His documents identified him as Yuri V. Bykov, a former chief investigator with the KGB’s First Directorate Counterintelligence service. His rank had been lieutenant colonel. After twenty years of service he’d retired on a meager pension to Krasnoyarsk where he taught police science at a technical institute specializing in training private bodyguards and security service officers. The fiction would stand up to scrutiny because Tarankov’s people owned the institute. The news that Viktor Yemlin and his pro-reformers had hired an assassin to kill Tarankov sometime between now and the general elections in June, had come as a surprise only because Chernov didn’t think they had the courage of their convictions. If the assassin tried and failed, they would be executed as traitors. And even if the assassin were successful, Yemlin and the others would still stand trial as traitors because Tarankov’s name would soon be placed on the presidential ballot. However, the news that an independent commission was being formed to find and stop the assassin, with Chernov under the Bykov alias heading it, had been completely unexpected. What were they in Kabatov’s government, he wondered, complete fools? They wanted to save Tarankov’s life so that he could be arrested, tried and convicted for treason, and then executed. Why not stand back and let the assassin do their dirty work for them? The plot could be laid directly on the doorstep of the American government, and Kabatov would emerge the victor. The idiot was shooting himself in his own foot. Chernov showed his pass to the guards at the desk inside the main entry hall, was searched, and finally directed to a bank of elevators across from a statue of Lenin lit from above by a glass and chromium steel dome. The government headquarters was busy today. In a couple of weeks the Duma would be in session, and staffs were arriving in Moscow to get ready for the legislative sessions. Russians loved politics, a fact that Chernov had not been completely aware of until he’d joined Tarankov, and of necessity became something of an expert. Riding up in the elevator he got the distinct impression that the old Senate Building was like a beehive that was being disturbed by forces outside of the legislature’s control. Everyone in Kabatov’s government, and in the Communist Party, were buzzing around in all directions with little or no sense of purpose. No one was at the controls. The queen bee was dead or dormant. The workers and the drones were left in a blank frenzy.
In a sense, Chernov thought, his being here was a bit of poetic irony. Who better to catch an assassin, than another assassin? In his days with the KGB’s Department Viktor, he’d been among the best, because he was as brilliant as he was methodical, and his half-brother Arkady Kurshin had been his teacher. Besides being a weapons expert, he’d devoted much of his studies to human psychology. But unlike Tarankov’s wife whose specialty was crowds, his was the psychology of the individual, especially the individual under stress. Arkady, before his death, had told him that being a hunter of men was much the same as being a hunter of wild animals. In order to be a success, the assassin had to understand his prey and his prey’s habitat.
During the coal strikes in the eighties, Chernov had been assigned to kill three of the union’s leaders. Before he’d set out for the far east, he’d immersed himself in studies of the mines and the men who worked them. He’d also studied the trade labor movement in Russia as it compared to Communism and to the trade union movement around the world. By the time he was ready he knew that above everything else these men were proud of their physical strength, and ability to endure danger. They were men for whom any sort of a challenge was irresistible.,
Chernov got a job in the coal mines, where-he quickly came to the attention of the union because of his outspoken criticism of what they were trying to do. The union leaders were crooks. They were skimming the union fund, and didn’t care about the miners. They were only interested in politics to advance their own careers.
He didn’t have to assassinate them. One by one they confronted him face to face, and in three no holds barred fights, in which hundreds of miners watched, he killed them with his bare hands. He was a hero of sorts. Afterwards his death was faked in a mine accident, and he returned to Moscow, promoted to major for a job well done. Not only had the back of the strike been broken, but Moscow was able to blame the miners’ troubles on their own leadership. Chernov’s action set the union movement in Siberia back by ten years.
After his brother was killed in Portugal, and the Soviet Union under Gorbachev began to fall apart, Chernov quit the KGB, and dropped out of sight. For a few years he worked as a contract killer for a number of Mafia groups, until he began hearing about Yevgenni Tarankov. Within a year he was working for the Tarantula, and six months later he was Tarankov’s chief of staff, a job he was beginning to feel could only last a few months longer no matter the outcome of the assassination plot, or the election. Russia would continue to sink into chaos no matter what Tarankov did. The real fight, Chernov thought, was gaining momentum in the West.
He had to show his documents and submit to another search when he got off the elevator on the fourth floor. An aide brought him down the broad corridor and into an anteroom outside the president’s office, where General Yuryn was waiting with Militia Director Captain General Mazayev.
“Yuri Vasilevich, I’m glad you’re here at last. We were just talking about you,” Yuryn said. “Now we can get down to work.”
“I was surprised to get your call, Comrade General,” Chernov said, shaking hands. “I didn’t know if you had remembered me.”
“If half of what Nikolai says about you is true, you would be a man hard to forget,” General Mazayev broke in.
“I’m truly flattered, sir,” Chernov said, shaking hands with Mazayev. “But it has been a long time since I worked for the KGB.”
“Not so long that you’ve forgotten your duty to your country,” Mazayev said sharply. “But I’m not familiar with the Bykov name. Was your father in the military?”
“He was killed in Hungary, Comrade General. But you would not know his name because he was only a tank commander.”
