by Rik Stone
A man moved and Jez shot him through the head. The coolness of the action unnerved the girl further and she trembled all the more for it.
“Here, cover yourself,” he said, in an attempt to take her mind off what she’d seen. He picked up the robe and handed it to her. “Sit on the corner of the bed with your back to the balcony.” The girl looked at him, eyes like saucers. “Do it,” he demanded and she reluctantly obeyed.
He pulled the net away and opened the door as wide as it would go. A cold wind blew and the heavy curtain swayed gently. At least it had stopped raining.
“Look,” he said, sweeping his hand out to the empty night, “and listen. What I told Nabokovski was true. I have a partner in that building across the way and he has a gun trained on you now. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes,” she answered weakly. He barely heard, but she’d nodded.
He took the chair from the dressing table and returned to where the girl sat. Her legs dangled over the side of the bed in a knock-kneed pose. Her body had gone into convulsions and she urinated, the fear of death sending cascades of water down the insides of her thighs and onto the carpet. He wanted to tell her she was safe, that he wouldn’t hurt her. But what else could he do?
If he showed weakness, she might run from the room and betray him. If she did that, he would have to shoot her. Well, no, maybe he couldn’t do that, but hell he’d never pretended to be some sort of angel. Suddenly, she brought positive thought. She was the ideal witness to events, someone who could tell Nabokovski’s bosses what had happened.
He put the chair directly in front of her and put an antique clock from the top of the dressing table on it. “See this clock?”
“Yes,” she said, lucid again.
“Can you tell the time?”
“Yes.” She was almost indignant now.
“Well, if you sit there and remain still for one hour, you’ll be free to do as you wish. But if you try to turn and see my partner across the boulevard within that time, he’ll shoot you in the face. If you try to get up and leave the room within the time, he’ll shoot you through the back of the head. Do you understand your position?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, tears flowing once more.
“Don’t worry,” he said, and rested a hand on her arm. “Do as you’re told and you’ll be fine.”
With the pistol back in his waistband, he left her on the bed and went into the office, to the gun cabinet. It was locked, but it only took a second to get it open and take out a Dragunov SVD. He lovingly ran a hand over its length.
The rifle had only been in service for a couple of years, but he’d used it regularly in training in internal security and felt comfortable with it. At over a meter in length, it was a more cumbersome gun than he would’ve liked, and getting it out of the hotel building wouldn’t be easy. But at less than 5 kilos loaded and with an effective range of 1,000 meters, suddenly he couldn’t do without it. He took a fully loaded magazine from the bottom of the cabinet. There were more, but for what he had in mind one clip would do the job. He came back to the bedroom and put his find on an uncluttered part of the bed.
“Right, there must be a case,” he mumbled, and went back into the office. A thorough search revealed a long music case with pre-formed foam sculptured to take the rifle. He brought it into the bedroom and packed the weapon and ammunition. “That’s it,” he said to the girl; “time for me to leave, but remember what I told you.”
He got the door half open and stopped.
“Just a minute, in the excitement I nearly forgot the reason I came.”
He crouched in front of the girl so he could look up into her face. “I have a message for Nabokovski’s boss. You tell him Otto had given him plenty of warning when he had me burn down the Red Lite nightclub. I’ve already told Stefan and now I’m telling you: Otto wants the flesh trade back.”
Jez made her repeat the message several times until she was word perfect. Happy she had it, he left. Now he had insurance in place. Should he fail in his mission to kill Mitrokhin, then for sure the local hoodlums would complete the job for him.
*
The girl trembled as she repeated the message in her mind. She knew she was safe from the man who’d killed Nabokovski. He’d gone, but fear dominated. If she got the instructions wrong and he found out, he might come back. She couldn’t afford to get it wrong.
Slowly she turned her head to look at Nabokovski’s body, and her mood lifted. A glow filled her and she stopped shaking. The bastard was dead. Her mind jerked and she recited the message again, but now she did it with a smile on her face.
