He put his empty glass down on the table and glanced at the enormous gold watch dangling from his wrist.
“We’re about to have a visitor,” he announced.
“Your girlfriend?”
“Yeah. Julia Naryshkin. You’ll see, she’s a knockout. An intellectual, too. She lives in Peredelkino, that fancy writers’ colony a couple of miles beyond the MKAD”—the Moscow Automobile Ring Road.
Malko was a little surprised to hear Gocha describe the woman as an intellectual. Sukhumi’s taste usually ran more to the sexy minx, the down and dirty types.
The Georgian started when the doorbell rang.
“Hurray! She’s here.”
Thirty seconds later, a tall, beautiful redhead walked into the living room. She had long, curly hair and sea-green eyes. She was wearing the usual straight skirt over very high-heeled boots, but also a white blouse without a bra, which was unusual in Russia. Malko could make out her nipples under the fabric.
“Ducheska!” Sukhumi roared. “Meet Malko Linge, an old pal who’s done a lot of stuff with me.”
Julia’s green eyes looked at Malko appraisingly.
“Vui gavarite po russky?”—Do you speak Russian?
“Da.”
This loosened up the atmosphere. Sukhumi had called his girlfriend “a little dove,” but she was more like a hawk. She had a cold, forceful gaze and radiated strength. She might be an intellectual, thought Malko, but she’s clearly a woman who knows what she wants.
And extraordinarily sexy, in spite of her fairly modest clothes.
“We’re off to the Bolshoi,” cried Sukhumi. “Let’s go!”
“We’re going to the opera?” asked Malko in surprise.
“No,” said Julia. “It’s a restaurant across the way.”
—
Seated in one of the deep armchairs in the Metropol bar, Alexei Somov was already on his third vodka. Two tables away, a busty blonde in a split skirt was shooting him increasingly meaningful glances. If I snap my fingers, I bet she’ll crawl over and give me a blow job, he thought. He impatiently looked at his watch. Razgonov was late, though the general was the one who had called the meeting.
Somov heaved a sigh, and met the blond woman’s eye directly. She stood up and came to his table.
“Good evening,” she said.
She was standing right in front of him, her splendid breasts out-thrust, a come-hither look in her eyes. Somov decided he felt like fucking her. Rummaging in his pocket, he fished out a magnetic room key and a wad of five-thousand-ruble bills, and stuffed them in her hand.
“Go up and wait for me in Room 212,” he ordered. “I’ve got some business now.”
The woman hesitated, and Somov felt he should make himself clear. He grabbed her thigh and roughly jammed his hand between her legs.
“Get going, now!”
The blonde sashayed her way to the elevators.
A minute later, the huge figure of the GRU general appeared. Razgonov dropped into a nearby armchair.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to go to the Kremlin.”
“No sweat,” said Somov. “Have you thought about our deal?”
Razgonov nodded.
“Yes, I have. The Kremlin has agreed to release an Igla-S from the Kolomna factory. They have about twenty in stock.”
Somov looked surprised.
“I don’t need just one missile,” he said. “I need eight of them. I promised.”
“What? That’s much too risky!” exclaimed the general. “And I haven’t completely made up my mind. I’m the one taking all the chances in this business.”
“For eight million dollars,” Somov pointed out. “In crisp new bills from Dagestan. With unrecorded serial numbers.”
“When will I get the money?”
“As soon as I get back from there. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said the general wearily.
“So?”
Razgonov took the time to drink a shot of vodka before answering.
“I’ve taken care of one possible problem,” he said. “The guy who handles the Igla-S inventory at the Kolomna plant is an old subordinate of mine, Anatoly Molov. He does what I tell him. If I ask him to take eight missiles out of inventory while listing only one, he’ll do it. I just have to say the words ‘special operation.’ He’s the only person who tracks the inventory, so it’s no problem.”
“That’s great,” said Somov. “When will this happen?”
“When I give him the official go-ahead to ship a missile to Moscow. That’s all I can do for now.”
“That’s enough,” said Somov. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’ll pick up the missiles and truck them to Dagestan. Then wrap up the rest of the business there.”
“And you guarantee they won’t be used against our people?”
“You can count on me,” said Somov with a reassuring smile.
Razgonov looked at him coldly.
“You realize that if these Iglas fall into the wrong hands, I’ll become your worst enemy, right?”
“I know that.” Somov paused. “Now that we’re on the same page, I’ll call you as soon as I’m ready. What about the Pakistani guy?”
“He’s not our problem.” The general finished his vodka and got to his feet. “I’ll wait for word from you.”
Somov stood up in turn and whispered:
“I’ve got a horny bitch waiting for me upstairs. You feel like having a little fun?”
“Some other time. I’m in a hurry.”
The moment Razgonov left, Somov hurried to the elevator. When he knocked on the door of the room, it opened almost immediately.
The blonde had taken off her hat and gave him a look that suggested all the deadly sins—especially lust. Her breasts practically jumped into Somov’s face, and he could feel himself getting hard. Without a word, he grabbed her breasts and flattened her against the wall.
