by Cliff Ryder
Sergei recognized the name immediately. The man was highly connected within the Russian Mafiya. Pasternak was known as a killer and didn't brook trouble from others.
"Do you know him?" Ulyana asked.
"Of course," Mikhalkov responded. "There are few in my business who do not know him."
"Then you are aware that simply knowing his name at this point puts me in danger."
"Yes. Upon further reflection, it might be better if you took some vacation out of Russia."
"I have a business to run."
"You will not be able to manage your business if you are not breathing."
She nodded.
"How did you get involved with this?" Mikhalkov asked.
"Through Kirinov."
"Kirinov?"
Ulyana nodded. "Kirinov and Pasternak were working together."
"They were enemies." Mikhalkov was clearly surprised, though Sergei felt certain someone who didn't know him well wouldn't have caught that brief flicker.
"Not in this, they were not," Ulyana said.
"Mutual profit would not have brought them together. They hated each other," the old cop said.
"No," Ulyana agreed. "There was outside pressure."
"What outside pressure?"
"I don't know, Vasily."
Mikhalkov was silent for a moment. "My presence here will not be easy for you to explain. And Pasternak — and whoever his master is — will know where I got this information."
"I know." Ulyana seemed resigned.
"Go then. Get out of Moscow at least. Better if you were to leave the country."
"I will." The woman looked at Mikhalkov and smiled a little. "You are going to pursue this, yes?"
"Yes."
"It is foolish."
"It is what I do."
Ulyana stepped into Mikhalkov and kissed him on the mouth. Then she turned to Sergei. "See that you take care of him. His kind, they are like the dinosaur. A dying breed. You will not see his like again any time soon."
"I know," Sergei said, wondering at the change in the woman's attitude.
Without another word, Ulyana slipped into the waiting sports car.
Sergei watched her leave. "Do you think we can trust her?"
"In this? Yes. They threatened her."
Sergei looked at the old man.
"Ulyana does not like being threatened. They did not know her well enough to understand that. That was Kirinov's and Pasternak's mistake."
"If you believe her, we need to find Pasternak."
"We will." Mikhalkov shot his cuff back and checked his watch. "The night is still young. Let us go call on Pasternak before he has a chance to think about this."
38
Outside Chechnya
Most of the morning's chill had departed by the time Ajza arrived at the campsite. She rode by herself and had grown numb to the mountain pony's irregular gait across the broken terrain.
For the first time since spying on the campsite, she realized how isolated the area was. No roads led into the campsite, and the hilly ground wasn't stable enough for a vehicle. Jeeps would have become mired in the soft earth or broken on jagged rock. A tank or an armored transport wouldn't have had enough traction on the steep incline to make the climb.
With all the ways to vanish into the surrounding mountainous land, the location was a good choice for a camp. The site was vulnerable only to aerial attack. Ajza couldn't help glancing at the sky.
Armed men stationed at security checkpoints kept careful watch over everyone who came and went from the camp along the winding trails that led down the mountain. Women cooked at community pots over banked fires. Small children clung to the women's legs. None of the children appeared to be older than eight. Ajza supposed the older children were farmed out as cheap labor. She didn't want to consider any other possibilities.
Taburova drew his horse in and dismounted. He slid his assault rifle free of the scabbard and slung the weapon over one shoulder. He gestured to Ajza to dismount.
Ajza swung her right leg over the pony's rump and slid to the ground. Her thighs ached after spending hours in the saddle. They'd ridden all night, then stopped for a few hours' sleep and got back under way when dawn flared in the eastern sky. Never once had Taburova or the other men tried to harm her or give her any reason to distrust them.
"I know this does not look like much," Taburova said, "but we are to ourselves here. No one bothers us because they do not feel that following such a course of action would be beneficial. Too much risk and not enough gain."
Ajza thought about the cache of American weapons Taburova was trying to get his hands on. If anyone knew about that, the motivation would increase a thousandfold.
But they don't know, Ajza reminded herself. You don't even know that yet. He might not even bring them here. That's what you're here to find out.
She nodded and didn't say anything. Keeping in mind that she wasn't there to save the women and children was hard. She'd been in similar positions, though, and knew she could walk away if she had to. But she hoped she would never reach a time when a choice to remain inactive would seem right.
"Take a few minutes to get yourself together," Taburova said. "Get some breakfast and fresh clothing. Once you have done that, we will talk."
"All right," Ajza said.
Taburova turned and searched the crowds of women for a moment. Then he gestured to one of them. "Come. See to our new guest."
The woman, a pallid scarecrow dressed in little more than rags, stood slowly and walked over to Ajza. The woman's eyes never lifted from the ground. She stood silent, waiting.
"Go with her," Taburova directed. "She will see to your needs."
"Thank you," Ajza said. She felt odd thanking her captor, but she knew it was expected.
Taburova took the reins of her mount and nodded. "It is nothing." He led the animals away without a backward glance.
Slowly Ajza's stomach unknotted. The woman stood patiently and silently at her side.
"I am ready," Ajza said.
Without a word the woman headed toward one of the ramshackle buildings. Ajza followed.