Chapter 58
Andrei had made two money-drops to Leningrad in as many weeks, and Otto waited impatiently for his return from the second. He should’ve been back days ago. So where could he be? He’d made that drop a dozen times before. Otto’s mind ran in circles, nitpicking at every negative possibility. Maybe something had gone wrong – but he would’ve phoned. No, he wouldn’t, he’d know that people listen in.
Stefan had confirmed that the photograph was of Kornfeld, and Andrei had checked the trail between the killing field and Moscow. No doubt about it, they hadn’t dealt with the Jew when they’d shelled him. And that was why he worried so much about Andrei now. But he had to get things in perspective: Kornfeld didn’t know about the Leningrad set-up, so the concerns were groundless. And the accountant wouldn’t try to steal from him, as he was only too aware of the risks to his daughters.
Otto looked down over Dzerzhinski Square and saw another summer in its death throes. Autumn had already sent its chilled spikes to test what was left of its defences. Soon it would assume victory and then the misery of winter would set its own sights. He’d had enough of hard climes and, with more money than he knew what to do with, the time had come for him to get out.
The warmer climes and luxurious lifestyle of the West called more and more of late. And when the time came to take that leap, it would be a smooth transition. Since the Jew had started his campaign of revenge, he’d become jumpy. And Kornfeld was only one man. What would it be like if the whole of the Soviet Union was after him? No, it had to be a smooth transition, and that would be where General Irishka would help.
He lifted his gaze and a depressing sky threatened him from the window. He brushed a hand over his flat-top, paced the floor and stared at the phone. Why hadn’t it rung? No, he knew why. It wouldn’t be safe. He went back to the window. Paranoia entrenched his mind; and all because of that fucking Jew. The shit had to be sorted out once and for all.
A soldier entered the office with paperwork for the in-tray. Otto ignored him. But then his heart lifted. Andrei, he could see Andrei down on the square.
“Andrei, there’s Andrei now. The only thing wrong was that that fucking Jew had made me feel uneasy.”
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Wha…” Otto grunted in surprise, as he turned to the soldier, “oh – that will be all.”
“Yes, sir,” he said and left.
Otto fixed his sights back on Andrei as he crossed the plaza. He could look a bit happier: even from that distance he could see the grave expression. He took two glasses and a bottle of vodka from the desk and poured a couple of measures in readiness. That always cheered him up.
Andrei stormed in, saw the vodka and downed a glass in one.
“What’s happened?” Otto asked in a gruff voice. His body stiffened and all his fears rushed back.
“Both Bernstein and the passport Jew, they’ve gone.”
“Gone, what do you mean gone?”
“I mean what I fucking said. I’ve spent the best part of a week in search of them, but they’re gone without a trace. I’ve even had the Leningrad militia out. I’m telling you, Otto, without a fucking trace.”
Otto felt his face turn several shades paler than Andrei’s and his hands trembled.
“The money, what about my money?” he asked.
“I’ve still got it here. Like I told you, I could
n’t find him.”
“No, not that fucking money, you idiot, I mean the money in the accounts.” Andrei pouted and Otto regretted the words. “Sorry,” he said, and gripped Andrei’s upper arm.
The last thing he needed was to fall out with his closest ally. But how could Andrei have checked the accounts anyway? He didn’t have access rights.
“Look, let’s not jump to conclusions. There might be an ordinary explanation. Did you check the hospitals?”
“The militia are checking them and other similar possibilities now, but that wouldn’t account for them both.”
“But it could: if one had been hurt the other might go along with him, or they could’ve been in an accident together. Who knows? In the meantime, I’ll make sure the money in the accounts is secure. There can’t be a problem there though: the accountant doesn’t have withdrawal options, and he wouldn’t betray his daughters even if he had. No, the money will be fine.”
*
“That’s not possible, all gone. They couldn’t have.” Andrei looked incredulous as he gulped down a glass of vodka.