She obediently reached for Somov’s cock through his pants, and tried to free it. Now grunting like a boar, he released her breasts and slipped a hand under her long skirt. A seam split, revealing her black stockings and the white skin of her thighs.
For her part, the woman had managed to pull the big cock out and was energetically stroking it.
With his left hand Somov tore off her panties. He bent his knees and almost without preamble shoved into her like a charging Cossack. She cried out.
While pounding away, he forced her down onto the bed. He flailed around for a moment, then came deep inside her.
—
The décor in the Bolshoi was modern, with pop music instead of classical. Julia, Sukhumi, and Malko were lounging on seats so deep that their mouths were practically level with the table. They were in the back room. It was cozier than the brightly lit front room, which faced the street.
“Anyone want some more Beluga?” asked Sukhumi.
Sprawled on a couch, he had a hand on his companion’s thigh and was surreptitiously moving it upward. Seeming not to notice, Julia occasionally gave Malko the eye.
Sated, everyone refused the Beluga.
“Be honest, Julia,” said Sukhumi. “Isn’t this better than Dagestan?”
Turning to Malko, he said:
“Julia’s old lover was the mayor of Makhachkala.”
“Magomed wasn’t my lover, he was my fiancé,” Julia calmly corrected him. “He was a very nice man, and he loved me very much. Though it’s true he was a bit brutal.”
“Did he beat you?” asked Malko, amused.
“No, but he once killed one of his friends for saying something mean about his cat.”
Clearly a touchy subject, thought Malko.
“What happened to him?”
“He had an accident in his car,” said Julia. “He was crossing some railroad tracks when it blew up.”
She explained that someone had buried a 550-pound FAB-250 fragmentation bomb under the tracks tha
t went off when Magomed’s armored Mercedes 600 drove over it.
“Was he killed?” asked Malko.
“No, he wasn’t. The Mercedes split open like a mango, in spite of the armor plating. He was badly hurt, but he survived. Magomed’s been in a wheelchair ever since, and he fled to Turkey so as not to be killed.”
“Why were they after him?”
“He wanted to be president of Dagestan.”
Sukhumi chuckled and explained.
“The Kremlin gives Dagestan two billion dollars every year to keep it in the Russian Federation, and the president spreads the money around. So of course everybody wants to be president.”
A golden opportunity.
“He wanted me to convert to Islam,” Julia continued. “That’s why I left him.”
Sukhumi chuckled again, more loudly.
“It was because he couldn’t fuck you in his wheelchair anymore.”
Gocha really doesn’t have a lot of refinement, thought Malko. You don’t make fun of the handicapped.
“All right,” said Julia. “Let’s go now.”
She again gave Malko a long look. Either she was a born slut or she was trying to pick him up, for some unknown reason.
Sukhumi was counting out ten-thousand-ruble bills.
He and Julia went to the back of the Mercedes, and Malko was about to get in front with the driver when Sukhumi said:
“Come in back with us.”
Julia shifted a little so the two men could fit on either side, and the car took off. Sukhumi drowsed, a hand on Julia’s thigh. She turned to Malko and quietly said:
“You should come visit me in Peredelkino. I’m there most of the time, working.”
Minutes later they were driving along the Moskva River.
“Gocha, I think I’m going to go home,” said Julia, yawning. “I have to get up early tomorrow for an interview.”
Sukhumi shook himself, like an enraged elephant.
“What the hell?”
“I’ve had a very nice evening,” she assured him.
She kissed both Sukhumi and Malko and headed for a Mini parked nearby. Sukhumi tried to catch her, then came back to the Mercedes, irritated.
“What a bitch!” he growled.
“She knows how to handle men,” remarked Malko. “Or else she’s really tired.”
“If you knew how hot she can be, when she’s in the mood,” said Sukhumi with a sigh. “It’s like fire.”
“I’m heading home too,” said Malko. “But first I want to ask you something. Do you still have friends in the FSB?”
“A few.”
“I’d like you to find out about something.”
Malko told him about the Iglas. Sukhumi listened in silence.
“If it were anyone else asking, I’d tell them to fuck off,” he said. “But you’re a pal. I’ll ask around.”
CHAPTER
10
Bruce Hathaway had been cooling his heels in Colonel Tretyakov’s office for fifteen minutes when the Russian officer came in.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Tretyakov said, setting a heavy briefcase down. “I was held up.”
The colonel was in civilian clothes and looked drawn and preoccupied. The FBI official assured him that waiting was no problem but that he was anxious to hear more. The fact that the head of the FSB’s Fifth Directorate had asked him to come over meant that things were moving.
Tretyakov sat at his desk and opened a file his secretary had prepared for him.
“I have the approval for our operation,” he announced. “We will be given a functioning Igla-S missile in three days, and you can ‘sell’ it to your Gospodin Amritzar.”
“Wonderful,” said the American. “How do we proceed?”
“We’re not going to bring the missile to the Hotel Belgrade. That would be too complicated. Instead, it will be delivered to a garage on Batiski Street we sometimes use. It’s wired for sound and video recording, which should be useful for your operation.”
In other words, a carefully prepared setting for the sorts of traps that the Russians so liked to set.
