“What do you make of all this, Tom?” asked Malko.
“The only possibility I see is that the phone was no longer in Amritzar’s possession when it was used.”
“Which means he’s dead. His killer would’ve taken his cell and used it to call this Alexei Somov person. That suggests a connection between the GRU and the terrorists who stole the missiles. Seems hard to believe.”
“You know as much as I do,” said Polgar, sighing. “But remember the shadowy connections between the Russian intelligence services and the Caucasus. The FSB was suspected of manipulating the Chechens who blew up those two Moscow buildings in 1999.”
Malko shook his head, as if to clear it.
“I still think the best thing to do is for us to communicate everything we know to the FSB, and let them sort it out. We certainly don’t have the means to investigate the GRU.”
“That’s true,” said Polgar, “but this telephone number is dynamite. Let’s see if we can use it to our advantage. Remember, our agenda isn’t the same as the Russians’. Our main goal is to locate those missiles. And here we have a lead, even if we don’t yet know how to follow it.”
“What do you know about Somov?”
“Not much. He was a colonel in the GRU under General Anatoly Razgonov, who commanded the North Caucasus sector. They were based in Grozny and Makhachkala. Since then, Razgonov has risen to the number three slot in the GRU.”
“Is it conceivable that an officer of his rank would have dealings with terrorists?”
Polgar shrugged.
“Normally no, but this is Russia….”
“I can only think of two people who might be able to help us,” said Malko. “Gocha Sukhumi and Julia Naryshkin. But I’ll have to handle them with kid gloves.”
“Go ahead,” said the CIA station chief. “I won’t say anything to anyone for the time being.”
—
Somov looked at his plane ticket for Makhachkala. He was flying on Dagestan Airlines, a domestic airline and the only one that still flew between Moscow and the Dagestani capital. He would be leaving in four days.
He was gripped by a dull anxiety. From the press, he’d gotten a general idea of what had happened to Arzo Khadjiev, who must have been the burned corpse found in a vacant lot near the Kursky train station.
Somov wondered what had gone wrong.
Khadjiev was a veteran killer, and shouldn’t have had any trouble dispatching an unarmed CIA agent. But the media also mentioned a grenade being involved. CIA agents don’t normally walk around with grenades in their pockets. That was more a Caucasian thing.
Though he still couldn’t understand what had happened, Somov suddenly realized that with Malko Linge alive, Marina Pirogoska had become a security risk for him.
The CIA agent was sure to learn her role in all this. She didn’t know anything about Somov’s plans, but if she mentioned his name to Linge, it would be disastrous.
The Americans couldn’t launch an investigation in Russia, but they might well pass their information to the FSB, especially if they feared an attack on the U.S. president, or wanted revenge.
And for Somov, that would be the end.
There was only one thing to do, and it pained him: kill Marina. The Moscow FSB knew Somov was her kricha, but they wouldn’t necessarily make the connection.
It was a step he would take before leaving for Dagestan.
—
When Malko walked in, Sukhumi was busy writing. He was surrounded by stacks of papers and had a bottle of Armenian cognac near at hand.
“I’ve got big news!” he cried exultantly. “Julia has agreed to marry me!”
Gocha really is a softie at heart, thought Malko.
Seeing his look of astonishment, Sukhumi explained.
“It’s true that I like fucking whores, but I need a wife, and Julia’s terrific. Besides, she wants to continue living in Peredelkino, which is fine by me. So we’ll have a big wedding and go on living separately.”
“A very good formula,” said Malko approvingly, while thinking that Julia Naryshkin had a real head on her shoulders.
“What did you want to see me about?” asked Sukhumi.
“Do you know a GRU general named Razgonov?”
Sukhumi put down his Montblanc pen and thought for a moment.
“Razgonov, eh? Yeah, I think so….Wasn’t he in the Caucasus? I never met him. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” said Malko. “What about Alexei Somov, who also used to be with the GRU?”
Sukhumi’s face brightened.
“Oh sure, I know Somov. He sold me some weapons for the Armenians that Russia didn’t want to release officially. Somov arranges stuff for buyers who can’t procure them through regular channels. I know he doesn’t make a move without a green light from the GRU. But that’s business. The generals always need money, and nobody’s gonna stick their nose in their affairs.”
“Do you know anything more about Somov?”
“He’s big guy, nice, speaks a couple of languages. During the Cold War he was stationed in a couple of GRU rezidenturas, in Africa, I think. Loves women.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
Sukhumi’s face darkened.
“Yeah, and I’m not going to give it to you.”
The Georgian ostentatiously returned to his paperwork, and Malko understood that he wouldn’t get anything more from him.
“Thanks, Gocha.”
“Watch your step, Malko. The guys you’re asking me about are dangerous. In Chechnya, they used to shoot half a dozen people before breakfast.”
Sukhumi paused, and his somber mood passed.
“If you feel like it, come join us at the Turandot this evening. We’ll celebrate my engagement—and we won’t talk business.”
Without waiting to be back at the Kempinski, Malko phoned Julia. It was without much hope, given the way they had parted two days earlier.
