by Mark Terry
Kuts nodded. “After you fill out your report, you should go home. Take it easy. Maybe have a doctor look at that head.” With a glance at the Audi, “You’re lucky you’re alive. Anyone else in the car with you?”
Konstantin shook his head. Kuts would not approve of Derek Stillwater’s involvement. “Just Viktor.”
Kuts stared at him, expression skeptical, then nodded. “We’ll get you back to Lubyanka. You’ve got a lot of report-writing to do.”
“There might be a few more things I need to do tonight before I get those reports written, Alek.”
Turning, Kuts surveyed the crowd. “You can trust me. I brought you into this.”
“It’s very complicated and it seems like it’s coming to a head tonight. Right now. Things are heating up.”
“I—” Gunfire interrupted Kuts’s comment, distant but unmistakable. He studied Konstantin’s face. “What’s going on?”
Konstantin shrugged, but he had to wonder if that was connected to Derek.
Leaning into Konstantin, Kuts waved an arm in the direction of the gunfire. “What’s going on, Konstantin? Who’s out there? Is this related to your car accident? To this dead informant? Who ran you off the road?”
“Mikhail Grechko, the Gekko.”
“What?”
Muffled gunshots in the distance. It could have been cars backfiring, but Konstantin and Kuts knew better.
“It’s complicated. I told you that.”
“What does the Gekko have to do with the Red Hand?”
“I—”
This time it wasn’t gunfire that interrupted their conversation. It was an explosion.
19
On the roof, Derek waited. He strained his ears for any sound of the Gekko coming up the last flight of stairs. The gun grew heavy in his grip, the cold wind biting at his exposed hands and face. Thank God for the ushanka, he thought, which remained on his head, snug and warm.
The door to the roof burst open. Derek’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he was too well trained to pull it. His heart galloped in his chest. He forced his breathing to remain steady. The door swung back shut.
Derek adjusted his position. Waiting. Had the Gekko wanted him to make a move? To use more bullets? To give away his position? Was he playing a mental game with him?
The door burst open again. Derek held steady.
A small object flew through the door in his direction.
A grenade.
Spinning instantly, Derek got one foot up on the parapet and launched himself across the open space between buildings. The parapet was icy, even where he had scraped it, and he felt his foot slip. Much of the energy he needed to make it to the other building was lost, his trajectory lower and less powerful than he wanted.
He flung the gun across the space onto the next roof.
Derek struck the next building low, hands gripping the edge of the parapet, scraping and sliding in the snow and ice. Agony ripped through his damaged and bruised wrist.
The grenade exploded. Derek felt a percussion wave press the air around him. Shrapnel rained down.
Feet scrabbling on the wall, hands sliding and cold, he swung his feet upward and rolled over the parapet and onto the rooftop. He lurched to his feet, snatched up his gun, spun, and fired back at the Gekko.
But the assassin didn’t have the gun. He had another grenade, which he threw at Derek. Derek sprinted for the small outbuilding on the roof that housed the entrance elevator and heating and cooling equipment, diving headfirst behind it. Snow slid up his jacket. The hat slid off his head.
The grenade burst with a deafening crack.
Derek crouched and peered around the corner of the building. In the distance, more sirens rang out.
A bullet pinged off the wall only inches from his head. Derek fired back. Ducking down, he grabbed the door and turned. Locked. Wasting another bullet on the doorknob, he plunged into the room beyond.
The Gekko watched Stillwater disappear and grimly shook his head. He had some admiration for the man. He’d survived three assassination attempts, three more than any other target had survived. And although luck may have played a part of it, it was clear the American was well trained with quick reflexes and excellent instincts. A worthy opponent.
Reaching inside his jacket, the Gekko pulled out fingers covered with blood. Stillwater had hit him during one of their exchanges. From what he could tell, the round had torn through his jacket and shirt, ripped a lengthy path along his side and ricocheted off at least one rib that now felt broken. The pain was manageable, but he had to take care of the bleeding and the rib. Stillwater would have to wait.
