While at the airport he changed the remainder of his deutchmarks to Latvian la tis then headed back into the city. The weather continued to hold, but if anything traffic, was worse than it had been this morning. Riga and its companion city Jurmala, where the international ferries docked, were major Baltic seaports. It was one of the reasons the Soviet Union had fought so hard to keep Latvia. But the nation continued to struggle with its independence from communist rule. Still, nearly half the population was Russian, which created strong ethnic tensions. The new businessmen millionaires were Latvian Mafia, while the Russians, who were constantly being discriminated against, ran their own rackets. Just about anything went here, which was one of the reasons McGarvey had picked this place.
By four o’clock he was in the waterfront district of warehouses and dreary offices above chandeliers and other dingy shops. He found what he was looking for almost immediately, an import/export company under the obviously Latvian name of Karlis Zalite, situated above a small machine parts warehouse. Pallets marked in English, made in germany, were being unloaded from a big truck.
McGarvey parked across the street, and went upstairs to a cramped, grimy office in which stacks of files and paperwork were piled on the floor, on chairs, on two small tables, and atop several large filing cabinets. A young pimply-faced man with thick, greasy hair worked at a tiny desk next to the one window, while the proprietor worked in the back from a much larger, cluttered desk. The place smelled like a combination of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and grease from the warehouse below.
“I wish to hire your firm to import Mercedes automobiles from Leipzig. Can you handle this for me?” McGarvey asked.
“Da, of course,” Zalite, a skinny ferret-faced little man said, rising from his chair. He stuck out his dirty hand. “Mr…?”
“Pierre Allain. I am Belgian,” McGarvey said, shaking hands.
“Your Russian is very good.”
“My father worked in Moscow.”
“Is he still there?”
“He was sent to Siberia to count the birches, and never came back.” McGarvey lowered his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening. “But that was many years ago. Now I wish to do some business with you.”
“Do you have buyers here in Riga for your cars? Because if we can come to reasonable terms, I would certainly take one of them off your hands.”
“These will be for sale in Moscow. Very cheap.”
“I see,” Zalite said, sitting back, and eyeing McGarvey with a sudden wariness. “Perhaps you have come to the wrong man.”
“I wouldn’t sell one of my cars to you, at any price,” McGarvey continued. “Nor would I sell them to anyone in Latvia, or anywhere else other than Moscow. People could… get hurt in my cars. They will get hurt.” Zalite’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a dangerous game you are playing, Mr. Allain.”
McGarvey sat forward so suddenly that Zalite reared back. He slammed his fist on the desk. “I’m going to stick it to the bastards for what they did to me, with or without your help!” McGarvey shook with rage. “Goddamn stinking sons of bitches!” He glanced at the young man, who watched with round eyes. “My father went there to help, and they killed him. They killed my mother too. I’m all that’s left.” “How many units are coming?” Zalite asked respectfully.
“One to begin with, by truck. But there’ll be many more later.”
“Do you have buyers for them in Moscow?”
“Mafia,” McGarvey said through clenched teeth.
“And how will you get these cars there?”
“I’ll drive them, one at a time. I want to see the looks on their faces.”
Zalite hesitated.
“I’ll pay you one thousand deutsch marks above your usual fees,” McGarvey said. “Your name will never be mentioned by me to the Russians. I’ll instruct the car dealer in Leipzig where he may ship the cars, which you’ll store in a secure place until I call for them one at a time.” McGarvey took a Creditbank draft in the amount of DM 1.000 out of his attache” case and laid it on the man’s desk. “This is for the first car, I’ll have another bank draft ready for your fees.”
Zalite eyed the bank draft. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
“That’s my prob leto In the meantime you’ll make a profit. Do we have a deal?”
“Where can I reach you if there’s a problem?”
“If there’s a problem, you handle it. The first car will be here in less than ten days. Will you do it?”
Zalite looked at the bank draft again, then picked it up and put it in his desk drawer. He stood up and extended his hand. “We have a deal, Mr. Allain, if for no other reason than I too would very much like to stick it to the bastards, as you say.”
McGarvey shook his hand. “I’ll call when I’m ready for the first car. In the meantime I’ll count on your discretion.”
“Oh, you have my word on that,” Zalite said earnestly.
From there McGarvey drove back to the Telephone and Telegraph office where he placed a call to Bernard Legler at Mercedes Rossplatz in Leipzig. He gave the German Zalite’s address, and then rang off before Legler could ask any questions.
It was late afternoon by the time he found a parking garage a few blocks from the hotel where he dropped off the Volkswagen and went the rest of the way on foot. He stopped at the bar for a martini, then went back up to his room where he intended changing clothes and coming back down for dinner around eight. He turned on the television to CNN, lay down on the bed and fell asleep in his clothes.
THIRTY-ONE
Lefortovo
Chernov sat at his desk staring at the detailed maps of Moscow, feeling that he was missing something that was vitally important. Paporov was talking on the telephone to Captain Petrovsky at the Militia, and from the tone of his voice Chernov got the impression that there was no news. The FSK was coming up empty-handed as well. As Chernov suspected, the service did not have enough manpower to do its normal work, let alone mount a nationwide search for McGarvey. For instance McGarvey’s photograph hadn’t been distributed to all the border crossings yet, though Gresko promised the job would be completed within the next three or four days.
