by Mark Terry
It only took seconds.
Suddenly the night lit up with gunshots. Konstantin sprinted across the street. Derek raced through shadows in the direction of the second gunman. He saw the man crouched behind a Russian sports car, firing the AK47 toward Konstantin.
Derek rushed forward and fired from fifteen feet away. The man collapsed to the ground.
Derek picked up the fallen man’s AK47, clicked it to full automatic, turned it toward Grechko’s BMW and pulled the trigger. The Kalashnikov was capable of firing 600 rounds per minute on full automatic and had an effective range of 300 meters. The Russian assassin was only about 50 yards away. As soon as the firing began he ducked down behind his car. Derek kept spraying it with gunfire. The tires burst. The windows shattered.
Derek ran through the entire clip. He dropped the rifle and pulled the Beretta out of his pocket.
Gun raised, held in two hands, he moved cautiously toward the destroyed BMW. From the distant trees he saw an object spin toward him. Turning, he rolled between two cars. The grenade skittered, bounced, and exploded against the BMW. A moment later the car exploded as the punctured gas tank went up.
In the distance sirens wailed. Crouching, he scanned the area looking for Konstantin or Grechko. A moment later Konstantin cautiously crossed the street. “Derek?”
Derek stood. “Over here. Where’s Grechko?”
“Gone. And we should be, too.”
“Help me with this guy, then.”
Derek led him to the soldier he had gagged. The man was awake and pissed. He glared at them.
“Efficient,” Konstantin said. “What do we do with him?”
“Take him with us. Let’s go.”
They lifted the man by his elbows and carried him to Konstantin’s car and threw him in the trunk. In seconds they were speeding away.
Derek said, “How did that bastard get away?”
“He’s probably saying the same thing about you. The minute you started shooting he was gone. Ducked behind the brick wall. But once he threw the grenade, he took off. He didn’t stick around.”
“He wasn’t sure where you were.” Derek felt the letdown as adrenaline seeped away. With it came nausea and his hands began to shake. He leaned forward and took deep breaths.
“I know where we can take our friend in the trunk.”
“Lubyanka?” Derek asked from his bent-over position.
Konstantin was quiet for a moment. “I do not think that would be a good idea.”
“For some reason I knew you’d say that.”
“I don’t know who to trust. Someone in the Kremlin is behind all this. I don’t know who.”
Derek sat up. “Konstantin. I want to make this perfectly clear. We get Lev and Raisa back and safe and I’m done. Figuring out what crazy people you’ve got in your country or your government is not my problem.”
Konstantin nodded. “Why do you think someone hired Grechko to kill you?”
Shaking his head, Derek leaned back in his seat and began reloading his Beretta from the remaining ammunition. “I don’t know, but I wonder if it’s the same reason you and your pals picked me up at the airport and took me out in the middle of nowhere to scare me away.”
“You’re saying that …”
“You wanted me to go away and not confuse things. Maybe when I didn’t go, someone, maybe one of your friends or pals at Lubyanka, decided to make it official. Maybe Titov.”
Konstantin shook his head. “No, not him. But whoever Titov was … collaborating with.”
“And why kidnap Lev?”
The hum of the wheels filled the air. “Leverage,” Konstantin said.
Grechko stole a car and drove it back to his hotel, abandoning it two blocks away and walking in. His wounds hurt and he was angry at himself for botching yet another attempt on Stillwater. How was he going to explain this to the client?
Finally, in the quiet of his room, he dialed Z. “They’re still on the loose,” he informed the client.
Silence hung on the line. “I’m beginning to question your reputation, Mikhail.”
“Perhaps if you told me what’s going on.”
More silence. Finally Z said, “Outside the Moscow Zoo in exactly one hour. I will pick you up.” The line went dead.
While he drove, Konstantin made a call and spoke briefly in Russian. After a moment he hung up. Derek asked him where they were going.
“A place where we can question our friend in peace. So to speak.”
“An unofficial place.”
“Yes. You remember the bar that my friend owns?”
“Yes.”
