by Linda Ladd
Next to the door, he found a complicated, computerized keypad and several security cameras angled down, where visitors would have to stand in order to ring the doorbell. Other cameras pointed out at the lawn and driveway. Stepan Sokolov was a careful man, but so was Petrov. He checked the GPS signal again and found the Explorer had not moved. Novak was pretty sure Petrov also might have a house or two scattered around the city.
If Petrov was on the run, and he was, he would be afraid the Russian government was on to him and surveilling his properties. He wouldn’t go to any of them, but he might think it safe to use Sokolov’s place. Novak decided Petrov wouldn’t waste the time to check it out. It would be safer for him to hole up inside a busy hotel. The Hilton was a place where he’d pass as another nondescript American tourist. Novak had holed up in hotels for the same reason. He poked in the code Sokolov had listed in the burner. Everything clicked into place, and he entered a foyer, one barely lit by dusty light flooding in through the fancy fanlight over the door. No alarms went off. He found the gun collection where he was supposed to, behind a hidden door in the dining room. It was secreted behind a magnificent floor-to-ceiling painting of the Eiffel Tower that swiveled out on a switch. The painting itself looked worthy of the Louvre. Sokolov had made some money in his time. The steel door had a lock similar to the one at the front entrance.
Novak punched in the second sequence of numbers he found in the phone and opened the door. He found a light switch and flipped it on. Then he stared around in disbelief at the sheer number and variety of weapons Sokolov had collected there. It looked like a damn post armory, including powerful sniper rifles, grenades, and even a couple of grenade launchers, as if Sokolov intended to conquer Canada by himself. Every single weapon in that room was illegal to possess anywhere in Canada and would entail a long prison sentence if he were caught. He browsed a few minutes, then chose a Kimber .45 similar to his own, a nice little Glock 19 9mm, and a Remington shotgun.
Once he was armed, Novak carried the weapons out to his truck and drove back to the Hilton. He chose a spot in the parking lot near Petrov’s car. It still sat in the same place, fallen leaves scattered on the roof and hood where they’d been before, so Novak was pretty sure Petrov was inside that hotel. As soon as he got a lead on where the girls were hidden, he’d come out and take off with only murder on his mind. Novak tried again and could not find anything about a convent in the phone. He had no idea where they were. There had to be hundreds of churches and seminaries inside a city of Quebec’s size, so he’d have to let Petrov do the footwork for him. If he had to guess, he would suppose that Sokolov would choose a Russian Orthodox Church, one well protected by some of Sokolov’s former operatives or friends that he could trust, if he even had any friends he could count on. That’s what Novak would do. If Petrov found out where they were, he’d go there, and Novak would follow him and get him before he got too close. It was a risk to sit outside and wait, but it was also risky waiting until Petrov found them. Still, it was his only choice. He was unfamiliar with this city. He had no contacts he could utilize.
Daylight waned, the sun faded away, and slowly darkness enveloped the old city. The outside lights around the hotel blinked on, and people came and went, laughing as they stared down at their tourist maps. Novak sat and waited, but he quickly grew impatient. If he was wrong, if Petrov was not inside that hotel calling his cohorts in search of his victims, Novak was making a fatal mistake. He debated going inside and finding his room number, but people were milling about everywhere, and there would be collateral damage no matter how it went down. He decided to wait until midnight before he went inside and found the Russian killer.
At half past ten o’clock, his growing fears were put to rest. Petrov appeared, walking casually out a side entrance, strode out to his car, and unlocked the driver’s side door. He looked calm and controlled but had been glancing around the whole time, watching other people in the parking lot. Novak stayed low. When the Russian drove off, Novak followed at a distance. He was ready now. He had several mags of ammo in his coat pockets, and the shotgun lay on the passenger seat, well within his reach. He would take Petrov down tonight, and he hungered for a chance to do it.
Petrov turned onto the Rue Saint-Jean, and Novak came close to losing him in the busy lanes of traffic. He kept him in sight somehow, following him up Avenue de Salaberry, then took a right opposite a big park. Novak got more anxious the farther they went. He kept his speed up so he wouldn’t lose him, but kept several cars between them.
Fifteen minutes later, Petrov slowed down and pulled over just past the next big intersection. Novak had pretty much lost his bearings now, but the street was called Rue Aberdeen, and he knew they weren’t far off the banks of the St. Lawrence River. Petrov knew exactly where he was going, apparently familiar with the place. When he turned into the entry road of a large church complex, Novak knew he had found the girls. The sign on the front lawn had been painted over and left blank, so it probably wasn’t a functioning church. Novak pulled up beside the curb but kept the car idling. Petrov was out of the car now, walking down a concrete sidewalk toward the front portico. He had put on a long tan overcoat. Behind him, Novak could see several outbuildings, cloisters, and the main church with its huge round stained-glass windows. It had to have been a former convent or seminary, definitely a church of some denomination.
