by Ethan Jones
The back of the Volvo crashed against the wall.
Maria was thrown against the door. “Ah,” she moaned as a sharp pain shot through her side. “The baby…” She looked at the driver’s lifeless eyes. A trickle of blood oozed out of his mouth and more spurted from a wound in his neck.
Georgy cursed the turn of events and stepped outside the Volvo. Thankfully, they were beyond the shooters’ direct line of sight. But that was going to change at any second.
He opened the driver’s door and dragged the body outside. “How are you?” he asked Maria.
She replied with a loud moan.
“Hold on,” Georgy said. “Things are about to get worse.”
He buckled his seatbelt and steered the Volvo back onto the street.
More bullets pounded the back of the car. Georgy yanked the wheel left, then right, making the car a harder target. He stepped on the gas, and the Volvo barreled down the empty Leipziger Strasse. They were heading deeper into East Berlin but driving parallel to the wall.
“Where are we going?” Maria said.
“We need to lose them and find another breach in the wall.” He gestured to his right.
Maria picked up her pistol, which had fallen onto the floor. She opened up, squeezing off round after round. She doubted she hit anyone in the pursuing car, but sparks came from its hood. When she heard the hollow click of the empty gun, she tossed it onto the floor.
Georgy handed her his Makarov. “Here, use this one.”
Maria gripped the pistol in her hand and aimed it.
She didn’t get a chance to use it. A round must have hit the Volvo’s right tire. The car sank on that side. Georgy turned the wheel, maneuvering to keep the car straight. Then a bullet drilled through the window and into his left arm.
Georgy cursed and lost control of the car.
It was but for a second, but that was a second too long.
The Volvo flipped over and rolled once. Then another time. It was going to keep rolling, but it hit a streetlight and rested on its roof.
Georgy glanced at Maria. Blood was coming from a deep cut in the left side of her face. Her eyes were closed, but she was still breathing. “Maria, Maria, no, don’t die on me.”
He groped for the pistol and found it next to his head. He unhooked the seatbelt and dropped onto the ceiling of the upside-down Volvo. He landed hard on his back, and a sharp metal piece stabbed him between the shoulder blades. Georgy bit his lips, stretched his hand toward the nearing car, and double-tapped the Makarov.
Perhaps it was divine intervention, but his bullets must have found the mark. The car veered to the left for a moment, then to the right, before turning again to the left and flipping over, as if it had hit an invisible ramp. It shot upwards and sideways and came crashing down hard. It rolled once, then a second time.
Fuel spilled out of the mangled car. Georgy wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, or if it was real, but he kept firing at the sliding car. One of the bullets struck the fuel tank, and the car exploded into a large fireball. Tall orange flames leapt up at the sky, while fiery fragments hailed down over a large area. A couple of the metal pieces struck against the Volvo, but none entered the car.
Georgy drew in a deep breath, then glanced at Maria. Her eyes were still shut, and she showed no sign of life. He reached with his hand and touched her carotid artery, feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but still there. “Stay with me, Maria. Come on.”
He slid his body out of the Volvo, clenching his teeth and ignoring the pain searing through his body. A group of three young men appeared to his right, perhaps thirty yards away. Georgy didn’t know who they were, or how much they had seen, but he needed them. “Help me, help me, hey…” he shouted at them in German.
They hesitated for a moment, then hurried their pace toward the upside-down car.
He leaned closer to Maria and waited for the first man to arrive. “Let’s get her out, but slowly and carefully.”
“She’s with child,” one of the men said.
“Yes, so we need a doctor, right away.”
“There’s one just across the wall, three blocks away,” the second man said and gestured behind them.
“So, let’s take her there. You,” Georgy pointed at the third man, the youngest of all, “Run up ahead. Let the doctor know we’re coming.”
The man nodded and bolted toward the next building, then around the corner.
Georgy looked at the old man. “Do you have access to a car?”
“No, not at such short notice.”
