Khisri always did have a knack for doing the right thing. He was now observing his guest with small, sharp eyes.
“So, Alexei, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Actually, there is,” answered Somov. “Do you still have friends at the army base in Borgo?”
The mayor frowned.
“I do, but the place is watched very carefully.”
Somov smiled.
“Rasul, I know you do whatever you like there.”
A few years ago, Khisri had set up a clandestine vodka distillery under some base buildings, with Somov’s connivance.
“Well, maybe. What do you need?”
As Somov explained the scenario he had in mind, Khisri poured them more brandy.
“That would be very hard to arrange,” he said.
“Not for you.”
“And it’s going to cost a lot of money. At least a million dollars.”
Somov remained unruffled.
“That’s way too much,” he said. “But just for you, I’ll pay five hundred thousand.”
“Impossible,” said Khisri, shaking his head.
The silence that followed lasted only until Somov leaned across the table and calmly said:
“Rasul, all I have to do is phone the Federation representative, and your distillery disappears. I wouldn’t want to do that to a good friend.”
Khisri burst out laughing.
“All right, fine! No need for us to argue. Do you have the money?”
“I’ll give it to you afterward. I can’t, before.”
After a short hesitation, the mayor smiled broadly and said:
“Because we’re old friends, that’s not a problem. But in that case, you’ll be staying here. You’ll be in clover.”
In other words, Somov would be a hostage. He could leave the luxurious residence only after he’d paid his debt.
This was Dagestan.
“That’s fine,” said Somov. “Tell me where you’re housing me. I want to take a shower.”
Before heading to his room, he picked up the gold-plated Beretta, just in case. It was better than nothing.
—
Lounging in Gocha Sukhumi’s Hollywood-size bed, Julia Naryshkin looked at the gray sky over the Kremlin. Her swollen face still felt painful.
Somov must be in Dagestan by now, she thought.
She hadn’t heard from Malko since the night before. Gocha seemed to believe her purse-snatching story. Anyway, he was so happy to have Julia at home with him for a couple of days, he would’ve swallowed anything.
She wondered how all this would end. Not even Gocha could protect her from the hatred of a man like Somov. And if he wasn’t stopped, she would have to leave Russia. Sukhumi had some property in Tbilisi, but living in Georgia wasn’t the same thing.
Malko had better keep his promise, she thought.
—
The old three-engine Tu-154 landed a bit short on the sun-swept Makhachkala Airport’s single runway. It was one of the last of the Soviet Union’s Tupolevs, and the red, blue, and green stripes on its fuselage echoed the republic’s flag. Dagestan Airlines was one of the few Russian airlines to still fly Tupolevs, which were starting to fall out of the sky with unnerving regularity.
Alas, every time the Dagestani government budgeted money for new planes, it was embezzled.
Malko joined the deplaning passengers, most of them black-clad women carrying bundles, and a few unshaven, fierce-looking men.
There were no security formalities. Despite appearances, Dagestan was still part of the Russian Federation.
The flat landscape was ringed by mountains in the distance. Malko only had a carry-on bag and was soon out in front of the terminal. He looked around. There were a lot of SUVs, including some armored Mercedes. Otherwise there was little to see besides dust and men in rumpled uniforms. His taxi driver spoke Russian with a guttural accent.
“The Lord Hotel,” said Malko. “Prospekt Petra Pervogo Sixteen.”
He had made the reservation in Moscow. The hotel was a three-story building with a tile roof, impersonal but clean, a quarter mile from the sea.
The moment he checked in, he left a message for Somov with his room number, 27. Then he settled down to wait. Somov should have reached Makhachkala the day before. He would call Malko as soon as he had proof that the missiles had been destroyed.
Malko was in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, but he was protected. Arzo Khadjiev’s cell phone and the record of the call he had made to Somov were safely stored at the American embassy back in Moscow.
Just the same, he had also packed a flexible GK bulletproof vest.