Grechko had been in the building too long. Turning, he trotted down the stairs, grimacing at the stabbing sensation in his side, and climbed back in his BMW and sped away. He shot the neighboring building a long look, wondering if Stillwater was already out or hiding inside. It didn’t matter. Tonight’s operation had been a disaster and it was time to retreat and regroup.
Clicking on the BMW’s stereo system, into which his iPod was plugged, Grechko turned up the volume. With a click the tough blues vocals of Ana Popovic burned through the speakers, ‘My Man.’ The Gekko started to plan.
The building Derek had leapt to was also an office building. Unsure if the Gekko was going to follow him across the rooftop or wait for him down below, he cautiously crept down the stairs, keeping his gun up, conscious of the limited number of rounds he had left. And hoping the Gekko had used up his supply of grenades.
Even inside the building he could hear the sirens. Which made the decision for him.
Leaving the stairwell on the fifth floor, he checked doors until he found one that was unlocked. It was a cubicle farm, an office with maybe twenty employees who did God-knows-what at their computers. Whatever they did, they did it during the day. The office was empty. Derek found a bathroom and checked himself in the mirror, noting a bleeding scrape on his left cheek, and torn and bloody fingers. And probably a wide variety of bruises.
He cleaned himself up and found a comfortable chair to sit in and wait. Adrenaline still pumped through him. Exhaustion washed over him and he began to shake. Crossing his arms over his chest, he tried to relax, but the leap over the buildings had been the last straw in a horrible thirty-six hour period. His heart raced uncontrollably and he found himself unable to draw breath. The world narrowed to a pinprick and his hands and feet felt numb. He broke out into a sweat. Dropping to the floor, he curled up into a ball and waited for the panic attack to pass.
After the first explosion, Kuts gave Konstantin a glare. “What is that?”
“Trouble. I need to get over there.”
Kuts surveyed the wreckage, the dead body, the overturned car. “I think you’re done for the night, Konstantin.”
“It’s breaking. Whatever’s going on, it’s breaking. Right now. Tonight.”
Suddenly the night was ripped by another small explosion. Konstantin headed for Kuts’s car. “Let’s go. Right now.”
Minutes later Kuts and Konstantin arrived at the office building, noting a small crowd, a shattered front window, and the sirens of approaching police. Drawing their weapons, they cautiously entered the building. Konstantin pointed to bullet holes in the walls. “It’s like a war zone.”
They stayed together, watching each other’s backs. They cleared the first floor. All the office doors were locked and the elevator was at the lobby. They took the stairs to the second floor and began a methodical search. There were more bullet holes in the stairwell. They noted more bullet holes on the second floor, as well as what looked like spots of blood on the carpeting.
Hearing voices from below, Kuts said, “I’ll go deal with them. Be careful.”
With a nod, Konstantin continued to clear the second floor. Then up to the third, then the fourth. There was no more evidence of a firefight. Because they had heard the explosions four blocks away, he suspected they had been outside. His best guess was the roof. Prudence and professionalism w
ould say to clear the building, but intuition pushed him to the roof.
At the top floor he saw that the door to the roof had been shot out. He leaned to the inside wall and pushed the door open, waiting. Nothing. Crouching close to the ground, he pushed the door open again and peered out from knee-height. Still nothing.
He jumped through, gun out and ready.
Something had exploded up here. There was a circular patch of melted snow and slush, and scorched pavement. There were bits of twisted metal, some of it embedded in the brick parapet.
In the remaining snow were footprints.
They did not cover the entire roof. The prints went to the bare patch, circled through the snow and returned to the doorway. Only one set.
Konstantin stood at the parapet and looked across to the next building. The parapet of the building had snow across the top. Except directly across from him. He could not see the actual roof, but he suspected the second explosion had occurred on the adjoining building. Had somebody been lobbing hand grenades up here?
