by Larry Bond
Banich felt dizzy. He looked up sharply, suddenly tired of Soloviev’s cat-and-mouse game. “If you’re so goddamned sure of that, Colonel, where’s the FIS? Why aren’t they here to haul me away?”
The other man eyed him grimly. “For two very good reasons, Mr. Banich. First, they don’t know what I know about your identity. And second, they don’t yet know anything about what happened in Gorky Park yesterday afternoon.”
“What?” Banich couldn’t conceal his surprise. “Why not?”
“Because I am not the only Russian of rank opposed to this illegal regime and its insane policies, Mr. Banich. General Pikhoia is another.”
The American whistled silently. Major General Konstantin Pikhoia commanded the whole Moscow militia force. No wonder the word about Gorky Park hadn’t leaked yet. He found himself reappraising Soloviev. Allies that highly placed put the colonel in a very different context. Not as a lone wolf, after all, but instead as the point man for an opposition movement operating covertly inside Kaminov’s martial law government itself. Was such a thing possible?
Yes, he judged. The marshal’s purges had been directed primarily at the most outspoken supporters of democratic ideals in the military and the ministries. Officers and officials who were more discreet or more farsighted could easily have clung to their posts with an outward show of loyalty to Russia’s new rulers. Men like Soloviev.
Banich nodded. Playing that kind of double game must be familiar to those who had risen in rank during the old Soviet Union’s last days. For the first time he began to see a way out of the deadly box he’d put Erin and the others inside. Soloviev, Pikhoia, and their compatriots would have every incentive to hush this whole affair up. But then an unpleasant thought struck him. “What about the French? By now they must be back in their embassy screaming at the top of their lungs to anyone who’ll listen. And once the FIS starts asking pointed questions, both you and the general are going to be sitting pretty far out on a damned thin limb.”
Soloviev’s pale blue eyes grew cold. “I can assure you that those three gentlemen of the DGSE will not be shouting to anyone… ever.”
Oh. Banich’s estimation of the man in front of him as one ruthless bastard went up another notch. He gave in to a sudden impulse to needle the other man. “You don’t fool around very much, do you, Colonel? Someone gets in your way and bang, they’re dead.”
“Perhaps.” The Russian’s thin-lipped mouth tightened. “But then the same could probably be said of you, couldn’t it, Mr. Banich?”
Maybe so, Banich admitted to himself, remembering the two men he’d killed while trying to rescue Erin.
Soloviev shook his head in abrupt exasperation. “All of this is beside the point, however. We face much larger problems, you and I.” He pulled a chair out from the table and waved Banich toward another.
Somehow the Russian colonel looked older and wearier off his feet. “I’ve just come from an all-night negotiating session, Mr. Banich.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Kaminov has reached a final agreement with the French. Once he issues the go-ahead orders, my nation’s armed forces will cross into Poland. And our two countries will find themselves at war with each other within hours after that.”
This bad news, though expected, still hit Banich with sledgehammer force. If they were caught between two fires, the U.S., British, and Polish troops fighting in Poland were doomed. Russian intervention in the war would leave the U.S. policymakers with just two unpalatable options. Accept defeat and a Europe forcibly united under a hostile banner. Or prepare for a prolonged war that would make World War II look like a child’s tea party.
Banich swallowed hard, staring blindly down at the table in front of him. “It’ll be a goddamned bloodbath.”
Soloviev nodded somberly. “Yes, it will be. If we allow it to happen.”
Puzzled, Banich stared back at him. “What exactly do you mean by that, Colonel?”
The Russian’s eyes grew even colder. “The orders that will commit my country to this conflict have not yet been issued. In fact, they cannot be issued until Marshal Kaminov and the other members of the Military Council arrive back in Moscow and regain their access to the Defense Ministry’s secure-communications channels. Therefore, I believe the equation is simple: if we stop those orders from being given, we can stop this war before it escalates.”
Prevent Kaminov from contacting his field commanders? How on earth did Soloviev propose… The answer flashed into his mind. In that instant, the whole world seemed to narrow down to the Russian colonel’s grim face. “Are you serious?”
