Assassin km-6

by David Hagberg

  The question Yemlin asked himself was not whether he had the courage to help McGarvey succeed against all odds by whatever means he could, but whether he had the courage to continue being a Russian.

  “I went to the Magesterium on Friday where I was given drugged champagne and was seduced. I told them about hiring McGarvey to kill Tarankov.”

  “Who does the girl work for?”

  “It wasn’t a girl,” Yemlin said, lowering his eyes. “It was a young man. And he probably works for the.

  FSK.”

  Sukhoruchkin’s mouth hung open. “You were drugged, Viktor. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Yemlin said nothing. “But if you were drugged how do you know if you spoke McGarvey’s name? Maybe you dreamed it.”

  “I went back tonight, to the same young man. This time I seduced him, and drugged him. He told me what I’d said.”

  Sukhoruchkin sat back and closed his eyes for a moment. “I see what you mean,” he said softly. “But the first time wasn’t your fault, and the second time you had to find out what they knew.”

  “If I stay, there’ll have to be a third time, Korstya. The only way I can help McGarvey how, short of calling him off, will be to feed the FSK disinformation.”

  “We can’t call him off.”

  Yemlin nodded.

  “If it’s any consolation, my old friend — and I expect that it’s not — if I were in your shoes I would probably do the same thing. But you’re right, it is easier to give your life for your country. Infinitely easier.”

  Yemlin’s eyes met Sukhoruchkin’s. “Do you think badly of me, Korstya?”

  “On the contrary, my old friend. I think that at this moment you are the bravest man in Russia.”

  Paris

  McGarvey watched the dawn come up over the suburb of Courbevoie, finally ready to leave. His two soft leather suitcases and laptop computer were packed, he’d bought his air ticket for Leipzig yesterday, and in addition to his Allain credit cards, he carried nearly twenty thousand francs in cash, and five thousand in British pounds. On Friday he’d arranged a letter of credit in the amount of $150,000 to be deposited in the name of Pierre Allain at the Deutches Creditbank, and had been assured that it would be in place no later than this afternoon.

  Rencke, who would drive him to Charles de Gaulle, was downstairs in the kitchen, but they hadn’t spoken yet this morning.

  The last few days had been intense, made all the more so by the stunning revelation that Tarankov’s chief of staff, Leonid Cheraov, was Arkady Kurshin’s half brother. When the information had come up on Rencke’s computer monitor McGarvey had been physically staggered, and he stepped back.

  “What’s wrong, Mac?” Rencke asked, alarmed.

  “I killed his brother in Portugal a few years ago.” McGarvey touched his side where he still carried the scar where the doctors had removed one of his kidneys that had been destroyed when Kurshin shot him. “I didn’t know he had a brother.”

  Rencke looked at the picture on the monitor. “Did you ever come face-to-face with Chernov? Does he know you?”

  “He has to know about me.”

  “Would he have recognized you in Nizhny Novgorod?”

  “I don’t know,” McGarvey said. He was back in the tunnels beneath the ruined castle where their final confrontation had come. It was dark, and water was pouring in on them. He’d been lucky. He got out and Kurshin had been trapped. And it was luck, he told himself now as he had then, because Kurshin was every bit as good as he was. In some ways even better, because he’d been more ruthless, less in love with his own life, so he’d been willing to take their fight to extremes.

  “Call it off, Mac,” Rencke had said” Because if he finds out that you’re coming after Tarankov he won’t stop until he kills you. I’ve read Kurshin’s file. If this one is as good, he might succeed.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “There’s almost nothing in the SVR’s own files about him, except that he was the best. It’s why he’s with Tarankov. Think it out, Mac. Tarankov just isn’t worth it-“

  “Nothing has changed.”

  Rencke jumped up. “Everything has changed, you silly bastard. If they get so much as a hint that you’re after Tarankov you won’t be able to do it. You can’t fight the entire country.”