“That’s what I thought, but they have. The question is – why? As far as Bernstein is aware, his daughters are safe and watched over in Italy. He wouldn’t jeopardize their safety just for money… but he is a Jew… no, he wouldn’t.”
Emptiness became tinged with fear – of Kornfeld. Could it be possible that Kornfeld had stripped his accounts?
Otto sat quietly and considered what had happened since the Jew had murdered Adrik; he tried to make sense of the situation. Andrei tried to speak, but Otto lifted a hand. He needed time to understand the situation. And then he did.
“Suppose Kornfeld got information about Bernstein from Stefan, when he raided the club in Balashikha? He knew enough – too much. Suppose Stefan kept it quiet for fear of me meting out retribution. Suppose some of the information revealed Bernstein’s whereabouts and that his daughters were used as prostitutes in Turkey. Now, with all these suppositions under consideration, would Kornfeld have any trouble persuading the accountant to rob me? I don’t think so.”
“Too many supposes for me, Otto, but the money has gone so we have to examine all possibilities. In which case we should be asking if Bernstein had transfer rights and, if he has, can we find out where the money is.”
“Yes to both questions. I didn’t think he was that worldly, but when he set up the accounts he gave himself access. And yes, we can get it back. He hasn’t been as clever as he thinks.”
He brushed his flat-top. If only he felt as confident as he sounded.
“They created two accounts, transferred the money to one, moved it to the other and then closed the first. The second account is set up so that only a high-ranking party member can authorize access, but Bernstein made a mistake. While I couldn’t get admission, I was able to use my authority to put a hold on it. At first the bank resisted, but they bowed to KGB authority and sent out instructions telling the client how to restart the account. And they told me the holder’s address – an apartment block in a part of Leningrad where party members have residences. I sent local militia to make enquiries and they were told that the apartment was rented but remained empty.
“Anyway, there’ll come a time when he has to visit the address for the information about how to make withdrawals. Until then, the money will be in limbo. I’ve put two trusted men on permanent surveillance at the apartment. Be assured, the money will come back to us.”
“If this is Kornfeld’s work, you have to shoulder some of the blame. I told you not to get too involved.”
“What, listen, you…” No, don’t fall out with Andrei. He sighed. “And what would you have done?”
“I’d have stuck with Irishka’s rules. That would have meant that when Petrichova gave me the task in the first place, I would’ve terminated Stefan and all those connected to him. If you had done that, you could have shut down the operation and walked away a hero.”
“No, I… well, nice to have hindsight, isn’t it? Anyway, that isn’t how it went down, so we need to clean up and get the money back. To start with, the accountant has burned his bridges. I want you to get in touch with Beyrek Ozel in Turkey. Both Bernstein girls must be terminated immediately. They have to die at all costs.”
“Right.”
Andrei got as far as lifting the phone from the cradle.
“No, not that one, they definitely listen in to overseas calls. Go over to the Kremlin and use the phone in Irishka’s office. Explain what we’re up to.”
Andrei left and Otto stood at the window, waiting for him to appear on the square below. He hadn’t wanted to argue with Andrei, especially as he was right in what he’d said.
He liked to look at Andrei, just look at him – and he knew why. It wasn’t right, his father had drummed that fact into him often enough. But the way he walked and… and everything about him. The very sight of him made Otto feel strange. He’d been close to Adrik for so long, but nothing about him had made him feel like this.
He was 42 years old and he couldn’t fully understand his own emotions. Whatever they were, when Kornfeld and the other two Jews were dead he would take Andrei with him to the United States and fuck what his father would have thought. But no, not the United States, maybe the Mediterranean would make more sense. Yes, the Mediterranean sounded better. His contacts on the northern shores would make the transition easier. And it would be a simple enough task to bribe the warders and get his mother away… Andrei appeared on the square below.
“There he is now,” Otto said, and his heart missed a beat.
