Surface to Air

by Gérard de Villiers

  “Pretty unusual weapon, isn’t it?” asked Malko with a smile.

  “Grenades are often used in the Caucasus,” said the captain with a touch of contempt.

  The way he was talking, he apparently didn’t suspect Malko of the murder, which was a relief. Malko decided to go on the offensive.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you,” he said. “I have no idea what this man did after he dropped me off.”

  The officer nodded and asked:

  “Could you identify him?”

  “I thought you said his body was burned.”

  “That’s true, but I’d like to show you some photographs of Caucasian criminals. He might be one of them.”

  “If you like.”

  The captain pressed a buzzer and an orderly brought in a big photo album a few moments later. The FSB officer gave Malko his chair so he could sit at the desk to look through the pictures. The album was a gallery of grim-looking men with Caucasian features. Some of the photos were labeled Dead or Apprehended.

  Malko was halfway through the album when he paused at two pictures of a man, front and side views. He was nearly positive it was the killer he’d thrown the grenade at.

  “Is that him?” asked the FSB officer, standing right behind him. He had noticed Malko’s slight hesitation before going to turn the page.

  Malko didn’t have much time to think.

  “It could be him, but all those Caucasians look alike.”

  He read the caption under the picture: Arzo Khadjiev. Born in Makhachkala, Dagestan, on 5 January 1985. Wanted for a variety of illegal activities.

  The captain seemed pleased.

  “You’ve been very helpful, sir,” he said. “I’ll just ask you to sign a statement. It will be ready in ten minutes.”

  He left the office with the album under his arm.

  It didn’t take ten minutes, but an hour, and Malko was starting to feel anxious. When you enter the FSB’s offices, you never know when you’ll be coming out.

  At last, Captain Fedrovsky returned with a stack of papers. Malko initialed each page, after which the FSB officer warmly shook his hand.

  “We’ll drive you back your hotel,” he said.

  The same black Audi was waiting in the courtyard. This time Malko was alone in the backseat.

  When he got out at the Kempinski, the doorman looked at him with particular respect.

  Julia was long gone, of course. Malko was about to call her when he remembered that she would be at the broadcast studio. He decided to accept Gocha Sukhumi’s invitation for that evening.

  —

  The three black Audis with tinted windows were double-parked in front of 57 Lesnaya Street, a two-story reddish brick building with sash windows and an entry leading to an inner courtyard. The Fishka Bar stood to the left, at number 55. To the right was a dusty-looking wholesale Caucasian fruit store.

  The police officers fanned out to check the bar, the stairways leading to the courtyard, and the fruit store, which was closed. According to FSB records, Arzo Khadjiev lived at that address, though the information might be out of date.

  The cops gathered in the courtyard afterward. No one in the building seemed to know Khadjiev, but an old babushka coming back from her shopping overheard their questions.

  “You often see those dirty chernozopie in the fruit store,” she said with a scowl of disgust. “Not long ago, they were loading their truck from stuff in the basement, over there.”

  By then, cops were clattering down the stairs to the store’s basement. Its metal door was locked, so an officer took his pistol and shot the lock off. Weapons drawn, they went inside and switched on a bare bulb.

  The first man smelled something strange and stopped. Then he looked down.

  “Bozhe moy!” he exclaimed.

  It was a man’s body, wrapped in plastic.

  —

  Bruce Hathaway practically sprinted for the elevator at FSB headquarters, an escort on his heels. A quarter of an hour earlier, Colonel Tretyakov’s secretary had called to ask him to come over to Bolshaya Lubyanka as soon as possible.

  It was already 7:15 p.m.

  This was surprising, given that FSB agents weren’t in the habit of working late. Also, Hathaway hadn’t heard from them in days.

  The good-looking secretary led him into her boss’s office, and Tretyakov appeared a few moments later, carrying a sheaf of photos that he spread on his desk.

  “Do you recognize this person, Gospodin Hathaway?”

