by Mark Terry
Derek sat next to him. Sometimes you wait, he thought.
Mikhail Grechko drove to an eight-floor apartment building built of concrete and glass. It was nondescript. In Moscow architecture it was definitely post-Stalin with its plain brick facades. It was not where he was staying. Grechko preferred his luxuries and was staying at the Mamaison Pokrovka Suite Hotel, about two-and-a-half kilometers northeast of the Kremlin. It was home to many well-to-do business travelers, which Mikhail considered himself to be.
But now he was visiting someone who must know very little about him.
He punched an intercom button and after a moment a woman’s voice said, “Da?”
“It’s Mikhail. Dmitri sent me.”
There was a lengthy silence. Finally the door buzzed and Grechko let himself in. He found the stairs instead of the elevator and climbed to the third floor. At the woman’s door, he clenched the gun in his hand and knocked. The door opened to reveal an older woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair, an ample bosom and eyes with dark circles around them.
“I don’t like you to come here,” she said.
He pushed past her into the small apartment. It smelled of beets, a smell he didn’t care for. Borscht perhaps?
“Is anyone else here?”
“No, of course not.”
He nodded and searched the apartment anyway. Two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom. She followed him through each room, shuffling her feet in her slippers, not commenting.
Finally he sat down at the kitchen table and slipped off his jacket, wincing.
“I’ll help you with the shirt,” she said. “Let me get my bag.”
She disappeared into one of the bedrooms and appeared a second later with a black doctor’s bag. With a surprisingly deft touch, she helped him out of the shirt and studied the wound in his side. “You were lucky.”
“Not really,” he grimaced. “I’ve never been shot before.”
“Well, a couple inches to the left and you would never have had a chance to be shot again. How are the ribs?”
“They hurt.”
“Two appear be broken. It looks like the bullet grazed your ribs, ricocheted off, breaking one or two.” She palpated his ribs and the world exploded in reds and blacks. Grechko jerked away from her, breathing hard.
She nodded. “X-rays would be ideal, but they can wait. Come into the bedroom where you can lie down.”
He did as she asked. She expertly cleaned the wound and sutured it, covering it with bandages. “Do you want the ribs taped?”
Although he had never been shot, he had broken ribs before. Bandaging the ribs would ease the pain, but impair his flexibility. Grechko shook his head.
She jabbed him with a needle and injected a painkiller and antibiotics. “I will give you pills for the pain. Take them as needed, but they are strong and may make you drowsy.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Take them anyway.” She pressed a bottle into his hands. He held it for a moment before stuffing them in his pocket.
Grechko opened his wallet and handed her a sheaf of bills. “I was not here.”
“Of course not.”
Slipping into his jacket, he left the apartment. He needed to check in with his source again and find Stillwater.
Derek dozed, a part of his consciousness alert to his surroundings. It was a long wait. People came into the waiting area, typically looking exhausted and worried. They murmured to each other. They watched a TV in one corner that seemed to play an unending stream of sports, mostly hockey, rugby and soccer.
After a while Konstantin sat up. Derek studied his face. “The lump on your head looks a little better. How does it feel?”
“Like a car fell on it.”
Derek laughed. “Well, I suppose there’s a reason for that.”
Konstantin examined Derek. “We’re a pair, my friend. You look like shit.”
“It’s been a tough day at the office.” Derek snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait, this was supposed to be a personal trip.” He shook his head and leaned back in the chair. “Sometimes I hate my life.”
Konstantin clapped him on the shoulder, but said nothing. They sat in semi-companionable silence, having found a bridge to cross decades of their countries’ animosity. Finally Konstantin said, almost idly, “How did Grechko find you?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself. Particularly at The Real McCoy.”
“At the office building—”
“Probably a coincidence. Maybe he was just driving around the area looking for us, or planning on coming back to check on us once the ambulances and officials left.”
“But at Frunzenskaya, at Gorky Park—”
“I know. Someone tipped them. I thought maybe you, but I can’t see how that would be the case at Gorky Park.”
