“Can I see you now?” asked Malko.
“Sure, come on over. I’m at home.”
While waiting for a taxi, Malko phoned Julia.
“You’re coming into Moscow this evening.”
“How do you know that?”
“From Gocha. Can I see you beforehand?”
“You’re insatiable!” the young woman said with a throaty laugh. “But I don’t like to get my wires crossed. Can’t you wait until tomorrow?”
She’s got a hell of a nerve, thought Malko, since she was planning to spend the night with Gocha! Aloud he said:
“I want to see you for another reason. It’ll amuse you.”
“All right,” she said after a brief hesitation. “Let’s meet at the Kalina bar at six. Nobody knows me there.”
Thirty seconds later, Malko was on his way to the House on the Embankment.
—
Arzo Khadjiev had just finished rolling each of the eight missiles in carpets, and you’d have to look closely to spot the trick. He walked over to Amritzar’s corpse, which was wrapped in plastic sheeting, and sniffed. Luckily, it didn’t smell.
Not yet, anyway.
Now all Khadjiev had to do was to wait for the green light to load the missiles in a truck and head for Makhachkala. The trip would earn him $20,000, enough to buy another wife.
A devout Muslim and a follower of Wahla Arsaiev, Khadjiev prayed five times a day and considered killing infidels to be a sacred duty. He also believed that while awaiting the houris promised to martyrs in paradise, a good Muslim should have several wives.
Khadjiev nursed a deep hatred for Russians, and with good reason. A Spetsnaz had once mangled his ten-year-old brother’s legs with a burst of AK-47 fire. He’d been trying to force their mother to reveal the hiding place of big brother Arzo, who had joined the boiviki. When fighting in Chechnya, Khadjiev relished decapitating Russian prisoners. Today he dreamed of the day when one of the Igla-S missiles would bring down a Russian plane or helicopter.
—
Malko found Sukhumi in his little office, busy taking bundles of five-thousand-ruble notes from a cardboard box. He counted them, then handed them to his maid Nadia, who stacked them in a safe big enough to hide a corpse.
“Hi, there!” said Sukhumi. “I’m almost done.”
Malko refrained from asking him if he’d just won the lottery. Between two bundles, Nadia gave Malko a suggestive look. She enjoyed taking care of Sukhumi’s friends.
With the last bundle safely stowed, they moved into the living room, where Gocha flopped down on a stained velvet sofa.
“I wanted to see you for something besides dinner,” he said. “My FSB buddy gave me a tip. Some guys attacked the van carrying the Igla-S from the KBM factory to Moscow. They wasted the driver and his escort.”
“Do they know who it was?” asked Malko.
“Nope. They suspect it was Caucasians, of course. But not Chechens, because Putin’s little pal Kadyrov has wiped out all the boiviki.”
“So where could they be from?”
Sukhumi made a vague gesture.
“Ingushetia, maybe, or Dagestan. That’s where the Wahhabists are. The guys behind the recent attacks in Moscow were all Dagestanis.”
So Tom’s theory is right, thought Malko. The FBI’s fake terrorist had found some real ones. Not very reassuring.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No, except that everybody in the FSB is at battle stations.” Sukhumi paused. “Okay, that’s it. I’ll see you at dinner, later.”
The FBI had stuck its nose in a hornets’ nest. If Malko couldn’t find anything out, President Barack Obama would have to cancel his trip—at the cost of a diplomatic crisis.
CHAPTER
17
When Malko entered the Kalina, Julia Naryshkin was already ensconced in a booth partly hidden by the bar. Except for a lone hooker chewing gum in a corner, the café was empty.
He put his hand on her thigh, but she gently pushed it away.
“Sorry, but I don’t allow public displays of affection,” she said with a smile. “When we’re alone, you can do whatever you like. If you’re still interested, that is.”
She looked him over.
“So what did you want to ask me?”
After ordering a vodka to go with Julia’s tea, Malko began cautiously.
