Birth of an Assassin, Books 1-3: Killer Plots and Powerful Characterization (Birth of an Assassin - the series)

by Rik Stone

  “He’s not in his office, General Petrichova,” he said, trying to slow Michel’s advance.

  Michel stopped mid-track, glared.

  The sergeant continued. “A few days ago, Lieutenant Rolaninski rushed in here with similar urgency to what you’re showing now. The captain cleared his office and left with her. He didn’t tell me what he was doing and hasn’t been back since. Is there something wrong, sir?”

  Michel’s face blanched. To join his team, officially Rolaninski had been listed as dead. Why would she come to Lubyanka and blow her cover? “Rolaninski? I thought Rolaninski was dead?”

  “Well, she looked healthy enough to me, General.”

  Michel ignored the attempt at humor, stormed into Gorbi’s office as if the sergeant might have been hallucinating and stared at various pieces of pillaged furniture. Suddenly, he thought of Leo. Rolaninski was meeting him in Leningrad for new ID; Leo was in danger! He had to warn him before it was too late.

  “Sergeant, you’ll have to act as my aide until a commissioned officer is appointed to the position.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, chest expanding, looking as if he’d just been promoted.

  “Get me a line to KGB headquarters in Leningrad, as quickly as possible.”

  He gave the sergeant the extension of one of his trusted operatives there, Ania Borislava. She held a position from where she could keep him informed of KGB activity in the city. Even as a security commander, many issues bypassed Michel, issues sometimes used to his detriment. But this time he needed her to find Leo and get him away from the city.

  The patch was made and he told her, “You’ll find him at the building of passport and visa control. You’ll have to hurry.”

  “I’ll leave immediately, General.”

  *

  The phone rang and Michel snatched it from the cradle. “Yes!” he barked.

  “General, it’s Ania on a safe phone. Leo was at work – unharmed. He said he went to the rendezvous point and waited for over an hour. No one showed, so he left to wait until he was contacted.”

  “Good, but he’s still in a vulnerable position. I want him gone from Leningrad.”

  “Already done, sir. I took him to his apartment so he could pick up his belongings and his invalid mother, and then onto the safe house in Ostrov.”

  “Well done, Ania. I’ll be in contact soon.” He returned the phone to the cradle and leaned back. Leo’s safety was only a crumb at a feast, but the relief was immense. At least one of his threads would be safe until the waters settled.

  He called for his temporary aide.

  “Do you know anything about my access rights to the Intersputnik satellite?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve sent communications for Captain Gorbi a couple of times.”

  “Hmm, he shouldn’t have given you that sort of information … but that seems rather incongruous now.” He pulled a drawer in his desk. “Use this address to make contact with one of my field agents. If he answers, tell him I’ll be in touch later. This is most important. Let me know straight away what’s happening.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, taking the slip of paper, hurrying from the office.

  *

  “After a couple of hours without response I contacted the administrator. He told me the terminal was down.”

  Michel sighed heavily. The terminal was down. The way things were looking, the Gulag would be down, too. His spirits plummeted. “Thank you, Sergeant, that will be all.”

  That night, Michel catnapped in his office. Frustration dominating, he spent most of the time pacing back and forth to the window overlooking Dzerzhinski Square. Early the following morning his new aide came in with a copy of the Pravda newspaper.

  “I think you should read this, General,” he said, handing him the rag and standing back and to attention.

  Michel looked at two photographs stationed on either side of the front page article. The picture on the left, and top side of the fold, was of General Irishka. He stood, hands behind his back and upright, his square, dour face stern as he stuck his chest out proudly. The caption under the photo read: General Grigory Irishka, a main political force in the Kremlin’s assembly and once again, hero of our Soviet State.

  Hero of our Soviet State? No, there was no way he was that.