Moscow was a city of nine million people spread over nearly six hundred square kilometers, the Moscow River meandering sometimes north and south, at other times east and west through it. Defined by four ring roads, the outermost of which was fifteen kilometers from the Kremlin, the city was a maze of broad boulevards, twisting side streets and narrow, dirty back alleys down which many Muscovites feared to travel. Underground, nine separate metro lines crisscrossed the city through more than two hundred kilometers of tunnels. In addition to an extensive storm sewer system, a half-dozen underground rivers all flowed eventually into the Moscow River. In winter, subterranean Moscow was a busy place, populated by a large percentage of the city’s poor and homeless.
Instinctively Chernov felt that McGarvey was no longer in the city. He had come to Moscow and to Nizhny Novgorod to stalk his prey, and to work out his plan for the kill. The fact that he’d been spotted in Red Square led Chernov to the conclusion that McGarvey had chosen the city for the assassination attempt. Putting himself in the American’s shoes, Chernov decided that he would do the same thing. Because once the kill was made there was an unlimited number of places where a man could hide until the dust settled.
Paporov put down the telephone. “The Militia is getting nowhere with the Mafia. They’re shitting in their pants out there on the streets.”
“Did you tell them to keep trying?”
“Da, for what it’s worth,” Paporov said.
“What about Viktor Yemlin, has he made any telephone calls?”
“None of any. significance from his apartment,” Paporov said. “But you were right about one thing. Apparently he has some sort of an electronic device that masks video and audio surveillance equipment, because they got nothing from the Magesteriu’m, and nothing from his dinner with Sukhoruchkin.”
“He’s gotten i
t from his own technical service, which means he knows that we’re on to him,” Chernov said.
“You don’t think he’s dragged the SVR into it, do you?”
“No,” Chernov said. He figured they would have heard something if that were the case.
“Well, if he’s making any important calls, they must be from public phones. I can arrange to tap every pay phone within a four block radius of his apartment.”
“Do it,” Chernov said.
“Still leaves us with the rest of it. I think Valeri Doyla is our best bet, but the stupid bastard gets himself cornered every time.”
“Put someone in the next room. Yemlin’s little electronic toy can’t blind a man, or stop his ears from working.”
“I’ll get on it right away,” Paporov said. He lit a cigarette and came over to Chernov’s desk. “You think it’s going to happen here, and not out in the countryside somewhere?”
“If I wanted to kill Tarankov I’d wait until he came to Moscow,” Chemov said. “There’d be a better chance of escape.”
“It’s a safe bet that the Tarantula will be here on election day. Probably at the reviewing stand in Red Square.”
Chernov looked up suddenly.
“Gives us nine weeks to catch him,” Paporov said. “Because if he makes it this far, and gets mixed up in the crowds, he’ll be impossible to spot. There’s going to be a lot of confusion that day. Some violence too. Maybe some shooting.”
“We don’t have nine weeks,” Chernov said, his eyes going back to the maps, specifically to Red Square.
“Not if we want to catch him before election day.”
“Not election day,” Chernov said. He was amazed by the simplicity of McGarvey’s plan. The brilliance of the man. His audacity.
“What do you mean?” Paporov asked.
“Tarankov is going to come to Moscow on election day. Everybody knows that. Everybody is counting on it. It’s the one day he could come to Moscow and be safe, because nobody would order his arrest. The people would rise up, claiming the election had been fixed.”
“That’s right,” Paporov said. “In the confusion McGarvey could take his shot, and get away with it.”
“All our efforts are being directed to that one day, that one place — Red Square. We have nine weeks, so time is still on our side.”
Paporov nodded uneasily, not yet quite sure where Chernov was taking this.
“But McGarvey has another plan, because he figured out something that the rest of us have overlooked.”
Sudden understanding dawned on Paporov’s face. “Yeb vas. May Day,”
“Very good, Aleksi.”
“Surely Tarankov won’t risk coming in to Moscow so soon.”
Chernov smiled distantly. “You can count on it,” he said. “And that’s the day on which Mr. McGarvey will try to kill him. The day that he himself will die.”
Moscow
“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Yemlin told Valeri Doyla at the Magesterium. “But I have the resources to rectify my error before it goes too far.”.
He and Doyla lay naked next to each other in the wide bed, soft music playing from the hidden speakers. This time he’d refused vodka and the cocaine, because, as he explained, he wanted to enjoy himself. He wanted his head to be clear. And he was not using the anti surveillance device, because he wanted to be overheard.
“What are you talking about, Viktor? Being here like this?” Doyla asked cautiously.
Yemlin chuckled, and caressed the young man’s flanks. “Heavens no. You’re an old man’s comfort.”
“You’re not so old.”
“What would you say if I told you that I hired someone to kill the Tarantula? What would you think about that?”
“I don’t get involved in politics,” Doyla said. He giggled. “It makes my head hurt thinking about it.”
