“No, no, later,” said Soloway. “I trust you. Mahmud said you were an honest jihadist.”
The two men smoked cigarettes. They didn’t have much to say to each other.
Suddenly a ringing cell phone startled Amritzar. It belonged to one of the men in the office. After a long conversation, the man came out and pulled Yuri aside, ignoring Amritzar.
A few moments later Yuri came over to him. He looked serious and was obviously annoyed.
“There’s been a problem,” he said. “The people bringing the missile had to turn around. We have to put off the meeting.”
“To when?”
“I don’t know. I’ll let you know. You can go back to your hotel.”
Taking Amritzar by the arm, Soloway led him to the door.
“I’ll phone you,” he promised. “Walk over to Misaya Street. I’m sure you’ll find a taxi there.”
Feeling shaken, Amritzar started walking along the snow-lined road. He paid no attention to a black Audi with tinted windows that took off and drove away.
—
The Mercedes truck pulled into the courtyard of an old prewar building at 57 Lesnaya Street. To the right of the entrance stood a small shop with a sign that read “Caucasian Fruits—Wholesale.” With its dusty windows, it looked abandoned. A small flight of metal stairs led from the courtyard down to the store’s basement. The truck pulled around and parked next to it. The three men opened its back doors. Within minutes they had carried the eight cases from the KBM van down to the basement.
Two of them climbed back in the truck, which drove out of the courtyard. The third man stayed with the missiles.
Ten minutes later a Mercedes parked in front of the store. A tall man got out—it was Alexei Somov—and knocked on the store door. He was let in immediately.
He went down to the basement and examined the eight Igla-S cases. The first part of the job had been accomplished.
“You two, stay here,” Somov ordered. “I’m going to arrange the rest of the trip.”
—
Bruce Hathaway was baffled. He couldn’t understand why his sting operation had failed.
“So they’re going to phone you?” he asked, looking up at Soloway.
“They promised to,” said the FBI agent. “It must be a technical problem. Nothing serious.”
“And Amritzar didn’t suspect anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where is he?”
“I told him to go back to his hotel, that I’d let him know when the next meeting would be.”
“Well, I’m going to talk to Tretyakov and find out what’s up.”
The moment Soloway left his office, Hathaway phoned the Fifth Directorate. The colonel’s secretary said he wasn’t available but would call back soon.
—
Eating breakfast in the Kempinski’s restaurant, Malko kept an eye on the door, half expecting FSB agents to burst in at any moment.
He had a lunchtime meeting with Tom Polgar, which gave him a certain amount of cover. After that, he would have to decide. His mission in Russia was over, so he could catch an Aeroflot flight to Vienna later in the day. Or he could have dinner with the beautiful Julia Naryshkin.
If the FSB doesn’t show up, I’ll see Julia, he decided. The curly-haired redhead with the piercing eyes attracted and intrigued him. If she slept with him, it wouldn’t be for a handful of rubles. Malko could detect in her a drive rarely found in men or women.
He was hooked on a woman he’d only seen twice, without the slightest physical contact.
The trickiest possible situation.
—
Tolkachev had been on the phone for nearly an hour, trying to find out what had happened. Gradually the facts started to emerge.
Someone had attacked the KBM truck carrying the Igla-S to Moscow as part of the trap he had set for the FBI. At this point, there was no way of knowing who was behind the theft, but it was a serious problem. The operation against the FBI was strictly need-to-know, so how could anyone have arranged the hijacking?
According to the Kolomna FSB, it was a professional job. Both murders had been committed with the same 9 mm pistol.
Why?
With the hijacking, Tolkachev’s trap had collapsed like an overcooked soufflé. Everyone had gone home. The FBI to the American embassy, Amritzar to his hotel, and the FSB people to Bolshaya Lubyanka.
While awaiting fresh orders from on high, Tolkachev decided it was impossible to continue until he knew who had penetrated the operation.
Just in case, he asked Alexander Bortnikov and the GRU’s commanding general, Anatoly Razgonov, to come in.
The one thing that escaped Tolkachev was the exact role played by Malko Linge.
Did he have anything to do with this fiasco?
CHAPTER
14
“What the fuck is going on, Alexei?” yelled Anatoly Razgonov. The general’s voice was shaking, and his face contorted with rage.
Alexei Somov managed to keep his cool. It was late afternoon, and the two men were the only customers in the Metropol bar. The bartender huddled behind the counter, making himself as inconspicuous as possible. When you’re around the GRU, it’s best to mind your own business.
“What exactly are you talking about?” asked Somov calmly.
“I’m talking about the two guys who got blown away in Kolomna, you dipshit! They weren’t chernozopie ragheads, either. They were good Russians. I warned you, Alexei: no screw-ups!”
Just then, a folksinger in a long multicolored dress took a stool at the bar, and the sad strains of her bayan accordion began to fill the air. She was playing an old, sad tune about birches and steppes without end.
Somov leaned across the table.
“Did you really want people to know that the van was carrying eight Iglas, and not just one? I’m sorry, Anatoly, but it was the only way. Now only one person knows how many missiles left the factory, the guy who wrote ‘one’ in his inventory logbook. You said you trusted him. Is that still true?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” said Razgonov.
