Authors: David Hagberg

Assassin (42 page)

BOOK: Assassin

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Chernov called a meeting in his office for 9:00 A.M., with Gresko and Petrovsky. It was dawn before every person and vehicle at the Dinamo Stadium flea market had been thoroughly checked out, and McGarvey had not turned up. The only news of any interest, at least to the Militia, was that twenty-seven arrests had been made for everything from illegal arms dealing to counterfeiting documents, and illegal financial transactions. Some of those who'd been picked up had been on the Militia's most wanted list for two years or more. Before last night there'd never been the initiative to clean out the flea market. But if anyone had seen McGarvey, they weren't talking.

“He was there, for maybe as long as an hour,” Chernov told them. “Which gave him plenty of time to buy anything he needed. A weapon. Papers.”

“But he left the KGB uniform behind, which means that part of his plan has been ruined,” Petrovsky pointed out.

“Maybe it was a ruse,” Gresko suggested. “To make us believe that's how he was going to get close to Tarankov.”

“I don't think so,” the Militia captain argued. “I agree with Colonel Bykov that he showed up at the flea market to pick up a weapon, but when he realized that he was cornered he ran.”

“To where?” Gresko asked.

“Maybe back to the border. Or, maybe the bastard has help.”

“It wasn't Yemlin.”

“No, but there are others in Moscow who'd be willing to do it for a price. And McGarvey is a rich man. He could buy his way out of just about everything. Look at that pussy wagon he brought over. It has to be worth plenty.”

Gresko threw up his hands. “Then we're back to square one. He's in
Moscow, and we've got two days to catch him. That is if Tarankov actually shows up for the May Day celebrations.”

“He will,” Chernov said absently, thinking of something else.

“What makes you so sure about that, Colonel?” Gresko asked.

Chernov dismissed the obvious question with a gesture. “Everybody in Moscow knows it by now. Everyone in the entire country knows it.”

“Then why not concentrate our efforts on arresting him when he gets here?” Gresko said. He glanced at Petrovsky. “The military is obviously incapable of doing the job, but we could pull it off. We don't know where McGarvey is, but we do know where Tarankov will be and what he'll be doing.”

“A fine idea, Major, except for two problems,” Chernov said. “In the first place our job is to find and stop McGarvey. Nothing more.”

“If the situation was explained to General Yuryn, I think he'd see our point.”

“Maybe he'd see that we've failed so far,” Chernov pointed out. “But be that as it may, the second problem is Tarankov's followers. There'll probably be a million of them in Red Square the day after tomorrow. Now, if you want to march up to the speaker's platform and clap handcuffs on the man in front of all those people, then be my guest.”

“I see what you mean,” Gresko said. “But I think that if the army doesn't arrest him before May Day, and McGarvey fails to kill him, then we're all lost.”

“How do you mean that?” Chernov asked calmly.

“Tarankov will take over the government. I don't think anybody doubts it.”

“That's politics,” Chernov said. “In the meantime we have our orders, unless you want to quit.”

Again Gresko glanced at Petrovsky, but then he sighed. “No, Colonel, we won't quit. But frankly McGarvey is a lot better than any of us ever expected.”

“He's just a man. He makes mistakes. Already he's lost his car, and the KGB uniform.”

“And he's lost money,” Petrovsky said. “The documents show that he was importing the car from Leipzig via Riga. Which means he had a buyer for it here in Moscow. Find the buyer and we might find McGarvey.”

“Who in Moscow can afford such a vehicle?” Chernov asked.

“A few politicians, some businessmen,” Petrovsky said. “The Mafia. But they won't talk to usâ”

“Wait a minute,” Gresko broke in. “McGarvey was importing that car from Leipzig, right? Maybe it wasn't the first. Maybe he brought others across, to establish himself as an importer. Somebody who paid out a lot of bribes, and was well liked by the people who could hide him.”

“Back to the Mafia,” Chernov said. “Check vehicle registration to see who bought a similar vehicle or vehicles over the past couple of weeks. It
might provide us with a lead, if your people have the balls to ask the questions of the right people. Find his buyers and we might find McGarvey. He's made at least one mistake so far, maybe he'll make another.”