“Mine too,” Yemlin said. “But the bastard has to be arrested, not killed by some hired gun who doesn’t care about the Rodina. I’m going to call him off. He can keep the money — it wasn’t mine in the first place — and he can get out of Moscow, or wherever he is.”
“Can you do this?”
“I’ll figure a way,” Yemlin said. He slapped Doyla’s rump hard enough to leave a red mark, bile once again rising sharply in his throat. “In the meantime let’s talk about something much more pleasurable, shall we?”
Riga
McGarvey rose at 8:00 a.m.” after a solid twelve hours of sleep, and after he showered and shaved he got a copy of the International Herald-Tribune from the newsstand in the lobby, and had breakfast on the terrace overlooking the river and the old city.
In an article on the op-ed page, the writer gave a reasonably accurate, if superficial, summary of the political upheaval going on in Russia as the country headed toward the general elections. Kabatov was the front runner in every poll in which Yevgenni Tarankov’s name was omitted. The general opinion across the country however, was that although the Tarantula could easily win in any election, why bother? Any time he wanted the country it was his for the taking. The military was corrupt and would not stop him, nor would either division of the old KGB which was itself in a fierce internecine battle. The nation was in disarray, and like it or not, Tarankov was likely the one man to bring it together.
An hour later he walked down to the car park, where he retrieved the Jetta, and headed to the train station where he cruised the neighborhoods for a few blocks in a rough triangle bounded by it, the post office and telephone exchange, and the central market. After stopping to ask at several cafes and markets he finally found a black market apartment for rent not registered with the Federal Rent Control Association.
Decent housing, especially in Riga, was scarce, and between discrimination against Russians, and price gouging which had created a lot of tensions, the government had stepped in. First choice went to registered Latvian voters, which made up only thirty percent of the population. Second choice went to well-heeled western businessmen, and the dregs went to Russians. The problem was, that the federal government levied a heavy tax on all registered apartments, so the black market thrived.
The old woman who rented McGarvey the efficiency apartment three blocks from the train station didn’t even ask to see his passport once she was satisfied that he wasn’t a Russian. The rent was 125 la tis or $250, a week. He paid for a month in cash, which included an old plastic radio, a small black and white television, and postage-stamp-sized private bathroom. A pay phone was located in the downstairs hall. The apartment was surprisingly clean, and looked down on Gogala Street, busy with truck traffic.
By the same process, but asking at a different set of cafe’s and markets, McGarvey found a secured parking stall in what once had been a warehouse near the train station, and only three blocks from the apartment, paying the rental fee of fifty la tis per week a month in advance.
On the way back to the hotel he bought a heavy duty combination lock from a variety store, then parked the Jetta in the lot near the hotel, and was back for a late lunch a little before two o’clock.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon touring the old city on foot, partially to kill some time, but mostly because he’d been cooped up, for so long that he needed fresh air and exercise.
There was a subtle air of sullenness among the Latvians he saw. Although the cafes and shops were filled, the streets were busy with traffic, the beer gardens humming, and every third person seemed to be speaking on a cellular phone, a sharpness of attitude was prevalent. All of Riga seemed to be pissed off. In part, McGarvey supposed, because they were finding that independence and freedom were not easy. Latvia and the other Baltic republics were still dependent on Russia for their day-to-day financial stability. The Russian economy was coming apart at the seams, yet Latvia’s future remained wedded to Russia’s, and nobody liked it.
Back at the hotel by six, he stopped at the front desk and told them that he would be checking out in the morning after breakfast, and would need h
is car out front by 8:00 a.m.
He had room service send dinner up to his room, and watched CNN with a detached interest. The real world didn’t seem to exist other than as a fantasy on television. It was a strange feeling, one that always came over him at this point in a mission. It was as if he had removed himself from the human race for the duration.
In the morning he would park the Mercedes in the garage he’d rented, come back for the Volkswagen, pick up a few groceries at the market, and settle in the apartment to wait for the other Mercedes to arrive from Leipzig. He was being hunted for. It was time to lay low to see if anyone was coming after him before he made the next move.
Tarankov’s Train
By 10:00 p.m.” Chernov was on the M1 motorway out of Moscow heading toward Smolensk a little more than three hundred kilometers to the southwest. The BMW seven hundred series was in excellent condition, and the evening sky, though moonless, was clear and star studded. The highway which ran nearly straight through the lake country was all but deserted, and he was able to push the car well over 130 kilometers per hour. The windows were up, and the tape deck played Mozart, so that he felt very little sensation of hurtling through the night.
He’d called a blind number in Moscow, identified himself by the code name Standard Bearer, and received the cryptic message Alpha-one-three-one-stop. It was a grid reference for Tarankov’s train stopped on a siding fifty kilometers east of Smolensk.
“I’ll arrive before midnight,” Chernov said.
There’d been-no answer, nor had he expected any. But his message would have gotten through to Tarankov that his chief of staff was on the way.
Since Chernov had been dispatched to Moscow, Tarankov had conducted no further raids. The first was scheduled for the day after tomorrow on the former Lithuanian trade capital on the Dnieper River, which was why the train had been moved to within fifty kilometers of the city.
Assassin km-6 Page 31