Anxiety lifted as he watched him cross the square and pass Iron Felix’s statue. But then, from nowhere, gunshot thundered and echoed around the plaza from every angle. Otto became transfixed, unable to believe his eyes. Pieces of Andrei’s skull exploded from the top of his head.
“No! Andrei, please, not you. No!” he yelled, but his voice broke the empty words in his throat. Tremors shook the land as Andrei thudded heavily to the ground, or was it the involuntary shuddering of his own body.
Another shot and another bullet ripped into the top of Andrei’s skull. The body twitched as the cap whumped into his head, but Otto knew he’d been dead before he’d even hit the concrete and the paroxysms were just the reaction of a nervous system that temporarily lived on.
Blood streamed from Andrei’s exposed brain. Otto couldn’t move. Women at ground level screamed, shattering the silence, and snapped him from his trance-like state. He gulped dryly at the sight of his murdered love and scanned the square. His eyes skimmed over rooftops and rested on a building diagonally opposite, almost in a straight line with him and the statue.
A good distance, but he would swear he could see a man with a rifle by his side. Or was it imagination? If it was a man, he hadn’t moved. He needed a better look. He rushed to his desk and took out his binoculars. Back at the window, he fumbled with the focus until the vision cleared. Horror filled him. Not just a man, it was that fucking Jew, Kornfeld. In no hurry, he just stood and stared.
Kornfeld lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it directly at Otto. The Jew was about to shoot him and Otto was about to die because – because he couldn’t move. He couldn’t pull his body out of plain view. But then Kornfeld let the gun fall to the rooftop, nodded and then pointed a finger and clicked his thumb, as if firing a pistol. He turned and walked away slowly.
The bastard could have killed him. A direct line, an expert marksman, he could have shot him. He stiffened, the binoculars falling from his grip, and his lips trembled like a scolded child’s. Terror turned his nervous system against him. Every tissue in his body seemed to go into reverse. Panic took its grip: his tongue swelled and curled back to enter his throat; his spinal cord arched back and his neck pulled his head forcefully in an impossible direction. He fought to straighten his posture, but the harder he tried the more his body disobeyed.
He regained control and swung away from the window, pressed hard into the wall.
If he hadn’t moved, fear would have taken over. He could have choked on his own tongue. He slid to the floor and shook convulsively, with more emotion than he knew he had. When he stopped shaking, he wept uncontrollably. What could he do now? The Jew would kill him. He wanted his mother.
Chapter 59
The peasant identification that Leo had created got Jez a room near a ghetto in Moscow’s suburbs, but it was in Dzerzhinski Square where he spent his days, and he made no effort to go undetected. He’d bought a long black jacket with blue and white tsitsit fringes; a black waistcoat; a black fedora hat with a three-inch brim; and a white collarless shirt. With his beard heavy, and his hair almost in ringlets, he looked more orthodox than his poppa ever had. He copied Jacob’s mannerisms, curved his stance and dragged a foot. Whatever part of the square he was in, his main focus was on the entrance of Lubyanka.
The days drifted by and no show – but when Mitrokhin eventually emerged, it was with four armed guards skirted around him. From then on, Tuesdays and Thursdays were his days, soldiers and all. They marched the 15 meters or so from the Lubyanka entrance and got into an enclosed jeep. When they drove off it was to a destination Jez never determined, but he was warmed to see the cracks. Each time Mitrokhin made a show, it was with an air of pensive fear. He was jaded. For the other days of the week, the captain never left his confines: which meant he spent his nights there.
As he shuffled about, Jez seized every opportunity to get in the way of the rearguard to test their reactions to his presence. They ignored him. Even Mitrokhin stared beyond him as if he wasn’t there. He was ready and he saw his opening.
*
One mid-morning, he watched the first two armed guards leave headquarters. They scouted several meters ahead, stopped and turned to face the door. Seconds later, the rearguard followed with Mitrokhin. They joined the front line and formed a group.