A chill went through Konstantin, wondering what kind of lunatic was running loose in his city.
20
Andrei and Feodor spent the early morning hours drinking in a dockside bar that smelled of rotting seaweed, motor oil, body odor and cigarette smoke. After hours drinking vodka and eating pork knuckles and pickled eggs, they convinced two of the hookers that worked the bar to take them home with them, for a price, a gift, sure, da, no problem.
Andrei awoke first, staring blearily around the small apartment. Next to him, a naked ass peeked out from under a grimy sheet. Olga, she of the big breasts and bleached-blonde hair and the very talented tongue. He smiled at the memory, but it receded as the first spike of a monster headache burst through his brain.
He and hangovers were long and well acquainted. Lying back down, he ran a rough hand over Olga’s ass, closing his eyes, wondering if it would be a good idea to chase the hangover away with a shot. Or another blowjob.
He drifted off, as yet unaware that his hangover was made up of fifty percent vodka and fifty percent smallpox.
Kuts met Konstantin coming downstairs. Konstantin muttered that the building was clear. “Whoever they are, they already left. But it looks like someone threw a grenade.”
Kuts followed him down. “Madness. Is this the Red Hand?”
“Maybe. They’re escalating.”
“What’s going on, Konstantin?”
He shook his head, unsure. “Whatever it is, it’s getting worse.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Catch a train and head back to the office.”
Kuts studied him. “You’re sure?”
Konstantin shrugged.
“Be sure that you do,” Kuts said. “I want a full report on my desk in the morning.”
“Of course.”
Rubbing the lump on his forehead, Konstantin headed out of the building, passing two cops who didn’t pay much attention to him after he flashed his FSB credentials. He didn’t try to catch a cab. Instead, he walked to the next building and stood and studied the snow and sleet around the building’s main entrance. Nobody had come out recently.
His cell phone chirped and he looked at the screen to see a text message that read: Rear entrance if it’s safe. Derek.
He texted back: Meet me at subway station.
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Konstantin trudged toward Ulitsa 1905 Goda, a subway station named after the Russian revolution of 1905. He thought of the Red Hand and how they seemed to want another revolution. God save us all, he thought.
The Ulitsa 1905 Goda subway station was modern, which in Derek’s experience was not always the case as Moscow subway stations went. Many of them were build in turn-of-the-century buildings that made them look like cathedrals, not unlike New York’s Grand Central Station or Union Station in Washington, DC. This one was new and modern with enough fluorescent lights to illuminate the dark side of the moon.
After having his meltdown and relaxing for a few minutes, he heard sirens and peered through the window to watch cop cars approach the adjoining building. He saw Konstantin and another man arrive first and enter the building, guns drawn. For some time there was no real activity outside, then he spotted Konstantin leaving the scene and walking in the direction of the building where Derek was hiding. He decided to text him and now, fifteen minutes later, he slid into the entrance of the subway station to see Konstantin leaning against a wall.
“How’s your head?”
Konstantin rolled his eyes. “It hurts, Derek, and not just from this bump. Tell me you don’t have grenades with you.”
“No, those were Grechko’s little surprise.” He told the story, stopping only to let a train swing by, fill up and leave again. “I think I shot him.”
“You did. There’s blood on the floor. Too bad you didn’t kill him.”
Hard not to agree with that statement.
“So now what?”
Konstantin hesitated. He studied Derek, eyes intense, searching for something. Derek finally said, “What?”
“I received a phone call a couple minutes ago. It might change everything. I’m not entirely sure how you will react.”
Derek cocked his head, waiting. Finally the Russian said, “I received a phone call from a cop, Dmitri Shotov. He just called me a couple minutes ago. He found a woman all beat up, barely conscious, and took her to the hospital. She says her name is Irina Khournikova. Before she passed out she insisted he call me.”