The building's interior was better than Ajza expected. A handful of large rooms held straw pallets where the women and children slept. Most of those were arranged around the fire pit for warmth. Cloth bags and small crates evidently scavenged either from the site or elsewhere contained their few personal belongings.
The children were kept closest to the fire. Although temperatures during the daylight hours were in the seventies and sometimes in the eighties, the nights were cold. The children should be in school, Ajza couldn't help thinking. At the very least they should be outside playing. Instead, the small boys and girls clung to the women and looked timid and fearful.
You can't save everyone. That had been one of the first rules she'd learned at MI-6. Save yourself, then save as many others as you can. She steeled herself and remained in control.
Body odor, mildew and stale air filled the building. Ajza was certain that at one time animals had been kept in the structure. She knew some of the rural people brought their livestock into their homes with them during the harsh winters because in their meager personal economies, the animals were irreplaceable.
A few of the women and children gazed at Ajza as she entered the building. Most refused to make eye contact. The women's youth bothered Ajza most of all. Even though she'd been prepared for their young age, she was amazed that most of the women here were in their teens — some in their early teens.
In London, at that age, Ajza still considered herself a child.
"Here," the woman showing her around said. She pointed to a cardboard box filled with clothing. "Dry clothes. They belong to no one. Take what you want."
The choices looked meager, but Ajza thanked the woman all the same. The woman looked at Ajza warily, then turned and walked away.
Ajza selected a pair of pants and a blouse, then a scarf to cover her head. She gazed around after she'd
made her choices.
One of the women pointed to a back room. "In there."
Only a sheet hanging across the room provided privacy. A shadow settled onto the window across the room, and a moment later Ajza spotted a bearded man's face. His gaze locked with hers and he didn't turn away.
"They have no shame." The woman who had pointed the way stood in the doorway. She stared at the man peering through the window. "They keep us here and treat us worse than dogs. There is never a moment we are alone." She paused. "Or safe."
Ajza almost said she was sorry, then caught herself before she could slip out of character. She couldn't talk as if she had any other future than the bleak one presented at the camp.
"Their mothers should have drowned them at birth," the woman said.
"Is there no escape?" Ajza asked as she pulled on the fresh clothing.
"Even if you got away from this place, where would you go? No one wants to take on the hardship of caring for a woman who isn't family. There is only death." The woman's features were almost painfully empty. "You can die here or you can die where they tell you to." She shook her head. "If I were brave, I would kill myself rather than spend another day here or wait to go blow myself up."
"God is merciful," Ajza said. The phrase came naturally. Her parents often told her that.
"If you believe in God a few days from now, after what those men are going to do to you, I will be very surprised," the woman said.
39
Moscow
Red Onion Interactive Games occupied a suite of rooms in one of the boxy buildings along Tverskaya Street. Pushkin Square had been busy even before the fall of communism, but now that the city's inhabitants had embraced capitalism and allowed foreign investors, business in the square had swelled.
By nine in the morning, the economic surge was in full swing in the retail areas and offices. Later that afternoon, the entertainment bars would open.
Sergei parked on the street and tossed the identification placard on the dash so the car wouldn't get towed. Mikhalkov led the way toward the office building.
Anton Pasternak was a silent partner of the Red Onion video-game company. The Mafiya leader was old enough to see the value in legitimate investments and young enough to recognize the impact video games had in the marketplace.
Sergei stifled a yawn. He and Mikhalkov had spent the night searching for Pasternak. They'd hit all of Pasternak's usual haunts and tried not to make themselves too obvious. That had been almost impossible.
"Do you not think it is odd that Pasternak has been so elusive?" Despite the No Smoking signs, Mikhalkov lit a cigarette as they went up in the elevator.
"Should I?" Sergei asked. "Pasternak stays out of the public eye."
Mikhalkov shrugged. "He has been most difficult to find. I find that…interesting."
Now that the old man had sharpened Sergei's own self-preservation instinct, Sergei thought it odd, too. He dropped his hand to his side and made sure his pistol was in its holster.
"We have not pressed too hard to find him." Sergei watched the floor-level indicator escalate. "But we also haven't hidden our identities."
"The people Pasternak does business with can smell police." Mikhalkov took a deep drag of his cigarette, then released a cloud of smoke. "I think Pasternak was already in hiding before we started looking for him."
"Hiding from whom?"
"Emile IvanoVs meeting a harsh end sent a message. Given that he was working with Pasternak, we have to assume the message was for Pasternak."
"The message could have been for Kirinov."
"Possibly. But Pasternak was here to receive the message. Kirinov was not in the country." Mikhalkov stood in front of the elevator doors as their ascent came to a halt. "Perhaps the message was to bring Kirinov here. Perhaps the message was solely for Pasternak. Either way, I believe Pasternak fears for his life."
"We could offer him protection. In exchange for information. Maybe he will be glad to see us," Sergei said.
"A man like Pasternak is never glad to see the police." Mikhalkov stepped through the open elevator doors.
Sergei followed.
"Welcome to Red Onion Interactive," the young woman behind the desk said. She was small and pert and wore a clinging emerald blouse that showed impressive cleavage. "How may I help you?" She smiled, showing a lot of teeth.