“All right, then. You’ll feel better when you get your money. You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”
In Chechnya, Somov and his unit had broken a lot of eggs.
But Razgonov was still angry.
“I’ve been called in by Rem Tolkachev,” he growled, shaking his head. “What the fuck am I supposed to tell him?”
“You could try the truth,” said Somov sarcastically. “If you want to be sent downstairs in the Lubyanka, that is.”
Razgonov didn’t bother to reply. The bayan continued to spread its sadness.
Suddenly Somov had an idea.
“Hey, what about the pigeon, that Pakistani American guy? He was going to pay two hundred thousand dollars for the Igla-S. You think he still has the money?”
The question took Razgonov by surprise.
“I have no idea,” he said. “Why?”
“Because if we could get our hands on it, the two hundred thousand dollars would make a nice pension for those two KBM guys’ families.”
“How are you going to manage that?”
“I have a plan, and it ought to work.”
Without meaning to, Colonel Tretyakov’s secretary Anna had given Somov two useful pieces of information: Parviz Amritzar’s name and the hotel where he was staying. It was enough to set a trap for him.
“Just hang tight for a while,” Somov told Razgonov. “This will all be nailed down in a week or two, and you’ll have the money you need. And if everything works out, those two widows will have enough to live on.”
When the two men parted, the mood was chilly. They were in it together now, for better or for worse.
—
Amritzar returned to the Hotel Belgrade as night fell, having taken Benazir to admire the store windows on Tverskaya Street. He was feeling rattled and found it hard to make conversation. The failure of the morning’s meeting had left a sour ta
ste in his mouth.
Just as they entered their room, the phone on the night table rang. Amritzar ran over to answer it.
“Parviz?” came a man’s voice.
“Yes, who—?”
“I’m calling for Yuri. He straightened things out.”
Amritzar felt a rush of happiness.
“Really?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, and he’s waiting for you right now.”
“Where?”
“Take a taxi to the intersection of Gogoldin Boulevard and Petrovka Street. We’ll meet you there. Be sure to bring the money.”
“I’m on my way!”
Amritzar hung up and turned to Benazir.
“I have an urgent appointment,” he said. “I have to go out again.”
She didn’t argue, and he ran to the elevator.
By good luck he found a real, legal taxi on Smolenskaya. The driver even spoke a little English.
The old buildings flew by as if in a dream, until the taxi stopped at an unremarkable intersection. Amritzar got out and went to wait in front of a store selling fur coats and shapkas.
Five minutes later, a big man in a black leather coat appeared, bareheaded despite the cold. He had a square face with expressionless, almond-shaped eyes and stood a good ten inches taller than Amritzar.
“Parviz?”
“That’s right.”
“Yuri is expecting us,” Alexei Somov said in quite good English. “Do you have the money?”
“Yes.”
“Then come with me.”
He led Amritzar to a double-parked Mercedes, and they got in. Silence reigned during their trip. Eventually the car entered the inner courtyard of a building and stopped.
Amritzar looked around nervously.
“This isn’t where we were this morning,” he said.
“That’s right,” said the tall man. “We had to change locations. Follow me.”
He had Amritzar take the metal stairs down to the basement of a store. The dim light from a single hanging bulb revealed a tall man on a stool who stood as Amritzar came down the stairs. His narrow face and sharp chin made him look shifty.
“Arzo here will take care of you,” said Somov. “Go with him to the stairs in the back.”
Amritzar picked his way through the gloom toward the back of the basement, with Khadjiev on his heels. He didn’t see him pull a 9 mm Makarov semiautomatic with a long silencer from his belt.
The single shot to Amritzar’s neck hardly echoed on the heavy basement walls. He collapsed in a heap.
With Khadjiev’s help, Somov rolled Amritzar onto his back and began to search him. He quickly found and pocketed the envelope full of dollars.
“Wrap him in plastic,” he said. “It’s so cold, it’ll be okay. You can load him in with the equipment and dump him somewhere along the way.”
The forests of the Caucasus were littered with graves, unknown and unclaimed.
After Somov left, Khadjiev searched the body again. He found some Russian money, a watch, and a ring. He took Amritzar’s cell phone, too. He doesn’t need it anymore, he thought, and every little bit helps.
—
Though stuck in traffic, Somov was in high spirits. He had a date with Anna, who had turned him on to this profitable business. She would provide some excellent sexual recreation. In addition, he had kept his promise to Razgonov, and now had enough money to pay for the operation’s collateral damage. He wasn’t going to take a penny of the $200,000 destined for the widows. Knowing the Russian soul, he doubted they would long mourn their dead.
—
Tom Polgar’s gray Chevrolet was idling on the Sofiskaya Embankment below the bridge, and Malko jumped in. They had arranged the meeting only minutes before, to avoid being followed. Now, caught in the traffic on the Kamenny Bridge, the car was crawling along.
“Why do you think they tried to kill you?” asked Polgar.
“I have no idea. I haven’t done anything aside from get the information I gave you, and which you didn’t use. Unless somebody wanted to take advantage of my being in Moscow to take me out, because of my past activities. I’m not working on any active cases, so it would be easy to make it look like an ordinary crime.”