“All right, then. We’ve got to transport her ourselves. Hold her now.”
He unbuckled her seat belt, then the three men lowered Maria’s unresponsive body to the ground. They pulled her gently out of the car, then lifted her up into Georgy’s stretched arms. The first man held Maria’s head, while the other looked out for any wall watchers. He disappeared ahead of them, in the same direction the youngest one had gone before.
Georgy and the man walked at a hurried pace and tried not to shake her too much. She moaned at one point and seemed to stir, and Georgy didn’t know if that was a good or a bad sign. They came to the corner of the building, and one of the young men emerged from the darkness. “This way. It’s safe. There’s no one around.”
He helped them carry Maria and led them down the dark alley. Georgy now saw the large breach in the wall, wide enough for a car to pass through, although the still-standing foundation and the jagged edges would make such an attempt quite difficult. They crossed the distance between the mouth of the alley and the wall without any problems. Georgy drew in a hesitant breath of relief as they stepped into the “death strip” stretching between the two concrete walls. This last section was going to be the most dangerous part of the crossing.
He had covered over half the distance, when a bullet struck him in the shoulder.
The force of the impact pushed him forward. He tripped but was able to stay on his feet and hold Maria up in his strong arms. A car was parked about thirty yards to his left and away from the breach in the wall. Two men were standing next to it, and Georgy recognized one of them as the youngest of the men sent to fetch a doctor. “Hold her,” he said to the men helping him. “And take her to the car.”
Other bullets whizzed over their heads.
When he was confident that they were able to carry her without him, Georgy let go. He rolled onto the ground and aimed his Makarov at the shooters. Muzzle flashes came from two positions near the front and the back of a car on the East German side. Georgy double-tapped his pistol, and one of the muzzle flashes went dark. He turned his aim to the second shooter and fired a few rounds.
There was no return fire.
He lay there on his stomach waiting for the shooter to appear.
He never did.
Instead, the car turned around, its tires screeching.
Georgy squeezed off a few more rounds, but they didn’t stop the shooter. The car rounded the nearest corner and disappeared into the night.
Only now did Georgy feel the pain zipping from the top of his shoulder. He tried to move his left arm, but it was almost impossible. Not without his letting out a string of expletives. The agony was excruciating. He climbed slowly to his feet and checked the Makarov. Three more bullets left. I hope there will be no need for them.
He shuffled toward the car. A middle-aged man, who Georgy assumed was the doctor, was working on Maria lying in the backseat. “How is she?” Georgy asked.
“Very weak. We’ve got to take her to a hospital. But…” The doctor shook his head.
“And the baby?”
“We’ll do the best to save him. But the loss of blood and the trauma…”
“They can’t die. Don’t let them die,” Georgy shouted.
“I’ll do the impossible.”
The doctor’s firm voice gave Georgy the reassurance he needed. “Thank you, to all of you,” he said to the men surrounding the car. “Without you, we’d all be dead.”
> One of the men said, “May God bless you and save her.”
Georgy nodded. “Yes, you too.”
He climbed into the driver’s seat. The doctor took another moment, then slid into the front seat. “The hospital is this way.” He gestured with his hand toward the left.
Georgy nodded and stepped on the gas pedal. “Stay with me, Maria, stay with me.”
Chapter One
Twenty miles off the coast of Nice
Southern France
Present Day
Georgy Azarov rested his arm on the starboard gunwale as the speedboat climbed atop the tall waves. The Mediterranean Sea was quite choppy, unusual for the early May day. The morning had promised to be a delight, with the temperature in the mid-sixties, with bright and warm sunrays. But the weather had turned sour around eleven, shortly before their departure. Ratimir Tupolev always liked to eat his meals at noontime. No delays, ever. As a self-made oligarch, he could afford to buy people who could cater to his habits. Punctuality was one of them.