  Up to the point where Jez assassinated Captain Otto Mitrokhin, Michel had Irishka in the frame as being Mitrokhin’s partner, possibly his boss. For years Mitrokhin had wandered the Soviet world and beyond, at will, setting up illegal operations wherever he went, and it was almost certain Irishka had been the force behind the dealings. Mitrokhin had sold one of his projects to Russian Mafia: a flesh trafficking trade that terminated at a club in Icmeler, Turkey. There was also a drug business operating from neighboring clubs and Michel was certain Irishka was puppeteer for both scams. But proof was elusive, the fundamental reason for Anna Kord going to Turkey.

  Beneath the fold and to the right of the article was a picture of Rolaninski. She stood in the same stance as Irishka, but was unable to keep a tasteless grin from her face as she stared open-eyed and smugly skyward. Although grainy, Michel would have sworn the picture had caught a shot of Captain Gorbi in the background. He was standing at an angle to the camera with three other Spetsnaz officers. The caption under the image of Rolaninski read: Soviet Heroine of the Minute. Michel shook his head miserably before turning his attention to the editorial and reading the story. Horror gripped his heart and filled him with revulsion.

  Chechen Terrorist Activity Thwarted

  A secret operation has been carried out under the command of General Grigory Irishka to halt a series of planned assaults by Chechen terrorists. Some time ago, a raid took place on an apartment in Leninsky Prospekt in the Gorky Park region where details of planned terror attacks were found. If successful the crimes would have caused death, destruction, and mayhem throughout Moscow’s city centre.

  The Chechen group was uncovered by Lieutenant Sasha Rolaninski (pictured) who repeatedly put her life at risk for the benefit of her fellow Soviets. Single handedly, she infiltrated the Chechen cell: a disused Gulag in Siberia, two hundred kilometers northeast of the city of Vorkuta. Rolaninski visited the site and, convincing them of her disillusionment with Russian rule, gave the subversives a pledge of commitment to their cause. The camp had been created to train rebels and manufacture explosives, and with nearly one hundred combatants at the compound we can only guess at what damage they might have done had they remained undiscovered.

  Even in victory, we must lament those lost on the journey. A gunship with its pilot and six military personnel went down in the battle. General Irishka told us that the highest posthumous military honor permitted will be presented to families of the bereaved.

  The general also told us that this was yet another indicator to warn us against complacency. If the Soviet Union, along with its communist ideals, is to endure then we must be vigilant and dominant with our beliefs at all times …

  Michel couldn’t read anymore. “Bullshit!” he exclaimed, with venom that had him spluttering and spitting.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant confirmed, flinching his eyes from spray as the tossed news sheet skidded off the top of the desk towards him.

  “Oh … yes, that will be all, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The sergeant left and Michel cradled his face in his hands before rubbing the palms viciously into his eyes. Times like these he wished he had married. He felt desperate for a soft, compassionate shoulder, someone with whom he could strip away the protective armor that hid his emotions. Laying his large hands palm-down on the red leather inset in the highly polished, dark-oak desk, he drummed his fingers frantically as thoughts of Irishka invaded his mind. Irishka would’ve known that by sidetracking the official path and inventing a Chechen terror campaign he could seek and destroy without backlash. Michel also knew that if Irishka had just seized the compound and arrested those inside, he would have been able to somehow justify the exis
tence of the camp. At worst, the assembly would have ordered it disbanded. No, Irishka knew exactly what he was doing and now the unit had been destroyed and Michel’s elitist division was finished. If they were lucky maybe Jez and Pavel had survived, but he doubted that. They would have returned and perished with the others. No, it was over; his dreams of righting the wrongs within the Union had been crushed.

  Chapter 7

  Even in the depths of despair there’s always something to hang in there for. For Michel it came in the shape of another Pravda newspaper report. After a sleepless forty-eight hours, the sheet was delivered to his desk by his temporary aide.

  “I think you need to read this, sir,” the sergeant said, laying the folded rag on the desk and again standing back and to attention, awaiting further instruction.

  Miserably, Michel pulled the paper across the desk and, turning it the right way round, unfolded it. The same photograph of Rolaninski took pride of place, top center of the front page. Only this time the picture was half as big again as in the previous edition. And there was no doubt now, grain or no grain; it was Gorbi in the background of the shot. The caption below her smarmy grin read: Soviet Heroine Cut off in Her Prime. Michel’s interest received a spark. He read on.

