by Cliff Ryder
Outside Chechnya
Ill at ease, Taburova turned from the window and paced the floor as he spoke into the satellite phone. "How did you get this number?"
"From Pasternak. I was — until this morning — a silent partner. Now I am in business for myself."
Taburova returned to the window and peered outside. Nothing seemed amiss. "What happened to Pasternak?" He focused on the man's words and believed Russian was his first language, but there was something about he way he spoke that sounded familiar.
"I killed him for being a traitor."
"I have only your word. On both counts."
"My word is good. And I've got your weapons. If you want them, you will have to deal with me."
"What do you want?"
"To deliver the weapons. To collect the balance of the payment." The man chuckled. "The correct balance. Not the one Pasternak was trying to gouge from you."
"I do not know you."
"But I know you, and I know the business you had with Pasternak. I killed Pasternak while he was talking to two FSB agents."
"Why was he talking to them?"
"They found him. Pasternak got sloppy on this one. And I knew he'd do whatever he needed to in order not to get arrested."
Taburova's mind spun as he factored in the new set of problems. He needed the weapons, but the last thing he wanted was the FSB investigating him.
"How did the FSB find out about Pasternak?"
"Killing Ivanov was not a smart thing to do," the man said. "But I think it was Kirinov who truly brought them to Pasternak."
"Who is Kirinov?"
"Another criminal like Pasternak and Ivanov. Kirinov helped Pasternak bring the weapons into Moscow."
"The weapons are in Moscow?" Taburova hoped that was true.
"Yes, as I told you. I am willing to get them to you — for the balance that is owed. You are not the only one who has invested in this venture."
"Why do you not simply take the weapons?"
The man sighed. "You are too suspicious."
"I don't think I am suspicious enough."
"I am not set up to make deals with anyone in this country. I have been a go-between."
"For Pasternak and this Kirinov you mentioned?"
"For a number of people. Pasternak came to me when the deal fell apart in Istanbul."
Taburova took a deep breath and tried to figure out how things could have gone so wrong.
"You must make up your mind," the man said. "I do not have much time. Therefore, you do not have much time. Another day or two, then these weapons — and your money — are gone."
"Why are you so interested in doing business?"
"I want the money that is outstanding. I need to get out of Moscow. I can leave at any time, but I would rather have something to show for my time. And you? You need the weapons."
"What about the FSB agents?"
"They are being taken care of as we speak. Do not worry about them. Think about what I have said. Figure out a way to take delivery of these weapons. Then call me." The man gave a number. "You can leave a message there. I will call you back."
Taburova didn't like the idea of the other man calling the shots, but he had no choice. He needed those weapons.
He agreed and the connection clicked dead in his ear.
Taburova folded the phone and put it away. If he hadn't already made a deal with the devil, he would have felt certain he'd done so now. He turned back to the window and gazed out at the camp.
All his life, he'd lived in similar surroundings. He'd given the lives of his friends and family, his eye, his youth to fighting. Now he had a chance to get away from all that, to live some of the good life he saw on American television when he was in Moscow.
In order to accomplish that, all he had to do was betray his people. Looking at the feral men who filled the camp, knowing that more of them waited in the mountains and preyed on the weak, he felt little guilt over what he had planned.
* * *
Moscow
"Do you need anything?"
Startled by the voice, Sergei looked up from the straight-backed chair outside the operating room where surgeons labored over Vasily Mikhalkov. A nurse old enough to be his mother looked down at him with gentle eyes.
"No. Thank you," Sergei said. He shifted the cup of coffee that had gone cold in his hands. "I'm just waiting to see how my partner is doing."
"Were you injured?"
Sergei knew she referred to the blood that spattered his clothes, face and hair. "Scratches. Nothing to be concerned about."
"We have a triage center."
"Perhaps later."
The nurse nodded unhappily and walked down the corridor. His police identification had gotten him past the hospital security, but the emergency room moved rapidly as the injured were ferried to different areas. The smell of medicine, blood and death made the semirefrigerated air thick and stale.
Sergei got up and threw his coffee cup into the trash. Inside his jacket pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He took it out and studied the viewscreen. WE NEED TO TALK
It was the woman. Sergei knew it could be no one else. She had tried to call him several times during the last hour. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't trust her. At the moment he didn't trust anyone.
He'd forced his way onto the ambulance that had brought Mikhalkov to the hospital. He'd watched as the rescue workers tried to staunch the old man's bleeding and get him stabilized.
Sergei had never lost a partner. He didn't want to lose one now.
He started to put the phone back into his jacket pocket. The readout changed.
LOOK AT THE SECURITY MONITOR AT THE NURSES' DESK
Unable to stop himself, Sergei looked. The view switched from the outer waiting room to a parking area outside the hospital. Three hard-faced men stepped out of a sedan parked near an ambulance. The driver remained at the wheel.
All of the men wore jackets. The way they walked and kept their right hands close to their hips told Sergei they were armed. None of the hospital staff noticed the men approaching the entrance.