With a shrug, Konstantin pointed out that many people in the FSB and other corners of the Russian government knew about Derek’s relationship with Irina Khournikova, about Lev, and about why Derek had come to Russia. “After all, your State Department contacted us, asking us to cooperate.”
Derek flashed a wry smile. “Nice job with that.”
“It was a mistake. But you have a reputation for meddling. And we have a very thick file on you.”
“The G8, I suppose.”
“Of course. The G8 Summit and then your liaison with Irina. She came very close to losing her job for that, you know.”
Derek didn’t, but he wasn’t surprised. It had been foolish of both of them to think there would be no repercussions, an agent of the Russian FSB having an affair with an agent with U.S. Homeland Security. It had not been clandestine. It was no secret. Derek hadn’t cared and Irina had said she would deal with any fallout on her end. Perhaps at that point in time, two weeks following one of the most intense terror events in recent history—a terrorist group infiltrating and taking over the G8 Summit—they had needed each other in a way that could not be explained.
“And because I wasn’t official, exactly, nobody at the embassy was putting it under lock and key.”
Konstantin seemed momentarily baffled by the colloquialism. He nodded. “And we have people who provide us information about what’s going on at the embassy.”
Not surprising, Derek knew. The U.S. Embassy in Moscow was huge. It had half a dozen different management sections from Law Enforcement to Consular to Public Affairs. More than a dozen U.S. federal agencies had staff there, including the Department of Defense, Homeland Security, the FAA, the FBI, and NASA. It employed hundreds of people, many of them Russian nationals. They had been vetted for security, but there were just too many to keep all information under wraps, particularly if that information, a quasi-civilian’s movements, weren’t considered to be terribly worth keeping confidential.
It was possible—maybe even probable—that someone was leaking information out of the Embassy. It was just as likely that someone had called asking if they knew the whereabouts of Derek Stillwater and if the back story was convincing enough, it was released.
Derek decided that from this point forward, however, he was running dark.
He changed topics. “Who do you think ‘Z’ is that’s the mastermind behind the Red Hand?”
Sitting up, Konstantin started to speak when the doctor appeared and waved them over. “Irina is awake now, but she’s very drowsy. I’m pleased she’s conscious. I wasn’t confident she wouldn’t be in a coma. You may have a few minutes. She’s stable, but we’re monitoring her carefully to make sure she doesn’t have any internal bleeding.”
They followed the doctor to a recovery area.
Konstantin, his voice tender, rested his hand on Irina’s wrist. “Irina, are you awake?”
Until he saw her, Derek hadn’t been totally convinced that Irina was alive. She was in terrible shape. Thin, her face bandaged and bruised, barely recognizable except for the auburn hair. An IV line ran into her hand, an oximeter on one finger. For a moment he eyed the readouts on the monitors, taking in
the EKG, the pulse, the vitals.
She opened her eyes and took in the two men. Her gaze lingered on Derek, seemingly puzzled. Then she startled, trying to sit up. Derek helped Konstantin press her back into the bed. They soothed her in two different languages, telling her she needed to lay back, to rest and heal. Everything would be okay. She was safe now.
Irina shook her head violently, moaning. Then she said something harsh in Russian. Konstantin paled, shot back a torrent of Russian. Irina responded.
A nurse rushed into the room and shooed them out, followed by the doctor whose demeanor indicated she didn’t appreciate these two men getting her patient upset.
“What was that about?” Derek asked.
“She said that the Red Hand has Lev. Come on. Let’s go.”
21
Leaving the hospital, Konstantin glanced around the parking lot and said, “Look for one that’s unlocked.”
“We’re stealing a car?”
“Yes.”
Derek nodded, liking the way Konstantin thought. It took a couple minutes, but they found an unlocked Lada. Konstantin slipped behind the wheel, tore at the steering wheel casing, and within seconds had hotwired the ignition. He sped out of the parking lot toward Frunzenskaya.