Heart hammering in his chest, Derek wasn’t sure what to say or how to react. “Do you think—”
“I don’t know what to think. I just think we need to go. Now.”
Growing up in Africa in medical clinics, Derek was familiar with fairly primitive healthcare situations. While in the military he had experienced U.S. military hospitals, as well as M.A.S.H. units before they were disbanded in 2006. During his travels around the world he had visited—sometimes as a patient—a number of healthcare facilities, particularly in the two years he spent with the U.N. He didn’t think much of Russian healthcare. Although no fan of the Soviet Union, at least the government had sunk money into healthcare; now that Russia was a federation and what might be called a national capitalist system, it wasn’t paying much attention to its healthcare system.
The building was dilapidated on the outside, and on the inside there were too many people crowding the hallways. It was obvious that the infrastructure wasn’t being maintained. Everything smelled slightly off and the floors were scuffed and dirty. Everything looked shabby.
Derek and Konstantin pushed their way through the people waiting in the emergency room until they found a harried man tapping away at a recalcitrant computer terminal. Konstantin stuck his badge under the man’s nose and demanded his attention. The man, whose thinning hair and sallow cheeks made him seem on the edge of exhaustion, blinked and looked tiredly at them. He asked Konstantin a question and the agent responded.
The clerk changed direction, the slump of his shoulders and the way he pecked at the keyboard suggesting that he would prefer to make Konstantin and Derek wait with the rest of the crowd, but he knew it would just make his own life more miserable. Finally he read something on the screen and spoke to Konstantin, who nodded and asked another question.
Minutes later they were headed deeper into the bowels of the hospitals.
Konstantin said, “She’s just coming out of surgery.”
“Did he tell you for what?”
A grim shake of Konstantin’s head told Derek all he needed to know. The Russian led him to what appeared to be a post-surgical recovery area. Derek stood off to one side while Konstantin flashed his badge and asked questions and seemed to grow increasingly frustrated with the answers he was getting. Finally he returned to Derek. “Still in surgery. Internal injuries, broken cheekbone, jaw, fractured skull. They removed her spleen. They say it looks like she was systematically beaten. She’s also suffering from exposure. She has
some frostbite on her fingers. Two gunshot wounds, one to the leg, another apparently in the back. Severe blood loss.”
Something churned inside Derek, something angry and dark. “When will she be out?”
“Soon,” Konstantin said, jaw tight. Derek saw the anger there, too, and wondered about the man’s relationship with Irina. Perhaps it was just that of a concerned boss. Perhaps.
The two men looked at the plastic chairs in the waiting area, then glanced at each other. Derek shrugged and sprawled into one of them, pulled out his phone and downloaded his email. Carter had come through with a list of possible addresses in Moscow for Vitaly Abrikisov. There were more than thirty, which felt rather like a dead end.
There was also a voicemail from Erica Kirov, demanding an update. He shot her a quick text message telling her where he was and why.
There were another eight emails, none of them personal. He glanced at his watch and was about to say something to Konstantin when a woman in a white lab coat and green surgical scrubs appeared and looked at the two men. Konstantin turned to her, conflict written across his face, and spoke in urgent Russian. Derek felt, not for the first time since arriving in Russia, like a fish flopping around on the sand.
They spoke for only a moment. Konstantin turned back to Derek. “She’s out of surgery and stable. She won’t be awake for a while. Maybe a long while.”
Emotions swept across Konstantin’s face and Derek was sure this time that his and Irina’s relationship was more than professional. He didn’t know how he felt about that.
“So now what?”
“So now we wait,” Konstantin said, and slumped into one of the plastic chairs and closed his eyes.
Derek studied him for a moment, then looked at the physician and pointed to Konstantin’s forehead and mimed putting something on it. The doctor seemed to understand and re-appeared a moment later with an ice pack, which she handed to Konstantin. He thanked her and pressed it to his forehead with a grimace.