by Tim Tigner
“I was able to get close enough to the tail to use my sound surveillance equipment. He placed a call to none other than Yarik.”
“Yarik—the KGB’s chief executioner—heaven help us.”
“Between Victor and Yarik we now know that both the KGB’s Illegals and Executive Action Departments are involved. We’re uncovering a monster, sir, a hydra, only I don’t know how many heads it has.”
“There’s only one head, Andrey, you may be certain of that. Multiple heads exist only in mythology. And I fear you have not encountered him yet.”
“What makes you so sure, sir?”
“Victor’s relative age and permanent presence in the US rules him out. Yarik, cunning though he may be, is no grand strategist. With those two names, however, we can begin sketching a portrait of the mastermind we’re up against. I daresay he appears to be somebody in the top echelons of the KGB. Let us hope so anyway. If the Knyaz are bigger than the KGB, then there may be nothing we can do to stop them. As it is, my friend, I’m more than a little concerned.”
“Why not just expose them now, the members we do know?”
“Suppose we did that, and then they exposed their whole operation on the evening news. What would the average Russian think about a group that was using Russia’s intelligence capabilities to create manufacturing jobs, restore pride, and strengthen the economy? Given the current economic situation, I think they might be inclined to overlook the bothersome details, and the devastating long-term consequences. I think they’d take the money and call these guys heroes. Those are the two things everybody loves: money and heroes. And Russia is desperate for both right now.”
“You’re right, sir. Sorry. I’m just frustrated.”
“I understand. Tell me, how is Ferris doing?”
“Brilliantly, sir. He slipped his tail at the hotel, but they don’t know it yet. Alex is a very resourceful man. I almost felt sorry for the agent, though. I wouldn’t want to be the guy who has to tell Yarik he lost his quarry.”
“You just make sure you don’t lose yours, Andrey. There is far too much at stake.”
Chapter 20
IRKUTSK, SIBERIA
Alex watched with a mischievous smile as Gold Frame left the hotel in hot pursuit of the wrong man. He allowed five minutes to be sure they were well on their way and then went to the lobby to check out. The receptionist did a double take when she saw his smiling face. She seemed a bit nervous that he was leaving—fancy that—but brightened up when he asked her for a taxi to take him to the airport.
“Flying home?”
“Back to Moscow.”
“Midnight flight?”
“That’s the one.”
“Bon voyage.”
She picked the phone up before he was out the door. So predictable.
The air was frigid outside, but no snow was falling, yet. The Channel One News had warned that a major snowstorm was in the forecast, so it was a good thing that he was not really flying. He took the taxi to the airport and then walked around a bit to satisfy himself that he was not being followed. Once convinced, he ducked into a kiosk, where he bought some mascara, a card, a fancy box of chocolates, and a red wool scarf.
Alex addressed the card and tucked it under the ribbon on the box. Then he put the scarf around his neck, tied the ears from his fur hat snugly under his chin, and went back out into the freezing night with an altered stride. To all but the most careful of observers, he was a different man.
He caught a different taxi back to town, this time directing the driver to The Engine Room’s competitor, Propeller, which was located a half block to the other side of Irkutsk Motorworks’ entrance. When they arrived, Alex held up the card and chocolates and said, “I need these delivered to Isabella Belochkova at 146 Potemkin Boulevard, building twelve, apartment 166. How much will that cost me?”
The driver sucked air in through bad teeth for a long second and then said, “That’s clear on the far side of town. Will take me an hour, and that’s if traffic is good and the snow doesn’t start. Say eighty rubles. Plus of course the ten for this ride.”
“You sure you can find it?”
“Sure I’m sure. My sister lives off Potemkin.”
“Good. It’s worth two hundred to me, or four hundred with a guarantee.”
“Guarantee?”
“For four hundred you guarantee you deliver, or I guarantee to . . . make you regret your lack of commitment.”
The driver’s face blanched, but then his eyes shifted from left to right to left again. “I’ll take the four hundred.”
Alex handed him the box, the card, and the four hundred rubles. Then he made a point of writing down the car’s plate number after exiting.
As soon as his back was turned, Alex chuckled to himself, picturing the driver’s desperate attempt to deliver chocolate to a non-existent person at a phony address, while any followers looked on in confusion. Perhaps all these precautionary countermeasures were unwarranted, but after Gold Frame’s appearance, Alex worried that he wasn’t being cautious enough.
He entered Propeller and made his way through a boisterous crowd to the men’s room, where he locked himself in a stall and waited for the other occupants to leave. Once alone, Alex moved to the mirror and began blackening around his left eye with his newly acquired mascara. This would make the guard less comfortable about staring, would give him an excuse for acting coy, and would make it that much more difficult to distinguish him from the photo in Boris’s ID.
Alex left Propeller in much better shape than he had left The Engine Room. There was probably still some vodka on his breath from the latter, but that would only serve to augment his disguise.
It was time to get serious. The next two hours were what he had traveled halfway around the world for. If he got this right, he could be home by this time tomorrow.
