The Persian Gamble

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  It was then that the news about the assassinations of Luganov and Nimkov finally broke on Radio Moscow. The anchor, her voice thick with emotion, read a statement that had just been issued by the presidential spokesman. The report had few specifics, but two items hit Marcus and Oleg like a double-barreled shotgun blast.

  The first was that Prime Minister Grigarin was dead as well.

  The second was that Oleg was being accused of the murders of all three.

  22

  This was the first they’d heard of Grigarin’s death.

  Neither Marcus nor Oleg had been anywhere near the prime minister’s residence, nor had Jenny. So who had killed him? How had it been done? And why? And why were the authorities pointing the finger at Oleg?

  As they drove, the questions kept coming. The answers did not. Soon they were approaching the outskirts of the fishing village. Lights were on in every home along the way. Fires blazed in every fireplace; they could see smoke pouring out of every chimney. Businesses and schools were closed due to the freakish weather. Marcus could picture families huddled around their televisions or radios, listening to the horrifying news out of the Kremlin.

  He was starting to feel guilty for having left an open bottle of vodka at the snowplow driver’s side. It was clever but unkind. The man would be found soon enough. If his fellow drivers or the police found him “blacked out” in the cab, he’d protest his innocence and insist that someone had jumped him, framed him. But would anyone believe him? Marcus had noticed the driver was wearing a wedding band. What if he also had kids? What if he were fired? How would he support his family?

  Marcus wasn’t used to lying and deceiving people. He wasn’t cut out for it. He didn’t work for the CIA. He wasn’t a spy. He’d never dreamed of being a NOC, a “nonofficial cover” officer. He’d never been drawn to the black ops side of the intelligence community.

  He’d grown up on the Front Range of Colorado with a simple dream of being a police officer. He wanted to enforce the law, not break it. He wanted to protect people, not kill or frame them. His decision to enlist in the Marines had been spontaneous. He’d seen the al Qaeda attacks on TV on 9/11. He’d watched the Twin Towers collapse and the Pentagon burn, and he’d been enraged. He couldn’t abide the thought of sitting on the sidelines while his country was savaged by radical Islamists. So he’d signed up and headed for Afghanistan and Iraq. Later he’d joined the Secret Service for pretty much the same reason. He knew the Islamists were going to come after his nation’s leaders. He had the skills to protect the president, the vice president, and other dignitaries and felt the responsibility to do so. It wasn’t more complicated than that.

  Now, however, he was in uncharted waters. He wasn’t acting on orders from Langley or the White House. In fact, for the first time in his adult life, he was not acting under any legal authority, and it unsettled him. What exactly were the rules he was playing by? And how was he going to get the three of them out of Russia without further injury or needless violence? At the moment, Marcus had no idea. So he uttered a silent prayer—of gratitude that they’d survived this long and for the wisdom to know what to do next.

  It was well past midnight on the Front Range when Marjorie Ryker got home.

  It was rare that she stayed up this late, rarer still that she went out to a movie with the ladies from her Bible study. It wasn’t simply that she couldn’t afford many extras, living on her monthly Social Security check and a modest Air Force pension after the death of her first husband. She also had no desire to fork over a single dime to the movie moguls who kept pumping toxic sewage into the country she both loved and feared for, even if her senior discount did entitle her to free popcorn and a soda.

  She fumbled with her keys for a moment upon arriving back at her modest two-story home on the north side of Monument and wished she had remembered to change the lightbulb on the porch before she’d left for the multiplex. The moment she finally got in the door, the phone was ringing off the hook. It was her eldest daughter, calling from Fort Collins. The tone in her voice put Marjorie instantly on edge.

  “Mom, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling you all night.”

  “I went to the movies with Helen and Pam.”

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “No, why? What’s going on?”

  “There’s been a shooting in Moscow.”

  “Where?” Marjorie asked, not immediately grasping the import.

  “Moscow, Mom—isn’t that where Marcus is?”

