The CIA agent’s fate was now no longer in his hands. The old spymaster would obey whatever orders he was given. But in his memo he had made his preference clear: liquidate an enemy who had already made a great deal of mischief.
Chapter 17
Nancy Cobbold was crossing the Thames on the Hammersmith Bridge, with its fretwork of green metal beams, when she noticed an odd-looking bundle on the riverbank below. Something wrapped in a blanket lay near the grayish water lapping at the sandy bench along the promenade.
It looked like a body.
Intrigued, she turned off Hammersmith Bridge Road and stopped at a flower shop.
“I think there may be a body down on the Mall,” she told the florist. “I’m in a rush and don’t have time to go look, but it might be a good idea to call nine-nine-nine.”
Having salved her conscience, Cobbold continued on her way onto Great West Road.
Five minutes later, a police car appeared above the riverbank, announcing its arrival with brief blasts of its siren. Two policemen approached the body and carefully unwrapped the blanket. Inside was a man wearing only underpants, bound hand and foot.
—
“They found him; he’s alive!” shouted Richard Spicer. “They’re taking him to Hammersmith Hospital on Du Cane Road. I’m heading over now.”
“I’ll join you there,” said Gwyneth Robertson. “What shape is he in?”
“I don’t know. I was on my way to the office when MI5 called.”
Grabbing her attaché case, Gwyneth sprinted for the elevator, her heart pounding. After getting no news of Malko for three days, she had given up hope of ever seeing him alive again.
—
At the hospital, a pair of uniformed police officers were standing guard outside Room 422. Spicer flashed his diplomatic ID and went in. Two people were already present: a doctor in a white coat and Sir William Wolseley, the MI5 chief of staff.
“The medics say he’s all right,” said Wolseley. “He was drugged but doesn’t appear to have been injured. They’re going to run some scans.”
“What has he said?”
“Nothing yet; he’s barely awake. He almost died of hypothermia. He must’ve lain near the river for at least two hours, and it’s been pretty chilly.”
“Who dumped him there?”
“We don’t know, but it must have happened before dawn. A driver spotted him an hour ago and alerted the police. He didn’t have any papers, so it took a while to identify him.”
“Was he tortured?”
“It doesn’t look that way, but he has injection marks on his left arm.”
At that moment, Gwyneth entered the room. She ran to the bed where Malko lay, his eyes closed. Aside from being quite pale, he seemed reasonably healthy.
“I think we should let Mr. Linge rest for a few hours,” said the doctor. “I’ll ring you as soon as he’s in shape to talk.”
When they moved out into the hallway, Spicer said:
“I think you can dismiss your two constables, Sir William. The kidnappers have released him, so he’s in no further danger. I’m anxious for him to talk so we can find out what happened.”
“I’m staying here,” Gwyneth announced. “I’ve canceled all my meetings.”
“Okay,” said the station chief. “Let me know when he comes around.”
—
As she finished getting dressed, Zhanna Khrenkov realized she hadn’t felt this good in a long time. True, Alexei wasn’t talking much—he was distant, and almost mute—but she figured the main thing was done. His attitude showed that he really had broken up with the bitch. Zhanna was counting on time for things to sort themselves out. She and Alexei had so much in common, he was sure to come back to her eventually.
She had decided to go to the Dorchester Spa in the morning, for once, because she had a lunch date at the Grill. She was meeting a concert organizer to arrange a benefit for the victims of the floods in Pakistan.
For his part, Alexei was going to his office in the City and wouldn’t be home until late.
Zhanna dialed Petropavlovsk to ask Vladimir Krazovsky to fetch her Bentley from the garage, but the number rang for a long time without anyone answering. She tried twice more, then, in some annoyance, decided to take a taxi. She would phone from the Dorchester to have the security detail pick her up.
Mercifully, she only had to spend a few moments out on the Grosvenor Place sidewalk. Five minutes later, she was pushing the revolving door of the Dorchester and heading for the elevator.