“Credentials enough for me,” Mazayev said. “Let’s not keep the president waiting.” He turned on his heel and went into Kabatov’s office.
Yuryn held back. “You should have been in Moscow this morning. There is something that you need to know.”
“I was delayed, Comrade General. Nothing I could do about it.” Chernov tried to gauge Yuryn’s mood, but the FSK director’s pudgy face was devoid of anything but a slight irritation. “Is it important?”
“Very. But you’re going to have to watch yourself now. No matter what you learn in the next few minutes, you must maintain your Bykov identity. Do you understand?”
Chernov shrugged. “Nothing surprises me anymore, Comrade General. Not even you.”
Yuryn went into the office and Chernov followed him inside. President Kabatov was seated behind his desk, General Mazayev and another man Chernov immediately recognized as Yeltsin’s former chief of security, General Korzhakov, were seated across from him.
“Mr. President, this is Yuri Bykov, the investigator I told you about,” Yuryn said.
Chernov crossed to the desk and shook Kabatov’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President. May I wish you good luck in the June elections?”
“Thank you,” Kabatov said, a little expression of pleasure crossing his features. “Do you know my chief of security, General Korzhakov?”
“No, sir,” Chernov said.
The general looked at him with barely disguised contempt. But he shook hands. “Do you know why you’ve been summoned here, Bykov?”
“To catch an assassin who is coming to kill Yevgenni Tarankov,” Chernov replied matter-of-factly. He and Yuryn sat down.
“Do you think you can do it?”
Chernov shrugged. “That depends on what we know about this assassin and his plot, who hired him, and what kind of support I’ll get, Comrade General. But there can be no guarantees, though I think killing the Tarantula might be more difficult than this assassin might believe.”
“Be that as it m
ay, your job will be to catch him before he has the opportunity to try,” Korzhakov said, his grave voice harsh. “As for your support, you’ll have anything or anybody you need. An office has been set up for you at Lefortovo Prison. It’s out of the public’s eye, which for now will be one of your guiding principles.”
“The Militia will not conduct an all out manhunt,” General Mazayev put in. He glanced at Kabatov. “It is felt that by so openly going after this assassin, it would make it seem as if we are supporting Tarankov, when in fact the opposite is true.”
“Mr. President, may I be frank?” Chernov asked, turning to Kabatov.
“Of course.”
“General Tarankov is no friend of this government. In fact if what I read in the newspapers and see on television is true, he means to restore the Soviet Union to the old ways. Why not let this assassin slip through our fingers and do his best? Maybe we should help him.”
Kabatov started shaking his head even before Chernov finished. “If we’re to remain a nation of laws this sort of thing cannot be allowed to happen.”
Chernov almost laughed out loud. The man was a bigger fool than Yeltsin had been. Tarankov is a murderer.”
“For which he will be arrested, and tried in a court of law,” Kabatov said vehemently, his face red. “Presidents Lindsay and Chirac have both promised me their fullest support in finding the assassin. So if you agree to direct the investigation you’ll have the unprecedented cooperation of the CIA, the FBI and the SDECE.”
Chernov decided that he could be surprised after all. “The assassin is a westerner?”
“He’s an American living in France,” Kabatov said.
“In fact he’s a former CIA officer,” Yuryn added a little too quickly. Kabatov and the others shot him a dirty look.
“Before we get into all of that, will you take the job, Comrade Bykov?” the president asked. “Will you find and stop the assassin?”
“Da,” Chernov said, masking his momentary confusion. Yuryn had tried to warn him about something and now he was trying to send a signal. “Who is this American, Mr. President?”
Kabatov handed him Yuryn’s report. “His name is Kirk McGarvey, a name you may be familiar with from your days in the KGB. He’s done the Rodina a great deal of harm during his career.”
It was as if a ton of bricks had fallen on Chernov’s head, and it took everything within his power not to overreact, to hide his true feelings of absolute hatred. He opened the folder and began to read about Viktor Yemlin’s part in the plot, his trips to Tbilisi, then Paris and finally Helsinki where he met with the American. Through the reading Chernov tried to concentrate on the content of the report in an effort to block out his other thoughts, those of loathing and bitterness and even fear. His brother had been one of the best operatives that the KGB’s Executive Action Department had ever fielded. Under Baranov’s direction the department had run circles around the secret intelligence services of every country in the west. Murder, kidnappings, sabotage, his brother had been the best, until McGarvey killed him in an operation gone bad in Portugal.
Coming up in his brother’s footsteps, Chernov had often dreamed of revenge. But his brother had once told him that revenge was only for fools. The best operative was the man who could commit murder dispassionately, without remorse, without regret, and totally without emotion. Arkady had come up against McGarvey and lost on a number of other occasions, and Chemov had to wonder if in the end his brother hadn’t violated his own principle of dispassion in going against McGarvey one last time, and it had been his undoing.
Aware that Kabatov and the others in the room were watching him, Chernov looked up. “The name is vaguely familiar. Do we have a file on him?”
“Quite an extensive file,” Yuryn said. “Which will be made available to you this evening. I’ve also assigned you a communications assistant. If you want anyone else, you need only ask.”