  The FBI Moscow chief could barely hide his surprise. The pictures showed the pale, bloated face of a man with an exit wound above his right eye. His eyes were closed, but Hathaway had no trouble recognizing him.

  “I think that’s Parviz Amritzar,” he said shakily.

  “You think, or you’re sure?” asked the Russian colonel tartly.

  “It’s Amritzar, all right. What happened to him?”

  “He was shot with a bullet to the neck. His body was found in the basement of a store belonging to Caucasians involved in various criminal activities. Terrorists.”

  Hathaway turned pale. He had been screwed up and down the line, he realized. Parviz Amritzar, the innocent dupe they had hoped to frame, was actually a terrorist. The FBI had helped him obtain a lethal weapon. And when Amritzar’s friends didn’t need him anymore, they killed him.

  His head in a whirl, Hathaway looked up to find the FSB colonel glaring at him.

  “Gospodin Bruce Hathaway, I am arresting you for conspiracy to commit terrorism in relation to an attack in the Russian Federation,” snapped Tretyakov. “Without you, those terrorists would never have gotten Igla-S missiles. Those are devastating weapons, as you know.”

  The FBI chief seemed turned into a pillar of salt. Two stern-looking uniformed officers entered the office and went to stand on either side of him.

  “It’s too late to begin questioning you,” continued the colonel, “so you will be held overnight until tomorrow. Would you like me to notify your consulate?”

  Dazed, Hathaway allowed himself to be led to a special elevator and taken down to the second subbasement. A long brick hallway, steel doors with numbers. His guards stopped at number 3, a square cell with a wooden partition, a washbasin, and a chemical toilet.

  As the door slammed shut, Hathaway remembered that even when they were caught red-handed, CIA operatives were never treated this way. They had diplomatic immunity. But he was FBI.

  —

  Alexei Somov parked the Toyota a dozen yards from the entrance to Marina Pirogoska’s building. Night had fallen, and the road was deserted. Somov’s wife was away in Sochi and he was driving her car, which was less noticeable than his black Audi.

  He walked over and punched the access code into the keypad.

  The building had small, ill-lit apartments and no elevator, but it represented a big step up for Marina. In the old days she lived very far away, almost at the MKAD road. Her place was on the first floor.

  Somov paused in the hallway and listened carefully. The sound of a newscast came from inside Marina’s apartment. The one next to hers was silent.

  Normally, her driver would pick her up in an hour to take her to Hot Dog’s.

  Somov slipped on a pair of fine black gloves and rang the doorbell, producing a shrill rattle. Almost immediately, Marina’s voice came through the door:

  “Da?”

  “It’s me, Alexei.”

  The bolts snapped back, and the door opened on a smiling Marina. She was wearing a sexy skirt and blouse with black stockings and high-heeled boots.

  “How nice of you to drop by!” she said. “I was about to leave.”

  “I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I could drive you to the club.”

  “I’m going to the Bolshoi this evening! I got some tickets that weren’t too expensive. But we have time for a drink.”

  He followed the young woman into the kitchen and when she went to open her freezer, grabbed her neck from behind. His hand
s were so big, they overlapped as he pressed his thumbs on her carotid arteries, the way he’d learned in Spetsnaz training.

  Marina struggled feebly, trying to turn around. Teeth clenched, Somov squeezed with all his might, and felt her body abruptly go slack. He continued squeezing for a moment, then released her. Marina collapsed onto the tiled kitchen floor.

  Somov looked around and listened, then left the apartment. In moments he was back at the Toyota.

  Access keypads often broke down, so anyone could have entered the building. Because he wore gloves, Somov hadn’t left any sign that he had been there.

  Feeling reassured, he slipped behind the wheel. Marina had never been anything more than a convenience for him. And he had seen enough horrors in the Caucasus not to be bothered by her death.

  In three days he would fly to Dagestan and collect the eight million dollars.

  One small concern nagged at him. Before strangling Marina, he should have asked if she’d mentioned his name to the CIA agent.

