scan the driveway. No other car had appeared, but Lechmann, he assumed, had a reason for hitting that siren. He turned back toward the library.
He made an effort to be silent, but Waldo caught his eye, telling him with sign language to walk naturally. The men inside would expect to hear movement. Stepping lightly might make them wonder. As it was, he heard no sound from the library. They might have heard the struggle after all.
He put his ear to the door and listened. Now he heard a voice, speaking very softly. He heard no alarm in it. Waldo relaxed. The voice, he felt sure was Kulik's. Its tone was earnest, reasoning. He tried to get a sense of what was being said. The only word he recognized was Borovik. It was mentioned several times. The inflection had the weary sound of exhausted patience.
Suddenly there was movement. Chairs sliding back. He signaled Lesko to back off, wait until they sit, stay ready.
He heard a solid metallic clunk followed by the squeak of a hinge. He knew that sound. The safe had been opened. He listened for an outcry over the missing contents. But the safe squeaked again, just closing over, no clunk. Kulik, he decided, had not yet missed the haul that was now under the Volga's spare tire.
More sounds. Plastic scratching against a lighter metal. More mentions of Borovik. Belkin. Kropotkinskaya. And maybe something about Mama's Boy. He wasn't sure.
Later, he would take Lesko down below, show him what's left of Borovik. That way he'll have no regrets. These are not the kind of people you leave standing.
He heard a new voice.
This one was a little louder, higher, very shaky, sounded scared. Shit, he was blubbering. It seemed familiar. Waldo tried to place it. He caught Lesko's eye and held up five fingers. There's a fifth man in there, said the gesture. He had not taken part in the introductions. This new voice was talking about Borovik, too. Kropotkinskaya. Leo. Elena Brugg. Kerensky brothers.
And Raymond Lesko.
It dawned on Waldo that the voice was saying, ”Ya” a lot. Speaking in the first person. Ya did it. Ya sent the Kerenskys... to Kropotkinskaya… to find the murderer, Raymond Lesko.
Lesko?
And those other noises before... plastic against metal...Waldo knew what they were now. They were a videotape machine being loaded. He was sure of it. He was hearing Borovik's voice in a taped confession and they had to be playing it for Podolsk.
Why? he wondered.
Hell with it.
Waldo signaled Lesko again. He wiped out five fingers, went back to four. He signaled, Get ready. On three, right? One . . . two ...
But Lesko mouthed. “Wait.”
He'd heard shooting, he thought. Pistol shots off in the distance. Concerned for Lechmann, he cupped a hand against his ear and listened, hoping to hear answering fire from a submachine gun.
An explosion shocked him. It came from the library. Two shots, booming, echoing off the walls. He jumped away and spun, trying to crouch, but his momentum caused him to fall backward. He crashed against the far wall, knocking a heavy gilt-framed painting to the floor, but his Beretta stayed trained on the door. Now a third shot. The concussion rattled the door.
Waldo cursed. He, too, backed away, his weapon ready.
But now there was silence. Five seconds. Ten. And then a voice from inside. Several words. They sounded . . . spent. Lesko looked at Waldo questioningly.
“You get that?” he whispered. “What'd he say?”
Waldo blinked, confused. “He said we can come in now.”
Bannerman counted three heads in the yellow car that stayed. Two in the front seat. A heavyset man in back. The man in back was clearly in charge. It was he who had sent the other car on.
It was possible, Bannerman supposed, that they were private security guards. He did not think it likely. Whatever their intent, they had altered their plans at the sight of an expensive American car. It was not the police car that interested them. After Lechmann had gone they still waited and watched.
Bannerman chose to make two assumptions. One, those men were headed for the Kulik house and they were a danger to Lesko and Waldo. This near to the house, he could not afford to assume otherwise. Two, the men in the other car, whatever their intention, would take no action until the man in the back seat of this one told them that the Americans were no threat.
He had asked Kaplan to pace, to look upset, distracted. Above all, to seem in charge. He wanted their focus on Irwin, not on himself. He had stripped off his jacket and stood, in shirtsleeves, clearly unarmed, leaning against the Lincoln's front fender within arm's length of Miggs. Miggs was to stay at the wheel, look bored, chauffeurish. He pretended to study a road map.
“They're moving,” said Miggs.
The car came slowly. It crept up, windows rolled down, all eyes on the occupants of the Lincoln. Kaplan appeared to pay them little notice. He was pretending to shout at Miggs, berating him for getting them lost, and at Bannerman for being generally useless. The men in the car stared curiously at Kaplan, who now pretended to be self-conscious, and contemptuously at Bannerman, who had meekly dropped his eyes under Kaplan's verbal assault.
The three men, two in particular, stared brazenly. It was not a policeman's gaze—trained eyes, always moving, evaluating. It was a hoodlum's gaze—eyes arrogant, intimidating, stupid. The car kept going. Bannerman was disappointed.