  “If he finds out, Otto. In the meantime I still have the advantage, because I know about him.”

  “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

  “Yes, I am.” ‘

  “No.”

  “Bring up the probability program you worked out on Tarankov, goddammit. Nothing has changed. If he wins we could all be in trouble.”

  “Just probabilities, Mac. I could be wrong!”

  “Have you ever been wrong?”

  Rencke hung his head like schoolboy. “No,” he said softly.

  “Then I leave Monday morning.”

  “What’s in Leipzig anyway?”, - “An old friend,” McGarvey had said.

  He glanced at his watch. It was a little after 7:00 a.m. He stubbed out his cigarette, put on his jacket and went downstairs. Rencke was seated on the kitchen table, drinking from a liter bottle of milk and eating Twinkies. He looked up, his eyes round.

  “Is it time?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you want a Twinkie, Mac?”

  McGarvey had to laugh. “Have you ever had your cholesterol checked?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t eat so many of these as I used to, and I switched to milk a few years ago.”

  “What’ did you drink before?”

  Rencke shrugged. “A half-dozen quarts of heavy cream a day. Tastes a hell of a lot better than milk, you know.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Moscow

  Aleksi Paporov left the office at Lefortovo a little before nine in the morning, and returned an hour later with a distinguished looking older man in a gray fedora and western cut blue pinstriped suit, who carried an artist’s portfolio.

  “This is Dr. Ivan Denisov, professor of reconstructive surgery at Moscow State University and possibly the very best facial sketch artist in all of Russia,” Paporov introduced him to Chernov.

  “Doctor, we need your help this morning,” Chernov said.

  Dr. Denisov was confused. His eyes blinked rapidly behind thin wire rimmed glasses. “I don’t understand, am I under arrest?”

  Chernov smiled. “On the contrary, Doctor, I would simply like you to draw a face for us from a description which I’ll give you. Will you do this?”

  “Yes, of course,” Dr. Denisov said, relief obvious on his features. “Who is this person you wish me to sketch? Is it an accident victim … a corpse?”

  “Nothing like that. Just a man we would very much like to find,” Chernov said soothingly. “But first I must inform you of something that unfortunately the law requires of me. What you see and hear this morning must remain secret. Even the fact that you were brought here must remain a secret.”

  “Major Lyalin told me that much already,” the older man said, blinking again, and Paporov smiled.

  “Well, the major is correct. Because the man whose face you’ll draw for us is a mass murderer who specializes in young children. But he may be an important man with connections so we don’t want to frighten him off before we have enough evidence to arrest him. Can you understand this?” “Da,” the professor said seriously. He took off his coat and Paporov hung it up for him.

  He sat at one of the desks, where he took out a large sketch pad and charcoal pencils from his portfolio. He looked up expectantly.

  “This is a man of about fifty, husky, a rather square face, thick hair—” Chernov begun, but the professor interrupted him.

  “First things first. Is this man a Russian? A Georgian? A Ukrainian?”

  “Does it matter?” Chernov asked.

  “Yes, indeed. Think of the difference, for instance, between a Siberian and a Muscovite who both are possessed of a husky frame, with a rather square face and thick hair.
”

  “He’s an American.”

  Dr. Denisov hesitated for only a moment. “Has he lived in Russia for long?” he asked, and before Chernov could speak, he went on. “That too makes a difference. Because if he lives in Russia he will get his hair cut here. There is a distinction.”

  “He has lived in Paris for some years. He’s come to Russia recently, but I don’t think he got a haircut while he was here.”

  “Very well,” the professor said, and he began to sketch the outlines of a head, Chernov standing above and behind him.

  “His cheekbones are a little wider and higher,” Chernov said.

  The professor made the changes. And gradually, under instructions from Chernov, a face began to emerge from the sketch pad that fifteen minutes later was the face of the soldier Chernov had seen in Nizhny Novgorod.