Irina and Katerina were inside one of those buildings, and they would soon be dead. Either Petrov had figured out where they were, or somebody had betrayed Sokolov and informed him. When the lights flared on inside the front doors, the big round stained glass window above it glowed with a beautiful depiction of a Russian Orthodox priest at prayer. Then the light hanging over the front door came on, revealing where Petrov was standing. As the red double doors swung open, Novak knew Petrov was going to kill whoever was standing there, along with anybody else he came across inside that church. Before Novak could move, Petrov raised a weapon and shot the woman at the door, point blank in the chest. She went flying back as the retort of the gun echoed across the lawn to Novak.
Novak stamped the accelerator, made a wide turn across the street, jumped the curb, and roared up through the grass toward the front door. Petrov had already disappeared inside. Novak slammed to a stop under the portico, grabbed the shotgun, and jumped out. The woman was sprawled dead inside, her blood running in rivulets into the deep grouting of the white tiles. The nun was dressed in modern attire with only a head scarf. Novak ran from pillar to pillar, keeping them between him and the open foyer. He could not see Petrov.
The church was silent, but the tall doors to the sanctuary stood open, the lights on inside the huge interior. Rows of empty pews led up to an ornate altar. Two halls stretched out to either side of Novak, both pitch black and leading into the depths of the church complex. He stood still and listened for running footsteps, not sure if Petrov was hiding in ambush or on his way to find the girls. A second gunshot told him Petrov was down the hallway on Novak’s left. He ran down it, enclosed in darkness. If he was going to die, this would be the place where he’d breathe his last. Only fitting that it was a church. Halfway to the end, he neared a lighted hallway and picked up the awful coppery smell given off by copious amounts of spilled blood.
Seconds later, he rounded a corner and nearly stepped on a second nun lying dead on the floor. Then he heard a bunch of women screaming, and fast-paced footsteps at the other end of the corridor, about thirty feet away from him. A flood of young girls rushed around the corner, shrieking when they saw his gun. They parted around him and ran screaming for the front door. The two girls were not among them. He grabbed the last woman as she ran past. “Where’s Irina and Katerina? Tell me before he kills them.”
She struggled and shook her head, so he repeated the question in French. Then she answered in kind, frantically trying to pull out of his grip. “Down in the chapel, through the cloisters!”
“Where’s the man with
the gun now?”
“Going there to get them! Let me go, let me go! He’s killing everybody!”
“Get outside and call the police, tell them to get here fast.”
She took off after her friends, and Novak ran down the hall from which they’d come. At the end of the corridor, he pushed outside through double doors and found himself on the open-air cloisters. He could barely see in the darkness, but some solar lights along an outdoor path revealed Petrov running toward a small chapel across a short stretch of grass. Novak vaulted the cloister wall and took off after him. He hit the doors into the chapel right after the Russian disappeared inside.
There he found Irina and Katerina, terrified and cowering behind a tall Russian Orthodox priest standing at the front of the church. He was wearing full vestments. They were right in front of the altar, while Petrov was approaching them, striding down the main aisle. His gun was beaded on the priest. Novak yelled his name, trying to draw his attention. Petrov whirled on him and opened fire. Novak dove behind a wood pew and let loose with three quick rounds. Petrov grabbed Katerina, holding the eight-year-old child in front of him for cover. Irina and the priest backed away, the former taking off toward the side door. Petrov saw her and fired. His slug hit her in the back, and she collapsed on the floor. The priest ran to help her. Petrov opened up on Novak again, dragging Katerina backwards and out a door that led to the side lawn.
Novak went after them, the .45 in hand. He went out the door low, but Petrov met him with rapid fire from where he was hidden somewhere in the darkness. When he ran, Novak picked up his position halfway back to his car. Novak fired again and missed, and Petrov turned, holding the little girl as a shield. Katerina seemed petrified, neither screaming nor struggling, just hanging there in front of her captor, her feet dangling well above the ground.
“Let her go, Petrov,” Novak shouted. “You’re never going to get away. The police are on their way. No reason to kill her now.”
Petrov took off again, still gripping the child. Novak couldn’t fire or he’d hit Katerina, so he raced after them. Petrov had entered a big garden now, one with a little prayer niche at the end. Novak followed. Then he caught sight of a second priest running toward the man with the girl. This guy had on vestments, but he also had a .357 Magnum gripped in his hand. He did not hesitate to use it. He stopped, braced, and fired at Petrov, the bullet hitting the side of his face as he looked back at Novak. Half his head simply disappeared in that instant, inside a mist of blood and brains blown apart by the direct hit. The child fell to the ground, then scrambled up in a hurry and rushed back toward Novak. She jumped into his arms hard enough to make him stagger backward. He held her close, then pushed her behind him as the priest turned and leveled his weapon on him. Novak pointed his gun at the priest’s heart.
“Who are you?” the priest asked in heavily accented English. His inflection was Russian. He was one of them, all right.
“Stepan Sokolov sent me here to get these girls out before Petrov got to them.”
“Are you Will Novak?”
Novak nodded, finger ready on the trigger. He didn’t know who was who yet, but this guy had shot Petrov, and he hoped that made him a friend.
The Russian lowered his gun. “Yes, good, he told me of you. That you might come for the girls, if he was unable to. Is he dead?”
“He was shot, so he might be by now. Who are you?”