She waited until the final ring before picking up.
“Hello, who is it?”
As if she didn’t recognize Malko’s number.
He forged ahead.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“Oh, really?” Her tone was icy.
“And I’d like to apologize in person. Can I come see you?”
“No, you can’t,” she said crisply. “But I’m coming into Moscow for my broadcast, and I can spare a little time before that.”
“At the Kempinski?”
“If you like. Four o’clock.”
—
Rem Tolkachev carefully read the report an FSB messenger had brought him.
The FSB had come up with the idea of comparing ballistics data from all the recent murders in the Moscow region. The result was enlightening. The gun found in the burned Lada near the Kursky station had been used to kill both the Igla-S drivers and Anatoly Molov, the KBM inventory manager.
An untraceable Makarov semiautomatic, probably from the Caucasus.
Through the Lada’s serial number, the FSB had identified its owner: a Dagestani named Karon Bamatov who had reported the car wrecked in an accident. Finally, the FSB had turned up one intriguing piece of evidence. In the wreckage of the car they’d found fragments of a Diakinov 33 grenade.
Identifying the incinerated body was practically impossible, however.
That was as far as the trail went, but everything pointed to the Caucasus.
Tolkachev turned to the next document, a report from the Moscow FSB. An informer at the Kempinski claimed to have seen a purple Lada pick up one of the hotel guests, a blond foreigner. Shown a photograph, he had recognized Malko Linge, the CIA agent.
Which suggested that an hour before he died, this mysterious Caucasian had picked Linge up at the Kempinski. What had happened then?
Tolkachev had never heard of a CIA agent walking around with a grenade in his pocket. But Linge was the only person who could clear up the mystery of the man in the burned car.
—
&
nbsp; Julia was waiting downstairs in the Kempinski when Malko came back from Sukhumi’s. Lacking a magnetic key card for the elevator, she hadn’t been able to go up to his suite, and they talked in the lobby.
“I hear you’re getting married,” Malko began.
She looked at him in surprise.
“Gocha has been talking, I see. Yes, he proposed. I like him, and he respects women. I need a man in my life.”
Catching Malko’s ironic expression, she immediately added:
“It’s for protection, not for sex. It just makes life easier.”
She paused.
“I don’t have much time. What did you want to tell me?”
“I behaved badly toward you two days ago.”
She shrugged.
“Men often behave badly toward women.”
She was seated on the edge of her chair, knees together, her coat still buttoned. She was so unapproachable, you could feel it from halfway across the room.
“I was hoping you’d have dinner with me, to give me a chance to explain what happened. Somebody tried to kill me.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “You live a dangerous life.”
Despite her tone, Julia had slightly warmed, and Malko pressed ahead.
“Do you know someone called Anatoly Razgonov?”
“The guy with the GRU?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. I used to see him at official dinners in Dagestan with Magomed.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Alexei Somov?”
“Ah, him I know better. He was one of Razgonov’s deputies and dealt with the Salafist groups. A force of nature. Over six feet tall, very handsome, loved women. He chased me like crazy. It got so bad that Magomed had a cousin warn him that if he continued, he would kill him.”
“Can you threaten a GRU officer that way?”
“Not in Moscow, but in Makhachkala, yes. In the Caucasus a woman’s honor is sacred, so Somov behaved himself. Besides, he’s not a real Russian. He changed his name. He’s actually a Tatar, and he understands Caucasian customs.
“He also managed to keep the Salafist groups in line, even Wahla Arsaiev’s people.”
“But wasn’t he fighting them?”
“Yeah, but he spoke their language. The Federation didn’t care what they did so long as they stayed down by the Caspian and didn’t make trouble in Moscow. So Somov went to Arsaiev and warned him that if his followers launched a single attack in Moscow, he would kidnap his family, his old father, his son, all of his cousins, and kill them.”
“Officially?”
“No, of course not. But he had some Spetsnaz in his group who would’ve happily cut a chernozopie to ribbons for a bottle of vodka and his commander’s respect. And Somov was backed by his own superiors. The goal was simple: no problems in Moscow and no independence in Dagestan.”
“But there were attacks in Moscow and at Domodedovo Airport,” Malko objected. “Suicide bombers from Dagestan.”
Julia smiled.
“That’s true,” she said. “But that wasn’t politics, just business. President Astanov was behind them. He was manipulating a little group of fanatical Wahhabists, people Comrade Lenin would’ve called ‘useful idiots.’ ”
“What for?”
“He wanted a raise in pay. As you know, the Federation sends two billion dollars to Dagestan every year, a country of just two million people. Astanov spreads the money around. Putin doesn’t want attacks, and he doesn’t want separatism.
“Astanov figured that out. He tolerates the local Salafists so long as they apply sharia law only to Dagestan and don’t commit any attacks up north. But from time to time he sends fake terrorists to blow themselves up in the Moscow metro. It’s a way of reminding the Kremlin that he needs money to handle his Salafists at home.”
Amusing, thought Malko. The Caucasus really wasn’t like anyplace else.
“And did Somov know all those people?”