  “Is this him?” Dr. Denisov asked, looking up.

  Chernov was mesmerized by the sketch. Especially the eyes. The professor had gotten the face exactly right. Even down to the nuAnces of the expression Chernov had witnessed on the soldier’s face.

  “Major, show the good doctor the latest photograph we have,” Chernov said.

  Paporov went back-to the desk Chernov had used, broke the seal on McGarvey’s photo file, and brought one of the 20X25 em color glossies over to Dr. Denisov.

  “This was taken three years ago,” Paporov said.

  “Is that the same man?” Chernov asked.

  “Of course. There’s absolutely no question about it. He’s aged some, though not badly. And the man you described for me was obviously trying to disguise his features by not shaving, by changing the expression on his mouth, and to some extent in his eyes. But there’s no doubt.” Dr. Denisov looked up at Chernov. “But this is no mass murderer.”

  “Oh, but he is, Professor,” Chernov said. “You cannot imagine the blood he’s spilled, and the blood he will continue to spill if he’s not stopped.”

  Dr. Denisov looked again at the sketch. “Then he is a very dangerous man, perhaps even more dangerous than you suspect.”

  “What makes you say that?” Paporov asked.

  “Because the man in the photograph and in my drawing must be a master of deception. The man I’m seeing is determined, and probably hard, but he gives the appearance of a kind person. With perhaps a sense of humor.”

  “He’s probably schizophrenic in that case, Doctor, because he is a killer.”

  “Then I wish you luck in catching him,” Dr. Denisov said.

  Chernov tore off the sketch and the next four blank pages. “Don’t speak to anyone about this.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.”

  While Paporov was taking the professor back to the university, Chernov compared the sketch to the dozen photographs in McGarvey’s file. Whatever lingering doubts he might have had about the validity of Yuryn’s report were dispelled. McGarvey had come to Russia to stalk his prey. There was no doubt that he meant to kill Tarankov. The only questions now were the where and the when. With a man such as McGarvey the assassination could come at any time and at any place, especially when it was least expected. But he wasn’t a martyr, which meant he not only knew how and where he was going to kill Tarankov, but he also knew how he was going to escape afterward.

  It was nearly 11:30 by the time Paporov returned. He tossed his coat aside and went to the desk where the sketch and McGarvey’s photographs were laid out.

  “Where did you see him?” he asked.

  Chernov sat perched on the edge of one of the desks smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of tea. He looked languidly at his aide. “What makes you think I did?”

  “McGarvey’s photo file was sealed. You never looked at his pictures before you described him to Dr. Denisov.”

  “I remembered his file from the old days. He has a face that’s not easily forgotten.”

  “But this doesn’t look like any of the photographs,” Paporov said, glancing at the sketch. “I was told that he was here in Moscow, and I thought how he must have aged, and the probability that he was here in disguise.” Chernov shrugged.

  Paporov gave him an odd look, then chuckled. “You’re even better than I thought you were, Yuri.”

  Chernov forced a smile. “If you’re going to run around masquerading as a major, I’d better become a general.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Chernov glanced at his watch. “I want you to make several copies of the sketch, and one of the photographs. We’ll give them to the Militia and FSK and let them hunt for the mass murderer.”

  “That’ll get it out in public okay without tipping our hand. But where do we look besides here in Moscow?”

  “Wherever Tarankov is expected to show up.”

  “How do we find that out?”

  “Leave that to me, Major. I have a few sources of my own.”

  “I’ll bet you do, General,” Paporov said.

  It was precisely noon when FSK Major Porfiri Gresko and Militia Captain Illen Petrovsky showed up at Lefortovo Prison and were directed back to the special operations office, where Chernov let them read the letter that President Kabatov had sent over this morning.

  “I wondered what this was all about,” Major Gresko said, impressed. He was division chief of the intelligence service’s Special Investigations Unit, the same position Captain Petrovsky held in the Militia.