“The bar has a basement. He’ll leave the cellar door unlocked for me.”
Thirty minutes later they hauled their captive into the cellar of the bar and dropped him on the floor. It was clearly a storage room for the bar, filled with crates of booze and cleaning supplies. Derek went upstairs to collect a couple chairs. While he was choosing chairs, he also grabbed a bottle of vodka.
When he came back downstairs he found their man sitting propped against a crate, the gag out of his mouth. Konstantin said, “His name is Gleb Metlin. He says this is all a mistake.”
With a snort, Derek said, “I bet he does. Do you want to play good cop or bad cop?”
Konstantin seemed momentarily confused, then nodded. “You get to play the crazy American. I’ll tell him that you’re American Special Forces and the Red Hand has kidnapped your son and you will do anything to get him back.”
“Anything,” Derek said. As Konstantin talked, he took out the three guns he was carrying, glad to momentarily stop carrying the arsenal around in his pockets. Gleb did not take his eyes off the guns. Derek set two of them on the top of a crate. He tucked the Beretta back under his belt.
Ripping the top off the vodka, Derek took a swallow, enjoying the burn. It was all he would drink. He handed it to Konstantin and said, “Take a drink and offer it to Gleb. Getting him drunk might be easier than torturing him.”
Konstantin knocked back a swallow and spoke to Gleb for what seemed a long time. Derek prowled around the cellar, picking up bits of trash that was scattered around the floor. He picked up wooden slat that had once come from a pallet. It was about three feet long. Two rusty nails stuck out of one end.
He picked it up and studied the nails for a moment, turned and swung it like a golf club. “Fore!” he shouted.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw both Konstantin and Gleb jump, startled. Derek laughed. He stalked over toward Gleb and said, “Ask him where Lev is. Now!”
He loomed over Gleb, whose gaze was fixed on the nail-end of the slat. Derek tapped the nails gently against Gleb’s leg. The man’s eyes grew wide and he pulled his leg away. Konstantin pushed Derek away, saying, “Time to argue with me.”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Good cop.”
“Who is he? What does he know?” Derek leaned forward, brandishing the board at Konstantin, who shouted, “He claims he doesn’t know anything about Lev. I don’t believe him. He said the one you killed, that was Alek Stepunin. He’s like a lieutenant in the Red Hand.”
Derek put a snarl into his voice. “What about Gleb?” He shook the wood at him.
“Says he’s just a soldier.”
Derek squinted. “A soldier in the Red Hand or a real soldier?”
A surprised look crossed Konstantin’s face. He turned and crouched in front of Gleb. He rattled off a stream of Russian, then held the bottle of vodka to his captive’s mouth and let him take a drink. Then another. He asked Gleb something else, then turned and shot Derek a worried look. He gestured for him to follow him. Derek did and the two stood on the other side of the room, backs to Gleb.
Konstantin said, “He says he is a Sergeant in the Russian Ground Forces. The Suhoputnuiye voyska Rosseeyskoy Federacii.”
“And—”
“From the Moscow Military District. He says that if we don’t let him go, the army itself will come after us. Not
the Red Hand, the army.”
Derek stared.
“We’ve had hints that the upper tiers of the Red Hand might be in the military, in the Army. This confirms it.”
Derek spun on his heel and stalked over to Gleb. Grabbing him by the shoulders he lifted him off the floor and flung him against the wall. “Where the hell is Lev? Where is my son?”
Konstantin pulled Derek away from Gleb, trying to calm him down. “We have to think. We have to figure out how to approach this.”
Spinning on him, Derek shoved him away and ran upstairs. Behind the bar he found a sharp knife and returned back to the cellar. Konstantin had returned Gleb to his earlier spot. Derek knelt down and used the knife to cut off Gleb’s pant leg from the knee down. He had a moment of déjà vu, because he had done the exact same thing to Viktor only hours ago, only for an entirely different purpose.
“What are you doing?” Konstantin demanded. Derek thought the concern in his voice was real.
