Deadly Crossing (Tom Dugan 2) (26 page)

He heard a faint noise and moved cautiously to the entrance to the alley to peer around the corner of the building. Far up the empty street at the edge of one of the few working streetlights, a figure approached, dragging his right foot. Borgdanov reached into his coat pocket and wrapped his hand around the grip of his pistol, then faded back into the alley to wait.

Long minutes later, his quarry limped into view, stopping at the gate in a tall chain-link fence beside the school building. Borgdanov saw the man reach into his pocket and extract something, then heard the metallic rattle of a chain on metal — he had a key and was unlocking the gate.

The man disappeared into the darkened schoolyard, leaving the gate standing open — an invitation. Borgdanov stared at the open gate a long moment, then hurried across the street and into the school yard, his hand still gripping the gun in his pocket. He moved through the darkness of the narrow side yard from memory, sensing rather than seeing when it opened onto the spacious school yard behind the building. He yearned to use the small flashlight in his other pocket, but feared making himself an even better target than he already was. He jumped at a sound to his right and spun in that direction, gun in hand.

“Good evening, Dyusha,” said a voice from the darkness. “Thank you for coming. I can’t see well, but I assume you are pointing a gun in my direction. If so, please put it away. You have nothing to fear from me, and I doubt you could hit me in the dark anyway.”

“Ar-Arkady … Arkady Baikov?”

“Very good, Dyusha, but I am surprised you recognized me. I’ve changed a bit since last we saw each other as schoolboys.”

“It was your voice and the fact that you wanted to meet here. Though I wasn’t really sure until you spoke again just now. But wh-what happened to you? Was it an accident?”

The man laughed, but there was no humor in it. “An accident? Hardly. As you may recall, most people here are not so accepting of those of us who are different. Those that view us as anything more than freakish curiosities seem to feel somehow threatened by us. One evening after a drinking session, some of our more intellectually challenged countrymen decided it would be good fun to set a freak on fire. They caught me coming out of a restaurant, dragged me into a nearby alley, then tied me up. Then they poured petrol all over me and lit it. I still remember their drunken laughter before I lost consciousness.”

“My God! How could you survive?”

“My screams attracted a crowd, who chased the bastards away and doused me with rain water that had collected in a bunch of discarded buckets in the alley.” He paused. “Apparently they didn’t know I was a freak.”

“But how did the bastards even know about… you know?”

“How does anyone know anything? They observe, they suspect, they guess. How long can one avoid sports and locker room showers with medical excuses? Doctors’ offices have nurses, and secretaries, and file clerks, and my condition is just too interesting not to discuss. People always find out somehow. How did you find out about me when we were schoolmates?”

Borgdanov didn’t answer right away. “I overheard my aunt tell my mother and warn her not to let me associate with you.”

Borgdanov heard the pain in Arkady’s laugh. “You never were very obedient, but you see my point,
da
? Gossip is a most efficient means of communication. But I’ve always been curious. Even after you knew, you were the only one who didn’t shun me. Who would have thought, Andrei Nikolaevich Borgdanov, the most popular fellow in school, captain of the wrestling team and city champion, would maintain a friendship with the hermaphrodite freak, the ‘he-she.’ Why, Dyusha?”

“As you said, Arkady, we were friends. One does not abandon a friend because he has a medical condition beyond his control. I… I was sorry when we lost touch with each other after you moved and changed schools.”

“Sorry, Dyusha? Or relieved? I tried to contact you several times, but you never returned my phone calls or answered my letters.”

Borgdanov said nothing, and after a long silence Arkady sighed in the darkness.

“It’s all right, Dyusha. I know it was difficult to stand by me, and you stood firmly when I most needed you. I cannot fault you if you tired of being my sole support. To be honest, I was a bit tired of myself, and I’m sure my being out of sight made it quite easy for me to be out of mind as well,” Arkady said. “But enough of that, I didn’t meet you to discuss old times. You are in great danger.”

Borgdanov stiffened. “What? How can you know—”

“What you’re doing? Quite easily, my old friend. I am the chief of data analysis for the Federal Security Service for St. Petersburg and Leningrad Oblast, and you’ve apparently made enemies in very high places. I was tasked with finding out everything about you and your friend Sergeant Denosovitch. I have been following your activities for the last two days.”

Borgdanov tightened his grip on the gun. “So you intend to denounce me?”