  When Petrovsky looked up, his dark eyes narrowed. “If you ask me we ought to let the American kill him. Save us all a pain in the ass.”

  “You’re not being asked,” Chernov said coldly. “You can refuse this assignment if you wish, in which case a replacement will be found.”

  “Right,” the Militia captain said. “How can we help?”

  Paporov handed them copies of McGarvey’s photograph and the sketch.

  “His name is Kirk McGarvey. He’s a former CIA field officer, who for a number of years has worked freelance,” Chernov said. “Believe me, gentlemen, when I tell you that he is very good at what he does.”

  “Was he a shooter?” Gresko asked.

  “One of the best.” “I think I heard of him. Something or other with General Baranov and that crowd a while back,” Gresko said. “Who’s hired him to kill the Tarantula? The CIA?”

  “No, it’s our own people,” Paporov said. He gave them copies of Yuryn’s report. “Needless to say this entire affair is to be considered most secret.”

  “You’ll have no problem from me,” Petrovsky said. “I’m just a cop, and I’d rather Tarankov never know my name.”

  Both men read the report, which with transcripts ran to about forty pages. When they were finished they sat in silence for a few moments.

  “I was told that I would receive special instructions from General Yuryn when I got back from this meeting,” Gresko said. “I didn’t know about this operation, except that Colonel Yemlin has been under investigation for something. Those pricks out on the ring highway think they’re almighty gods.” He laughed and shook his head. “And here all the time they were nothing but a bunch of cocksuckers and traitors.”

  “From this point both your services are to conduct the surveillance operation on Yemlin and on all of his contacts. Wherever the man goes, whatever he does, I want to know about it. But he mustn’t suspect anything. Nothing is to get back to the SVR. Not even a hint.”

  “Why not just arrest the bastard?” Gresko asked. “Because there’s a possibility that he’ll make contact with McGarvey at some point,” Chernov said.

  “How about McGarvey?” Petrovsky said. “How far can we take this?”

  “For the moment he’s to be considered a mass murder suspect. Initially you’ll start your investigation here in Moscow. Hotels, the railway stations, airports, restaurants.”

  “The Mafia?”

  “If you have the solid contacts,” Chernov said. “I don’t want some Mafia boss finding McGarvey first, and then selling us out. He’s a wealthy man. If he offered enough money to the right people we’d lose hi
m-“

  “Is he still here in Moscow?” Petrovsky asked.

  “I don’t know, but I suspect not. He probably came here for information, and he may have gone back to France where he’s making his preparations. But we’ll have help. The CIA and French SDECE have agreed to find and detain McGarvey for us.”

  “On what charge?” the Militia cop asked. “The Americans are especially touchy on that issue. So long as McGarvey breaks no laws in his own country, or in France, there’s not much they could do.”

  “If they find him, they’ll hold him long enough for us to send someone over to interview him. Afterwards we watch him.”

  “But he’s good, the best, you said,” Gresko pointed out. “Which presents us with a number of unique problems. We don’t know where he is, nor do we know his plan or his timetable. We can’t use the services of our own SVR, nor apparently can we make public the real reason we’re hunting for him, although I don’t understand that all.”

  “It’s political,” Chernov said. “President Kabatov does not want Tarankov assassinated. He wants the man arrested and brought here for trial.”

  Petrovsky laughed out loud. “Not likely to happen,” he said. “But we do know our timetable. It’s ten weeks before the elections. Kabatov’s people must either arrest Tarankov before then, or McGarvey has to kill him, or else all this becomes a moot point. Tarankov will win the election.”

  “Why not concentrate our efforts on-arresting Tarankov?” Gresko asked.

  “The military is working on it.”

  Gresko smirked. “Then they’d better pull their heads out of their asses, because from what I heard some good boys lost their lives outside Nizhny Novgorod.”

  “That’s not our job,” Chernov said.

  “What do we do if we find him?” Petrovsky asked.