Duel of Assassins

by Dan Pollock

  One thing at least was clear. Marcus Jolly’s erratic course was intricately interwoven with his own, crossing it again and again, always fatefully. Even eight years after their farewell in Peshawar, the mere linking of their names on a transatlantic call from the Kremlin to the White House had been sufficient to wrench Taras out of his new American life and catapult him back to Moscow.

  What would it take to finally slam the door on Marcus, as he thought he had done that last night in their bungalow at Dean’s?

  After slipping out through the garden, Taras had flagged a cab to the USIA office in Peshawar’s University Town district, where his new CIA contact had been pacing the vestibule. He had been asked questions all that night and far into the next day, the first of countless interrogations. They uncoiled in his recollection as an endless series of monotonous rooms, inscrutable inquisitors and unspooling cassette machines—his tunnelway to freedom. There had been more debriefings the following week at the U.S. Embassy in Islamabad. And they came, one after another, week after stupefying week, when he was flown to Washington. Nor had they altogether ceased even after he’d gone to work at Langley. But he’d accepted the bargain for asylum, and gave full measure.

  In all those years Taras had heard nothing from Marcus. And the KGB dossier had offered few revelations. It mentioned that Marcus had been commissioned a captain in July 1985, and returned forthwith to Moscow. What the dossier did not say, but which Taras knew, was that Rodion Marchenko had also left Afghanistan around July of 1985, removed as deputy commander by the new general secretary; while the top Afghan spot had been given to General Mikhail Mitrofanovich Zaitsev, transferred to Kabul from a key command in East Germany with an ultimatum to crush the mujahideen rebellion within two years. Zaitsev, needless to say, had failed, as had his successor, Gromov.

  But there was to be an intriguing postscript to Afghanistan, both for Marchenko and Marcus—an event not to be found in the dossier, yet oddly confirmed by it when overlaid with the rough chronology in Arensky’s memory. In February of 1986 Brigadier General Jalil Muhammad Raza had gone to Geneva to address an international conference on the plight of the Afghan refugees. But Raza never gave his speech. He was shot walking toward a taxi at Cointrin Airport in broad daylight. He died two hours later at L’Hôpital Cantonal without regaining consciousness. Two bodyguards were badly wounded. All five recovered bullets were rimmed 7.62mms fired from a single Dragunov sniper rifle.

  The omission of this affair from Marcus’ dossier, and the absence of any notated visits to Switzerland, could not be taken as evidence either way. Documentation concerning a mokroye dyelo, a wet affair, was often mislaid. But the official record revealed another, more suspicious omission. In its blizzard of pages Arensky could find no explanation for that fact that—in March of 1986, only a month after the assassination—Captain Marcus Jolly, while ostensibly holding a GRU staff job, had been promoted to major. And it had been around the same time, Arensky thought, that Marchenko had made colonel general.

  These coincidences were more than remarkable; to Arensky they were conclusive. If Marcus had not done the Geneva hit on Raza, why would the KGB claim he had never failed a wet operation? No, it had to be Marcus. It was like him, and Marchenko, to finally get their man.

  But there had been no further career climbing for either. As a minor offshoot of the Kremlin cataclysms of the early ’90s, both patron and protege had been sent to Siberia by Alois Rybkin—officially, according to an article Taras had read at Langley in the military newspaper Krasnaya Zvezda—to “shore up” the Siberian Military District. The old rocket general had gone obediently enough, eager, no doubt, to lay the groundwork for his Spetsnaz mutiny at safe remove from Moscow. But, as Biryukov had mentioned at this morning’s briefing, Major Marcus Jolly had never arrived in Novosibirsk. Instead, obviously at Marchenko’s behest, he had vanished from Soviet soil on a GRU deep-cover assignment.

  Which closed the file on the Question of the Hour:

  Where was Marcus now?

  Taras shuffled up his notes—mainly concerning the surprising discrepancies in Marcus’ U.S. background—and dialed Hank Kelleher, who had returned to the Embassy.

  “Hank, come and get me out of the Lubyanka—now!”

  *

  But the next afternoon he and Kelleher were back in Biryukov’s office. The KGB chairman wanted to show them something. It was centered on his desk blotter as Starkov ushered them into the office, a small pen case covered in burgundy velour.