“Has Gocha told you what I do for a living?”
“Of course. Otherwise, why would I spread my legs for you? I choose what I put in my body.”
Malko let that go without comment, and continued.
“Do you know Dagestan well?”
“Well, sure. I almost converted to Islam there. And the president tried to kill Magomed to get me into bed.”
“Which is what he did,” said Malko. “Your friend was…”
“The Dagestanis are brutal,” Julia said with an easy smile. “When the attack failed, Magomed passed the word that if the president kidnapped me, he would kill every member of his family, near and far, including their pets and animals. And that wasn’t just talk.
“What else would you like to know?”
“A terrorist group has stolen a surface-to-air missile near Moscow and is preparing an attack. They’re probably Dagestani. Do you have any idea how to find them?”
Julia burst out laughing.
“If I knew that, I would be the head of the FSB, and Putin would have awarded me the Order of the Red Star! Anyway, that kind of attack isn’t your problem; it’s the FSB’s.”
“The situation’s a little more complicated than I’ve described, Julia. Can you point me to someone who knows the Dagestanis in Moscow?”
“There’s an important imam who heads a little mosque on Tatarskaya Street. A lot of Dagestanis go to see him. But I think he’s an FSB informer.”
Malko smiled patiently.
“Those aren’t the kind of people I’m interested in, as you know perfectly well.”
Julia sipped her tea, then set her cup down and said:
“I know a woman who knows a lot of Dagestanis, Marina Pirogoska. She’s a bliat”—a prostitute.
“Is she Dagestani?”
“No, she’s Russian. She hangs out at Hot Dog’s, a pickup bar on the Zemlyanoy Val section of the Garden Ring.”
“How do you know her?”
“I met her with Magomed. He came to Moscow with a young cousin who was looking for work here. Some Dagestanis said Marina might help him.”
“Why?”
“She’s not just a hooker. She owns a couple of cars, mainly old Lada 1500s, and she rents them out to Dagestanis by the day as gypsy cabs. We spent some time with her at the bar that evening, and left Magomed’s cousin with her.”
“Do you think she’s connected with terrorists?”
Julia couldn’t help but smile.
“In Dagestan everybody is somebody’s cousin, more or less, or their brother-in-law, or a member of the same clan or extended family. Among all those people, of course there are terrorists.
“Except that in Dagestan it’s not quite the same thing. Everyone commits extortion, kidnapping, and murder. Makhachkala must be the only capital in the world where children go to school in armored Mercedes.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Okay, it’s time for me to meet Gocha. When I’m late, he gets as jealous as a tiger.” She paused. “If you approach Marina, be very careful. I’m sure she’s only alive because she has a powerful kricha. Otherwise one of her drivers would’ve slit her throat instead of returning her Lada.”
They left the restaurant together, and Malko accompanied Julia to her Austin Cooper, which was parked on a side street.
On Novy Arbat, a taxi stopped the moment he raised his arm.
“The American embassy,” he told the driver. “I’ll give you three hundred rubles.”
Tom Polgar was going to be pleased.
—
Anna Polikovska was looking exceptionally sexy this evening, with a red blo
use tight across her large breasts and a short, dark skirt over black stockings.
Alexei Somov was late, as usual, and Anna had already drunk two vodkas.
Several men had been circling around, assuming she was a prostitute. The Metropol bar was alive with sexy companionship, available by the hour.
Finally, Somov’s tall figure emerged from the gloom. Seeing Anna’s outfit, he licked his lips. He plopped down in a nearby chair and put his hand on her black-stockinged thigh, but she wriggled away, laughing.
“Wait! I’ve got something funny to tell you.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Tretyakov got a royal chewing-out by his boss Alexander Bortnikov today! The colonel is the one who ordered the Igla-S shipped from Kolomna, so he’s in hot water. He’s sending some FSB investigators down there tomorrow, to try to find out what happened.”