At the door on the way out, Petrovsky had another thought. “What did you do with his daughter?”

“We had a chat, but she's just as much in the dark as the rest of us,” Chernov said matter of factly. “So I dropped her off at her embassy.”

“Just as well,” Petrovsky said. “We don't need to get into it with the CIA right now.”

THIRTY-NINE

Club Grand Dinamo

M
cGarvey woke very slowly from a profoundly deep, dreamless sleep. His mouth was dry, his muscles ached, he had a tremendous headache, and as he struggled back to complete consciousness he realized that he must have been drugged. Normally he awoke instantly. It was a habit of self-preservation that every field officer who survived for long developed.

He was naked under the covers, although after he had eaten he had flopped down fully clothed on the bed to catch a few hours rest. At the time he'd thought it was possible he'd been drugged, so that they could disarm him and check the contents of the leather satchel, but there'd been little he could have done to prevent it. He needed food and rest.

The lights were on, and when he opened his eyes, Ostrovsky, who was seated astraddle a chair at the end of the bed, smiled wide with pleasure.

“Ah, you're finally awake, Mr. McGarvey. We thought you might sleep another night through.”

“What time is it?” McGarvey mumbled, feigning more drowsiness than he felt. The son of a bitch knew his name already. He probably had a source within the SVR.

“Six in the evening,” Ostrovsky said. “You've been sleeping for more than fifteen hours.”

His ferret-faced accountant was perched on the arm of a couch across the room, and two very large men, in shirtsleeves, large caliber handguns that looked like Glock-17s in their shoulder holsters, watched alertly from where they stood on either side of the door.

The leather satchel lay open on the floor next to a table on which the bolt-cutters and the component parts of the sniper rifle were laid out.

“Christ,” McGarvey said. He shoved the covers back and struggled to sit up, swinging his feet to the floor. He hunched over and held his head in his hands. “I feel like shit. What the hell did you put in my drink?”

“In your food actually, but it was just a sedative,” Ostrovsky said.

McGarvey looked up, bleary-eyed. “Can I have a cigarette?”

Ostrovsky tossed him a pack of Marlboros and a gold lighter. When McGarvey had a cigarette lit he looked over at the Mafia boss as if something had just occurred to him.

“What did you call me?”

“Your name is Kirk McGarvey, and from what I was told you are certainly inventive and a very dangerous man,” Ostrovsky said. He nodded toward the gun parts on the table. “You've come here to assassinate someone with that rifle. My guess is the Tarantula. Given half a chance and a little better luck, you might have succeeded. Which brings up some very interesting possibilities.”

McGarvey smiled wanly in defeat.

“So you have me. Now what?”

“Now what indeed?” Ostrovsky said. “That depends in part on your cooperation, because I think you are a very valuable piece of property. The question is would you be just as valuable dead, or are we going to have to see that you remain alive? It'll be a matter of propaganda.”

“I don't follow you,” McGarvey said dully. He hung his head and coughed deeply as if he were having trouble catching his breath.

“Certainly the Tarantula would pay a fair sum of money if he knew that you were no longer capable of gunning for him. Contacting him, and convincing him of what and who you are, might be tricky but not impossible.”

“There are methods,” the accountant put in.

“The Militia and FSK are looking for you with a great deal of passion, though not for the reasons you stated,” Ostrovsky said with amusement. “President Kabatov means to arrest the Tarantula and place him on trial for murder and treason. But in order to do that you mustn't be allowed to carry
out your nefarious plans.” Ostrovsky shook his head in amazement and glanced over at his accountant.

“It doesn't make any sense to me either, Yakov,” the ferret face said, the hint of a smile at the corners of the thin mouth.

McGarvey coughed again, and had to prop himself up with his hands on his knees.

“Then there's your own government, Mr. McGarvey, which has already spent hundreds of million of dollars trying to make sure that we Russians don't slip back into our old ways. They certainly might be willing to pay a great deal of money to have you delivered alive and safe at the U.S. Embassy. It would save them from international censure if it were to come out that the CIA had plotted to assassinate a legitimate Russian presidential candidate.”

McGarvey stubbed out the cigarette and looked up at Ostrovsky. “What do you want me to say?” he asked groggily.