“Well, I think it’s pretty suspicious,” said the station chief. “The sooner you catch a plane out of here the better.”
“That’s what I’m planning,” said Malko. “I have a flight tomorrow evening.”
“I’ll send a car to take you to the airport,” said Polgar. “It’ll be safer. An attempt like this could only come from on high, from the Kremlin. They might have other nasty plans for you.”
“I’ll be careful,” promised Malko. “How about you? What’s going on with the FBI?”
“Not a thing. All quiet on the bureau front. It’s as if their operation was canceled. If it had worked, it would be in the papers, and their boys would be walking around thumping their chests.
“I’ll drive you back to the Kempinski now. By the way, this’ll probably be the last time we’ll see each other in Moscow. I’m going back to Langley in six months, to run the Eastern Europe desk.”
They passed the Borovitsky gate, drove up along the Manege and around Red Square, then headed back toward the south bank of the Moskva.
—
Stunned, Bruce Hathaway reread the email he’d just gotten from the Fifth Directorate.
For technical reasons, we regret to say we must cancel the operation planned by our two services.
Sincerely,
SERGEI TRETYAKOV,
Colonel, Federal Security Service
Hathaway cursed under his breath, then called his secretary.
“Find Jeff for me.”
When Jeff Soloway came in, the FBI chief silently handed him the message.
“Jesus, this is crappy!” exclaimed the agent. “Think we can make them change their minds?”
“No. If that were the case, Tretyakov would’ve phoned, not sent an email.”
“But why?”
Hathaway shrugged.
“We’ll find out someday. Or maybe not. That’s the way it is with Russians.”
“So what do we do?”
“We shut everything down. Send Amritzar home. Back in the United States, we can try to set him up with a Stinger or an old blue-pipe missile. Maybe a French Mistral; we have a few of them. So tell your Pakistani boy he has to go home.”
“I better get the two hundred thousand dollars back, too,” said Soloway. “That’s bureau money.”
“I know. You signed for it.”
—
Soloway called Amritzar’s cell phone for the tenth time, but it went straight to voice mail. He finally elected to leave a message, asking him to call back urgently.
He had barely hung up when a beep announced an incoming text. When he read it, he practically had a heart attack. The message from Amritzar’s cell phone had been sent three hours earlier and been delayed, for some reason. It was very brief:
Thanks. I’m going to the meeting with your friend. I hope you will be there.
The FBI agent thought his head would explode. The delayed message suggested that Amritzar had been contacted by somebody using Soloway’s name, and had gone to take delivery of the missile.
He sprinted to Hathaway’s office.
“I have to see the boss,” he told the secretary. “It’s an emergency.”
Two minutes later he was with Hathaway. It didn’t take the FBI chief long to figure out what had happened.
“My God! The Russkis have fucked us! We have to find Amritzar, at any cost.”
“He’s not answering his cell phone.”
“Go stake out his hotel and don’t budge. He’s either there, or he’ll come back.”
—
Soloway was working on his fifth espresso. He was sprawled on a bench in the Belgrade lobby, his eyes locked on the front door.
When he first arrived, he had phoned the Amritzars’ room. Benazir answered and t
old him that her husband hadn’t come in yet.
Soloway dialed the cell phone number again, with no better result. He felt helpless.
He could feel himself shrinking by the moment. The way it looked, the Russians had pulled a dirty trick on them, God knows why.
And now Amritzar was somewhere out there with a sophisticated surface-to-air missile, planning to shoot down the U.S. president’s plane, which was due in a week.
It was enough to make you tear your hair out.
If they didn’t get their hands on him, it would be a disaster.
CHAPTER
15
Malko looked at his watch. It was exactly seven o’clock, and Julia Naryshkin was due any minute. He planned to take her to Café Pushkin. What happened after that would depend on her.
The day had passed slowly, with Malko wondering if the FBI had wrapped up its operation. He hadn’t heard any news.
His cell rang, and when Malko saw who was calling, his pulse speeded up. She must be calling to cancel, he thought.
“Hi, it’s Julia,” said the young woman smoothly. “I have a little problem.”
“What’s that?” asked Malko, who was sure he knew what she was going to say.
“My car broke down and I can’t find a taxi. Would you mind coming out to my place?”
Malko practically kissed the phone.
“With pleasure,” he said. “Just give me the address. But it’s going to take me a good half hour to get there.”
“No problem,” she said lightly. “It’ll give me time to fix us something to eat. As you know, I’m in Peredelkino, about five miles beyond the MKAD. I live in a big izba, in Apartment Six. Ring the bell and I’ll let you in. If you get lost, call me.”
Malko was already in the elevator.
—
Night had long since fallen, and Jeff Soloway had a crick in his neck from scanning the Hotel Belgrade entrance. Benazir Amritzar was still up in Room 807, and her husband still hadn’t returned.
The FBI agent stepped out to Smolenskaya Street and phoned his boss. Bruce Hathaway answered immediately.
“Is he back yet?”
“No.”
A heavy silence followed, then Hathaway said:
Surface to Air Page 11