  “Uh, well, he was, but—”

  “Someone has killed the Russian president and the prime minister and some other guy. Wasn’t Marcus going to meet the Russian president?”

  “Yes, yes, he was, but relax, honey; he left there several days ago. He should be back in Washington by now. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “That’s what I thought. But I called him, Mom—six times in the last hour. He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him myself,” she told her daughter. “I’m sure he’s fine, but I’ll get back to you the moment I hear anything.”

  The two women reluctantly said good-bye and hung up. Marjorie Ryker steadied herself against the wall with one hand and a kitchen chair with the other. She’d had to fight back her worries for her son for as long as she could remember. Her defense mechanism was to tell herself that everything was fine until she knew otherwise. She’d been the wife of a fighter pilot, after all. She knew all about the men in her life taking risks. She would never get herself out of bed in the morning if she let herself constantly dwell on her fears. It wasn’t denial, she told herself. It was faith. God was real and he was big and he was sovereign, and she’d better trust him every moment of every day or she’d be a paralyzed wreck.

  Her dependence on God had driven her out of her bed and down to her knees in prayer on countless nights when those men didn’t come home. It had driven her to her knees the night she’d learned her daughter-in-law and grandson had been murdered. And she knew it would drive her to her knees tonight as well.

  23

  About a half kilometer east of the tiny fishing hamlet of Ozerki, Oleg pointed to the dacha owned by Boris Zakharov’s brother. Marcus slowed and studied it carefully. It was dark and shuttered. No light emanated from any of the first- or second-floor windows. No smoke curled from the chimney. The driveway hadn’t been shoveled or plowed since the storm first hit. It was covered in nearly a foot and a half of freshly fallen snow.

  “Empty,” said Oleg. “Just like I said.”

  Marcus stopped but didn’t pull in.

  “What’s the matter?” the Russian asked. “That’s the place, and we need to get Jenny inside.”

  “An unplowed driveway doesn’t tell us anything,” Marcus said. “How do we know the brother isn’t there but just sleeping? Or what if he’s away, like you said, but someone else is visiting or house-sitting? How many brothers and sisters does Boris have?”

  “Just the one brother.”

  Marcus was still wary. To pull in and enter the house without any idea what was happening inside was a risk. With the news breaking out of Moscow, they could not afford to be seen by anyone, and any miscalculation could prove fatal.

  But finally he decided Oleg was right. They needed a base camp, at least for a day or two, for Jenny’s sake as well as their own, some place safe to sleep and cook and figure out their next moves, and the Zakharov dacha was as good as any. The chance that anyone was home was minimal. And where else were they going to go on the Karelian Isthmus in a blizzard in their second stolen vehicle of the day?

  Marcus switched on the four-wheel drive and backed down the driveway. If they needed to get away quickly, this ought to give them a bit of an edge. Putting the Jeep in park, Marcus double-checked the silencer-equipped, Russian-made pistol in his pocket. Then, leaving the engine running, he stepped out into the drifting snow, partially closed the driver’s door behind him, and moved around to the rear of the house.

  Pe
ering through the back windows, he saw no signs of human activity nor evidence of a pet. He spotted a boathouse down by the water’s edge, already boarded up for the winter. There wasn’t another dacha for at least a half kilometer on either side. For the moment, he was satisfied. There was no one around.

  He tried to open the back door. It was locked. He tried several windows, but they were either locked or frozen. He unsheathed the hunting knife from his belt and used it to pop out a small pane of glass from the frame of the back door. He expected to hear the glass clatter on the floor, but when there was very little sound, he concluded the floor must be carpeted. He paused for at least a full minute, straining to hear any sound indicating someone stirring inside, but it was difficult to hear much of anything over the roar of the storm. Finally he reached his gloved hand inside the window and turned the lock to the right. Then he pulled his hand back out, put away the knife, and turned the handle.

  When the door creaked open, Marcus stepped inside and shut the door behind him. There were white utility curtains on all the windows, and they were drawn. He realized he’d forgotten to bring a flashlight. He stood motionless for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the shadows and listening for movement.