  Not touching it, Biryukov framed the object with his plump, splayed palms, like a TV pitchman reverently displaying The Product. “It arrived this morning from Munich by your Federal Express, addressed to me. Most reliable service. Better than diplomatic courier.”

  “What is it?”

  “I will let Lieutenant Colonel Starkov show you. It is best not to handle it. There are still some tests to be made.”

  They came close. Starkov, wearing white cotton gloves, prised open the case’s hinged top. Inside, a plastic liner was grooved to fit a fancy calligraphy pen, which was pictured on the satin lid lining. At the moment, however, the groove was occupied by a human finger, its severed base congealed with dark, dried blood. Taras now caught the faint sweet smell of decaying flesh. Under matted black hairs atop the finger, the skin was white and waxen, was deep bluish. Below the large joint was a paler, indented band of skin, such as a ring would leave.

  “Oh, Christ Jesus!” Kelleher’s oath was one of distaste.

  “Not a pretty sight so early in the morning, I apologize,” Biryukov said. “It was formerly attached to one of our agents. We just got confirmation on the print. You are looking at the index finger of Captain Walter Bauer of the Bundeswehr, the GRU and, quite recently, the KGB. Coincidentally, we have just received word that the Herr Kapitän’s corpse was also discovered this morning, minus this finger. It all fits together, you see?” Biryukov smiled at his own small witticism.

  “Where was it found?”

  “In Bavaria. We’ll address that in a moment.”

  “And Marcus, you think he was involved?”

  “We know he was. Bauer phoned his handler in Directorate S late last night. Told him that he had been contacted by Jolly, spent much of the day with him, in fact. Bauer was one of several GRU agents who were led astray by Marchenko’s cabal, but who fortunately realized the error of their ways and began cooperating with us. The idiot should have informed us immediately, and let us take care of Marcus. Instead, he tried to be a hero and assassinate the assassin. Not a good idea for amateurs, you will agree, Major Arensky.”

  Taras nodded. “How do you know it was Marcus?”

  The KGB chairman opened his other hand like a magician, revealing a wadded handkerchief. He proceeded carefully to unwrap this and withdrew a bulky finger ring of steel, set with a round black stone that looked like onyx. Taras observed the width of the band matched the marks on the severed finger.

  “That was on the finger when you opened the box?”

  Biryukov nodded. “But the ring was not Captain Bauer’s. It belongs to Marcus Jolly.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” asked Kelleher.

  “The Roman initials ‘MJ’ are engraved inside the band. Also, there was a note enclosed. It’s being analyzed, but I have a copy.” Biryukov put on half-glasses and read from a scrap of paper: “‘Comrade Biryukov, I’m returning your ring as it is now out of ammunition. —Do svidanya, Major Marcus Jolly. P.S. You will have noticed another gift enclosed. Perhaps you can get somebody to explain its significance in American slang.’”

  Biryukov glanced up. “I see that you are both chuckling. Perhaps one of you will be so kind as to explain the last part. A little joke, I think.”

  “Marcus is ‘giving you the finger.’” Kelleher demonstrated the gesture. “It’s like an Italian flicking his thumbnail at you or pumping his forearm. It means—”

  “Fuck you?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Of course, I
’ve seen the gesture many times in American films. I just didn’t know the vulgar idiom. I suppose he thinks it quite subtle. He might have sent me the captain’s genitalia, but then, that would have been crude, wouldn’t it?”

  “If it’s got Marcus’ initials on it, why does he call it ‘your ring’ in the note?” Taras wanted to know. “And what did he mean about ammunition?”

  “Because he either got the ring here in this building, or was given it by someone else who got it here. It is one of the amusing little items from our Technical Research Directorate.”

  “Of course!” Kelleher said. “A flamethrower, right? I’ve seen pictures at Langley. Don’t look surprised, Volya. I know damn well you’re up on most of the stuff from our spy-tech shop.”

  “I try.” Biryukov smiled.

  Taras was staring down at the bulky steel ring. He’d seen switchblade rings, rings with hidden cavities for microfilm or cyanide capsules, cufflinks that fired birdshot, hairspray-and-Zippo flamethrowers, but this was a novelty. “Well, I can tell you one thing. Marcus didn’t wear this in Afghanistan. We didn’t have time to fool around with black-bag tricks over there. Can you show me how it works?”