With his pistol in his fist beneath his jacket, Sergei stood behind Mikhalkov. Security cameras hung in the two corners of the room monitoring the door.
The sleek sparkling furniture was evidence of success. Posters on the walls displayed colorful characters and game boxes. Sergei recognized some of them. He sometimes played video games with his brother's sons.
"I need to see Anton Pasternak," Mikhalkov said.
The receptionist frowned. "Is he an employee?" She turned her attention to her computer screen and hit a few keys. "Are you sure he works here?"
Mikhalkov took his pistol from his jacket pocket. The receptionist gave a frightened squeal and cowered under the desk.
Sergei swept his pistol out from under his jacket. He felt nervous about pulling weapons so early, but Pasternak was not a man to take chances with. Two quick steps to the right put Sergei in a clear field of fire. A chill shot through him as he waited to see what would happen.
Mikhalkov took out his identification and held it up to the security cameras. He identified himself in a strong, clear voice. "I want to see Pasternak now or I will arrest everyone in this office."
For a few seconds nothing happened. Then the door to one side of the receptionist's desk opened. Sergei lifted his pistol, turned in profile and took aim at the man standing there.
"Mikhalkov?" Tall and heavy-set with a bald head and a short, sculptured beard, the man looked like a thug. The obviously expensive tailored suit he wore only added to the effect.
"Pasternak." Mikhalkov kept his pistol in his fist.
The big man smiled and gold gleamed in his teeth. He'd had a lot of work done. "It has been a long time."
"You have learned to be more evasive," Mikhalkov responded. "And there are many other criminals in Moscow these days."
"I am no criminal here." Pasternak waved at the office. "Here I am just a businessman. But come in. We can talk in private."
Instead of being in private as Pasternak had promised, he led Mikhalkov and Sergei to an office where two quiet and deadly-looking young men joined them. They wore jackets that covered what Sergei believed was an arsenal of guns. They dressed like Americans, but the black tattoos they'd won in prison and in the Mafiya showed at their wrists and necks. Sergei had no doubt that their bodies were covered with tattoos that mapped what they'd done and where they'd been.
Fortunately the office was large enough to accommodate all of them. A large window overlooked the city. The colorful onion domes atop buildings stood out against the clear blue sky.
Pasternak waved Mikhalkov and Sergei to chairs in front of his steel-and-glass desk. Mikhalkov dropped the hand holding his pistol into his lap. He made no move to put the weapon away. Sergei did the same.
The two young men sat on either side of the room, positions that gave them deadly cross fire potential. Their pale eyes looked cold and hard.
Pasternak sat and folded his hands over his ample stomach. "Why do you find your way to my door?"
"Emile IvanoVs body led me here," Mikhalkov said. "You tried to hide him. I want to know why."
For a moment Pasternak said nothing. Then he asked, "Who sent you?" His voice was low.
Sergei thought the question was odd.
"No one sent me," Mikhalkov replied. "I am the police. I am in possession of a murdered man's body. There are people who have questions. You are known to be IvanoVs partner in his latest venture. If you didn't kill him…" Mikhalkov paused "…then I think you know who did."
Pasternak didn't look happy. "Does it really matter who killed poor Ivanov? No one cares about him. Even his widow will not miss him."
"His
death matters to me."
"Why?"
"I choose for it to matter."
"So you can get to me? You killed Kirinov a few days ago."
"I also know that Kirinov was involved with your business. And with IvanoVs."
Pasternak cursed. "Even a smart man can know too much at times."
"Indulge me."
"I would like to. If only to see you place your neck in the same noose mine is in. But it would only complicate things much more."
Sergei took note of that. If Pasternak hadn't extricated himself from whatever trouble he'd gotten into, then that trouble still existed. An unknown threat still existed. The realization didn't make Sergei feel any better.
"Kirinov's death has already increased the pressure on me," Pasternak went on. "Only a few people knew he had returned to Moscow. Unfortunately I was one of them." He raised an eyebrow at Mikhalkov. "How did you know he was back?"
Mikhalkov shrugged. "I am in the business of knowing things."
"This wasn't easy to know." Suddenly Pasternak leaned forward and leered. "It was Irina, was it not? That fool got himself killed over a woman."
"I suppose double-crossing your partners is much better."
Pasternak laughed, but the effort had a ragged edge to it. "That is an easy thing to do when your partners do not talk to each other." He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. "I am an opportunist. Always have been. In the end, it is often your nature that gets you killed."
"There are other people involved in this. If Kirinov came to Moscow, then I know I am after bigger fish than you."
"You insult me."
Mikhalkov smiled a little. "Nonsense. I sit here before you with a pistol in my hand. A clear acknowledgment of how dangerous a man you are."
The laughter exploded from Pasternak this time. He wiped tears from his eyes when he regained control of himself. "And I sit here with two young bodyguards because I know the same of you."
"I knew we could deal with each other."
"It depends on what you have to offer."
Mikhalkov reflected briefly. "If you had nothing to do with Emile IvanoVs death…"
"I did not. Nor did I have a hand in LovyreVs assassination."