Somov froze in his seat. Anatoly Molov, the man who agreed to release eight missiles while listing only one on the books, was a longtime friend, and had served him loyally in Chechnya. A man who wouldn’t talk.
Except that he knew the FSB’s methods. After they’d ripped Molov’s fingernails out and drilled his teeth, he might be less loyal—and more talkative.
When the FSB was motivated, it could be pretty ferocious.
Molov now represented a clear and present danger.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Anna.
Somov had taken his hand off her thigh and was staring into space.
“Nothing,” he said. “But I can’t stay.”
“You’re kidding!”
He managed a smile.
“It’s just a rain delay, zaika maya.”
Somov’s mind was racing. The FSB action meant he had to take some precautions.
First, get the missiles out of Moscow right away and wrap up the operation. Then eliminate anything that would link him to the affair. Fortunately, there was no written evidence of his involvement. And except for Anna, nothing else connected him to it.
He leaned over and kissed her lightly, fondling her breast.
“We’ll party tomorrow,” he promised. “Tonight, I have some problems I have to deal with.”
—
Under a fine rain, Malko’s taxi cruised slowly along the Garden Ring’s inner sidewalk. The driver didn’t know where Hot Dog’s was, and they had practically circled the whole city.
Suddenly a cement building hung with strings of lights came into view. A couple of taxis were parked at the curb, and a ramp led up to a black door.
“That must be it,” said the driver.
They were in the Taganka district, near the Moskva River.
Malko walked up the ramp to the entrance and opened the door, to find a box office on his right displaying the entrance fee: three hundred rubles.
Deafening music spilled from a shadowy interior. He paid, and ran into a pair of bouncers. They had suspicious eyes and were built like gorillas. They ran a handheld explosives detector over his body before letting him in.
Malko thanked his lucky stars he’d left the Glock behind at the Kempinski.
The club had a low ceiling, and was empty aside from a few customers along a big L-shaped bar. Two men were glued to a soccer game on the television while a trio of women sipped sodas sadly. Malko slipped in among them and ordered a beer. It wasn’t smart to drink the vodka in a place like this; it could make you blind.
The girls were giving him sidelong looks, and after a moment one of them came closer.
“Vui gavarite po russky?” she asked.
“Da, gavaryu,” Malko said with a smile.
He bought the woman a beer, and they started the kind of conversation you have in bars.
She wasn’t bad-looking. A well-dressed brunette, nice face, big mouth.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Marina. What’s yours?”
“Malko,” he said, his pulse speeding up. Luck really is on my side tonight, he thought. The woman quickly sensed his interest.
“Want to go back to your place?” she asked quietly. “It’s only sixteen hundred rubles.”
She made her proposition very naturally.
“I can’t tonight,” he said. “But maybe tomorrow.”
Marina didn’t argue. But when he finished his beer and got down from his stool, she asked:
“Need a taxi?”
Malko pretended to be surprised.
“Do you drive a cab?”
She burst out laughing.
“No, but I own a couple of cars and rent them to Caucasians as gypsy cabs. They charge less than a regular taxi.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” asked Malko. “Caucasians have a bad reputation.”
“Mine are very sweet,” she said. “Want to see the car? It’s right outside.”
Malko followed her out. By the light of an electric utility lamp, a young, dark-skinned man was fiddling under the hood of an old maroon Lada parked below the ramp.
Marina called to him.
“Javatkhan!”
When the man raised his head, he looked wild: unshaven, deep-set eyes, sharp features.
“You’re going to drive this gentleman to his hotel,” she ordered.
“All right.” He got behind the wheel.
Marina came close to Malko.
“I’ll be here tomorrow, around the same time,” she said. Then she added, “Don’t give him more than four hundred rubles.”
The Lada’s seat sagged and its shocks were shot, but Malko didn’t regret coming to Hot Dog’s. At last he had a lead to follow.