An older woman seated on a bench in the lobby stood up and fell into step behind her. They entered the elevator together. Absorbed in her thoughts, Zhanna didn’t even look at her.
When the elevator reached the first basement level, Zhanna moved toward the door as it opened. So she didn’t see the woman pull from her purse a small black automatic fitted with a long silencer.
Extending her arm, she brought the barrel close to Zhanna’s neck and pulled the trigger twice.
Two muffled pfut! sounds were heard, very close together. The cartridges’ powder charge was small, but their impact was enough to knock Zhanna out of the elevator and leave her sprawled under the spa sign with the silver lettering.
By then, the unknown woman had already pressed the button for the ground floor, and the elevator door closed. Moments later, she stepped out into the lobby. She left the hotel and crossed onto Deanery Street, where a dark-colored car was parked. Someone inside opened the door and she climbed in.
The car made its way to the A4 and headed for Heathrow. The woman opened the envelope lying on the seat next to her and took out the passport she would use to leave the country. Her flight for Rome was leaving in two hours.
—
A spa employee found the body a few minutes later. She rushed over, thinking Zhanna had slipped and fallen. It was only when she tried to help her up that she realized she was dead.
Very dead, in fact.
The staffer’s screams brought other employees running. Within moments, the spa manager was on the phone to the police.
—
“Jesus Christ!” the CIA station chief shouted.
Wolseley had just told him that Zhanna Khrenkov had been shot in the Dorchester basement two hours after Malko’s release.
“Things seem to be picking up,” said Wolseley with classic understatement.
“I’m going over to see Malko,” said Spicer. “Are there any suspects at the Dorchester?”
“Nobody saw a thing. It’s as if Mrs. Khrenkov was killed by a ghost. The police found two .22 caliber shells in the elevator, but I doubt they will lead anywhere.”
“Where’s Alexei Khrenkov?”
“We don’t know. Nobody’s answering at the apartment.”
“We need to protect him, immediately.”
“I’ve already dispatched a team of watchers to his office,” said Wolseley. “That’s all we can do for now.”
Spicer was already halfway to the elevator. His mind was racing as he tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together: Malko’s release, Zhanna’s murder, and the events that preceded them. Suddenly he had a horrible thought, and quickly phoned Wolseley back.
“You better send a team to Lynn Marsh’s office on Queen’s Gate right away, Sir William. She may be in danger too.”
Spicer knew how merciless the Russians could be. If they decided to eliminate a rung of their network, they would do a clean sweep. And Lynn Marsh was too close to Alexei not to be a target.
—
“He says he doesn’t remember a thing!” said Gwyneth the moment Spicer entered the hospital room.
Malko himself seemed to be doing a lot better. He’d eaten a big breakfast and his color was good.
“Someone shot Zhanna Khrenkov at the Dorchester half an hour ago,” Spicer announced. “Two bullets in the neck. No suspects. The killer must have used a silencer, because nobody heard a thing.”
“Damn!” exclaimed Gwyneth. “They don’t waste any ti
me, do they?”
She paused, then said:
“Richard, since you’re here, I’ll go get some things for Malko from the Lanesborough. I’ll be back in an hour.”
When they were alone, the CIA station chief sat down next to Malko’s bed.
“Do you really not remember anything?” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” answered Malko. “I went to sleep in my bed at the hotel, and when I woke up, I was tied to another bed and blindfolded, in some place that I probably wouldn’t recognize.”
“Didn’t you see anyone?”
“Yes, a man I think was a doctor. They took off my blindfold. He talked to me, but I don’t remember what I said. And then I was in darkness again. They must have drugged me, because I don’t remember being taken out of wherever I was.”
“The hospital’s running some blood tests. We’ll find out what they gave you.”