  “Pavel?” Biryukov gestured.

  Lieutenant Colonel Starkov stepped forward, took the ring and moved to the conference table.

  “There are two tiny buttons, here and here. This one opens the chamber.” The top of the ring mounting flipped open. “It fires one shot, manual reload.” Starkov held up what looked like an ordinary gelatin capsule, then inserted it into the small chamber. “This is a kerosene-based, gelled-flame capsule. Another version of the ring fires a .22-caliber long-rifle bullet, and there’s another that uses, um, chemicals. They’re not interchangeable.”

  Starkov closed the chamber. “The other button cocks the weapon.” From one side of the bulky steel mounting a tiny barrel suddenly protruded. “You aim by merely turning your finger. We recommend the index finger, because to fire, you depress this same button with the thumb, which retracts the barrel and projects the capsule with a tiny powder charge. It bursts into flame only when it strikes the target. The gel tends to be very sticky, much like napalm, and burns at a high intensity. The range is from three to ten meters. I will demonstrate.”

  Starkov slipped the ring over his forefinger and fired a capsule into a nest of papers wadded in Biryukov’s wastebasket, which he had placed in the center of the office. The resulting whoosh of flame triggered the chairman’s smoke alarms, singed his ceiling plaster and was only extinguished only when a uniformed guard burst in from the corridor with a CO2 canister.

  When the guard exited, taking the blackened, smoking container with him, Biryukov chuckled. “You know, Pavel, we might bring this up at our next budget meeting. Think how much money we could save by doing away with burn bags.”

  The rest of the briefing was less flamboyant. Biryukov passed along what other little information he had. The German officer’s body had been discovered early that morning by children in a caravan camp along the Isar River outside Bad Tölz, Bavaria. The sender’s address on the Federal Express airbill turned out to be a seedy hotel in Munich; none of its employees recognized photos of Marcus. The assassin had sprung the KGB’s trap and escaped. Worse, he would be even warier next time.

  “Nevertheless,” Biryukov summed up, “if he pursues Marchenko’s mad vendetta, he will inevitably fall into our hands. We have only to wait. In the meantime, I leave it up to you, Major Arensky. Is there, perhaps, some line of investigation you wish to pursue?”

  Taras wanted to leave Moscow, but he phrased it more diplomatically: “I’d like to go to Bad Tölz, I guess. That’s still the headquarters for our 10th Special Forces Group, isn’t it, Hank?”

  “There’s a detachment there, yeah.”

  “I can’t imagine what connection there might be with Marcus, but I’d like to poke around. Maybe talk to your KGB people there, and the federal police, try and reconstruct Marcus’ movements, figure out what he might have been doing. I just can’t see hanging around here. As long as President Rybkin stays in the Kremlin, or just goes back and forth in his motorcade to Kuntsevo, I think he’s safe.”

  Starkov coughed, and Biryukov spoke: “I agree, Major. A minor point, but the president is currently not in either of these places.”

  “Where the hell is he?” Kelleher cut in. “I saw him last night on Vremya, addressing the Congress of People’s Deputies.”

  “He left this morning for his summerhouse in Oreanda.”

  “He’s in the Crimea?”

  “Yes, Oreanda is just west of Yalta. A lovely place, but a fortress nonetheless, in some ways surpassing even the Kremlin. The compound perimeter is double-walled on the land side, with elite troops, machine guns and so forth. And on the other side there are sheer cliffs rising more than a hundred meters from the Black Sea.”

  Taras looked askance. “With all due respect, Mr. Chairman, that’s an incredibly naive thing to say. Marcus and I were trained in the Spetsnaz to attack impregnable fortresses. In Afghanistan we got so we could run up and down sheer cliffs in the dark, with full packs and no ropes. The mujahideen couldn’t believe it at first. The survivors learned better.”

  “I am fully aware of the capabilities of Spetsnaz, Major. The KGB academies have introduced much of the same curriculum. It is you who are overestimating your old comrade. In the first place, he could have no idea that Rybkin was not in Moscow. Even the CIA”—he gestured at Kelleher—“was not aware of it until I told you. And in the second place, Marcus would never get within twenty kilometers of Oreanda, by air, land or sea, without our pinpointing him.”