His phone vibrated again. This time he opened it and answered. "Yes."
"You see the men on the monitor?" the woman asked.
"Yes."
"We've identified them as mercenaries."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"One of them was in the building across the street this morning. He was the sniper who killed Pasternak and his two bodyguards."
The man who would have killed me, Sergei couldn't help thinking. Fear stabbed through him as he watched the men go into the hospital. The view changed and showed them entering the lobby.
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"We hacked into that building's records and identified him with facial-recognition software. We've identified the two men with him, as well."
"What are they doing here?"
"I don't see any flowers or teddy bears, so I'm betting this isn't a get-well visit."
The woman's sarcasm cut through Sergei's fear and indecision. He went to the nurses' desk.
"Bring security up here," he ordered the nurse who had spoken to him earlier. "Get them here now."
"You don't have time to wait for security," the woman said over the phone. "Those men are there to tie up loose ends from this morning."
Sergei held the phone tightly to his head and repeated his orders to the nurse. He flashed his identification at her to get her moving, but he knew he looked like an insane person.
"You need to get moving," the woman said.
"I cannot leave Mikhalkov." Sergei refused to abandon his partner.
"If you stay there, those men will kill you both. And anyone else who gets in the way. Do you want to bring that kind of bloodshed into the hospital?"
Helplessly Sergei glanced at the nurses' station. All of them would be victims. The violence of the past few days weighed heavily on him. He didn't want to see it erupt inside the hospital.
> "Move or die," the woman said.
Sergei fled, but his mind had focused on a dangerous course of action. He dreaded what he had to do, but he couldn't leave Mikhalkov for the wolves. Either way, he knew his life was going to change.
43
Moscow
Sergei bolted through one of the hospital's side exits. He listened for gunfire but there was none. He hoped he could pull off what he intended before anyone inside the hospital got injured.
Outside in the bright sunlight, he strode toward the car. His jacket whipped around him. His pistol felt heavy in his hand. His other hand held the phone to his ear. He kept his eyes focused on his target.
Ahead of him, the driver who'd brought the gunmen to the hospital waited and watched the building's entrance.
"What are you doing?" the woman on the phone demanded.
"Saving my partner if I am lucky," Sergei growled. He folded the phone and put it away. The woman had his number. She would call back when she was ready.
Without breaking stride, Sergei walked up to the driver's side of the car like he was back on patrol. He stayed just far enough away for the driver to not easily turn around and confront him.
Shaking slightly, Sergei tightened his grip on the gun. He'd shot men before. Had even killed them. But never in cold blood.
He thought about calling out to the man, giving him some warning, but then thought that might be even crueler. This way the man wouldn't even see it coming.
Holding his breath the way he'd been trained, Sergei steadied himself and fired. The pistol bucked against his palm, then bucked twice more as he fired again and again. The whole time, he prayed that he hadn't just killed an innocent man.
Head leaking blood, the driver slumped forward. The horn bleated and the sedan started to roll forward.
Sergei reached through the open window and shoved the automatic transmission into park. The car shuddered to a stop.
In the parking lot, a handful of new arrivals screamed and shouted in alarm. Sergei ignored them and caught the dead man's wrist, exposing a thumb microphone.
"This is Sergei Prokhorov," he said with as much control as he could muster. "I have killed your driver and am escaping."
Opening the car door while keeping his gun in hand was awkward, but Sergei managed it. He grabbed the dead man by the collar and shoved him over, then slid into the bloody driver's seat, put the transmission into drive and floored the accelerator. He narrowly missed an arriving ambulance as he shot out into the street.
* * *
New York
"Well," Jake said laconically, "I didn't see that coming. I liked it. I thought you said this guy was a plodder, not a take-charge kind of guy."
"Usually he is." Kate stared at the multiscreen view of the Russian hospital.
On one screen Sergei nearly sideswiped an ambulance but then vanished quickly into the heavy traffic.
"Gotta say," Jake told her, "I like the change. Probably saved his life. Maybe his partner's, too."
Inside the hospital the three gunmen turned away from the emergency room and headed outside.
"Don't know what Prokhorov said to them," Jake commented, "but he got their attention."
Kate surveyed the security-camera view that showed the entrance to the OR where Sergei ProkhoroVs partner fought for his life. None of the gunmen had reached that part of the hospital.
"Do you think Sergei's ready to listen now?" Jake asked.
"Would you be?"
"I wouldn't be happy right now, but without us, he's got nowhere to go. He's exposed and cut off from everything he knows."
"Think he's calm enough to figure that out?" Kate asked.
"Only one way to find out."
* * *
Moscow
Mired in traffic, Sergei felt foolish and afraid. Blood from the dead man had sprayed the windshield with a crimson fog. He used the cuff of his jacket sleeve to try to wipe the mess away but only made it worse.
Someone behind him honked and he realized space had opened up ahead. Before he could accelerate into it, a cab swooped in front of him and blocked him. Sergei cursed the man and resisted the impulse to bump the taxi out of frustration.