“Translate what I’m going to say exactly.” He glared at Konstantin. “Understand me?”
A shadow passed over Konstantin’s face, but he nodded.
Derek held up the photograph of Lev and showed it to Gleb. “This is my son. His name is Lev.” He waited for Konstantin to translate for him.
“The Red Hand has taken him and his grandmother. You are going to tell me who has him and where he is.”
Again Konstantin translated. Gleb, eyes fixed on the blade, interrupted. Konstantin said, “He says he doesn’t know anything about Lev.”
Still looking directly at Gleb, Derek said, “That may be true, but we’ll find out. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask you who you think would know and how to find them. You’re going to give me an answer.”
Konstantin translated. Derek continued. “Have you ever heard of Bartholomew, Gleb?”
Looking puzzled, Konstantin said, “What?”
“Translate.”
Gleb shook his head. Derek said, “Bartholomew was a saint. Interestingly, there’s a lot of history about him, because due to some perversities of translation, he was actually one of Jesus’s twelve disciples, Nathanael. Nathanael is primarily remembered for asking if anything good could come out of Nazareth. Jesus indicated that Nathanael did not attempt deception. Which is something you should remember about me, Gleb. I’m not bullshitting you.” He waited for Konstantin to translate.
“Where are you going with this?”
“Translate. There are actually two stories about Bartholomew’s martyrdom. You realize the apostles all became martyrs, right? Anyway, one story says that Bartholomew was beheaded. But by far the most common story is that Bartholomew was flayed alive, then crucified with his head pointing downward. Apparently that was considered quite the insult. Me? I think being flayed alive was enough. Flaying has an interesting history. The Chinese called it the death of a thousand cuts.”
Konstantin was silent for a moment before he translated. Gleb’s eyes were wide, fixed on the blade in Derek’s hand.
“Do you know where I’m headed, Gleb? I’m going to ask questions. You’re going to answer them. If I don’t like or believe your answers, I’m going to start flaying you alive. You will tell me everything you know.”
He waited for Konstantin to translate. “Where is Lev?”
Without taking his eyes off the knife, Gleb said he didn’t know where Lev was. Shaking his head, Derek pinned the man’s leg to the floor and using the knife, peeled a chunk of skin about an inch long and half-an-inch wide off the man’s shin. Gleb swore and squirmed, but Derek held him firm.
Still kneeling on the Russian’s leg, Derek said, “Ask him if Alek Stepunin was above him or on the same level?”
Konstantin translated Gleb’s response. “He says the same. Shall I ask him who they reported to?”
“Yes.”
Derek listened to Gleb’s response, trying to judge the man’s fear level, whether he was lying or telling the truth. Gleb’s answer seemed to take a long time. Konstantin didn’t translate, but asked another question in Russian.
“Keep me in the loop,” Derek snapped.
Konstantin ignored him, continuing to talk to Gleb. Finally he said, “Gleb told me that if he tells us this information he will be a traitor to his country and to the Army and to the Red Hand. If the Red Hand finds out he betrayed them, they will kill him.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That you were crazy and uncontrollable and he probably stood a better chance with the Red Hand.”
“How right he is,” Derek said, and dug in with the knife, trying to hide how much the man’s screams and squirms made him feel sick. But when he started to feel sorry for the man, he thought of Lev and Raisa and Eduard and Yekatarina. He thought of how Irina had looked in the hospital. The chunk of flesh he took was larger this time.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Konstantin look at his watch. The FSB agent spoke harshly to Gleb. Gleb’s response seemed adamant. Konstantin said something else, then plucked the blade out of Derek’s hand and plunged the blade into the man’s side to the hilt. Gleb screamed and thrashed, nearly dislodging Derek.
Konstantin pulled the knife out and held it as if to plunge it directly into Gleb’s stomach. He shouted at the man, who, panting, answered.
Raising an eyebrow, Derek said, “Subtle.”
