Temple of Spies

by Ian Kharitonov

  Then he opened the gas oven and twisted the knob. When he was finished, all evidence would be destroyed by the explosion resulting from the gas leak. Just another fatal accident.

  He emptied the can of insecticide into the plastic bag and returned to his captive. Approaching from behind, he pulled the bag over Constantine’s head and secured it tightly with another zip-tie. Constantine struggled helplessly. The exertion always made matters worse for the victim, who used up the air quicker. True enough, Constantine was suffocating within seconds, the plastic bag clinging to his face as he squirmed. With every agonizing breath, he inhaled the insecticide.

  Victor picked up a wooden chair and smashed it against the floor, snapping off a leg. He swung it like a baton, raining blows on the arms and torso, hitting hard. The sudden onslaught of pain made Constantine’s breathing even more rapid. The plastic smothered his anguished cries, cutting off the air supply.

  Victor battered him with the chair leg until Constantine’s body went limp.

  12

  The EMERCOM Minister’s executive Mercedes-Benz raced through the streets as Sokolov hit the accelerator. Engine growling, he blitzed every pocket of space in the Moscow traffic. Beyond the Lubyanka, the heavy black sedan spurted across the Garden Ring. He beat a two-kilometer stretch, darting between lanes, cutting in front of motorists who blared their horns angrily. Turning the wheel sharply, he ignored a red traffic light as he charged toward the Third Ring Road highway. Speeding recklessly, he knew that the police would never dare confront the authority of the car’s government plates.

  The speedometer broke the 130 km/h mark. In a dizzying rush, the Mercedes shot along the highway, breezing past the steady flow of cars as if they were crawling. A drop in concentration would send him crashing into another vehicle. As an SUV popped up ahead of him, he braked with ice-cold precision and maneuvered away from danger, flooring the gas pedal again.

  He dropped speed, navigating his way around the Lefortovo district. Sokolov glanced at his Breitling. He’d clocked under five minutes. The route normally took twenty.

  The record would mean nothing if he was already too late.

  He stopped the Mercedes in front of the apartment block where he’d last seen his brother. Pavel’s urgent plea had provided no details, and he’d failed to get in touch with him since. Sokolov’s mind painted the worst-case outcome. He had to act on the assumption that the safe house had been hit, with Constantine and Pavel either captured or killed.

  From the glove box, Sokolov grabbed a Makarov PM pistol and checked the magazine. It was full, holding eight rounds. That would do.

  He was short on firepower, but his best weapon remained the element of surprise.

  13

  In the Soviet Army, a torture method known as ‘the elephant’ involved placing a gas mask on the victim and blocking the flow of oxygen. A simpler asphyxiation technique with the use of a plastic bag was called ‘the supermarket’. Both interrogation practices had become widespread in the Russian military and law enforcement.

  Knowing this, Constantine had braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the torment he endured.

  He clenched his jaw, biting at the plastic, trying to rip the bag with his teeth. His futile efforts became increasingly difficult. Crushing agony erupted in his lungs. Each strike against his body exploded in his oxygen-deprived brain. The poisonous chemicals burned his face and throat.

  The suffering seemed endless. His limbs numbed. His mind was slipping into the abyss. As he was about to black out, Victor yanked the plastic bag off his head. Tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes as he gasped for breath. His vision blurry, he could hardly see his tormentor, but he heard his voice.

  “You might think otherwise, but I’m not a sadist. I don’t do it for pleasure alone. It’s my duty. It’s what holds our country together. Squashing insects like you. Because that’s what you are. Did you enjoy a taste of insecticide?” Victor laughed. “You’re too bold. Judging by your reaction, I bet it’s Eugene who has the notebooks. Perhaps we’ll have to wait until he comes back. He wouldn’t leave his wounded brother alone to die here, would he? Then again, I don’t have that much time on my hands. It’s easier to kill you one by one. You, your brother, and that girl. I’ll have some fun with her, too.”

  Victor flipped the chair leg in his hand.