  Chechen Terrorists Assassinate Soviet Champion

  Even success carries its pain. Following the press release regarding our victory over Chechen rebels, a formal ceremony took place in which Lieutenant Rolaninski was awarded the Medal for Gallantry. Unfortunately, during the honor service, surviving Chechen rebels opened fire from the mountains and the lieutenant was killed as a consequence.

  Two men are currently being pursued across the Ural Mountains, on a heading towards Vorkuta …

  Michel put the paper down. “Well,” he said, a tingling sensation coursing over his skin. “There’s a thing.”

  “Yes, sir, there’s a thing.”

  Again, Michel had forgotten about the aide being there. He lifted his face from the paper to see an amused twinkle in the sergeant’s eye. The sergeant had been vetted and considered loyal, but then so had Gorbi. Trust was no longer an easy commodity to embrace.

  “Er, yes, thank you, Sergeant, that will be all.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, bringing his heels together and slightly bowing his head before retreating.

  Michel read the report again and smiled. His phantom force had just swelled by two. Now, he had Jez and Pavel here in Russia and Anna, Yuri, and Mehmet in Turkey, even there they’d lost Alik Ishild on the previous mission. He didn’t want his confidence misplaced for a second time, but it wouldn’t matter who was following them. With Pavel’s Arctic experience and Jez’s combat skills, he was sure they’d be home and dry. For the first time in days he let his body relax as he leaned back into the padded, red leather chair. But then he became fidgety and got up to walk over to the window. The large oak, bound clock on the wall chimed and caught his attention. Time restarted in his mind and he realized how long it had been since he had left the office. Through the glass pane, the morning sky looked particularly bleak. Snowflakes fell lightly. Citizens in the square below scurried about their business to get their errands done quickly so they could return to the comfort of their homes. His mind’s eye veiled the vision and thoughts drifted over the latest events. Of course, the whole episode was sickening, but he was a soldier. Battles were lost but ground could always be regained while an army still had its liberty. And small as it was, Michel still had his army.

  Speculation halted. A knock at the door was followed by the presence of his sergeant. “General Irishka is here to speak with you, sir.”

  Michel turned from the window and stiffened sharply as if under surprise attack. “Uh, yes, right, give me a second before you show him in.” Either his neck grew or his collar shrunk. Whichever, he was forced to shove his fingers around the inside of the suddenly tighter band to make more space. This visit would be awkward. But it was just another way of fighting and after so many years in the assembly, for this type of hostility he should be practiced enough. He forced his shoulders back and let determination take control.

  Irishka pushed his way in before the sergeant had time to go get him. The general was medium height with a square-framed body and a square-framed head on top of it. He stomped across the office as if it were Michel who was the visitor, unbuttoned the five brass buttons on his shinel wool winter coat and, treating the sergeant like a servant, slung both coat and ushanka hat into his arms. The sergeant hung the clothing on the oak stand in the corner and turned for guidance from General Petrichova.

  “That will be all, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant clicked his heels and left.

  After brushing his short, graying, brown hair flat back with the palm of his hand, Irishka made greeting like an old friend. “Michel, it’s so good to see you again. It’s been too long. What is it now – eight years?”

  “Since speaking to each other, yes, Grigory, it must be that at least.”

  Michel came to the front of the desk, embraced Irishka and planted a kiss on either cheek. Reintroduction over, Irishka took a hip flask from his uniform jacket pocket and stomped it down on the desk.

  “I never come asking for any more than a glass to put it in,” he said, and let a rasping chuckle grate from his throat.

  Michel took two glasses from a silver tray that snuggled neatly in a space between rows of military listings on the back wall and set them down on either side of the desk. He picked up the flask to do the honors and was surprised to see a badge with a shield: a red star, a hammer and sickle, and the broad sword sticking out proudly between them, signifying KGB. Pouring the vodka, he placed a glass down on the desk in front of Irishka and handed him the flask, but then pulled it back. “This must be old. It’s been a hell of a long time since you were KGB.”