Konstantin ignored him and shouted another question. Gleb shook his head. Konstantin slammed the knife again into Gleb’s stomach, this time on the other side. Gleb shuddered, screaming. Tears streamed from his eyes and his face twisted in pain. Konstantin shouted at him. Gleb responded. Konstantin, voice lower, calmer, asked another question. Gleb stared at him through narrowed eyes and muttered something. More Russian passed between the two men. The dam had broke, Derek thought. Gleb was telling him what he wanted to hear.
Finally Konstantin settled back on his heels. “We have what we need to know.” His face was taut, complexion gray, lips bloodless.
“We know where to go?”
Konstantin didn’t answer, just stared at Gleb. The wounds to the stomach bled, but Derek noted they had been carefully placed. They wouldn’t be fatal if he got treatment. Nonetheless, Derek’s stomach clenched.
Konstantin spoke to Gleb again, apparently asking a question. Gleb shook his head, shouted at Konstantin, then spit in his face.
Konstantin plunged the knife into Gleb’s throat. Looking at Derek, he said, “You were not crazy enough.”
23
Grechko waited outside the darkened entrance of the Moscow Zoo, huddled in his jacket against the cold. He did not know if he trusted this client—any client—so he gripped a gun in his hand, hidden in his pocket. He had arrived early and reconnoitered the area and found it empty except for a few drunks passed out in the alleys and any other sheltered areas they could find, looking like refuse in their rags, stinking of alcohol.
A black limousine pulled up and the rear door slid open. A voice spoke. “Get in.”
Grechko did, settling into a seat as the door slammed shut. Behind the wheel was a man he did not know. In the front seat was a man he did know, Yakov Shos. Ostensibly Shos was his client, but he understood that the man who sat across from him was the actual client. His face was in shadow, but Grechko made out a fleshy pockmarked face, steel-gray hair, and broad shoulders.
“So you are Mikhail Grechko.”
Grechko nodded.
“You have been having difficulty eliminating Derek Stillwater.”
“Yes. But I will.”
The man across from him raised a hand in dismissal. “We can perhaps help you draw him in. Going after Stillwater may have been a mistake. He has a reputation and I was concerned that he would find out that Irina Khournikova was still alive.”
“What is his reputation?” Grechko asked, curious.
“Tenacious. Skilled. He was the hero of the G8, although he did not save Peter Vakhach. But he saved many lives. You have encountered him how many times now
?”
“Five. At Gorky Park. We fought hand-to-hand there as well. Near the airport. Just after Konstantin flipped the car. In the office building. And just recently. He is very lucky.”
“Is that your assessment? That you have engaged with him five times and that he is lucky?”
Grechko thought about it for a moment. He understood the man was goading him, but he had not spent much time thinking about why Stillwater had survived their meetings. That no doubt explained why Stillwater kept getting away. Certainly he was trained, he had skills. He was tough and quick. Far quicker than expected.
Slowly he said, “I believe he commits to an action with very little thought of himself. He jumped into a frozen river to get away from me. He leapt off a building to get away from me. Those were desperate acts, yes, but most people would have died facing me rather than make those desperate decisions. Also, I did not prepare properly. I treated him like any other target. He clearly is not.”
Grechko’s host said, “So he is a man willing to die for his cause, whatever that may be. I admire that, but he is definitely a problem for us at the moment.”
They turned a corner and the full glare of a streetlight lit up the man’s face. Grechko realized that he knew this man. Colonel General Valery Zukhov, head of the Moscow Military District. He was believed to be next up for the Russian Minister of Defense, a position that would put him directly under the Russian President. But perhaps, Grechko thought, Zukhov wished to be more than second-in-command.
Zukhov said, “We can put Stillwater in your hands. But I have another job for you. It is a big job and it will require you perform it very soon.”
The car rumbled over a bridge. “We are going to return Mother Russia to its glory.”
Zukhov seemed to be waiting for a response. Perhaps, Grechko thought, he wants me to stand up and applaud or kneel and kiss his ring. “What glory would that be?” he asked.
“To return Mother Russia to the glory of the Soviet Union, to show the world that the Red Hand is still made of iron, that we are a superpower.”