Studying the intensity on the Russian’s face and the white knuckles clutching the steering wheel, Derek said, “Your relationship with Irina is more than professional?”
Through a clenched jaw, Konstantin said, “Does that bother you?”
Did it? Derek and Irina had not seen each other or even communicated with each other for over two years. He spoke honestly. “No, not really. Ultimately I’m glad she has someone. And Lev?”
“I love that little boy.”
Derek nodded and didn’t comment. What was there to say?
Within minutes they screeched to a halt in front of the apartment building across the river from Gorky Park, where Raisa and Lev and Eduard and Yekatarina Belov lived. Where what seemed like a million years ago Derek had met his son and faced an assassin and nearly died in the river.
They leapt out of the car, both automatically checking their guns, making sure the safeties were off. Derek had only three rounds in his gun. He asked Konstantin if he had extra ammo that would work, but he didn’t. Nodding, they rushed to the front door to the building.
It was locked. Konstantin pushed the button for the Belov apartment, but no one answered. The Russian shrugged, stepped back, and lunged at the door, slamming out with his foot. The door exploded inward and they rushed up the stairs to the fourth floor. A face appeared at a door and Konstantin shouted something in Russian and the door closed instantly.
At the apartment, Konstantin and Derek stood on each side of the door, guns gripped tightly. Derek reached out and turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. His heart sank and it felt as if his stomach churned with a dozen scorpions. He held up his hand. One finger.
Two.
Three.
They exploded into the apartment.
The stench was strong and undeniable. Derek knew it too well and didn’t flinch, though his mind filled with the horrors he knew he might find.
They turned the corner.
Two bodies sprawled on the floor. Neither man stopped to check on them. They quickly searched the apartment. From the tight, drawn expression on Konstantin’s face Derek knew the Russian feared the same thing he did—that around any corner they would find the body of Lev.
But the apartment was empty except for the man and the woman.
Returning to the living room, Derek said, “Eduard and Yekatarina?”
Konstantin nodded.
Derek crouched next to the bodies. They had been shot to death. Quickly and professionally, in his estimation. It looked like two shots to the heart and a coup de grâce to the head. There was not a lot of blood. Possibly small caliber bullets and near-instantaneous death.
The blood was still wet. He reached out and touched the neck of Yekatarina. Her skin was cool to the touch, but held the faintest of body heat. He gripped her wrist and tried to bend her arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Gaining as much information as possible. Maybe you should wake up some neighbors, see if anybody saw or heard anything. I think they were killed in the last five hours or so.”
“Perhaps after Irina was shot.”
“Yes. Go talk to somebody, please.” He didn’t like Konstantin hovering.
The Russian stomped out of the apartment. A moment later Derek heard him pounding on one of the neighbor’s doors.
Standing up, knees popping, Derek put his gun away and drew on his gloves. He started a methodical search of the apartment. He didn’t know what he might find. Perhaps nothing. He started with the kitchen. Immaculate.
Reaching out, Derek opened the dishwasher, which was almost full.
It appeared as if they had eaten dinner, cleaned the dishes, perhaps settled in for the evening. Then what? A knock at the door? Something unobtrusive?
Probably more than one person. Maybe they said something innocuous to get inside the apartment, or maybe they had credentials—local police, FSB, some other government official.
From where the bodies lay, they hadn’t fought. Their hands weren’t up. There were no defensive wounds.
Derek could imagine it. Two men, or two women, or a man and a woman. Probably only two, at least in the apartment. Maybe three, but probably two. Maybe a third downstairs in a car or a van. Probably a van.
They get into the apartment building. Probably don’t buzz Yekaterina and Eduard. Maybe someone else in the building. Or if they had credentials, maybe they did. It would have been easy, wouldn’t it? “I’m with the FSB. Please let me up. I have news about Irina.”