Movement in the rearview mirror, also muddied by the blood, caught his attention. Three men threaded through the stalled traffic. In disbelief, he turned and looked over his shoulder in time to see the three gunmen aim their weapons. They fired in concert, hammering the back of Sergei's stolen vehicle with bullets. The back windshield exploded in a torrent of broken glass.
Frantic, knowing he was exposed and was a threat to everyone around him, Sergei pulled the steering wheel hard to the right and hit the accelerator. He kept his left hand on the horn as he sped forward through the tables and chairs of a sidewalk cafe. Patrons jumped away for their lives.
Even then, he was afraid to go too fast. Still, the maneuver allowed him to pull away from the men following him on foot.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
When he spotted a side street, Sergei powered into it. His bumper briefly nudged that of a cargo van. The resulting shudder ran the length of the sedan and made the dead man slump lower in the seat.
The phone continued to vibrate.
Sergei checked the rearview mirror, peered through the shattered windshield and found he'd left the gunmen behind. He kept an eye on the streets around him and in the sky in case helicopters got involved.
You have been watching far too many American movies, he told himself.
The vibration continued.
Angrily Sergei pulled the phone out and shouted, "What?"
"That was good," the woman said. "You pulled them away from your partner."
"Mikhalkov is still alive?" Sergei almost whooped with joy.
"Yes. You ran and the men followed you. Predator's instinct."
The dead man's arm flopped across Sergei's knees, and the bitter guilt he'd been dreading hit him, in spite of the adrenaline flowing through his system. He'd shot a man in cold blood.
"Sergei," the woman said.
"What?"
"Are you still with me?"
"Where else would I be?" Sergei moved the dead man's arm and made another turn.
"I need to know what you learned from Pasternak."
Sergei concentrated on his driving and didn't say anything. Some of the glass from the shattered rear window lay scattered across the seat. Two bullets had ripped through the front windshield, as well.
"You learned something," the woman continued. "Otherwise those men wouldn't have killed Pasternak, and they wouldn't have come after you and your partner."
"This is police business."
"Is that where you're headed? To the police?"
"Yes."
"You'll be dead before night falls."
Sergei swerved to miss a car making a left turn. Horns blared behind him. Hang up the phone, he told himself. But he didn't. He gripped it more tightly than ever.
"You don't want to die, Sergei."
He didn't.
"And once they're through with you, they'll kill Mikhalkov."
44
Moscow
Sergei slapped the steering wheel in frustration. He was glancing into the rearview mirror so much that he almost collided with a truck in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and drew attention from the passersby on the sidewalk. Several of them pointed at the car — at the bloodstained windshield, bullet holes and the dead man — then quickly backed away.
"Whatever Pasternak told you," the woman went on, "it's worth your life. You see that, don't you?"
"Yes."
"You could have told your superiors before now. You talked to someone at FSB when Mikhalkov was admitted to the hospital."
Sergei had, and he'd claimed that he hadn't known what had happened that morning because he'd expected Mikhalkov to wake up and tell him what to do. The old man wasn't supposed to be on an operating table. For the time being, Sergei had claimed that Pasternak must have been
taken out by a rival. He'd mentioned nothing about the frail of weapons that had led them there.
"Think about it," the woman said. "You didn't tell your supervisor what you knew this morning. Now you're going to run to him and tell him everything? Won't he be suspicious? Won't he be irritated that you and Mikhalkov took it upon yourselves to pursue a cache of weapons that's somewhere in Moscow?"
It was true. It was all true and Sergei knew it. The FSB hated secrets, and the agency hated agents that withheld information. At the very least, he was going to lose his job. But they could lock him up, too.
"Not only that, but if you're taken into custody, how long do you think you'll live? These people chasing you seem very determined."
The wind whistled through the holes in the car's windshield and reminded Sergei just how determined those men were.
"I cannot go there," he said, and he didn't know if he said that more for himself or the woman.
"I know," she said calmly. "Let me help you."
"I do not even know who you are."
"Then think about that. I could just walk away from this. There's nothing to tie you to me. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have warned you about the men entering the hospital. I want you alive. I want to know what you learned from Pasternak and I need you to help me find those weapons."
Sergei had enjoyed the idea that he worked for some super-secret spy organization within the Kremlin. He had enjoyed spy novels as a boy, and the idea of working in clandestine affairs had excited him. He had only been called on a few other occasions, and he'd made his peace with being a small, anonymous cog in a big operation.
Now he wished that he had remained anonymous.
"Sergei?"
No matter what else happened, Sergei knew he couldn't let Pasternak's deathbed confession be erased. Someone had to know if Sergei and Mikhalkov fell. Whatever the conspiracy involving Kumarin was, it had to be revealed.
"Pasternak told me that he worked for Yuri Kumarin to broker the deal."
"Who is Kumarin?"
Sergei was surprised the woman didn't know. She seemed to know so many other things. "He is a Russian general known for his anti-Chechen political stand."
The woman was silent for a moment and Sergei was certain the news had surprised her. He expected her to break the connection, but she didn't.