  “Yes, a favorite duty of mine … and my return wouldn’t be impossible conjecture.”

  Arrogant little bastard; on top of everything else he wanted his job.

  “Your mentioning KGB brings me to the reason I’m here. You probably heard about my little escapade with the Chechen rebels?”

  Michel steadied himself. This would be uncomfortable. “Yes, and it should have been my operation. Nevertheless, my congratulations are in order.” He shook Irishka’s hand firmly while patting his shoulder. “Well done, Grigory.”

  “Thank you, Michel, but it was a little unfortunate that two of the scum got away.”

  “Quite,” he replied calmly, but felt his lip quiver as he said it.

  “Well, I just wanted you to know that I don’t leave things unfinished. While I’ve come to apologize for stepping into your area of responsibility, I’ve also come to warn you that I will not be letting this go. These men have killed one of my best people and believe me they will die for it. So, I may well be treading on your toes at some point in the future. I mean in terms of areas of responsibility, of course.”

  The undertone was crystal clear to Michel. “Of course, I understand perfectly, Grigory. I’ll make sure I’m prepared,” he replied, a new gritted determination embracing his soul.

  An excruciating fifteen and then twenty minutes went by with Michel agonizingly passing pleasantries. And then Irishka left. But the pain didn’t go with him. Michel fumed. Who did that little fuck think he was? Nothing more than a criminal, for heaven’s sake. No, he was worse. He had manipulated the power bestowed upon him to create evil and was now flaunting it in his face while throwing down the gauntlet. ‘Keep away from my business – or else.’ The little shit.

  Getting up from the plush, studded, leather chair he returned to the window, mind racing. He would target Irishka directly and carry out the operation himself. First he would halt Anna from progressing with her activity. There was another job he wanted her to do first.

  Chapter 8

  Dalaman, Turkey, January 1973

  Anna arrived at the airport with flaxen locks hanging loose over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, her dark blue eyes wi
thout makeup. Enough, she hoped, to look different to her previous visit when she assisted Yuri Aleksii and Mehmet Pasha in destroying Beyrek Ozel’s drug cartel. The Ozel family had operated their businesses from the outskirts of Icmeler and since their eradication General Petrichova had come to believe they’d been under the ultimate control of General Irishka. For that operation, Anna’s hair had been jet black and pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes darkened by colored contact lenses and her skin stained tan. She had dressed to kill – in more ways than one. Her part in the job had been to attract and distract the head of the family – Beyrek Ozel. Those cartel members were history now, so couldn’t point the finger, but there were those who might remember her.

  Exiting the plane’s cabin and stepping out onto the gangway, heat struck her like a physical blow. According to the pilot, the ground temperature was only around twenty degrees. But Siberia had been so far below freezing the contrast was stark. She descended into the sun’s glare, smiled sweetly at the stewardess who wished her a pleasant onward journey and began walking over the sandy runway. The heat was stifling, so she stopped midway between aircraft and terminal building and put her small luggage bag on the ground. Undoing the top two buttons of her blouse, she floated it and fanned her upper body. The luggage from the plane was being unloaded as a tanker lorry pulled up to refuel. The air was thick. Anna took a bottle of water from her bag and drank greedily. By now the other passengers had left the runway. She had stood too long. A dark green jeep with four surly looking soldiers slowed on approaching her, but they seemed happy she wasn’t up to anything and sped on towards the end of the landing strip.

  After clearing customs, Anna went in search of her contact. She had been told it would be the same driver who’d taken her to the coast on her previous visit. Outside the departure building, which happened to also be the arrivals area, separated only by a rickety fence, she recognized the short, overweight figure of Batur Hasim. He stood about a hundred paces down, on the opposite side of the cracked, uneven blacktop. Batur was on the payroll of an informant working for Russian intelligence. Or, to be more accurate, he was a driver who worked for a man that Yuri Aleksii had in his pocket. One of Yuri’s jobs in Turkey was to collect officials and businessmen who transgressed. They were subsequently blackmailed into getting information, but they could also be used for smaller tasks, like Batur here.