Soloviev nodded. When he spoke, his voice was flat, utterly without emotion. “Deadly serious, Mr. Banich.”
MILITIA HEADQUARTERS
Flanked by armed guards, Erin McKenna followed the paunchy militia sergeant who had ushered her out of her cell. She kept her head held high. She didn’t want to give these people the satisfaction of seeing her frightened or distressed in any way. But she couldn’t stop the panic welling up inside as she contemplated the next few hours. Alex Banich had said she wasn’t ready to take prolonged torture and interrogation, and he was right. Oddly enough, though, she found the prospect of being forced to betray Soloviev and her friends and colleagues far more horrifying than the physical pain and mental anguish she expected to suffer.
Her guards came to a heavy metal door at the end of the hallway and halted, waiting while the sergeant fumbled with his keys and unlocked it. When the door swung open, a sickly-sweet stench wafted inside — the smell of diesel exhaust mixed with rotting garbage. Erin gasped softly. The door opened out onto the back of the headquarters building, into a narrow alley crowded with overflowing trash bins. Where were they taking her?
Several men wearing Russian Army uniforms were busy hurriedly loading an odd assortment of long crates and boxes onto a pair of canvas-sided URAL trucks parked just down the alley. Two officers, one tall and slender, the other somewhat shorter, stood with their backs to her, supervising the loading process. Another man, much younger and wearing civilian clothes, waited beside a black ZIL sedan — an official staff car of some kind. Five shapes swathed in drab-green army blankets lay on stretchers lining one side of the alley. When two soldiers picked up the first stretcher and carried it toward a truck, an arm fell out from under the blanket — dangling lifelessly until one of the men shoved it back out of sight. To her horror, she realized the blanket-shrouded shapes were corpses.
She hesitated in the doorway, unwilling to go further. Fears that until then had been largely abstract, the product of her own imagination, were rapidly becoming real.
“Let’s go, Little Miss Precious,” the sergeant grumbled. He grabbed her arm and hustled her down the small set of steps. She briefly considered resisting but decided against it. Fighting back would only give the odious twerp another excuse to paw her body.
Still gripping her arm, the militia noncom marched her up behind the tall army officer, stamped his feet as he came to attention, and loudly announced, “The female prisoner you wanted, Colonel!”
Erin had to stifle another astonished gasp when the soldier turned around.
Valentin Soloviev stared down at her without a hint of recognition. “An attractive specimen, Sergeant. You’ve enjoyed having her in your custody, eh?”
“Yes, Colonel.” The middle-aged jailer smirked. “Makes a nice change from the usual riffraff we get. A real tasty morsel.”
“Yes.” Soloviev pulled his eyes away from Erin to study the militia NCO. A look that mingled disdain and anger flickered across his face before he nodded toward the door in polite dismissal. “Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all. I’ll take charge of this prisoner now.” His voice hardened. “But you can be sure I will remember everything you have done.”
The words were pleasant enough, but something about the way he said them sent a shiver down Erin’s spine and wiped the self-satisfied smile off the militiaman’s pudgy face. Suddenly pale, her jailer hurried back into the headqu
arters building.
After the door swung shut behind him, Soloviev swung back to face her. “My dear Miss McKenna. I sincerely hope you’re all right?”
Speechless with relief, she could only nod.
“Good.” The Russian smiled then. He inclined his head toward where the other man wearing an army officer’s uniform stood, still with his back to them. “I would introduce you to my new aide-de-camp, but I believe you already know each other.”
He raised his voice. “Captain Banich?”
Erin could scarcely believe her eyes when Alex Banich spun lightly around to face her.
He grinned faintly. “Hello, McKenna.”
“Alex!” The knowledge that he was safe and free brought feelings she’d been holding back for months to the surface in a torrent. All the game-playing, teasing, and tiptoeing around real emotion disappeared in the abrupt realization that she was in love with this quiet man. Without thinking, she was in his arms.