  He had entered a small dining room. There was an antique mahogany table in the center of the room, surrounded by five matching upholstered chairs, two on either side and one at the far end. Across the room was an antique hutch containing fine china—plates, goblets, and serving dishes of various kinds. The floor was covered by a thick carpet that looked Persian or perhaps Afghan. Through an archway, Marcus could see into a darkened living room. He spotted an overstuffed chair and the edge of a coffee table, and he could hear the rhythmic ticktock, ticktock, ticktock of what sounded like a grandfather clock around the corner.

  The kitchen was to his immediate right. It was sparse and spotless. Marcus saw no dishes piled up in the sink, no pots on the stove. A refrigerator hummed against one wall. There was a coffeemaker plugged in on the counter. It was empty and off. The room was cold, as was the entire house, though not cold enough to see his breath. That meant the heating system was on but left on a low setting, perhaps simply to keep the water pipes from freezing and bursting.

  The house had all the signs of being owned by an older man—a pensioner, in all likelihood. Comfortable but not wealthy. The place seemed empty, yet something bothered Marcus. For a moment, he couldn’t place it. He scanned both rooms again, and then a third time, before it struck him. There was no dust on the kitchen counters or the dining room table. He could not see a fireplace from this vantage point, but the longer he stood there, he began to smell the slightest trace of woodsmoke. It was not fresh, but it was not old. And where was the sixth chair at the table? The carpet was worn down where the four legs of the chair usually sat. So where was it?

  Marcus’s pulse quickened. His fists tensed. Someone was living here, and they had been here recently.

  Slowly he moved toward the living room, measuring each step, his senses on full alert. His right hand moved toward the pistol in his pocket. But it was too late. As he came around the corner into the living room, he found himself smashed over the head with the missing dining room chair. Stumbling back, he saw a figure charging at him. The man drove into Marcus’s gut and sent him sprawling back over the table and into the hutch, which toppled onto him, sending dishes crashing. His assailant shoved the table aside and grabbed another chair, raising it over his head and bringing it down with all his might.

  Marcus rolled right just in time. The chair shattered in a hundred pieces. Splinters went flying everywhere. Marcus held his hands over his head in a defensive posture, protecting his eyes and face. The man kicked Marcus in the back and then in the stomach as he tried to roll away. Then he reached down, seized Marcus by his jacket, yanked him to his feet, and began landing one blow after another into Marcus’s stomach and ribs.

  The man was enormous, well over six feet tall, and immensely powerful. Caught almost completely off guard by the attack, Marcus was having trouble fending off the blows. Then the man landed a direct strike to Marcus’s face.

  He heard the cartilage in his nose crack.

  24

  The force of the blow sent Marcus staggering across the kitchen.

  He slammed into the fridge and collapsed to the floor. Blood was gushing from his nose. But when his assailant moved in to finish him off, Marcus counterattacked. Surging with adrenaline, he lunged, driving his head into the man’s midsection. They smashed into the back door, and Marcus began returning blows.

  Suddenly the man drove his knee deep into Marcus’s stomach, then shifted his weight and achieved a reversal. Marcus was now on his back. His attacker was on top of him, pinning his legs to the floor and driving his meaty fists into Marcus’s bleeding head.

  Face-to-face now, Marcus was stunned. He had expected to see a young man. Instead, the figure raining blows down on him had to be in his mid to late sixties. He was completely bald and had a thick graying beard, yet his body was rock hard. He was not only a skilled fighter, he had the eyes of a killer.

  Marcus feverishly tried to maneuver, to alter the dynamic, but he was being overpowered and beaten to a pulp. No one could hear them struggling, and no one was coming to help him. He’d given Oleg strict orders to stay in the car and keep Jenny safe. Marcus’s mind reeled, searching for options.

  He’d been foolish in taking Oleg’s advice and coming to this house. He had failed to listen to the warning bells going off in his own head. In so doing, he’d put their lives and mission in mortal jeopardy. But there was no room for hesitation now. It was kill or be killed. So Marcus stopped second-guessing himself and let his training take over.