“Is Yemlin being watched in case McGarvey tries to contact him again?”
“Yes,” Mazayev said. “Outside SVR Headquarters he can’t fart without my people knowing about it.”
“Why isn’t the SVR represented here this morning? Aren’t they in on this investigation?”
“Not for the moment,” Yurya said. “If Yemlin has help within the agency it would do us no good to share information with them. It might get back to McGarvey.”
“Has anyone contacted the CIA or the French?”
“Not directly,” Yuryn said. “If you haven’t finished reading my report I suggest you do so.”
Chernov did so, and in the next page he was struck another nearly physical blow. “McGarvey was here, in Moscow, and—” He stopped in mid-sentence. The bastard had been in the crowd at Nizhny Novgorod. The date matched, and there’d been that drunken soldier. Something about his eyes had bothered Chernov at the time. He hadn’t seen a photograph of McGarvey for several years, but he remembered the man’s eyes now. Penetrating, almost like cold laser beams shooting directly into a man’s skull.
Gathering his wits, he closed the report. “McGarvey was here in Moscow and nobody did anything to catch him?”
“A great many Muscovites went to Nizhny Novgorod last week to see Tarankov’s bloody spectacle, so it’s possible that Mr. McGarvey was there. But since nothing happened, we’re assuming he came here on a scouting trip, and has since left Russia — possibly back to France — where he is making his plans.”
“Has McGarvey’s photograph been distributed to train stations, airports, hotels, border crossings?
“Nyet,” Mazayev said heavily, and a look passed between him and Korzhakov.
“What is it, Comrade Generals?” Chernov asked.
“The fact of the matter is that Tarankov has many supporters in all walks of life,” Yuryn answered.
“All the more reason to make McGarvey’s photograph available. You would have an army of patriots willing to help save his life.”
“An odd word to use — patriot — Bykov,” Kabatov said.
“They believe that they are patriots, Comrade President,” Chernov replied.
“Are you one?”
“No, Mr. President,” Chernov said. “But if we are to catch McGarvey, extraordinary measures will have to be taken. As you said, he has caused the Rodina a great deal of harm. It must mean he is very good at what he does.” “The best,” Yuryn said.
“Then it won’t be easy. Who can I trust?”
“Us in this room,” Korzhakov said. “If you need something, you’ll have to get it from us.”
“To avoid any confusion, I think that I should work with only one of you.”
“I agree,” Kabatov said. “Since it was General Yuryn who suggested you, he will be your liaison to the rest of us.”
“Very well. Are the files. I need at Lefortovo?”
“Yes,” Yuryn said.
“Who is this assistant of mine?”
“Aleksi Paporov. He’s as good as they come. His English and French are flawless, he’s a computer whiz and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“All that is good, Comrade General, but who does he report to?”
“Why, you, of course,” Yuryn said.
“Who else?”
“No one.”
Chernov turned to the others, his blood singing. “My methods tend to be unorthodox, comrades. But if I am allowed to do this my way, I will catch this assassin before he reaches Tarankov.”
“Then I suggest you get started,” Kabatov said.
“One final thing, Mr. President,” Chernov said. “I would like a letter signed by you, giving me complete authority in this investigation. My methods might seem more than unusual to some people. I don’t want any delays getting special authorizations.”
Kabatov looked to his chief of security, who was once again staring at Chernov.
“He has a point,” Korzhakov said.
“I’ll have the letter sent to you at Lefortovo in the morning,” Kabatov said. “Is there anything else?”
“No, Mr. President, other than catching this American.”
“Then good luck,” Kabatov said, rising.
Chernov shook hands with him. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
Mazayev and Korzhakov also wished him luck, and shook his hand, and he left the president’s office with Yuryn.
“Do you have a car here?” Yuryn asked in the corridor.
“No.”
“Paporov will arrange one for you. In the meantime have you got someplace to stay?”
“I’ll stay at Lefortovo for now,” Chernov said.
“Good, I’ll drive you over,” Yuryn said and they went downstairs and climbed into the back of a Zil limousine.
The meeting had lasted less than a half-hour, and the sky was finally beginning to clear up, though the sun had set and it was dark. Yuryn’s car shot out the Nikolskaya Tower gate, swept across Red Square and raced northeast toward Lefortovo Prison in Bauman suburb.
“You handled yourself very well in there,” Yuryn said. “Do you really know how to catch this bastard? Or was that all talk?”
Chernov felt almost dreamy. His brother had been wrong about revenge. Arkady had to have been wrong, because at this moment nothing else seemed to matter. He would find and kill McGarvey not for Tarankov’s sake, and certainly not for that fool Kabatov’s sake, but for nothing more than a sweet revenge.
“I’ll kill him,” Chernov said softly, not caring if Yuryn heard him or not.
Traffic was heavy, but the Zil traveled in the official lane. Traffic cops waved them on, and Chernov watched, more in love with Moscow now than the first time he’d come here from the far east, because it was here that he would settle an old score, and afterward he would leave Russia forever. Right now it was as if he were seeing an old love for the last time. He was going to make the most of it.
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