They would buzz them in and would be waiting at the door. The men would step into the apartment, close the door. If they were the pros Derek thought they were, it would end there. They would pull their weapons, probably silenced handguns, and shoot Eduard and Yekatarina. Two to the heart. One to the head.
Turn to Raisa and Lev. Lev would be screaming, but two-year-olds did that often enough that neighbors might not even notice it.
What did Raisa do? Why wasn’t she dead?
From what he had seen of Raisa, she would have stepped in front of Lev. Maybe they wanted her with them to control him.
Maybe she somehow escaped with Lev and was on the run.
Derek shook his head, not believing that.
He slipped into the second bedroom—Lev’s room, which apparently he shared with Raisa. There were two beds, one a grownup bed, neatly made with a quilt. On the opposite side of the small room was a little boy bed, not a crib. A smaller mattress, closer to the ground. The comforter on the small bed had some sort of strange cartoon character on it, something like a cross between a mouse with enormous ears and a teddy bear.
On a small end table next to the little bed was a framed photograph. Derek picked it up, his heart beating hard in his chest. It was a photograph of Irina, Konstantin, and Lev. Lev was riding on Konstantin’s shoulders, a huge smile on his face. Irina had hooked her arm around Konstantin’s back, a warm smile on her face.
Behind him Konstantin said, “That was Lev’s first birthday.”
Derek slowly turned before setting the photograph down. “We’ll get him back.”
With a nod, Konstantin said, “Two men. This evening, about eight-thirty.”
Derek scratched his jaw. “I have one lead.”
Konstantin looked interested. Derek said, “I’ve got thirty addresses for Vitaly Abrikisov.”
Konstantin’s face was blank.
“Viktor Solomov’s cousin, the one inside the Red Hand.”
Konstantin headed for the door. “Let’s go.”
Grechko returned to the Mamaison Pokrovka Suite Hotel. He traveled light and it had been a mere coincidence that he’d been in Moscow when Z had contacted him regarding taking out Derek Stillwater and Pietr Titov. He stretched out on the bed and contemplated
how he might be able to lure Derek Stillwater. After three attempts to kill him, the man would be very careful.
Grechko fished his phone from his pocket and texted his source inside the U.S. Embassy. “Need update on DS.”
He closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillow. The assassin dozed. He was awakened by a chime. Picking up his phone he read the text message. “No information.”
He responded: “Need info ASAP.”
Grechko slept.
In the stolen Lada, Konstantin demanded the list of names and addresses. Derek showed him the readout on the smartphone. Konstantin cursored down and finally said, “Let’s go to my apartment. I can log onto the FSB computers from there.”
Fifteen minutes later Konstantin was connected to the FSB’s computers and tied into the Moscow version of the Department of Motor Vehicles called GAI, the Gosudarstvennaya Avtomobilnaya Inspektsiya. When Konstantin read the Cyrillic to him, Derek just shrugged—he could hear it, but he couldn’t pronounce it.
One address after another, they pulled up the driver’s licenses of the people on the list. Because Derek couldn’t speak or read Russian, he quickly became useless. While Konstantin bounced back and forth between the GAI and an FSB criminal history database, Derek paced the apartment, restless, thinking about Lev and Raisa, wondering if there was something else he could check on, something to do.
Before he could get far in his thinking, Konstantin stood up, made a face and said, “I’ve got it narrowed down to four. There are a couple others, but these four are the most likely.” He grimaced. “I’ll make coffee. Do you have ammunition for that gun?”
Cocking an eyebrow at the apparent non sequitur, Derek said, “Not much.”
“It’s a nine, right?”
Derek followed Konstantin into his bedroom. The Russian flung open a closet. Inside was a locked cabinet. Fishing out a key, he opened the cabinet to reveal a cache of weapons. Derek saw several hunting rifles, three handguns, half a dozen boxes of ammo, and a Brugger & Thomet MP 9. Derek reached in and gripped the Swiss submachine gun. “What the hell?”
“Nice, isn’t it? Ever fired one.”