—
The little convoy consisted of two white SUVs crammed with armed men, flanking an old Ural truck. They took the bridge across the deep gorge of the Sulak, a foaming river that flowed into the Caspian fifteen miles downstream.
The vehicles stopped on a kind of esplanade on the far side of the bridge. A short, massive man—five feet eight and 240 pounds—swung down from the Ural. He was wearing a camouflage uniform and carrying an AK-47, a spare magazine, and a couple of grenades. This was Gamzat Azkhanov, Somov’s right-hand man. When they were fighting Chechen boiviki together, Azkhanov was the one who interrogated their few prisoners. He started by ripping out their fingernails, and later sold their bodies to their families.
Azkhanov now led a small group of soldiers who continued to take orders from the former GRU colonel.
There were very few lawyers in Dagestan. Conflicts were settled with explosives, killings, or kidnappings. The more firepower you had, the more persuasive your argument.
Azkhanov spoke briefly to the men getting out of the SUVs. Three of them carried their sniper rifles up the hillside and took positions in the brush.
He took out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“I’m in position. Do you have the asset?”
Receiving an affirmative answer, he said:
“I’ll be waiting.”
—
Two hours later another convoy, this one consisting of three SUVs and a Mercedes sedan, rounded a curve and stopped, facing Azkhanov’s vehicles.
For a moment, the only sound was the chirping of birds.
A very tall man with an ascetic face and a long black beard got out of the Mercedes. He was wearing a black shirt and trousers and had a Kalashnikov on his shoulder. It was Karon Abdulahmidov, second in command under Wahla Arsaiev, the man determined to impose sharia law on all of the Caucasus. He was also the man whose death was announced every three months, like clockwork, as a way of earning bonuses for the local FSB office.
While his men took up positions on either side of the canyon, Abdulahmidov walked slowly toward Azkhanov, keeping his empty hands well visible.
The two men met on the deck of the bridge.
“Salaam alaikum,” said Azkhanov in a pleasant baritone.
“Alaikum salaam,” said Abdulahmidov.
“The merchandise is in the truck,” said Azkhanov.
“The money is in the Mercedes,” said his Islamist counterpart.
As one, each headed for the other’s vehicle. Two soldiers opened the truck’s back doors.
Abdulahmidov had one of the Igla-S cases brought out and opened. He picked up the missile and examined it carefully. It was brand-new, fresh from the factory. He did the same with the seven others, which were then reloaded onto the truck.
For his part, Azkhanov counted the packages of hundred-dollar bills, studying the currency. He also rummaged in the bottom of the bags to make sure some prankster hadn’t hidden a grenade under the money.
Their inspections finished, the two men came together again.
“Fine,” they said.
Two of Abdulahmidov’s men came over, carrying the plastic bags full of currency.
“You can have the truck,” said Azkhanov graciously.
While the money was being loaded into one of the white SUVs, an Islamist got behind the wheel o
f the Ural.
The snipers came down from their hide sites. The exchange hadn’t taken more than ten minutes from start to finish.
The Mercedes and the three SUVs turned around to head toward Makhachkala. Wahla Arziev’s camp was near Krasnoyarmskoy, north of the city.
Azkhanov and his men turned around as well and headed back to their base.
—
While still a few miles from the capital, under a clear blue sky and with the wave-tossed Caspian off to the left, Abdulahmidov’s convoy slowed at the level crossing of an abandoned rail line leading to the harbor.
The Mercedes and the first SUV crossed the tracks safely, but when the Ural reached them, a terrific explosion occurred. It came from a 550-pound FAB-250 bomb that had been buried in a tunnel under the berm the night before.
The truck and its cargo were annihilated, and the two SUVs incinerated in a ball of fire. Hurled against a tree by the blast, the Mercedes exploded like a ripe pineapple, strewing its passengers’ body parts across the landscape.
A few minutes later, a white Samara appeared on the Makhachkala road and stopped by the railroad tracks. Four men in balaclavas got out and fired Kalashnikovs at anything that was still moving, then climbed back in and drove away.