  “But first, I’ll give you one last chance before I kill you. Unless you talk, I’ll put the bag back on while I sodomize you with the chair leg. I wish I could rape your girlfriend as well. I do remember her name. Nina, right?”

  Constantine’s rage burst out in a guttural roar.

  “Don’t you dare mention her name, you piece of filth.”

  The words came from Eugene, who was aiming a gun at the assassin’s head.

  14

  The killer pivoted to face Sokolov.

  “Don’t shoot!” he said, holding his hands up defensively.

  Sokolov had realized what was going on even before he’d crossed the apartment’s threshold. The screams sounding from within had made his blood boil. He’d stormed inside to discover the killer standing over Constantine.

  Sokolov saw that his brother had been severely beaten. Tied to a radiator, he lay unmoving on the floor, his face red from asphyxiation, scalp bleeding.

  Locking the assailant in the sights of the Makarov pistol, Sokolov recognized the man’s average-looking features.

  “Drop your weapons and step away from him!” Sokolov commanded.

  Victor tossed aside the broken chair leg. Then, careful to use only his thumb and forefinger, he extracted the gun from his holster and let it fall. Moving away from Constantine, Victor kicked the kitchenette door open.

  “Do you smell that odor in the air?” Victor said. “It’s a gas leak. The muzzle flash from the Makarov or a ricochet could be enough to ignite it. Are you willing to risk your life and cause an explosion? You’d kill your brother, too. Hell, the whole building would go up. And you care so much about other people’s lives, don’t you? It only takes a spark. You should know that, rescue boy.”

  “Only with the right gas-to-air ratio.”

  “You sure if it’s within the limits? Well, go ahead and take a gamble. Pull the trigger. Blow up the whole damned place. Or put that gun away and take me on. Fight like a man, Eugene.”

  Sokolov threw a glance in the direction of the gas oven. Natural gas was colorless and odorless, but for domestic use, an odorant was added to it so that consumers could easily detect a leak. Ethyl mercaptan in this case, which stank of rotten cabbage. Sokolov felt the pungent scent drifting into the room.

  If it was a ploy, it had worked. Sokolov hesitated with his shot as Victor suddenly dashed at him.

  Contrary to popular belief, Spetsnaz troops received almost no training in hand-to-hand combat. Their main skills included running and gunning. The last thing on the mind of any Russian soldier was engaging in a punch-out. An ex-GRU assassin would never leave himself unarmed.

  Sokolov saw the flash of a blade. Victor attacked with a knife.

  Sokolov tried to fend off the oncoming blow, but it knocked out the Makarov from his grip. The pistol clattered, sliding across the floor. Blood drops spattered the linoleum. Sokolov’s hand was bleeding where Victor had nicked it.

  Before Victor managed to swipe again, Sokolov pushed him away with a mae geri front kick to the abdomen and retreated quickly. Searing pain shot through his cut hand.

  Victor was brandishing a ‘Finnish’ knife utilized by the NKVD since the 1940s, so called because it had been fashioned after the traditional puukko knife of Finnish huntsmen. The modern NR-40 version featured an S-shaped guard and a large clip point. Longer than a true puukko, the 150-mm blade had a curving cutting edge and a flat back. For a brief moment, Sokolov regretted not carrying his dive knife. Victor had all the initiative. Real-life knife fights resembled ugly, furious slaughter instead of fencing duels. Once within range, the killer would carve him up. He could slice muscl
es and tendons, and wait for Sokolov to bleed out, or stab vital organs to finish him in a matter of seconds. Sokolov had nothing to defend himself with against a deadly weapon. Fighting barehanded, he wouldn’t last long, despite his karate expertise. The trickle of blood running down his arm manifested his slim odds.

  Timing and movement were key. Sokolov quelled his fear. He kept an eye on the puukko, knowing that all attempts to hold off the attacker were destined to fail. He entertained no fantasies about disarming his opponent. Waiting for the perfect moment to catch the knife arm spelled suicide. A single cut was enough to inflict lethal damage. Sokolov was determined to destroy him first. He had to take Victor out with brutal force and sharp reflexes, leaving no chance of retaliation. It meant coming out on top in a split-second clash.