Neither of them saw the fleeting look of sadness and disappointment cross Soloviev’s normally impassive face. It disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
Reminded of where they were by a discreet cough from the Russian, Erin pulled away slightly from Banich. She fingered the thick cloth of his uniform tunic and looked closely at him. “How on earth did you…”
“Not me. Him.” Banich nodded toward Soloviev. Talking fast, he filled her in on the events of the past several hours. When he came to the marshal’s decision to intervene on EurCon’s behalf, he slowed down and looked away as he continued, “The colonel has a plan to stop Kaminov in his tracks, but he needs our help to pull it off.”
“Our…” For the first time, Erin noticed Mike Hennessy and Phil Teppler among the Russian enlisted men loading the two trucks. Both saw her looking at them and grinned back. She turned her gaze on Soloviev. “Am I included in this plan of yours, Colonel?”
“Regrettably no, Miss McKenna. Mr. Banich and the others have weapons skills we will need. You do not.” The Russian sounded relieved more then regretful. He pointed to the young man waiting next to the ZIL sedan. “Plekhanov there will escort you back to your embassy instead. Taking you where we must go would only expose you to grave danger without purpose.”
Banich seconded that. “He’s right. Besides, somebody has to fill Washington in on what’s happened already and what may yet happen if we fail.”
Erin looked again at the uniform he was wearing. “Then at least tell me what you’re going to try to do.”
He shook his head sadly. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” she demanded. Fear for him made her tone sharper than she’d intended. “Don’t you trust me?”
“You know I do.” Banich put his hands on her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. His voice grew quieter. “But we’re about to do something that’s absolutely illegal. If we fail, I’ll probably be dead. Even if we succeed, I could still be crucified by the Agency, the Congress, or the courts. Whatever happens, I don’t want you dragged down with me. Keeping you at least partly in the dark is the only way I can make sure that doesn’t happen. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” Erin whispered softly, fighting back tears. Crying now wouldn’t help either of them. She wiped her eyes and forced a smile. “But you’d better not get yourself killed, Alex Banich. I look awful in black.”
He grinned tightly himself, appreciating the effort she was making to keep her sorrow at bay. “Understood, McKenna.” Then he leaned forward and kissed her.
Soloviev’s voice broke in on them. “It’s time we were on our way, Mr. Banich. The trucks are loaded.”
“Coming, Colonel.” Banich gently disengaged himself from her embrace. He kissed her again, softly this time. “I’ll be back.” Then he stepped back.
The Russian moved in front of him. “I will say my goodbyes here, Miss McKenna. Whatever happens, I do not believe that we will see each other again.” The tall colonel bowed slightly, then straightened up. He smiled gravely. “You know, you really are a most remarkable woman.”
Erin had the strange feeling that the man wanted to say more and couldn’t.
Abruptly Soloviev turned away, striding toward the waiting trucks. Banich fell in beside him. One after the other, the two men swung themselves up into the cab of the lead truck.
As soon as they were inside, powerful diesel engines coughed to life and the trucks lurched forward. She lifted her hand briefly in a silent farewell, then stood watching as they rolled out of the alley onto Petrovka Street and disappeared from her sight.
OUTSIDE MOSCOW, ON THE YALTA HIGHWAY
The two canvas-sided trucks rumbled down the highway, rolling south at a steady sixty kilometers per hour, well within the legal speed limit. None of the men crowded aboard each vehicle wanted to attract any unnecessary attention to themselves or their cargo.
Inside the lead truck, Soloviev leaned forward, peering out through the windshield while studying the forest off to the right side of the highway. He nodded to himself and turned to their driver, a young Russian lieutenant wearing a private’s uniform. “The access road is just ahead, Pasha. You’ll see it when we come around the next bend.”
The lieutenant bobbed his head nervously.”Yes, Colonel.” He tightened his grip on the big URAL’s steering wheel.
Soloviev glanced at the man sitting on his right. “The checkpoint is only a few hundred meters up the access road. You know what to do?”