  CHAPTER

  23

  On seeing Malko come into the Turandot, Sukhumi leaped from his seat. The restaurant’s door was being held by a bellman dressed as a Louis XV valet, and the other staffers were in costume as well. Naturally, this extravagance was reflected in the size of the check.

  “They let you go!” Sukhumi shouted.

  He rushed toward Malko like a bear after honey, and his hug was suitably bearlike. Though half-suffocated, Malko managed to catch Julia Naryshkin’s eye. She was looking very elegant in a low-cut black dress, and seeing her cheered Malko even more than the Georgian’s ursine embrace.

  Sukhumi led him to a deep leather armchair and shouted to the waiter:

  “Black caviar! Lots of it!”

  He had already polished off a bottle of vodka, and now poured Malko a glass and a fresh one for himself.

  “Na zdorovie!”

  That was when Malko noticed the enormous diamond gracing Julia’s ring finger. It was about the size of the Koh-i-Noor, only fancier. Sukhumi followed his gaze.

  “Meet my future wife!” he declared. “It’s a pleasure to have you with us this evening, Malko. Now tell me what happened. Julia said the FSB picked you up, and I was worried. I called my pals, but they didn’t know anything.”

  “It was just for an interview,” said Malko. “The Kempinski concierge made a mistake. The FSB people were charming, and I only spent two hours with them.”

  Sukhumi laughed knowingly.

  “Sometimes it winds up being two years!”

  The waiter brought the caviar in a crystal bowl and whispered something into Sukhumi’s ear.

  “He says it’s Beluga, from Dagestan,” Sukhumi promptly announced. “The real stuff, not that clandestine farmed crap. Actually, it’s against the law for them to sell it. But I love it.”

  The caviar was out of this world, and they dug in.

  Every so often Malko caught Julia giving him the eye. If Gocha ever found out they were having sex, there would be blood on the walls.

  They continued with blinis, cream, vodka, and more caviar, but began to slow down. You can’t eat more than a hundred grams of caviar without choking, and Sukhumi had put away nearly five hundred. Julia was scooping hers up catlike, with a little glass spoon.

  By the time they finished the bowl, everyone was full, so Sukhumi canceled the rest of the meal. He got up to go to the bathroom, and Julia immediately leaned close to Malko.

  “I was really worried about you,” she said.

  The look in her eyes said that was true.

  “Thanks. I hope I’ll be able to see you again.”

  “I’m a free woman,” she said firmly. “Incidentally, I found Alexei Somov’s phone number. I hope it’s still working.”

  Just then, Sukhumi’s head appeared as he climbed the stairs from the bathroom. Malko just had time to say:

  “We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

  Dinner ended with a creamy Eastern European pastry called a vatrushka.

  Despite his renewed friendship with Malko, it was soon obvious that Sukhumi wanted to be alone with Julia, and they left the restaurant.

  After they parted, Malko’s phone beeped with a two-word text message from Tom Polgar: Broken arrow.

  He felt his pulse speed up. The phrase was an old military expression from Vietnam, and little used since. It meant that an American ground unit was in great danger. Coming from the CIA station chief, it had to be serious.

  Malko answered: Tomorrow, office 9 am.

  His night was going to be less pleasant than Gocha’s.

  —

  Polgar started filling Malko in even before they got to his office.

  “The FSB arrested Bruce Hathaway yesterday evening,” he said, “and he spent the night in the Lubyanka. The consul went to see him this morning and says he’s very depressed. This is the shit storm your friend Sukhumi warned about. The Russians are out to screw us.”

  “What are they charging him with?” asked a surprised Malko. “After all, he never got the missile.”

  “It’s worse than that. The FSB found Parviz Amritzar with a bullet in his head in the basement of a store occupied by Caucasian terrorists. And they claim to have identified his killer: a wanted Dagestan activist named Arzo Khadjiev. So they’ve concluded that the FBI was lying to them, that Amritzar was a real terrorist, and that the whole operation was aimed at Russia.”

  “What does Washington say about all this?”