  The first thing he did was stun his attacker by no longer protecting his face with both arms. The man’s eyes flashed with fury and delight, assuming his victim was giving up. But as the blows came down even harder now, Marcus reached for the hunting knife attached to his belt. He quickly unsheathed it, and before the man saw what was coming, Marcus plunged the blade into his stomach—the only organ he could reach—and ripped it laterally with all his strength.

  The killer’s eyes turned to shock and then to horror. The punches stopped coming. Blood began to pour from his mouth. Marcus felt his weight shift and seized the moment. He pulled the knife out of the man’s midsection, grabbed the handle with both hands, and drove it into his chest. Simultaneously he kicked his legs free and flipped the man onto his back, where he thought he could finish him off.

  But he refused to die. Instead, he kneed Marcus in the groin and shoved him away. Marcus lost his grip on the knife and scrambled backward. The man rose to his feet and brought both hands to his chest as though he was going to remove the knife but then seemed to think better of the idea. Instead he stumbled to the kitchen, ripped open a drawer, and pulled out two butcher knives.

  A twisted smile spread across the man’s face. His teeth were dripping with blood. This was no mere pensioner. He had to be a former Special Forces operator, perhaps even a Spetsnaz commando. Without question, this was a man who had seen far more combat than Marcus had, a man who had killed for a living and loved what he did. Even though he now knew he was going to die, he clearly had no intention of dying alone.

  Marcus sprang to his feet and backed away. His opponent was moving toward him, raising both knives as he approached. Marcus knew what was coming. He was going to hurl them, one after the other, and when Marcus was down—and he would surely go down—his attacker was going to gut him like a deer.

  Marcus suddenly backed into something. The grandfather clock. He glanced left, looked right, but there was no place to run, no chance to flee. The front door was locked. The back door was blocked. He was out of options, save one. He, too, was a trained professional, with reflexes honed after years in the Marines and the United States Secret Service.

  His eyes locked with the killer’s, Marcus slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, careful not to make any sudden
moves to shift the man’s gaze. Finding the pistol, he gripped it hard. There wasn’t time to draw it out, and there was no need to. Marcus simply squeezed the trigger once, then again, and then a third time. Shock came across the man’s eyes. Then those same eyes rolled up in the man’s head. The knives fell from his hands, and he collapsed to the floor.

  Marcus didn’t dare go near him to check his pulse or see if he was still breathing. Even if he was, what then? He hadn’t the skills to put this guy back together, and he certainly couldn’t take him to a hospital or call an ambulance. So Marcus finally drew the pistol from the smoking pocket of his leather jacket, aimed, and put two more bullets in the man’s chest, just to be sure.

  Only then did he go to the lavatory, crack his nose back into place—wincing in pain—and stuff his nostrils with toilet paper. Only then did he wash the blood off his face and proceed to thoroughly search the house. Only then did he pick up the knives and take them back to the kitchen. And only then did he head for the garage.

  25

  Oleg gasped when he saw Marcus’s battered, swollen face.

  “What in the world . . . ?”

  But Marcus said nothing. Instead, he got in the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind him. Then he backed the Jeep into the garage and parked next to a gleaming new Mercedes C 300 sedan. He shut off the engine, got out, pulled the garage door down, and locked it.

  “Help me get her up to one of the bedrooms,” Marcus said quietly. “Then I’m going to need a little help cleaning up.”

  Oleg nodded but said nothing more. Instead, he got out of the passenger side and came around the Jeep to the rear door that Marcus had just opened. He took Jenny’s legs as Marcus slipped his arms under hers and lifted her out.

  It was not difficult work. Jenny was slender, lean, and by no means heavy. Oleg pegged her weight at about fifty-five or sixty kilos, give or take—maybe 130 pounds. Probably in her early thirties. She was of medium height—about Oleg’s height, in fact—with a runner’s build.