Georgy winced as a light pain burned through his left shoulder, then ran down the side of his body. The Berlin gunshot wound refused to heal. Perhaps it was because he didn’t attend to it right away, or perhaps the German doctors botched the surgery. Whatever it was, he never regained his left arm’s full range of motion.
There was little room in the KGB for a covert operative who couldn’t be one hundred percent reliable in the field. Georgy was pushed to a desk job, reviewing and rubber-stamping after-action reports. The thought of providing for his wife and daughters helped him survive the soul-sucking tasks day after day. He retired five years ago and led a quiet life in his dacha, a cottage about sixty miles north of Moscow. Well, as quiet as life could be for a former KGB operative stationed in West Berlin during the Cold War.
He drew in a deep breath, and the salty smell of the sea filled his nostrils. A big wave splashed against the hull, sending sprays of water over his face and arms. Georgy brushed back his grayish-black curls. Even at sixty-five, he had a full head of hair. He closed his brown eyes and wiped the water with the back of his hands. When he opened them, he looked at the white-and-blue yacht in the distance. They were now maybe a hundred yards or so away and approaching fast.
“We’re almost there,” said the guard sitting across from Georgy.
The young man standing behind the speedboat’s old-style wooden steering wheel said, “Two minutes. Get ready.”
Georgy refused to call the young man “captain,” although he was the one giving the orders. He was more of a punk, brandishing his silver-plated Sig Sauer pistol for everyone to see. At the pier, he had been rude and obnoxious to some of the passersby, who had shown curiosity about the boat. He had shown respect to Georgy, but he suspected it was only because the punk had been ordered to do so.
Georgy shrugged. In a twisted sort of way, he missed the Cold War. Yes, there was enmity between the West and the East, and the threat of all-out war, even nuclear. That hadn’t changed. The world wasn’t safer with only one superpower. And Russia was hard at work balancing the scales. A couple of years, five at the most, and we’ll be back to the glorious days, where the world had respect for Russia. That was what Georgy missed the most about the end of the Cold War. The respect he and his compatriots deserved and received with accolades.
That and the certainty. Within and abroad. Russians used to be patriotic, supporting their country, giving everything they had for the motherland. And now … Now, it was every man for himself, whoever could pillage the motherland the most and transfer the riches abroad, to Europe and America, and buy luxurious houses, cars, and yachts.
His shoulder pained him again. It did so every once in a while, mostly when he was stressed.
Like today.
He didn’t want to come to France and meet with the steel industry billionaire aboard his yacht. But Georgy didn’t have much of a choice. The oligarch was paying him handsomely for a couple of days’ work. Tupolev had been very polite and accommodating when they had talked on the phone last week. He was seeking advice about a deal, and he wanted the “wise opinion” of a “hero.” Georgy had inquired about the value he could bring to a kingpin like Tupolev, and he had been told that the man ran his empire like a security intelligence service, so he wanted the “expert advice” of someone who had experience in the field. Reluctantly, Georgy had agreed to meet, but he knew that he was rolling the dice.
The punk eased off the speedboat's throttle and brought the speedboat close to the stern of the two-story-high, hundred-and-fifty-foot-long yacht named Prekrasnaya, The Beautiful. Two guards in gray suits were standing at the yacht’s lower deck, holding AK rifles at the ready. Another two men dressed in what resembled white uniforms were waiting near the swim platform. The guard from the speedboat tossed a thick rope, and one of the white uniforms caught it and tied it to the nearest cleat on the side of the platform.
The punk left the speedboat’s engine idling and gestured toward Georgy. “Watch your step, old man…”
Georgy didn’t like the way the punk said the last words and thought about teaching him a lesson. Perhaps I should feint stumbling and push him into the water. Georgy shook his head. That will just make him wet, but nothing will get to his thick head…
Georgy held onto the speedboat’s metal rail as he made his way to the stern. The vessel was bouncing over the splashing waves. He hopped over the gap and stepped onto the platform.
“Welcome aboard The Beautiful,” said one of the uniforms with a bow.