It seemed about to turn onto the road that led to Kulik's house. But suddenly it veered right, then swung into a U-turn left.
“They're coming back,” said Miggs.
The yellow car, which Miggs said was a Zhiguli, slowed to a stop on the shoulder opposite. More stares. They said nothing. Kaplan, at the rear of the Lincoln, seemed to wilt under their scrutiny. He backed away. Bannerman merely fidgeted. Miggs turned his head toward the Zhiguli, took a weary breath, and shrugged his shoulders. The one in the back nodded slightly. Bannerman could read his mind. The chauffeur, he
was thinking, had no use for these two. He would give them no trouble. Nor would the one who let little four-eyes talk to him in such a way.
“You! American!” The one in back called to Kaplan. “What are you doing here?”
He was more than heavyset. He was fat. Totally bald. No eyebrows.
Timidity from Kaplan. “We're ... just waiting for someone.”
“Go wait in Moscow. You're not allowed here.”
Kaplan pursed his lips. “Who says we're not?” It came out as a whine.
“The militiaman told you,” said the fat man, “and now it's me telling you. Do you need a kick in the ass before you understand?”
Indignation. “We're not bothering you.”
A good line, thought Bannerman. Guaranteed, never miss, to get you stepped on. He had an even better one.
“Can't you just leave us alone?” he asked.
The one in the back turned to the man in the passenger seat. They exchanged shrugs. Both men climbed out, languidly. Bannerman had hoped for the driver as well, but he stayed in his seat, elbows out through the open window, content to enjoy the show. The other two crossed the road, slowly, deliberately, the fat one rubbing his knuckles.
Kaplan backed away further. His chin quivered. “What right do you have . . .” he sputtered. “If you're police, show me some identification.”
The fat one smiled.
“Here it is,” he said, and showed an open palm. Kaplan looked at it. The man slapped him across the face. Kaplan's glasses flew off. The blow knocked him sideways. He fell. The one from the front seat, pony tail, bad teeth, Euro-Disneyland T-shirt, took a stance facing Bannerman. He drew back his coat to show the pistol at his hip.
“How about you, cunt-face?” he asked Bannerman. “You want to see papers, too?”
“Ah ... I think that will do it,” said Bannerman to Miggs.
He extended a hand toward the Lincoln's window, palm up.
“It's on cock,” warned Miggs. He slapped his Beretta onto Bannerman's hand. Bannerman extended his arm and fired.
The bullet struck the Russian in the neck. It missed his spinal cord. He clutched at his throat, staggered backward, but didn't fall. Bannerman wheeled on the Zhiguli's driver. Sighting with both hands, he aimed at the man's chest. Bannerman fired twice, then wheeled again. The first man had sunk to his knees. He almost seemed to be praying. Bannerman took time for a head shot. He fired. The ponytail blew apart.
He saw Kaplan, who was no longer acting. He had pulled his Beretta and rolled to a combat stance, but he wasn't shooting. The man who had slapped him seemed in momentary shock. Mouth open. In disbelief.
“Irwin ... now!” Bannerman barked. He lowered his pistol. The man saw this. He snapped out of it. He clawed at the holster under his arm.
“Shit!” came Kaplan's voice. But Kaplan fired.
The bullet struck the fat Russian in the hip. He yelped, twisted, but managed to free his weapon. Bannerman sighted on his head, but waited. Kaplan fired again. Chest shots. The Russian gasped and crumbled. He pitched forward on his face.
“Holy shit.”
Miggs was out of the Lincoln. He had crossed to the yellow Zhiguli and reached into the driver's window.
“Still alive,” he called, turning.
Bannerman had seized Ponytail by the collar, was dragging him toward the pine trees. He looked up at Miggs, shook his head. Miggs nodded. He reached back into the window. His shoulder muscles tightened briefly, then relaxed. He opened the door, dragged that one out as well.
“Holy shit.” From Kaplan again.
Bannerman came back for the fat one* picked up his pistol.
“You want a shotgun?” called Miggs from the Zhiguli. “They brought shotguns and shovels.”
Shovels? “Leave the shotguns in it. We're going to use that car.”
Kaplan now functioning, helped with the fat Russian. “Taking them?” he hissed. “This was your idea of taking them?”
“Irwin . . . later.”
Bannerman wondered what had been unclear, but his mind was elsewhere. These men. He still knew little about them—beyond that they were killers and that it wasn't him they were here to kill and bury. They'd shown no sign that they recognized him. It was possible that they'd been called here to protect Kulik, but that, too, seemed unlikely. They would have been more vigilant, especially coming upon a car full of Americans. But all they wanted to do, it seemed to him, was to shoo away three potential witnesses.
He dropped the fat one just inside the tree line, examined his pistol, a stubby Tokarev. A shotgun would be better, but he kept it. He checked the dead Russian's pockets. No papers other than his wallet. Cards in it showed a name and address. He kept the cards and threw the wallet into a brook.