“It doesn’t much matter,” said Malko. “I’m beginning to understand what happened. We underestimated them. The Russians must have been watching the Khrenkovs and the people around them very closely. They immediately noticed me and my contacts with Zhanna and Lynn Marsh. They decided I was hostile, and took action.”
“But why kidnap you?”
“They must have needed an explanation for what was happening. That’s the only thing I can think of. They would never dream that Zhanna had contacted me first.”
“They’ve got some fucking nerve!” growled Spicer. “I was very worried about you.”
Their eyes met.
“I don’t know why they didn’t kill me,” said Malko simply.
“We may never know,” said Spicer. “The main thing is you’re alive and well. In any case, we’re sure of one thing: the network Zhanna talked about exists. And the Russians put a very high value on it.”
“Where is Alexei?”
“Scotland Yard is looking for him.”
“We have to find him. He now knows that the Russians want to liquidate him. They started with Zhanna, which makes sense, since she was the person responsible for the disaster. But I’d be surprised if they let Alexei live. The one thing we have to do is find him before they do.”
Malko paused.
“My guess is there’s a Russian kill team in London. As there was for Litvinenko. People who traveled here specially, whom we’ll probably never identify. They may already have made the hit on Alexei, even if he didn’t do anything wrong. If it hadn’t been for Zhanna’s insane jealousy, we would never have learned about the network.”
“We have to break it up,” said Spicer, “and the only person who can help us is Alexei.”
“Who may already be dead,” said Malko with a sigh. “But if he’s still alive, I have an idea that might persuade him to cooperate.”
“What’s that?”
“Lynn Marsh.”
Chapter 18
Glancing at the Cartier alarm clock on his night table, Alexei Khrenkov could hardly believe his eyes. It was ten minutes past noon! To relieve his obsessive brooding over the breakup with Lynn, he was taking sleeping pills, and they upset his normal sleep pattern.
The breakup hadn’t been his choice, and he sometimes woke up dreaming that Lynn was lying next to him, that they were making love, or that he heard her silvery laughter.
He hurried to take a shower.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Khrenkov switched on his cell phone to warn his office that he would be late for his meeting. He was seeing a real estate agent who wanted to sell him an apartment building.
As he was closing his crocodile skin attaché case with the gold fittings, his phone rang. It didn’t display a number, but he took the call anyway.
“Is this Mr. Alexei Khrenkov?” asked a man with a Cockney accent.
“Speaking.”
“I’m Sergeant Burdett of Scotland Yard. Are you Zhanna Khrenkov’s husband?”
“Yes, I am.”
“There’s a problem with your wife, sir. You should come to the Dorchester Hotel as quickly as possible. We can send a car, if you like.”
Stunned, Khrenkov asked:
“What kind of problem? Can you put my wife on the line?”
There was a brief silence at the other end, then the policeman spoke again, sounding embarrassed.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir.”
“Why? Has she been arrested?”
“No, sir. She’s been shot. She’s in bad shape.”
Khrenkov felt as if his legs had suddenly turned to stone. His head was spinning. Despite her morbid jealousy, Zhanna was the woman he’d always loved.
“Is it very serious?”
Sergeant Burdett cleared his throat and confessed.
“I’m afraid she’s dead, sir. You better come right away.”
Unconsciously, Khrenkov noticed the contradiction: if Zhanna was dead, then his presence wasn’t urgently required.
“Very well,” he said, “I’ll be there soon. I’m not very far away.”
Khrenkov put down the phone and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His brilliant mind had gone blank. He was trying to remember when he’d last spoken to Zhanna. Yesterday evening, maybe…
Then a wave of anxiety suddenly washed over him. He had the feeling he was caught in a black web, with an invisible hand gripping his chest.
If Zhanna had been killed, that meant he would be next.
The shock gave way to a kind of cold lucidity, as Khrenkov’s mind started functioning again. He knew Russia too well to entertain even a glimmer of hope. The Kremlin had decided his fate, and the CIA agent’s hovering around them had sealed it.