“I'm sure that given the choice you would much rather go home. Who in Washington would be willing to make a deal?”

“Howard Ryan,” McGarvey said after a moment. “He's Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA.”

“What about the director himself?”

“You'll have to start with Ryan, he's the one looking for me. He'd have the most to gain.”

Ostrovsky tossed a cell phone over. “Call him.”

McGarvey looked at the phone and shook his head. “I need a shower first, I feel like shit.”

“You can have a shower later.”

“Now, goddammit. You've got me, so cut me a little slack before I puke all over your fancy carpet,” McGarvey said, letting a pleading note creep into his voice. He'd been listening for sounds from elsewhere in the club, but there was nothing. Either no one was around at this hour, or this room was located in an isolated area.

“Go with him,” Ostrovsky told the two bodyguards.

They came over as McGarvey started to rise. At the last moment he stumbled as if he had lost his balance, and one of the guards caught him. It was all the opening he needed. He snatched the Glock-17 out of the man's shoulder holster and shouldered the man out of the way. The other guard reached for his gun when McGarvey shot him twice in the chest, knocking him backward off his feet. The first guard caught his balance and reached for McGarvey who switched aim and shot the man in the face at point blank range.

Ostrovsky was coming out of his chair, and the accountant was starting for the door. McGarvey shot the ferret in the side of the head, sending him crashing over the low coffee table, at the same moment a panicked Ostrovsky was dragging a pistol out of his pocket.

McGarvey pointed his gun at the Mafia boss.
“Nyet!”
he shouted.

Ostrovsky ignored the warning, as he got out the pistol, which McGarvey recognized as his own Walther, and raised it.

McGarvey dispassionately shot the man twice in the chest, knocking him off his feet, where he landed in a heap in front of the couch.

At the door McGarvey listened but there were no sounds in the corridor. No one had heard the shots, and no alarm had been raised.

He went into the bathroom where he showered off the blood that had splattered on him, then found his clothes in a heap on the floor. After he got dressed, he repacked the rifle components and the bolt cutter in the leather satchel, then retrieved his own gun, spare magazine and silencer from Ostrovsky's body.

It was 6:45 when he finished, and still there were no sounds from the corridor, but by now the club would be busy with early arrivals. No one would expect trouble. In fact it was likely that no one else knew about Ostrovsky's guest.

Hefting the satchel in his left hand, McGarvey let himself out, and hurried noiselessly to the end of the corridor, which turned left through a pair of doors that led to the front of the club. Now he could hear music, and the sounds of laughter, and voices.

Without undue haste, he walked to the front of the club, through the entry foyer, past the front desk staff and doormen who paid him no attention, and outside as a valet was getting out of a BMW sedan. Several armed guards stood around, but they ignored him.

He walked around to the driver's side, nodded pleasantly to the young parking attendant, tossed his bag inside, got behind the wheel and took off before anyone realized what was happening. McGarvey watched in the rearview mirror as the valet sprinted inside, but then he was turning down the driveway and toward the highway that led back into Moscow.

Lefortovo

Jacqueline Belleau's Russian driver that the French Embassy had provided her passed through the prison gates a few minutes before 7:00 P.M., and she had to clutch her purse between her knees to keep them from knocking. As the SDECE's Paris Chief of Station Claude Navicet had told her this afternoon when the meeting with Bykov had been set up: “These people mean business, so watch yourself.” Which she thought was the same as saying be careful when you stick you head into the lion's mouth. The request had been taken directly to General Yuryn, the director of the FSK. Jacqueline had listened in on the conversation, and although she spoke no Russian she detected a reluctance in his voice. Since the Russians had asked the French for help, however, he could not refuse.

A guard came out of the gatehouse, and Jacqueline powered down her
window, and passed out her papers. “I have an appointment to meet with Colonel Bykov,” she said in French.

Her driver opened his window and translated.

The guard took her papers back into the gatehouse, and a couple of minutes later returned with another guard. He handed Jacqueline's papers back to her, and said something in Russian.

“This man will escort us to Colonel Bykov's office,” her driver translated.

The second guard climbed in the front, and they drove to the rear of the compound where they parked in front of a low yellow brick building whose barred windows had been painted black.