—
Malko heard a dull explosion from somewhere north of the city but didn’t know what it was. He was starting to get restless when his old Soviet-style room telephone clattered.
The front desk clerk simply said:
“There’s someone here to see you.”
Two men in a white SUV were waiting for him. He was waved aboard and driven along Prospekt Petra Pervogo to a sumptuous seaside villa with a small tank parked outside, surrounded by sandbags.
The SUV drove into a courtyard and parked amid a number of similar vehicles.
Waiting for him in a marbled living room on the ground floor was a tall, burly man with a shaved head: Alexei Somov.
He led Malko into a little office.
Without bothering to sit down, Somov asked:
“Did you hear the explosion?”
“I think so,” said Malko. “What was it?”
“It was what I promised I would do.”
Somov explained how the missiles had been destroyed. The way it was done, nobody would be able to identify who placed the bomb.
“Now we’re even,” said Somov. “I can count on your silence, I assume.”
“Absolutely,” said Malko. “But I can’t make any promises as far as the FSB is concerned. They’ll continue their investigation.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m afraid you may be arrested when you go back to Moscow,” said Malko smoothly. “After your trip here and the explosion destroying the missiles, they’re bound to come to an unfortunate conclusion. And you know what those FSB agents are like. After a few weeks in Lefortovo, you’ll be confessing that you smothered your mother.”
Somov seemed to have turned into a solid block of hatred. Malko could see his hands clenching, as if to strangle him.
“I’m gonna kill you, you dog,” he rumbled.
“That won’t help your situation,” said Malko. “And it’s stupid to wind up in a Lefortovo cell when you’ve got eight million dollars. I have something better to suggest.”
“What’s that?”
“Political asylum in the United States. When you get to Moscow, you can seek refuge in the American embassy with your money. You’ll be given a passport, and you’ll be able to travel wherever you like.”
Somov clearly hadn’t been expecting anything like that. He swayed on his feet, as if a little dizzy, before speaking.
“Why would the United States do that?”
“I think the CIA would find debriefing you very enlightening. And you’d never have to set foot in Russia again.”
Somov took a moment before answering.
“I have to think about it. I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’ll be back in Moscow around ten thirty.”
“Think it over,” said Malko. “I’ll be waiting at the north gate of the embassy at noon.”
Without waiting for an answer, Malko left the office and climbed back into the SUV that had brought him to the villa. He had no time to waste. His flight to Moscow was leaving in an hour and a half.
—
Tom Polgar looked at his watch. To Malko, he said,
“All right, go ahead.”
The CIA station chief had met Malko’s flight from Dagestan the evening before. From the Makhachkala FSB, Polgar had learned that the Igla-S had been destroyed. That was one problem solved. But Bruce Hathaway was still locked up in the Lubyanka, and the president was threatening not to come to Moscow if he wasn’t released. It was the Cold War all over again.
Malko stood up and walked to the north gate’s inner courtyard.
The Marine guards had been alerted, so they weren’t surprised to see him go out by the pedestrian gate. The street leading to the Garden Ring was deserted. Out on the sidewalk, Malko prepared to wait. Fortunately, the temperature was mild.
His stomach in knots, Malko watched the street corner, trying to figure the odds of Somov taking his advice. He had painted the situation as more dire than it actually was. Somov was an influential figure, and aside from Khadjiev’s cell phone, the FSB didn’t have any real evidence against him.
Malko was so preoccupied by his anxiety, he didn’t notice the time passing.
It was twenty minutes past noon when a black Audi with tinted windows turned the corner, slowed, and stopped next to the fence. The driver’s-side window came down, revealing Somov’s hard face.
Malko immediately waved to the Marine on guard, who lowered the spiked barrier and opened the gate.