“Here is how I expect things will unfold,” the colonel continued. “The Igla-S will be coming from the factory, which is about seventy miles from Moscow. It’s a two-hour drive, so it should be here at eleven o’clock at the latest.
“I suggest that your agent ‘Yuri’ be in place before Amritzar arrives. Yuri will be accompanied by two agents from the Moscow FSB with the authority to arrest an arms dealer within Russia. He can introduce them to Amritzar as his partners.”
“That seems perfect,” said Hathaway. “Will the missile already be there?”
“It should arrive at the same time, but that doesn’t matter. The people bringing it are just regular truck drivers, and they won’t know what’s going on.
“As requested, we will film the exchange of missile for money. Amritzar will hand Yuri two hundred thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills in exchange for the Igla-S. At that point, our men will arrest him. He’ll be taken to Lubyanka for interrogation, then imprisoned in Lefortovo. All you have to do then is to request his extradition to bring him to the United States for trial.
“I’ve discussed this with our attorney general, who will make sure everything goes smoothly. Will that be satisfactory?”
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Hathaway.
“I’m just following the 2003 protocol,” said Tretyakov.
He closed his file and stood up, signifying that the meeting was over.
When Hathaway was in the elevator, he punched the cabin wall in a burst of joy. The FBI was going to score another spectacular success in the war on terror.
—
Tom Polgar met Malko at the Kalina restaurant, on the twenty-first floor of a modern high-rise on Novinsky Boulevard.
“Have you turned up anything new?” asked the station chief as soon as they had ordered their shashliks.
“Not yet, but I’ve put Gocha Sukhumi on the hunt.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Not entirely, but he owes me a debt of honor, and I don’t know anyone else who has such high-level contacts in the FSB. Of course, he may not turn up anything.”
Polgar stared at his plate.
“I don’t have any word from the FBI, either. They’re keeping mum. Besides, they don’t like us. Maybe I’m making a mistake. Can you think of another tack to take?”
“Beyond keeping an eye on Amritzar, no. And I’m not sure even that will give us much.”
“I hope I didn’t make you come to Moscow for nothing.”
A waiter brought the shashliks.
Malko thought of Julia Naryshkin. If he was able to see her again, at least his visit to Moscow would give him that pleasure. He felt bad at the idea of stealing yet another woman from Gocha, but his hunter’s instinct was too strong.
Carpe diem.
—
Amritzar crossed the intersection and started down the Arbat. Despite the chill wind sweeping the street, some stoic souvenir sellers had set up their stands. There were few tourists around. The Pakistani’s hands were stuck in the pockets of his fur-lined jacket and his teeth were chattering. Yuri had phoned an hour earlier and told him to take a walk on the Arbat.
No specific rendezvous. He would be approached, he was told.
Amritzar had left his hotel, crossed the Garden Ring road, and entered the pedestrian street. He had now walked its length twice. He’d brought the $200,000 with him, just in case.
He was standing in the middle of the Arbat when he spotted Yuri coming in from a side street. He was wearing a sheepskin coat and had a shapka on his head. He fell into step beside him.
“You have news?” asked Amritzar.
“Yes. We can give you an Igla-S in three days,” he said.
After an initial rush of excitement, Amritzar was seized by a sudden panic. What would he do with a surface-to-air missile at the Belgrade? The thing was nearly six feet long.
&
nbsp; As if reading his mind, Yuri immediately said:
“I’ve arranged some things for you. Our organization will let you store the Igla-S in one of our garages until the day you use it. It’ll be guarded by two boiviki who are making jihad. They speak a little English and they know how the missile operates. They can help you prepare your action.”
“What about after that?”
“That depends on you,” said Yuri with a slight smile. “If everything goes as planned, you can go back to your hotel and return to the United States. Otherwise, these men will look after you. They’ll be returning to the Caucasus to continue their battle, and you can become a fighter. In Dagestan many foreigners are fighting by their side.”
“Do you want the money right now?” asked Amritzar hesitantly.
Yuri frowned.
“No. You’ll hand it over when you have the missile in your possession.”
They stopped in the middle of the street near a stand that sold nesting matryoshka dolls. Yuri took a slip of paper from his pocket and gave it to him.
“Here’s the address to go to. Make sure you aren’t followed. Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Come with me.”
Yuri pulled Amritzar into a doorway, slipped something heavy into his hand, and said:
“All right. We’ll meet at this address in three days.”
Now alone, Amritzar looked down at what he’d been given: a big Makarov pistol. He immediately stuck it in his jacket pocket, then came out onto the street and headed for the Belgrade.
His life was changing; he could feel it. Gone were the days when he helplessly vented on the Internet. Now he was acting.
He wondered what he would tell Benazir.
—
Rem Tolkachev quickly read the short document that a man in gray had brought to his office. It was from Alexander Bortnikov. The FSB chief assured him that all measures had been taken so that Special Agent Jeff Soloway of the Moscow FBI, whom Parviz Amritzar knew as Yuri, would be arrested and charged with espionage. It was a tried-and-true Soviet tactic. Even if the charge was implausible, a good pretext would help with appearances. After that, things should go smoothly.
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