Alex Banich nodded. “Yes.” He checked the automatic lying in his lap one last time, making sure the silencer screwed on its barrel was secure and that he had a full clip. Then he slipped the pistol back inside his uniform jacket and settled back, trying to fight off the doubts crowding in on him.
What had seemed so necessary and so possible back in the militia headquarters conference room seemed more and more insane the closer they got to the isolated, wooded enclave surrounding Kaminov’s dacha. If this wild-eyed scheme of Soloviev’s backfired in any way, he thought, Russia would have a perfect excuse to act against the United States — a ready-made casus belli handed them by yours truly.
Banich shook his head grimly. Now, there was an unpleasant thought.
The truck wheeled off the main highway and turned onto a narrow, winding road heading west. Pine trees lined both sides, and the overarching branches broke the track ahead of them into a dappled stretch of alternating sunlight and shadow. Birds, frightened by their growling engines, took flight — screeching and wheeling through the clear air above the forest before fluttering away.
“There it is, Colonel.”
Banich looked up at the driver’s muttered warning to Soloviev. He squinted through the dust-streaked windshield.
The checkpoint was just ahead.
A wood barricade dotted with reflectors and painted a bright orange and white closed off the road, but a set of tire spikes pulled across the road behind the barricade was the real vehicle stopper. Two soldiers with AK-74 assault rifles lounged near a wooden sentry box on the left. Blue shoulder patches marked with a sword and shield identified them as uniformed members of an FIS security unit. Four more FIS troopers manned two sandbagged machine-gun nests — one sited on each side of the access road. An officer wearing a peaked cap was just stepping out of the sentry box, yawning and adjusting his pistol belt.
Banich frowned. This was going to be tricky. They were facing seven men with only six — Soloviev, Banich himself, Hennessy, Teppler, and the two young Russian Army officers the colonel had been able to round up at short notice. The trouble with the democratic conspiracy inside Kaminov’s government, the Russian colonel had remarked wryly, was that it had far too many chiefs and far too few Indians. Ostensibly, that was why he’d jumped at the chance to recruit Banich’s team. In the back of his mind, the CIA agent also had the sneaking suspicion the Russian planned to use the Americans as fall guys if anything went wrong. Soloviev struck him as a survivor, not a martyr.
The truck slowed and came to a complete stop within me
ters of the barricade. Their second vehicle stopped right behind them. The FIS officer, a captain, stepped forward smartly. “Your papers, please.” He recognized Soloviev sitting in the middle and started. “Colonel Soloviev? What are you doing there? Where’s your staff car?”
The Russian colonel shrugged. “Broken down about five kilometers back up the highway, Vorisov. Whichever idiot checked it last missed something pretty big. I must have been leaking oil since leaving Moscow.” He laughed sourly. “If I hadn’t been escorting these boys here, I’d have had to hitchhike.”
“Damned mechanics.” The FIS captain shook his head in sympathy. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “But why are you here now, sir? Didn’t they tell you? These big hush-hush meetings are over. Everyone’s supposed to be heading back to the city any moment now.”
Soloviev chuckled. “So I hear. But you know the high brass. The marshal asked me to bring down some extra ’supplies.’ Cases of them.” He winked and tossed off an imaginary glass of vodka. “Seems they’re having themselves quite a party.”
Banich clamped down on a grin. Marshal Kaminov was an old-fashioned Russian — the kind of man who would insist on celebrating the birth of this new Franco-Russian military partnership with a liberally poured vodka baptism. And, from the look on the guard captain’s face, Soloviev’s story had struck a receptive chord.
“Supplies, eh?” the man said slowly. He rubbed his jaw, obviously debating with himself. But with temptation and duty both on the same side for once, the struggle was over quickly. “I suppose I should inspect those cases before I pass you through… just to be safe.”
Soloviev showed his teeth. “Ivan Andreivich, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll even help you.” He glanced at Banich. “In the meantime, Ushenko here and his boys can have a little stretch or take a leak. Right, Captain?”