He gestured with his hand for Georgy to follow him. The ex-KGB agent climbed the stairs and nodded slowly when he passed the guards. None of them returned the nod, but they walked behind him as they continued along the side of the luxurious yacht. It was brand new and very clean, with polished stainless-steel handrails and large windows. Georgy looked through the glass of the salon at what resembled a large sitting area, with cream-colored armchairs and a sofa set in a semi-circle pattern around a large oval-shaped table.
He must have slowed down his pace, because one of the gray suits almost bumped into him. “This way,” he said in a firm voice with an unmistakable hint of a threat. “Up the stairs.”
Georgy didn’t move. “What’s that?” He pointed at the window.
“Oh, that’s the lounge,” the white uniform replied. “But you’re meeting Mr. Tupolev on the upper level, on the deck, near the bow. Just follow me.”
Georgy nodded and shuffled forward.
He climbed a set of stairs, feeling a nice breeze on his face.
When he reached the deck, he noticed it was smaller than what he had expected, considering the size of the super yacht. It was an area perhaps thirty by thirty, at the most, with six white armchairs and a couple of glass-topped coffee tables. A black leather briefcase was on the floor by one of the armchairs, and a large hot tub was to the left side. A bottle of vodka, four glasses, and a lidded ice bucket were set on one of the tables.
Mr. Tupolev was standing at the far end, the breeze toying with his long curly hair. He was dressed in white pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt and had a glass in his hand. He turned around and gave Georgy a big toothy smile. “My friend, welcome to my humble home … well, when I’m away from home.” He spread his arms around, then walked to Georgy and shook his hand.
The handshake was strong, and Georgy was surprised. He had seen pictures of the oligarch but had never met him in person. He looked younger than his age of forty-five, although a couple of lines had started to form on his broad forehead and along his thin lips. Tupolev’s salt-and-pepper hair matched his full beard.
“How was the boat ride?” He pointed toward the armchairs and walked over to the one with the briefcase.
“It was good.”
“Any problems? Concerns?”
Georgy shook his head. “Everything is okay.”
“Good, that’s good.”
Tupolev sat on the armchair and leaned toward the table. “Vodka?”
“Sure.” Georgy sat across from him. “With some ice.”
“On the rocks, as our American and British friends would say.” Tupolev reached for the ice tongs next to the bucket.
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any American or British friends.”
Tupolev dropped a couple of ice cubes into one of the glasses, then poured three fingers of vodka. He handed it to Georgy and said, “Yes, you’re a Cold War man. America, Great Britain, the Western world, they’re all our enemies.”
Georgy shrugged. “Your father thought the same way…”
“Yes, my father. He served in the army, a colonel with the 901st Air Assault Battalion out of Kirovabad. Did you ever meet him?”
“No, but I’ve only heard good things about him.”
“I don’t disagree with you or his sentiment about the Cold War and our enemies. I’ll explain how I feel but first a toast: To a peaceful future.”
They clanked glasses, and Georgy sipped the vodka. He tasted a hint of cereal, but the drink was crisp on the palate. It had a good finish, and it was strong, the way he liked his vodka. He sipped it again, then smiled at Tupolev. “This is excellent. What brand is it?” He glanced at the bottle but didn’t recognize the label, a heart pierced by a sword.
Tupolev returned the smile. “It’s a small Norwegian company that I’m considering buying and rebranding. Something Russian, perhaps to honor the fallen in our great wars … I don’t have a name yet.”
“How about The Patriot?”
Tupolev nodded. “The Patriot … Yes, good choice, obvious, but strong.” He finished the last of his drink, then refilled his glass. He leaned back in his armchair. “I was saying about the strong feeling you and my father held about our country’s relationship with the rest of the world. One of the great things about the Cold War was its clear lines. The East on this side, and the West there.” Tupolev gestured with his glass-holding hand. “If you were with us, you were against them, and the other way around. Everyone knew and played their role.”
“For the most part.”