  Sokolov sidestepped, closing in laterally. Superior footwork improved his offensive and defensive angles, and he needed every advantage he could gain.

  Victor feinted, throwing out his empty hand to create an opening for a follow-up lethal blow. Keeping the knife-hand retracted close to his body, he swung his left fist at Sokolov. Then he lunged forward, thrusting the blade in a lightning-quick blur.

  Survival or death.

  The knife attack came in fast and hard—a violent, prison-style stabbing.

  An instant before the knife thrust was able to gut him, Sokolov shattered Victor’s jaw with a savage punch. He’d struck faster and harder.

  The killer toppled. The puukko slipped from his fingers as he tumbled to the floor like a sack of bricks.

  Sokolov made sure he stayed down. He pinned Victor to the ground. He had to finish the job. Only one of them would remain alive—whoever seized hold of the knife first.

  As Victor grasped for the knife handle next to him, Sokolov snatched it from his reach. In one swift motion, Sokolov dragged the blade against Victor’s neck, slitting his throat.

  The assassin’s eyes bulged in horror as blood geysered from the severed carotid artery. With his windpipe cut open, he gulped for air in mute protest, but he was paying the price for attempting to murder Sokolov. A kill-or-be-killed encounter demanded ruthlessness.

  Then Victor lost consciousness, his brain shutting down without a blood supply.

  Sokolov pushed himself away from his incapacitated enemy.

  Victor would die in a couple of minutes, but Sokolov wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.

  His heart thudded. He turned to his brother. Constantine lay completely still, eyes shut.

  Sokolov’s own breathing was becoming labored, signaling a dangerous level of gas concentration. In a few more minutes, dizziness would set in. After passing out, they would both die.

  Still holding the gore-splattered knife, he picked himself off the floor and staggered toward the oven. He gagged as he switched the gas off. Returning to the room, he unlatched every window and swung it wide open. Fresh air coursed inside.

  Sokolov bent down to snip off the zip-tie locking his brother’s hands to the radiator.

  “Can you move? You need to get up.”

  “I’ll try …” Constantine squinted. “My whole body hurts like hell.”

  “We need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  In haste, Sokolov picked up the PM handgun and wrapped a bandage over his wounded hand, grabbing an unused gauze roll left on the table. Then he propped Constantine up, slipping an arm under his shoulder. Constantine winced in pain, shuffling his feet as Sokolov helped him outside.

  They descended the two flights of steps, made it out into the dark street and approached the Mercedes, activating its keyless entry and engine start-up. Constantine got in the back while Sokolov jumped in the driving seat. The heavy sedan accelerated. The safe house receded in the rearview mirror. The death scene inside it was etched vividly on Sokolov’s mind. He couldn’t believe they had escaped the nightmare.

  “We’re safe,” he told Constantine. “Just hang in there, we’ll make it to the hospital in no time.”

  “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I got badly bruised, a few broken bones maybe, but it could’ve been much worse. He was only getting started when you came to the rescue. I should be alright soon.”

  The mental scars would be harder to heal, Sokolov didn’t say.

  “What about Stacie? Is she okay?” Constantine asked.

  “She’s under protection, on her way back home. The Oltersdorf books are locked in a vault inside Klimov’s office. Stacie will be out of danger on Australian soil. She can lead a normal life now.”

  “Thank God. And Pavel? Where is he?”

  “Wasn’t he there when the killer showed up?”

  “No. In fact, he never came back after you left together.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to know the answer,” Sokolov said with steel in his voice. “Just where the hell has he been?”

  15

  While Eugene accompanied Constantine in intensive care, a white EMERCOM van pulled up at the death scene they had left an hour earlier. Sergei Zubov got out from driver’s seat and opened the rear door to retrieve his gear. He pulled out a gurney and adjusted its collapsible undercarriage to the fully-extended position. Fetching two equipment bags made from heavy-duty tarpaulin, he stacked them on top of the gurney and wheeled it inside the building. Reaching the second-floor apartment, he unlocked the front door with the key he’d taken from Sokolov, rolled the gurney in, and closed the door behind him.