—
Rem Tolkachev had just received an urgent—and astonishing—message from FSB chief Alexander Bortnikov. Thomas Polgar, the CIA station chief, had given Bortnikov proof that ex-GRU colonel Alexei Somov was involved in stealing the Igla-S while protected by General Anatoly Razgonov, the number three man at the GRU. In addition to the theft of the missiles, Somov had committed or arranged a number of murders.
All for eight million dollars.
And now Somov had taken refuge at the American embassy under somewhat confusing circumstances.
To resolve this unfortunate affair, the U.S. government was offering a swap: it would give up Alexei Somov in exchange for Bruce Hathaway.
As powerful as he was, Tolkachev couldn’t make such a decision on his own.
He promptly called the president’s secretary, requesting an urgent meeting. He picked up the Igla file and headed for the second floor, where the president had his office.
—
“We’ve obtained a safe conduct for you,” Polgar told Somov. “We’re leaving for Sheremetyevo in fifteen minutes so you can catch the American Airlines flight for New York.”
Somov glowered at him distrustfully.
“How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
“You’ll be traveling in the ambassador’s vehicle, which is covered by diplomatic immunity,” said Polgar. “You’ll be driven right to the airplane door, and I’ll be with you until the very last minute.”
Somov gave a grunt of relief.
“Okay, let’s go.”
A Cadillac displaying the Stars and Stripes on its front left fender was waiting in the courtyard, a driver at the wheel. Somov loaded two big suitcases into the trunk. One of them contained $7.5 million. The mayor of Makhachkala had been paid his cut.
Polgar sat in front with the driver and Malko got in the back next to Somov. The two men ostentatiously ignored each other.
The long car emerged from the embassy and drove onto the Garden Ring. A few minutes later it took Tverskaya Street near Mayakovsky Square, then swung left onto Leningradsky Avenue toward Sheremetyevo Airport.
For about ten minutes, nothing happened. Then, on a long straight section of the highway, a half-dozen black Audis with lights flashing app
eared behind the Cadillac and surrounded it, stopping all traffic.
Somov jerked upright in his seat.
“What the fuck?” he yelled.
One of the Audis drew alongside. Through an open window, a man waved the Cadillac over to a gas station on the right. It must have been cleared, because there wasn’t a customer in sight.
The moment the Cadillac stopped, a group of grim-faced men approached and yanked the doors open.
One of them flashed an FSB badge—gold letters on a maroon background—and loudly announced:
“Alexei Ivanovich Somov, you’re under arrest. Get out!”
He was holding an automatic in his right hand, and looked as if he were itching to fill Somov full of lead.
White as a sheet, Somov turned to Malko.
“You lying son of a bitch!”
It wasn’t the most comfortable moment of Malko’s life.
“You shouldn’t threaten to beat women,” he said.
The FSB agents hauled Somov out of the car and dragged him to an Audi. He was bent over, his arms painfully twisted behind his back.
Another FSB agent went to stand next to the Cadillac’s trunk.
“The luggage, please,” he said evenly.
The two suitcases were moved to an Audi, and the FSB convoy took off, cutting across traffic to the center lane and imperiously sounding their special sirens.
Polgar walked over to Malko.
“Just one word,” he said: “Congratulations! I never thought this would work. Let’s get back to the embassy. Bruce should be released within the hour.”
In the Cadillac, Polgar flashed Malko a wolfish grin.
“Those FBI boys should kiss our asses for the next five generations,” he said. “Without us, their boss would have been shipped off to Siberia.”
Malko got the feeling that was what gave the station chief the most satisfaction. Personally, he was eager to tell Julia Naryshkin that she was no longer in danger of being kicked to death.
About the Translator
William Rodarmor (1942– ) is a French literary translator of some forty books, including five Malko Linge thrillers for Vintage: The Madmen of Benghazi, Chaos in Kabul, Revenge of the Kremlin, Lord of the Swallows, and Surface to Air. A magazine writer and editor, Rodarmor has won the Lewis Galantière Award from the American Translators Association and been a fellow at the Banff International Literary Translation Centre. For years he worked as a contract interpreter for the U.S. State Department.
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