Irkutsk Motorworks was a complex of three buildings surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with a guard shack on its only entrance. A coil of concertina wire around the top looked much newer than the fence itself. Security had recently been upgraded.
Boris, once loosened with liquor and intoxicated with cash, had vented that management was making major changes. He really was concerned about losing his job. He had tugged at a loose thread on his blue coveralls and explained that he worked on the “blue side” of the complex, whereas all the action was over on the “black side.”
“Why not switch to the black side?” Alex had asked.
“I tried. Didn’t pass the test. Fucking Perestroika.”
“They working a double shift over in black?”
“Still a single, though rumor is that’s about to change. Won’t help me none.”
“And I suppose black services the administration building as well?”
“You got that right.”
“Bastards.”
Alex spent the next few vodka shots pumping the disgruntled worker for details about the factory’s layout and procedures. It became abundantly clear that everything of interest to Alex would be in the black zone. But Boris’s identity card and coveralls were blue, and it was too late to try to find a black-zone look-alike now. He would have to improvise once he got inside.
Alex’s first hurdle was the entry gate guard. Boris’s shift ran from five p.m. until one a.m., but he had called in sick. It was now eleven o’clock. If questioned at the gate, Alex would say he started feeling better and decided to get a couple of hours in. This was thin, but his blackened eye helped fill in the blanks. The social awkwardness accompanying the bruise would also avoid a lengthy comparison of his face to Boris’s ID. At least, that was Alex’s theory.
One bonus nugget of news from Boris gave him hope. The Irkutsk Motorworkers had just spent three days working hard to get the place shipshape for a big meeting that morning. Human nature dictated that most of the staff would spend the next three days s
lacking off to compensate.
Alex held up his ID without enthusiasm or a break in his shuffle as he passed the guard’s window and clicked through the turnstile. The guard did not even bother to raise his head from his paperback. He just blinked his eyes up at Alex, said “ouch” and then returned his gaze to the book. By reading a detective story, he had just overlooked the real thing.
Following Boris’s directions, Alex headed straight for the maintenance room and its lockers. He needed a black uniform. A cross-shaped covered walkway connected the two enormous industrial buildings with the central administration building and the guardhouse through which he’d just passed. Whereas the brick behemoths were trimmed with icicles the size of fence posts and stacked with enough snow to indicate that someone was watching the heating bill, the wind kept the walkway clear of both.
Alex listened briefly at the maintenance room door but couldn’t hear anything over the wind. He checked the handle, found it unlocked as promised, and walked in on a legitimate janitor.
“What are you doing here?”
Chapter 21
SUHBAATAR, MONGOLIA
As a general in the KGB, Yarik was entitled to the use of a Chaika limousine with a flag on the hood, a siren on the top, and a major in the driver’s seat. He rarely took advantage of the perk, however, preferring, instead, to feel the road through the steering wheel of his Ford Explorer. It offered a much smoother ride than the Chaika, and, on days like today, Yarik needed more discretion than he could get with an aide in the car. Today’s mission was Knyaz business.
A typical head of the KGB’s Executive Action Department would spend his time dealing with administration, leaving the operations end of the business to the young guys. But Yarik was not typical. He detested administration. This was normal enough, but he also cared little for the money, perks, or privileges that came with his rank. This combination made an eloquent solution easy to devise. Yarik delegated the administration and the chauffeur to a colonel in his confidence, and freed himself up for the good stuff. It was almost too good to be true. He got power, respect, and fear, all from doing what he liked best.
Executive Action, they sure found a way to give the group responsible for murders, kidnappings, and sabotage a respectable face. Were they fooling anybody? Did he care? In his opinion, it was the best job in the world.
With two hours of lonely, winding mountain roads behind him, Yarik caught sight of the border-patrol station. Aside from a crinkly old goat herder and his gnarled dog, the desolate shack was the first sign of civilization he’d seen for fifty kilometers.
A soldier emerged, his weapon ready. Yarik readied his passport and pulled to a stop. Crossing into Mongolia would not present him with a problem. In fact, this particular middle-of-nowhere crossing probably didn’t present a problem to anyone who had ten rubles to spare.
As the private accepted Yarik’s identification, his jaw dropped a bit. Yarik’s reputation had preceded him. Due to the combination of his size, title, and the bloody trail he left behind, Yarik encountered slack jaws several times a day. He found it very satisfying and always kept it in mind when planning his kills. After all, when you’ve got the best job in the world, you have to defend your title.
Just past the border was an open-air bazaar, duty-free shopping, so to speak. Yarik stopped to make a quick purchase, garnering an odd look from the vendor when he asked to have it wrapped in newspaper and tied with twine. The Mongol complied without comment, and five minutes later Yarik reached his destination.
“Good afternoon, general, and welcome to the Lone Spruce Hotel.” The manager gave a slight bow.
Yarik recognized the voice of the man he had spoken with by phone earlier in the week. “Are they here yet?”
“Not yet, sir, but I expect the Ivanovs within the hour, assuming this Friday is no different from most.” He handed Yarik a duplicate key for the Ivanov room and looked inquisitively at the oddly shaped package Yarik was carrying.