He didn't bother with Ponytail. Miggs was back on the road with one of the shovels, sprinkling dirt and pine needles over the blood.
By his watch, less than two minutes had passed since the first shot. The other yellow car will have heard the gunfire. It might come looking or it might elect to wait, assuming that their friends did the shooting. Either way, better to find them first. Let them see a yellow car coming. Hope they're no brighter than this bunch.
“Irwin? How are you holding up?”
Kaplan, drained of color, sputtering now, was trying to straighten his glasses. “Bannerman . . . you . . . you're such a fucking
It was not the time, Bannerman supposed, to talk to Kaplan about his language.
“Irwin ... I need three heads showing. If I can't count on you, I'll have to take one of these.”
Kaplan gasped. A look of utter horror. Bannerman wondered what he'd said.
“Fuck you, Bannerman. Let's go.”
79
Podolsk was to die this morning.
It was the videotape that had convinced him of it. Whether he passed or failed this test, it didn't matter. He would never leave this house alive.
Hear him out first, Sostkov had said. Above all, give him every chance to open that safe. When he does, call me in. We'll shoot the dirty bastards together.
But within two minutes of sitting down with Arkadi Kulik, being offered real Italian coffee and shortbreads from Scotland, being flattered by this soft-spoken man in the Scottish hat, he knew that Kulik had a test of his own in mind.
”A question,” he had said. He leaned close, allowing his face to show that the need to ask it pained him. “Do you trust Sostkov? Or have you seen something . . . disappointing in him?”
“He is ambitious,” Podolsk ventured.
It seemed a good answer. The other former generals— they could have been twins— nodded gravely, knowingly.
“You're a very perceptive young man,” said Kulik, sighing deeply, his sadness profound.
He did not take the subject further, but the foundation, Podolsk realized, had been laid. Before this interview was over he would hear that Oleg Sostkov is a thief, a traitor, a spy—whatever would serve—who had broken the heart of a man who had treated him like a son. But first there was more flattery. They had heard many good things about Major Viktor Podolsk. In particular, said one of the others, they liked that stunt with the Leningrad lottery. Very clever. Shows creativity. We could use more of that kind of thinking around here.
After that came sympathy. Two years of working for Borovik. That diseased mind. Was told to stay away from the Belkin party. Disobeyed orders. We know that you wanted no part of it, tried to talk him out of it, but you were in a difficult position. As for that insanity outside the restaurant, you are totally exonerated. Bórovik himself has absolved you.
“I'm going to show you something,” said Kulik. “It's not so pleasant but it's good that you see it.”
He went to his safe, opened it, and withdrew a videotape cassette. He crossed to a TV screen and inserted the cassette. The near-twins moved their chairs so they could watch. One winked at the other.
Podolsk looked at the open safe. He was sorely tempted to end this before he lost the will for i
t. In some ways, he was almost beginning to like Arkadi Kulik. The old man hadbeen charming and attentive, made him feel appreciated, important, trusted. His eyes had humor in them except when they were sad. That Scottish hat he wore indoors seemed harmlessly eccentric.
He knew, of course, that he was being manipulated, that Kulik was a master at it. The Academician had as much as said so. Still...
The screen lit up. Podolsk's mouth fell open. He was looking at the head and chest of General Borovik.
He was propped against a board. Perhaps tied to it. He seemed in frightful agony and yet he managed to speak. Sentences. Parts of sentences. Some of them prompted by a voice off-camera. The voice was Sostkov's. Borovik, under torture, was confessing everything.
The ambush outside Kropotkinskaya was his doing, he said. But he claimed that he did not mean harm to the ones who were shot. It was a man named Lesko he was after. He admitted to being the brains behind the Chicago Brigade. This last caused the two others to laugh.
He was a thief. He would steal anything under the sun. He confessed to stealing eighty canisters of nerve gas. Having an accident with one of them. He named the Ural village in which no living thing survived. He made it clear that his aide, Major Viktor Podolsk, had been kept totally in the dark about all this. Last of all, he named names, at least a dozen of them, who had been in these enterprises with him.
Podolsk recognized most of these names. A few did not surprise him. But he greatly doubted the guilt of some others.
Among the latter were Boris Petrov, the federal prosecutor, Andrei Kosarev, First Deputy Director of the Security Ministry, Anatoly Pimin—in charge of privatization. Podolsk had never heard so much as a whisper against these men, even when they were still Communists.
One name in particular was beyond accusation. To Podolsk's astonishment, Borovik had named the Academician Nikolai Belkin as being in his pocket.
Only one explanation was possible, thought Podolsk. Whoever had written Borovik's confession had seen a chance to discredit a few of his enemies.
It was here that Podolsk had his flash of insight. He had several.
Bannerman's Promise Page 48