Chernov was alone in his office. Although he seemed impatient, he smiled pleasantly and shook her hand. “I'm Yuri Bykov,” he said in French.

“I'm Jacqueline Belleau, and my service has sent me from Paris to help out.” Chernov was tall, well built and in Jacqueline's opinion, handsome. But his smile was fake.

“Frankly I don't know what you can do that your government hasn't already done,” Chernov said. “But I'll take any help that I can get, because we're clutching at straws. McGarvey is here in Moscow, we know that much. But this is a very big city, and we simply can't find him.”

“Have you spoken with the CIA yet?”

“Not directly,” Chernov said. “But I don't think they'd care to send one of their officers over here from the embassy.” He smiled again. “I know we certainly wouldn't send one of our people from our embassy in Washington over to FBI headquarters if the situation were reversed.”

“Well it's a good thing I came to see you tonight, because there's something that you cannot be aware of,” Jacqueline said, conscious that she was taking a very large risk. But she didn't know what else to do. “Like you, we and the Americans want to see Kirk McGarvey pulled back from the brink of this madness. Nobody condones assassination, and in the past McGarvey has been a friend to France. In fact he makes his home in Paris.”

“I know.”

“What you don't know is that his daughter Elizabeth also works for the CIA. She was sent to work with me in Paris to find her father.”

“Extraordinary,” Chernov said. “I had no idea. Is she here with you?”

The bastard was lying. Jacqueline could see it in his cold eyes.

“I don't know where she is, Colonel.”

“I don't understand.”

“She and I traced her father to an apartment in Riga, but that's as far as we got. She disappeared into thin air, and the Riga police swear that they know nothing about it.”

“What exactly do you mean, disappeared?” Chernov asked quietly.

“Just that,” Jacqueline said. “We staked out his apartment that night, but when it was evident he was gone, I went over to my embassy to call for instructions. Elizabeth remained behind to continue watching the apartment. When I came back a couple hours later she was gone. The landlady
knew nothing, nor, as I said, did the police. There was no sign of a struggle. She was just gone.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“She followed her father here to Moscow, I have no doubt about it. Neither does the CIA,” Jacqueline said. She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “I hated to bring this news to you, Colonel, because I know how it will affect your investigation. But the Americans are very keen on getting Elizabeth home safe. After all she was sent over to help stop her father, at your government's request. And in the past few weeks working with the girlâshe's only twenty-threeâI became very fond of her. So it's become personal with me.”

“Amazing,” Chernov said. “In any event we can all agree that Kirk McGarvey has come here to assassinate one of our presidential candidates.”

“That's still a matter of speculation, actually,” Jacqueline said. “Elizabeth is traveling on her own passport. The name McGarvey is not very common, so I'm wondering if any of your people have heard anything. I assume that you're watching the border crossings, trains, planes, buses, car rental agencies, hotels, things like that.”

“To my knowledge her name has not shown up on any of our surveillance reports. But if I hear anything I'll contact you at your embassy, Mademoiselle Belleau,” he said. “I would ask that you let me know in turn if she shows up at her own embassy or yours.”

“I'll inform the Americans, I'm sure they'll be happy to help out.”

Ten minutes later Captain Petrovsky telephoned Chernov from Militia Headquarters in the old City Soviet Building.

“We may have something, Colonel.”

“What is it?” said Chernov, his mind still on the French woman. Her coming here had disturbed him. It was something outside his control, something unexpected. He didn't like that.

“A Mafia boss, his money man and two of his bodyguards were gunned down about a half hour ago. The only reason we got it so fast was that one of General Mazayev's people happened to be out there and called me direct.”

“Where did this happen?” Chernov demanded with his full attention now.

“That's the thing, we should have known. At the Grand Dinamo. It's inside the stadium, not two thousand meters from the flea market.”

“That's it. Did anybody see anything?”

“Not the murders, but about the same time a man came out of the club, jumped into a blue BMW and took off. But it wasn't his car. The general description the valet provided more or less fits McGarvey.”

“All right, put out an all-points bulletin for that car.”

“I sent the bulletin before I called you. If that car is still in Moscow we'll find it.”

“Don't screw it up this time, Illen,” Chernov warned quietly.

“No.”

BOOK: Assassin

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