Yarik did not comment on it. He just handed the manager fifty rubles, enough to rent half the Mongolian hotel. As the man took the money from his right hand, Yarik grabbed the manager’s genitals in his left and looked down into his eyes. “Keep your mouth shut and you will never see me again.” When he released, the manager wet himself but said nothing. Yarik began to whistle as he walked up the stairs.
He made his way to the room the couple had reserved and concealed himself in a convenient closet. The latticework afforded him a full view of the bed, and there was room to shift about.
As he set about unwrapping his package, he felt a familiar hunger building within. His rage was like a beast that rarely ate its fill. The Orlova execution had not satisfied him for breakfast. There was no sport in snapping a woman’s neck. Dinner, however, would likely compensate. He would be procuring it with a Mongolian hand scythe. He tossed the instrument back and forth between his enormous hands, getting a feel for its weight and balance. It had a curved, steel blade half a meter long attached to an equally sized wooden handle: beautiful, simple, deadly.
Yarik had decided to make the killing look like a jealous husband or another boyfriend was the perpetrator. He did not know if the woman had either, but it did not really matter. The hand scythe would mislead any official investigation, but bar talk would still stoke his legend. The hotel manager and border guard would see to that.
He did not have long to wait before the happy couple arrived. They burst into the room in a torrent of kisses and giggles and dove hungrily onto the bed.
The woman was attractive, even striking, and she had a warm, smoky voice. She was a good fifteen years younger than the forty-four-year-old engineer, and well proportioned. She had honey-toned skin; long, thick black hair; and voilà, shaved genitalia. Now Yarik understood why the engineer made the expensive and illegal trip each week.
He also had to wonder what she got out of it, and hoped it was not related to the Knyaz project. Yarik was not overly concerned about that possibility. If Miss Mongolia had gotten what she was looking for, she would not be wasting any more time boffing this guy.
Having watched with voracious eyes while his lover stripped, the engineer stood and shed his own clothes like they were on fire. Then Yarik understood. The engineer was half man, half beast. As the woman coaxed the beast out of him, Yarik thought the man might pass out from lack of blood to the brain, but he remained standing. This new evidence did not commute their sentence; in fact it didn’t rule out the espionage theory at all. But when she was gone, Yarik would consider the case closed. It would probably be a waste of time to scour Mongolia for those behind her.
Meanwhile, there in the bedroom, the woman used both hands to push the naked engineer backward onto the bed where he lay with his prick raised in salute to her beauty. Then she dove on it like a seal on salmon. Yes, Yarik thought, the best job in the world.
From where he stood, Yarik could see the Mongolian woman’s breasts knocking together rhythmically as she performed her service. He was finding it difficult not to moan along with the engineer. Yarik considered doing just that for the thrill of her reaction, but he didn’t want the show to end. There was something of a tigress in this woman, and that made her just his type. If he lasted to retirement, Yarik thought, he would want a woman like that by his side. But not until then.
He considered killing the man first and taking the woman before dispatching her, but decided to resist the urge. It would be a sloppy, amateurish thing to do, and probably unnecessary.
Act one of the show ended, and Miss Mongolia moved up on the bed. Her sailor was at half-mast, so she dangled her heavy breasts in his face for a moment to put some wind in his spinnaker before commencing with the second act. She took the leading role in this scene as well. Where did she get so much energy? Judging by the stamina in her legs, she must be an equestrienne . . . or a circus performer. Like the fated scientist beneath her, Yarik was finding it hard to control
his enthusiasm.
Halfway through the second act, Yarik’s phone began to vibrate. Damn! That was twice today. He looked at the display: Hotel Irkutsk—the receptionist; Alex must be moving. Yarik pressed the answer key and said, “Hold on.” The bed stopped squeaking at the sound of his voice. He dropped the phone and crashed open the closet doors, bringing the scythe to bear with a roar as he leapt toward the bed. The two lovers, caught up in the delirium of their lovemaking and startled by the incomprehensible sight of a screaming giant wielding a scythe, froze for an unbelieving moment to stare in shock. A moment was all the time Yarik needed. With two quick flips of his wrist, he slit both their throats. Screams turned to gurgles, gurgles to silence. Then he speared them to the bed like ketchup-splattered french fries on a toothpick. Love gone astray.
The scene would look horrendous to the poor chambermaid that found them, but two seconds of shock aside, they had died happy. Objectively speaking, Yarik had quickly and painlessly executed a traitor and a spy. The rest was just theatrics.
Yarik was certain that he, too, would someday die a soldier’s death. It would likely not be as painlessly quick or as blissfully unexpected as it was for these two, but it would almost certainly be as bloody. That was okay with him.
Yarik remembered the phone and returned to the closet. “What is it?”
The phone was dead.
Chapter 22
PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA
Victor was steaming when he disconnected the conference call. Alex was alive!
He went straight from the telephone to the gym, where he spent an hour working those three words into a heavy bag. There was nothing that got under his skin more than being played for a fool. And this time, this time it had happened in front of his father. He was apoplectic.