Like the Mafia, the Russians never left anything to chance. Even if he hadn’t done anything wrong vis-à-vis his handlers, he knew there was no appeal in a case like this. Once the sentence was pronounced, nothing could stop the siloviki from striking.
He, Alexei Khrenkov, was going to be killed.
For what felt like a long moment, he felt crushed. Then he roused himself and started planning his immediate future. He didn’t want to die. Putting Zhanna out of his mind, he thought about what steps he could take next.
His accidentally sleeping so late probably saved his life, he realized. If he’d gone to his office at ten o’clock as usual, he would have been dispatched before his wife.
The thoughts were racing around in his mind. How would they kill him? They would try to catch him by surprise, of course. And who better to do that than the people assigned to protect him, the Petropavlovsk men?
Taking the bull by the horns, he phoned the head of the team. Krazovsky answered immediately.
“Hello, Vladimir,” he said. “I overslept. You can send a car for me.”
“They’re ready for you, sir. They’re waiting in your front hall.”
Hanging up, Khrenkov took off his glasses and wiped them. So the killers had already arrived. Irina, the Moldovan maid, probably let them in. The fact that they came upstairs to the apartment meant that they planned to kill him there.
Khrenkov wasn’t a violent man and didn’t have any weapons in his apartment. But the two men waiting for him in the entry hall were sure to be armed. He put his glasses back on and went to his wall safe. First things first, he thought to himself. He took out several thick bundles of pound notes and dollar bills. Money was no problem, and he could get more in a number of places around the world.
Provided he could reach them.
He also took out his bright red Russian passport and stowed it in his attaché case with the money.
Without a very clear plan in mind, Khrenkov went to the front hall. The two men sitting on faux Louis XV armchairs stood up when they saw him. Khrenkov knew one of them—Grigory Lissenko, a regular member of the Petropavlovsk team—but not the other. He was of average height and well built, but smaller than him.
Khrenkov managed a smile, and in Russian said:
“Hi, there. I’ve never seen you before.”
“That’s right,” said the
man, meeting his eye. “I just arrived from Moscow three days ago. I’m at your service, Gospodin Khrenkov.”
Khrenkov immediately knew that the man had come to kill him.
Lissenko opened the front door, and Khrenkov followed him out onto the landing, as tense as a violin string. He was sure they were going to shoot him in the elevator. The cabin was already there, and Lissenko pulled the grille aside to let Khrenkov in. The man from Moscow was still inside the apartment.
Keeping his voice steady, Khrenkov said:
“Just a sec, Grigory. I forgot something in my bedroom.”
Moving as naturally as possible, he left Lissenko standing by the elevator and went back into the apartment.
After that, everything happened very fast.
Khrenkov kicked the front door shut, locking Lissenko out on the landing. Then he dropped his attaché case and rushed the Moscow man, wrapping his big hands around his throat. Feeling flesh under his fingers, he started squeezing with all his might. He shoved his victim violently against a console, knocking over a tall vase of flowers.
Once recovered from his surprise, the man fought back furiously. In silence, Khrenkov repeatedly slammed his head against the wall. He managed to knock the man off his feet and crashed down on him, kneeling on his chest while choking him. Gradually the man’s eyes began to bulge from their sockets, and his blackish tongue lolled out of his mouth. He struggled weakly for another moment, then his arms slackened and he stopped moving.
Khrenkov released his grip only very slowly.
He looked at the Moscow man’s face almost with curiosity. It was the first time he’d killed someone, and it gave him a strange feeling. Then he had a stab of fear. What if he’d been paranoid, he thought, and gotten carried away?
Khrenkov’s heart, which was already pounding, sped up further as he searched the dead man and felt a pistol grip in an inside pocket. He pulled out the weapon, a compact automatic fitted with a long silencer.
So he hadn’t been wrong.
Just to be sure, he slid the breech back, catching the coppery glint of a cartridge.
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