Arkady chuckled. “Hardly. If that was my intent, I would not meet with a fellow your size in a deserted school yard, now would I? No, I came to warn you — and to help you.”

Borgdanov weighed the gun in his hand but said nothing. He hadn’t seen Arkady in over twenty years. Could he be trusted?

“Some days ago,” Arkady continued, “I got a call from Vladimir Glazkov, the Chief of the FSB here in St. Petersburg. He gave me Denosovitch’s name, which meant nothing to me, and then added yours as Denosovitch’s former commander and known associate. I was to provide him background information on you both — which I did, of course — and also to attempt to track your movements. Of course, I recognized your name, and rather than assign the task to one of my subordinates, I kept it for myself.”

“How did you find me? I thought I was being quite careful.”

“Remarkably so. I couldn’t really watch you out of the country, and since I wasn’t sure when, or even if you’d return, I initiated surveillance on all your old comrades. When a rather slovenly Ukrainian textile buyer visited three or four of your ex-
Spetsnaz
comrades in a forty-eight-hour period, that was a bit suspicious. And as clever as your disguise is, it could not fool the facial recognition software.”

“Who else knows?”

“No one, Dyusha. Kill me now and your secret is safe. I know that’s what you’re thinking, old times notwithstanding. But I think you should hear me out first.”

Borgdanov considered the alternatives. Nothing pointed to treachery on Arkady’s part. He had so far done nothing illegal in Russia, so the FSB had no grounds to pick him up, and if Arkady was supplying intelligence to the
Bratstvo
, the mob would have surely attacked him by now. Whatever the threat, it wasn’t Arkady. He slipped the gun into his pocket.

“Go on, then.”

“I don’t know exactly what you’re doing, but my research showed that Denosovitch’s niece disappeared some months ago. Also Glazkov directed me to look into a British couple named Kairouz and an American named Dugan, all in London. That led me to news reports of the recent police activities against the Russian mob in the UK.” Arkady paused. “My conclusion is that the
Bratstvo
is heavily involved, and that you are somehow attempting to mount some sort of action against them. How am I doing so far?”

Borgdanov said nothing, then flinched as ten feet away, Arkady struck a match, bathing them both momentarily in a circle of light as the flame flared. The flare died to a small flame, illuminating Arkady’s twisted face as he held the match between cupped hands to light a cigarette. Borgdanov studied the face, not worried about staring now. Beneath the scars, the face looked drawn and jaundiced.

Arkady shook out the match and took a long drag on the cigarette, causing the tip to burn brightly, and Borgdanov heard him exhale audibly into the night air and smelled the cigarette smoke.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Dyusha,” Arkady said. “You probably know the
Bratstvo
has powerful connections to the police and the FSB, but what you may fail to understand is that, here in St. Petersburg at least, the
Bratstvo
IS the FSB. You’ve no chance against them without my help.”

“Forgive me, Arkady, but how can you help me?”

“I already have, because you’re not being beaten in some squalid dungeon, nor do you have a bullet in your head. But I can do much more. Hold out your hand.”

Borgdanov did as requested, and he saw Arkady dimly, as the man approached out of the deeper shadows. He felt something hit his palm.

“That is a flash drive,” Arkady said. “On it you will find complete information on the leadership of the FSB and their complementary ranks in the
Bratstvo
. There are also other things — very powerful things. With this information, who knows, you may even survive.”

Borgdanov felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. Things that seemed too good to be true usually were.

“How did you get this information?”

“Is it not obvious? In addition to my FSB duties, I am a member of the
Bratstvo
. They do not like ‘freaks’ any better than anyone else, but my skills as a data analyst are unsurpassed, and because of this, they tolerate me.”

“Arkady, how could you join these murderous pigs? Do you know what they have done? What they continue to do to innocent people?”

“I suppose that’s a rhetorical question, Dyusha, since it is obvious I know what they do. As far as how I could join, everyone has their price, and the
Bratstvo
met mine. The four bastards that set me on fire died horrible deaths, and this time I got to light the match.”

Borgdanov said nothing for a long time, trying to process what he’d just heard.

“So why give this to me? And why now?”

“I’m giving it to you because you will obviously need it, and other than my parents you are the only human being on the face of the earth who has ever treated me decently. And I’m giving it to you now because it no longer makes any difference to me.”