“His contact here. One of my colleagues must have betrayed us and told Petrov where we were. He still has some loyalty among our ranks. Stepan told us to be ready. He feared Petrov would come here to kill the girls.”
Novak lowered his own gun reluctantly as the child clung to him, weeping harshly against his back . “What about Irina? Is she dead?”
“She is. I’m sorry. We were here to protect her, and we failed.”
A moment later, police sirens shrilled up, far away but nearing. The priest hid his weapon under his cassock. “You can run with the child, but they will catch you before you get out of the city. You will be better served to stay and tell the authorities the truth. I believe your country will back you. I have to ask you to remain silent about us and our cell. Few people know we’re here.”
“What about those girls I saw? Who are they?”
“We run this place as a haven for runaways. It is our cover until we return to Russia. The girls will have already scattered back to the streets. The rest of us will return to Russia as soon as we can—our mission here is destroyed. Please do not give us away. We will never come back here, not after this.”
Since the guy had just saved his life, Novak felt magnanimous. He nodded and picked up Katerina as the priest melted away into the darkness. He patted Sokolov’s child’s back, trying to calm her. She felt tiny and defenseless in his arms. Novak threw his weapons into some bushes and walked slowly toward the front lawn. Once he rounded the end of the cloisters, law enforcement had arrived. It looked like most of the Quebec City police force had gotten the call. They were jumping out of their patrol cars, multiple high-beamed flashlights and vehicle headlights spotlighting him where he had stopped out on the grass. They began yelling at him in French to get down on the ground. He placed Katerina on her feet, but she quickly crumpled to the grass and curled up in a fetal position. She couldn’t stop crying.
Novak raised his hands high, got down on his knees, and tried to look harmless. The cops didn’t buy it. They quickly surrounded him, got him on his face in the grass, and cuffed his hands tightly behind his back. Then he was jerked up by the back of his jacket and hustled away. He said nothing to them, and wouldn’t, not until he found out his rights. He just hoped to hell that Canadian law gave prisoners one phone call.
Epilogue
Novak cooled his heels in an eight-by-eight jail cell for the next two weeks. He had several court appearances with harsh, severe hanging judges who looked like they wanted to knot the noose around his neck themselves. He said little, even to his assigned Canadian lawyer. He wasn’t sure if he was going to get out this time, but at least Canada didn’t have the death penalty. The phony priest and his Russian operatives had gotten away clean, he assumed, all of them active spies, the irony of which made him want to laugh, but his predicament was too dire.
The dead women that Petrov had murdered were as yet to be identified. Novak suspected they also had been espionage agents affiliated with the two men dressed as priests. He had his lawyer call Lori Garner at the Pentagon first thing, and he hoped she could come through for him. He wasn’t counting on it, thinking she would have little clout in an international incident of this magnitude. His fingerprints had been on the guns they’d found in the bushes, but they also proved he hadn’t fired the bullets that had killed anybody.
Katerina had been taken to a Quebec foster home until they could determine who she was and what to do with her. It was a big complicated mess, to be sure, and he was smack dab in the middle with no reasonable explanation of why he was in a foreign country, armed to the hilt with illegal firearms, and in possession of some unknown child. He was expecting to spend a lot of time looking through bars. He hoped Lori could pull enough strings to get him a reduced sentence, but this time, she’d have to be a political genius to do him any good.
Three days later, Lori Garner showed up in Quebec with a lawyer, the American Ambassador up from his office in Ottawa, and a whole sheaf of legal government papers explaining why Novak should be released into her custody. They walked him under guard upstairs to a small interview room. Nobody told him why, but he could tell by their faces they did not like him or his American friends. Inside that room, Lori and one harried attorney and one calm, distinguished man sat waiting at the interview table. At first Lori looked relieved to see he was still on his feet, but that was followed closely by a flush of true anger, which was not totally unexpected.
“Hi, Lori,” he said, smiling at her.
She didn’t return hi
s greeting. “You’re lucky you’re not in some prison up at the Arctic Circle.”
“But I got you, babe.”
Nobody laughed.
“Sit down, Mr. Novak,” she said.
Mr. Distinguished turned out to be the Canadian ambassador himself. “You’re being released, Mr. Novak, but it’s taken a lot of time and effort from our office. They don’t want you coming back to this country ever again. You are officially banned from any Canadian territory.”
“I can live with that.”
He went on to explain in detail a bevy of legal maneuvers that the State Department did not like to have to utilize, especially for a U.S. citizen acting as a vigilante. He told Novak that his exemplary military service and Lori’s connections with an important general who had gone to bat for him had made it possible for him to be released into American custody. Otherwise, they might not have bothered. Then he shook his head, and he and the lawyer left Novak alone in that room to face Lori’s wrath.
Her harangue started out with a giant but heartfelt sigh. “I just don’t know what to say to you, Novak. What do you have to say for yourself? Did you kill Petrov?”
“No, I really can’t say who did. It’s a matter of honor, I guess. He saved my life and Katerina’s, too.”
“They’re going to want to know.”
“I didn’t see anything. When Katerina ran out to me, I picked her up and tried to get her away from him before he murdered her, too. He had already shot Irina in the back.”