  “Really? You expect me to believe this, after the whole world has seen a tiny Cessna land in Red Square with a German teenager at the controls? Believe me, Marcus is a bit more skilled at penetrating defenses than this boy. In any case, it wouldn’t hurt for your people to tighten their security at Oreanda.”

  Biryukov arched his Brezhnevian brows, assuming a clearly patronizing tone: “Mathias Rust was a fluke, Major, as you well know. We could have shot the hooligan down the moment he crossed the Finnish border; we simply chose not to. We are always on maximum alert. That’s the way we operate.”

  Taras shrugged. It was pointless to argue. He was calculating elapsed time and distance. Marcus had mailed the severed finger from Munich the day before around noon. If he did have some secret pipeline to Rybkin’s movements and wanted to surprise the Soviet leader at his summer house, how close could he be now? The numbers blurred in Taras’ brain, the calculation collapsing under too many variables. But one thing was certain: striking when and where least expected was Marcus’ preferred mode of operation. The only thing to do was go and have a look. He turned back to Biryukov:

  “You asked me what I wanted to do next. Okay. I want to go to Oreanda. As soon as you can arrange it.”

  “Of course.” Biryukov picked up the phone, spoke briefly, put it down. “They will call back in a moment.”

  “Taras, do you want me to go with you?” Kelleher said.

  “No, thanks, Hank.”

  When the phone double-shrilled, Biryukov grabbed it, listened, grunted, hung up. “A car is being brought around to the courtyard in back to take you to Vnukovo. The flight to Simferopol Airport in the Crimea takes two hours. From there you can either drive to Yalta or take a helicopter—”

  “Get me a helicopter.”

  “Of course. In that case, you might reach Oreanda in, oh, a little more than three and a half hours from now. Is this fast enough, Major?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Twenty-One

  The madonna-faced, lightly mustached young woman working passport control at Istanbul’s Yesilköy Airport looked from the photograph to the tall Canadian leaning nonchalantly against her counter, and hesitated. It was not because she was suspicious of the man. It was definitely he in the picture—with his boyish-rugged features, light-blue eyes, sandy hair, shaggy mustache. Byron Landy, journal
ist; born Vancouver, October 28, 1957. Let the bearer pass freely in the name of Her Majesty the Queen...

  No, she hesitated because this extremely attractive traveler was grinning at her in a way that dispelled her afternoon lethargy and made her feel suddenly and blushingly feminine. She held his gaze a long, teasing moment, then slid off it toward the anxious, arriving swarm from Lufthansa 1582 behind him.

  Damn! Why were they all in such a ridiculous rush?

  Her playful mood was broken. She closed the navy-blue passport with the gold-stamped Canadian coat of arms and handed it back with her own best smile of the day: “Welcome to Istanbul, Mr. Landy. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Thanks to you, it’s off to a lovely start.”

  Marcus Jolly shouldered his single carryon and let his smile fade as he passed beyond the counter. He scolded himself for deliberately making an impression on the Turkish girl. It was spectacularly stupid behavior for an international fugitive, one down to his last two sets of false identity papers. But her eyes were languorous, dammit, like his image of a properly sub-missive harem girl, and he had wanted to bask in them a moment. If he was to be denied everything, then he might as well shoot himself—and spare his enemies the trouble.

  The fact was, of course, Marcus enjoyed danger. It heightened the excitement of the game. Why else would he have gone to the extreme of taunting his pursuers—severing and sending the digital message with attached fire-ring to Biryukov, whom he assessed to be the leading hound in the pack now baying at his heels? Well, let them catch him, if they could.

  Marcus pushed through the crowded concourse with his usual swagger and passed out into the humid late afternoon, angling for the taxi stand. He was still chuckling as he thought of Rybkin, Biryukov, all the rest of them. Those Politburo prag-matists would never be able to fathom what motivated a daredevil like himself. For there was no self-serving reason for him to be carrying out the assassination order of a commander who himself was dead, whose network was compromised, whose cause was lost. Even if Marcus succeeded in killing Rybkin, what then? All his bridges back were in flames. At this moment he was no longer Spetsnaz, no longer an adopted Soviet, could never again be American.