“What do you mean? If I use this information against the
Bratstvo
, it may harm you as well. Or worse, they will suspect you gave it to me. I cannot imagine what they will do to you.”

Arkady’s laughter seemed genuine this time. “I am afraid God, if he exists, has beaten them to it, old friend. Six months ago I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The doctors give me six weeks to live. But don’t worry. The pain is already quite exquisite, and I suspect it will feel like much, much longer.” He laughed again. “In any event, I don’t intend to wait around and find out. In a few days, I will enjoy a fine meal, drink a toast to my one and only true friend Andrei Nikolaevich Borgdanov, and eat the barrel of my pistol for dessert.”

“I… I have some contacts in the West. They have advanced treatments for—”

Borgdanov heard another chuckle, then watched the bright tip of the cigarette fall to the ground and disappear as Arkady crushed it underfoot. He sensed his old friend moving even closer and flinched in surprise as he felt hands on his shoulders, and smoker’s breath washed over him.

“Dyusha, do not worry so. I have no place in this world. I never have. My parents are dead, and I have no other family. My life has been nothing but pain with promises of more to come. I joined the
Bratstvo
for revenge, and for a while took some perverse satisfaction in inflicting pain on others. But there was no real solace there — I know that now. I’ve done much harm, and my soul is as twisted and tortured as this body. But if life was once unfair, it is no longer, for now I have earned this fate.” Borgdanov saw him smile in the dim light. “Besides, we are Russian! Tragedy is in our genes, is it not? And you always were one to hog the spotlight. Let me be center stage for once, old friend. Take this gift I give you, and let me die the flawed and tragic hero/villain.” Arkady laughed again.

Borgdanov nodded, unable to speak, and Arkady pulled the big man into his embrace and then stood on tiptoe to kiss both his cheeks. Then he pushed Borgdanov away.

“We don’t have much time, and I want to make sure you fully appreciate the power of this gift. The
Bratstvo
is a huge organization, and like all such entities, now runs on computers. I was instrumental in managing the development of the systems they use and included on the flash drive is a file with the source code for many of their most critical applications. Buried in the code are multiple ‘back doors’ to allow undetected access to the systems. There are my notes there as well. This will likely all be gibberish to you, my friend, but I assure you that in skilled hands there is no end to the damage this can do. Wield the weapon sparingly and well. Do you understand?”

Borgdanov bobbed his head in an unseen nod, then muttered a soft, “
Da
.”

“Go then. I will wait half an hour before I leave.”

“
Do svidaniya
, little brother,” Borgdanov said softly. “
Stupay s Bogom
.” Go with God.

Arkady’s teeth flashed in a smile through the dim light. “
Spasibo
, Dyusha, but I suspect that God would prefer that I travel alone. I haven’t done much to please Him of late.”

Borgdanov smiled sadly and turned toward the gate.

“Oh, and Dyusha, I don’t know how well you know these people in the UK, but if they are friends, you should warn them. The
Bratstvo
plans to kill all three of them. Everything I was able to find out is in a file on the flash drive labeled UK.”

Chapter Thirty One

St. Mary’s Catholic Church
London, UK

Dugan sat next to Anna and glanced down the pew to his left at Alex and Gillian. Gillian was sobbing softly into a handkerchief as on her opposite side Mrs. Hogan was gently rubbing Gillian’s back in a vain attempt at consolation. Alex was suitably dressed and shaved for the first time in several days, but he seemed unfocused and near catatonic, staring straight ahead as a single tear leaked down his pallid cheek. Mrs. Hogan peered past the grieving couple at Dugan, and her face turned dark. He quickly looked away.

Gillian had given him a sad smile when they’d arrived, and Alex had offered his hand perfunctorily, his handshake like holding a dead fish, and Dugan caught a whiff of brandy. Ilya and Nigel sat to Dugan’s right, on the other side of Anna, the big Russian stone-faced and stoic, while Nigel was visibly struggling to keep it together. But Dugan’s discomfort was greater still, knowing that he could have relieved his friends’ suffering with a word, and he was struggling with strong second thoughts about having subjected them to this ordeal. This was shaping up to be the longest hour of his life.

The service was not only for Cassie, but also the two Russian women, and Father O’Malley had graciously invited the priest from the nearby Russian Orthodox church to assist him in the service. Dugan was impressed by O’Malley’s sensitivity and kindness, but under the circumstances, his greatest concern was that the gesture might double the length of the service and thus his discomfort.