  In the narrow hallway, Zubov unzipped the bag which contained his protective clothing. He donned a head-to-toe hazmat suit, rubber overboots, a pair of gloves, and a respirator mask. Decontamination of the scene from human remains and bodily fluids required adequate biohazard protection.

  Zubov had seen plenty of dead bodies in disaster areas, so he had the stomach for it. Not that it made the experience any less gruesome. As he discovered the corpse, Zubov realized that he had his work cut out for him. The assassin had died a messy death. Blood covered the floor all around the body. Zubov laid out a cadaver pouch, placed the body inside and sealed it. Working on his own, it took more effort than he’d expected. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. The hazmat suit felt uncomfortable, trapping Zubov’s body heat.

  He mopped up the blood spills off the linoleum using a compact-yet-powerful wet vacuum cleaner. The potential items of evidence were consigned to a biohazard waste bag: the assassin’s handgun, the zip-ties, the IV bag, syringes, and other medical supplies left by Sokolov. The hardest part came next. Meticulously, he wiped every surface with a hospital-grade disinfectant to get rid of blood smudges and fingerprints. The arduous task took hours to complete. Zubov doubled his efforts, battling against time. He had a strict schedule to keep. Utterly exhausted by the time he finished, Zubov stripped off the hazmat outfit and trashed it into another waste bag. Then, he lowered the gurney, hauled the cadaver pouch onto it, and secured the straps. He packed the cleaning tools and placed the equipment bags on the gurney’s bottom frame. As he trundled the gurney outside, he wished he had some assistance, but Sokolov had told him that he could trust nobody outside their team.

  Unfolding the van’s access ramp, he transferred the gurney back inside the vehicle. All kinds of lowlifes loitered about the streets at night, but so far the neighborhood had seemed deserted. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, he was pretty sure he’d managed to avoid detection.

  By daybreak, he was long gone.

  He drove the van outside the city limits. Turning off the highway, he took a rural road. After a rough few kilometers, he reached a barren, secluded area of former farmland.

  Zubov rapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he eyed the dashboard clock.

  Ten minutes later, an enormous Volvo truck appeared in view, parking next to Zubov’s van.

  The truck was pulling an intermodal container. It looked like a standard twenty-foot model, except for a chimney pipe extending from the middle of the roof.

  Zubov’s partner, Mischenko, climbed out of the Volvo. A hulking bear of a
man with a bearded, Slavic face, Mischenko opened the container doors.

  The shipping container housed an incinerator.

  The Russian-built mobile incineration unit was designed for medical waste disposal or the cremation of fallen livestock. It cremated horse, cattle, and pig carcasses at a rate of forty kilograms per hour. Diesel-fueled, the incinerator weighed seven tons and heated to a combustion temperature of 850-1200 degrees Celsius, burning 97 percent of the waste volume. Mischenko had ‘borrowed’ it from an EMERCOM disease prevention facility outside Moscow.

  Rumors claimed that similar incinerators had been employed to cover up military actions in Ukraine, destroying the bodies of slain soldiers. Zubov and Mischenko prepared to put that theory to the test.

  Mischenko pressed a button on the control panel to start a burn cycle. It reached the minimum required temperature in twenty minutes.

  Together, Zubov and Mischenko opened the access lid and loaded the cadaver pouch off the gurney into the furnace chamber.

  At such high temperatures, the incinerator produced no black smoke, emitting an environmentally-friendly gas mixture.

  Two hours later, all that remained of the assassin was a handful of ash inside the incinerator’s afterburner.

  16

  The punch sent Netto reeling as Sokolov slugged him across the face.

  “I swear I’m not a mole!”

  “You’re no mole, all right. You’re a rat.”

  Blood oozed from Netto’s split lower lip.

  Sokolov had cornered him in his hacker’s den—the cluttered apartment where Netto ate and slept when he wasn’t working on his Linux rig.

  “I’m sorry, okay? What I did was wrong. I ran off because I got scared!”