“Of course. He handled them Caucasian style, with targeted killings, kidnappings, and blackmail. Only he was acting on the Kremlin’s account, so he was a ‘legal criminal,’ as we say.”
Malko was perplexed. That certainly wasn’t the military training taught at West Point. And something told him that the former GRU colonel was involved in the Igla-S affair.
“Do you have Somov’s phone number?” he asked.
“I think he once gave it to me. Why?”
“Could you get in touch with him?”
Julia gave him a look both shocked and intrigued.
“Whatever for?”
“I’m investigating a very complicated business,” Malko explained, “and he plays some part in it.”
“If I call him, he’ll have me in bed within two hours,” said Julia. “That’s how things happen here.”
“We aren’t quite at that point yet.”
Malko hadn’t noticed the two men approaching until they were right in front of him. Even a blind man would’ve spotted them for siloviki.
The first one leaned toward Malko and flashed a card with a tricolor stripe.
“I am Lieutenant Pavel Lushkin of the Moscow FSB,” he said in English. “We’d like you to come with us, please.”
CHAPTER
22
The old Ural truck ate up the miles as Karon and Terek sped along the M6 heading for the Caucasus. The road wasn’t bad and they didn’t run into too many snags. They were stopped once by a DPS highway patrol, but avoided a search of the truck by handing over a flat-screen TV.
They had elected to take the easternmost route to Makhachkala, through Volgograd. That way, they avoided driving across Chechnya, whose borders were guarded by Ramzan Kadyrov’s thugs. The two Dagestanis had no kricha there, and you never knew what might happen.
As soon as they crossed into Dagestan they would phone “Pavel” in Moscow to coordinate the exchange of the missiles for the eight million dollars. At that point, their job would be nearly done.
The farther south they got, the warmer the weather. Soon they would be enjoying the balmy breezes off the Caspian Sea.
They were in the Caucasus now, and they began to relax.
—
The black Audi with the police light on its roof honked briefly, and the gate to 26 Bolshaya Lubyanka silently slid open. The car stopped in the courtyard, and the officer next to Malko got out and politely held the door for him.
“This way, please.”
Times had changed since the days of KGB arrests, whose victims stumbled along in the “chicken” position, their arms wrenched up behind their backs.
Flanked by the two FSB officers, Malko was escorted across the lobby, past a guard at rigid attention, and taken up to an anonymous office on the second floor with fluorescent lights.
His escorts waved him to a chair and left. Since picking him up at the Kempinski for what they said was a routine check, the two hadn’t spoken to him. Nor had they paid any attention to Julia Naryshkin, acting as if she didn’t exist.
Malko hadn’t been searched and was wondering whether he should call Tom Polgar. But before he could decide, the door opened on a tall man with cropped blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in civilian clothes and was carrying a file.
The man sat down at his desk and asked:
“Vui gavarite po russky?”
Malko answered, “Da.”
No point in being difficult. The officer doing the questioning knew exactly who Malko was; he was just playing his part.
“I’m Captain Fedrovsky of the Moscow FSB criminal division,” he said. “I’m investigating a murder that happened a few days ago. We think you may be able to help us understand what happened. I will witness your testimony, and if you like, you can alert your consulate, Gospodin…Linge.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Malko. “But why not just send me a summons?”
“We’re in a hurry,” said the captain with an apologetic smile.
> “What is this about?”
The officer studied his file for a moment, then looked up and said:
“According to witnesses, three days ago you received a telephone call at your suite at the Kempinski from an unidentified man, saying that the car sent by Marina Pirogoska was waiting for you. Is that correct?”
Malko’s pulse picked up. He would now have to tread very lightly. The Russians had apparently connected him to the man he’d killed with the grenade.
“That’s right.”
“Did you know this man?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“The night before, I’d had a drink at Hot Dog’s, a bar on the Garden Ring, where I met a woman named Marina. We chatted for a while, and she told me she hired out gypsy cabs.”
That was an open secret, and revealing it wouldn’t get anyone in trouble. In Moscow, illegal cabs were practically the only kind to be found.
The officer made a note, and Malko continued.
“She had one of her drivers take me back to my hotel for four hundred rubles, and suggested that I use one of her cars the next day. It would only cost me fifteen hundred rubles for the whole day. So when a driver came to pick me up, I wasn’t surprised. From his accent, I guessed he was Caucasian.”
“What happened next?”
“We started driving toward the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge. Traffic was very bad. He wasn’t the same man as the night before, so I asked him if he worked for Marina, and he said no. That made me suspicious that I was being set up for something, so I had him let me off in Mokavaya Street. I gave him three hundred rubles and walked to Tverskaya. After spending some time with a friend, I took a different taxi back to the Kempinski.”
The policeman was writing furiously. He looked up and said:
“At about that time the politsiya at the Kursky station were alerted to a car on fire nearby,” he said. “A purple Lada 1500 in a vacant lot. They found a man’s body and an automatic pistol with a silencer in it.”
“How did he die?” asked Malko, keeping his voice level.
“We aren’t sure, but there are signs that a grenade exploded in the car. He was probably killed by the blast.”
Surface to Air Page 16