Father O’Malley walked to the pulpit and began to speak.

Outside the Kairouz Residence
London, UK

Unsure as to the exact timing of the day’s events, Fedosov decided to take up a position early, to be prepared for any last minute complications. Thus he’d arrived and parked the van on the street in good time to watch the departure of both the Kairouzes, in the company of their driver and the Irish cook. He sat in the back of the van now, with a good view of the driveway through a concealed viewing port. He would be able to observe both the Kairouzes’ and Dugan’s return, to confirm they were all in place before he detonated the bomb. He was waiting patiently when he got some unexpected visitors.

A taxi pulled to the curb beside the drive, and a rumpled-looking black man got out. He stood a moment, glancing casually around himself. He peered at the van for a long minute and then seemed to mark it in his memory and move on, slowly making an arc as his gaze traversed a full circle around the taxi. Fedosov’s sixth sense started sounding an alarm. The man was obviously aware of his surroundings, but what was he doing here. Private security? For who?

He got his answer a short time later, and the man lowered his head and spoke into the taxi. Two dark-haired women exited the cab, and the man motioned them up the drive as he fell in behind them, his head on a swivel. They moved out of sight around the curve in the drive, and Fedosov tensed, trying to assess what impact this latest development might have on his plan. He kept his eye on the house and slipped on the headphones. A short while later, he heard the kitchen door open, and a woman’s British-accented voice.

“I’ll shut off the alarm.”

“Okay,” replied a man’s voice, undoubtedly the black man, an American by the sound of it. “Then I need to get you two upstairs and out of sight.”

“Why?” the woman asked.

“Because I think it would be too much of a shock for your folks to just walk in and find you sitting here. I need to prepare them a bit before I spring you on them,” the American said.

“I think for Uncle Ilya it will be no problem,” said a second woman, the accent Russian this time.

“Well, maybe,” the American said, “but humor me. Let’s get you both upstairs for the time being. I’ll call up when you can come down.”

Fedosov heard murmurs of agreement and then, a moment later, the sound of footsteps on the stairway and cursed the fact that he had no listening devices upstairs. Who were these people, and what were they doing in the house? Should he abort? No, the Chief had already given the green light to some collateral damage as inevitable, and besides, Fedosov had never expected that this Dugan and the Kairouz people would be completely alone.

He sat back in his chair and waited, his patience wearing thin now. He just wanted to finish the job and get the hell away.

St. Petersburg
Russian Federation

Borgdanov tried Ilya’s cell phone again, muttering a curse when the call went to voice mail. He left another message.

“Ilya, I have been trying to reach you. Call me at this number immediately.”

He didn’t want to communicate in the open, and by doing so he was compromising the strict communication protocol he’d established with Ilya. There were just too many ways communications could be compromised, especially if one end of the call was in Russia, even though both he and Ilya were using burner phones.

The agreed procedure was to leave a draft email message in a dummy Gmail account, to which both men had the user ID and password. Each would log into the account twice a day — Ilya at eleven AM and PM and Borgdanov at noon and midnight — and read any draft message left. Additionally, either could log on at any time with an urgent message, though the sender would know it was unlikely to be received until his correspondent’s regular check-in time. Since the messages were never actually sent, they were less likely to attract scrutiny. But despite the low probability of being compromised, the Russians were still circumspect regarding message frequency and content. The only message from Ilya to date, which Borgdanov assumed was sent after the rescue mission, was as heartrending as it was brief. “Regret we failed.”

Borgdanov’s only message was sent at one in the morning London time, as soon as he’d been able to get to a computer and check the content of the UK file on Arkady’s flash drive. His message was equally concise. “Imperative you call me. No. 4.” The number four indicated Ilya was to call the fourth number on a list of a dozen numbers Borgdanov had given him, each to a different burner phone that would be discarded immediately after the call.

Ilya should have gotten the message a half hour earlier, and the lack of a call indicated something was seriously wrong, prompting Borgdanov to abandon communications protocol in favor of a direct approach. When Ilya hadn’t answered, he’d tried Dugan and then Anna, but both calls went to voice mail. He didn’t have numbers for the Kairouzes;, but as a last resort he’d tried Anna’s colleagues Lou and Harry, with similar results. Where the hell was everyone?

Borgdanov stood and paced the worn carpet of the shabby hotel room and prayed for Ilya to return his call.