—
Alexei Somov checked the time on his solid gold Rolex, which he’d traded for a crate of ammunition back in the Caucasus. The man who gave it to him got it off an international official kidnapped by the boiviki. His family had refused to pay a ransom, so they eventually cut his throat.
“I’ll be here at five tomorrow morning, Arzo,” he said. “I’ll leave my car in the courtyard.”
“Okay.”
Somov got back behind the wheel of his Mercedes. Having taken these first necessary steps, he breathed easier.
His urge for sex came rushing back, too. I bet Marina’s at Hot Dog’s now, he thought. She was mainly a whore, but she was a smart one, and she fucked so well you forgot about that. If she wasn’t there, he would settle for having one of her girlfriends suck him off.
Somov had gotten to know Marina by accident, after spending a night with her. Then, when he learned about her car business, he started using her Dagestanis for occasional errands. In exchange, he gave her protection. She needed it, because some of her guys were real animals.
A half hour later, he pulled up in front of Hot Dog’s. The two bouncers stepped back respectfully. Somov could strangle one in each hand, and they knew it. In Russia, people admired physical strength.
By a miracle, Marina was at the bar, chatting with an expat. Somov sat down on the stool behind her and wrapped his big hand around her butt. She whipped around, furious, but immediately relaxed when she recognized him.
“Alexei Ivanovich!”
Seeing this Russian bear, the expat beat a cautious retreat.
Somov whispered into Marina’s ear.
“I feel like fucking your brains out, dushenka.”
“Anytime you like,” she purred. “I can almost feel you inside me.”
She slid off the bar stool, and they left. The bartender wisely didn’t complain that she hadn’t paid for her drink.
They were barely in the Mercedes before Marina snuggled up to Somov and started to unzip his pants.
“I want you to be as stiff as a Kalashnikov barrel when we get there.”
She promptly bent to her task, and Somov soon found he was having trouble driving.
“Cut that out! If the highway patrol stops us, they’ll give us a hard time.”
Marina straightened up, but kept her little hand wrapped around her lover’s cock.
“By the way, I have a new taxi customer,”
she said. “A foreigner.”
“Oh, really?” said Somov indifferently.
“He needs to get around Moscow. He speaks Russian. Javatkhan dropped him off at the Kempinski. Good-looking, too; tall, blond, elegant.”
“Son of a bitch!” Somov muttered under his breath, so quietly she barely heard him.
Somov didn’t believe in coincidences. This could only be the CIA agent that the FSB had noticed. How had he managed to find Marina? In any case, Somov had to cut the connection right away. It was a mortal danger. He heaved a sigh. No doubt about it: even the best laid plans hid unpleasant surprises.
He remembered the proverb that Stalin liked to quote:
“No man, no problem.”
He had to put it in action as soon as possible.
CHAPTER
18
The streets of Kolomna weren’t yet very busy when Arzo Khadjiev swung onto Leninsky Avenue.
“Turn right,” said Alexei Somov a few moments later.
They took a small road lined by fifteen-story apartment blocks. On the outskirts of town, they drove over train tracks on a level crossing. A hundred yards farther, Somov had Khadjiev stop the car in front of a decrepit, yellowish three-story building. Somov turned and said:
“Give me your thing.”
The Dagestani pulled the Makarov with the long silencer from his belt and handed it to him.
“Turn the car around, and be ready to leave,” ordered Somov. “This won’t take long.”
He strode toward the building. It was seven thirty in the morning. Anatoly Molov started work at KBM at eight, so he should be up and dressed. Somov punched an access code into the building’s keypad.
Molov lived on the second floor. There was no elevator, so Somov took the stairs.
He pressed the doorbell and heard steps from inside the apartment.
“Who’s there?” came a man’s voice.
“It’s me, Alexei Ivanovich.”
The door opened immediately. As expected, the KBM manager was dressed and ready to leave for work. He looked at Somov in surprise.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why didn’t you call? I could have already left.”
“I need to talk with you.”
Molov stepped aside and said, “Come on in.”
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