  “D.C. is still asleep. I warned them last night, and they sent the ambassador to lodge a protest with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Which won’t accomplish squat, because the Kremlin is running things.”

  “This is my fault,” Malko admitted. “I identified Amritzar’s killer. The guy in the taxi who wanted to kill me the other evening. I didn’t know that he also shot poor Amritzar.”

  Malko described being questioned by the FSB, and concluded:

  “They must’ve tracked Khadjiev down by using his mailing address. So what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” said the station chief somberly. “But my phone’ll start ringing off the hook around four o’clock, and I better have something to tell them. It isn’t looking good.

  “An Igla-S missile is out there somewhere, and we don’t know where. Maybe more than one. We also don’t know what the thieves are planning to do with them. My hunch is that the FSB doesn’t know any more than we do, even if they’ve identified Amritzar’s killer.”

  “Khadjiev was just a flunky,” said Malko. “We need to find his boss, the person who put the operation together. And it’s all connected to the Caucasus.”

  “Screw the Caucasus!” growled Polgar. “What I want to know is, can you identify this person?”

  “I have my suspicions, but nothing solid. I still think we should give our evidence to the FSB.”

  Polgar almost choked.

  “You must be joking! They’ll thank us politely and keep Bruce Hathaway on ice. And that’s not counting the threat to Air Force One.”

  “In that case, I need some time,” said Malko.

  “Who do you suspect?”

  Malko hesitated. The CIA station chief was so worked up, he might go off half cocked.

  “I can’t tell you yet,” he said. “I need a day or two.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” cried Polgar. “You’re working for us, not—”

  “That’s exactly why I have to be careful,” argued Malko. “I’m walking on eggshells. What I’m after is a kind of mirage. I can’t risk it vanishing.”

  Polgar didn’t insist. At bottom, he understood Malko’s point.

  “Okay, I’m going to swallow a bottle of Valium,” he said, sighing. “Besides, I have to pay Bruce a visit, and it’s best if I don’t tell him who’s responsible for his being behind bars.”

  “Don’t worry about it too much,” said Malko. “The Russians know perfectly well that their trick won’t hold up legally. They’re blackmailing us. And the
y’ll soon tell us what they want in exchange for Hathaway’s release.”

  —

  Malko sat up when he saw Julia come through the Kempinski’s revolving front door. She was wearing exactly the same outfit as the previous evening. When she came closer, he noticed that her makeup was smudged.

  “I didn’t have time to go home,” she said apologetically. “Gocha didn’t want to let me go. Can I take a shower in your room?”

  “Of course!”

  They went up to the suite together and Malko plopped down in an armchair as Julia headed for the bathroom. She emerged a little later, wearing a bathrobe embroidered with the hotel logo. She sat down on Malko’s knees and buried her face in his neck. The robe parted, revealing the tip of a breast, which he promptly began to caress.

  Julia started, as if she’d gotten an electric shock, and hugged him tighter. Emboldened, he slipped his hand under the bathrobe and continued his exploration.

  The young woman untied her belt. Malko saw that her thighs had parted slightly, as if to encourage him. When he put his fingers on her, Julia gave a sigh of delight. She sighed even more when Malko slipped them inside.

  Then she eased herself to the floor, shrugged off the robe, and knelt in front of him. As she gently loosened his clothes, Malko closed his eyes. After what had happened three days earlier, he hadn’t expected such a welcome, but Julia picked up her blow job where she had left off.

  Looking down, he watched the rigid nipples on her breasts brushing against his pants.

  When she judged he was hard enough, she leaned back on the sofa and spread her legs.

  “Come here,” she said. “I want you.”

  She was telling the truth. This time, it felt like sinking into a pot of honey.

  She started moving vigorously under him, meeting his thrusts with her own, raising her hips to take him deeper, groaning open-mouthed until she came with a happy growl.

  Which became a cry of pain when they separated.

  “Ow! My back hurts.”

  She stood up and looked in the mirror. She had thrown herself around so energetically, she’d scraped a patch of the skin on her back. Malko felt bad about it.