He reattached the main spare tire to its bracket, then reinflated the extra spare tire using the electric pump plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter.
When that was done, he tossed the pump and tire irons into the thicker brush, cleaned his hands in the creek, then lit a cigarette as he waited for the deepening dusk to turn to darkness.
A faint sound came to him on the light breeze and he cocked an ear to listen. A helicopter, he thought. Maybe more than one. He tossed the cigarette aside, and stepped away from the overhanging trees.
The sun had already set but the western sky was still dimly aglow, making it easy for him to pick out a formation of four helicopters heading cross country toward the southwest. They were Mi-24 Hind attack helicopters, their silhouettes easily distinguishable. So far as he knew the FSK did not use such aircraft, which meant there was probably a military base somewhere in the vicinity. The most likely explanation was that the formation was on a training maneuver.
McGarvey glanced up at the highway. The helicopters were heading in the general direction of the border. Such exercises were common because of the ongoing trouble between the Latvian government and Russians still living in Latvia. The maneuver could be one of intimidation.
But he doubted it. The timing was too coincidental. But if they knew or suspected that he would be coming across from Latvia, then a great deal of his preparations had somehow been blown. Possibly by Yemlin. Possibly his Allain passport had been compromised. The list wasn’t endless but it was long. He’d been on too many assignments where a number of little errors and coincidences added up to a major problem for him to ever believe that he was truly safe.
When the helicopters finally disappeared in the distance, he started the Mercedes. At the crest of the hill he paused a moment to make certain there was no traffic in either direction, then headed east on the M9 toward Moscow a little over three hundred miles away, as he considered his options should the helicopters return.
In the Air West of Moscow
It was dark by the time the modified HormoneD search and rescue helicopter finally cleared Moscow’s airspace, the city of Volokolamsk directly ahead of them. Petrov sky had picked Chernov up on Red Square late because there’d been some delay in obtaining the necessary clearances from the Moscow District Military Command to overfly the city. Once they’d passed the outer ring highway the pilot found the M9 and followed it west, the throttles pushed their stops. The crew had not been told what the mission was about, but they were suitably impressed by Bykov’s credentials so that when they were told to hustle they asked no questions. They hustled.
Traffic on the motorway was heavy, but Chernov expected that it would thin out to next to nothing on the other side of Volokolamsk, which was one hundred kilometers from the center of Moscow, because there were no major cities between there and the Latvian border. The problem, of course, was picking out a specific automobile in the dark, when all that was distinguishable were headlights.
Petrovsky had been speaking or! the radio, and he came forward to where Chernov was braced behind the copilot, a concerned expression on his face.
“He crossed the border two hours ago.”
“Under the Pierre Allain passport?” Chernov demanded.
“Da. He’s driving a gunmetal-gray Mercedes sport utility vehicle, with the proper in-transit documents. There was no reason for the customs people to detain him because the warrant for McGarvey didn’t show up until fifteen minutes ago.”
“What about the air force up there?”
Petrovsky looked uncomfortable. “They sent up a squadron of Mi-24s, but their instructions were to remain within their training area. They’re not authorized to go any farther.”
“Exactly how far is that?” Chernov asked, holding his temper in check.
“Two hundred kilometers from the border.”
“They spotted nothing, of course. Because he had nearly a two-hour head start,” Chernov said. He turned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. The man cocked his head, but did not take his eyes off the windshield.
“Sir?”
“As soon as we get to the other side of Volokplamsk, I want you to fly right up the middle of the M9, but no higher than eight or ten meters. I want to be able to identify every vehicle down there. Can you do that?”
“Yes sir,” the pilot said. “What are we looking for, Colonel?”
“A gray Mercedes four-by-four.”
“Will do,” the pilot said.
Chernov turned back to Petrovsky. “Radio the base commander up there and tell him that I want his helicopters to start again at the border, and follow the M9 toward us, at an altitude of no more than eight or ten meters.”
“You mean to catch the bastard between us?” Petrovsky said.
“That’s the idea.” Chernov said, although he didn’t think it was going to be quite that easy.
Petrovsky started to turn away when Chernov called him back.
“When you’ve done that, I want every cop in Moscow to be on the lookout for that gray Mercedes. It was stolen.”
“He’ll never get that far, Colonel.”
“Just do it,” Chernov ordered sharply.
“What are they supposed to do if they spot him? My street cops wouldn’t be any match for him if he’s as good as you say he is.”
“Tell them to report directly to you, and follow him. Nothing more.”
En Route to Moscow
It was nearly eight o’clock when the Mercedes pulled off the main highway near a tiny hamlet dark at this hour, followed a bumpy road up to the onion domes of an Orthodox church and parked under the shelter of a grape arbor at the entrance to a cemetery. McGarvey shut off the headlights, got the gas cans from the back and filled the tank.
He estimated that he was two hundred miles from the outskirts of Moscow, and with any luck he’d be in the city well before midnight with plenty of time to take care of one final preparation before he went to ground.
What little traffic he’d encountered were mostly trucks heading east, with an occasional passenger car, and one bus.
The only city of any size that he would have to pass through would be Volokolamsk. By then the traffic would pick up, but it was only another fifty or sixty miles into the outskirts of Moscow where he figured he might be safe unless they’d transmitted a description of his car to the police there. But he’d picked this color Mercedes because it was common in Moscow.
Finished with the gas cans, he put them back in the cargo section, and happened to glance down at the highway east of the village in time to see what at first appeared to be a truck. Its headlights were unusually bright and seemed very far off the ground.
McGarvey stepped around the back of the Mercedes to get a better look, when the lights rose up into the sky at the same moment he heard the distinct chop of a helicopter’s rotors.
As the machine slowly flew over the village, a spotlight searched the main road and the side streets.
McGarvey eased back a little farther under the grape arbor. This was no coincidence. The military helicopters at the border had been conducting a search. And now this machine was coming directly down the M9, obviously searching for someone.
The helicopter’s spotlight went out as it dropped down to twenty feet or so above the highway on (his side of the village, and headed west.
It was possible that the military helicopters he’d seen earlier were a part of a coordinated search, and would be heading east by now. When this helicopter met them without any sign of McGarvey they would turn around and retrace the highway, greatly expanding their search pattern to include hiding places such as the trees where he’d stopped by the creek, and this grape arbor.
While he waited for the helicopter’s lights to disappear into the distance he studied his road map. Three main highways entered Moscow from the west. The M9, which he was on, came from Riga. The M10 from St. Petersburg was well to his north, and the M1 from Smolensk and Minsk was about ninety miles to the south. Eve
n the most recent Russian maps, however, showed very few of the secondary roads that connected the smaller towns and villages between the main motor routes, although he knew they were there.
The three highways funneled into Moscow, so the farther east he got before turning south, the closer he would be to the M1. If he got off the M9 now, he might get bogged down in the countryside and never reach the other highway. But if he remained on the M9 too long, the helicopter that had just passed might turn around and overtake him. One hour, he decided, as he watched the receding lights of the helicopter. Then, no matter how far he got, he would turn off the M9 and head across country to the south.
Abandoning the speed limit, McGarvey barreled down the highway at ninety to one hundred miles per hour, slowing only for. small towns and villages, and the occasional truck still on the highway. Each time he saw the oncoming lights of another vehicle, he slowed down and prepared to douse his own headlights and pull off the road until he made certain that what he was seeing wasn’t another helicopter.
It was a few minutes after nine when he came upon an unmarked paved road heading south. He’d been watching his rearview mirror, but so far there’d been no sign of the returning helicopter. Nonetheless he figured he’d pushed his luck far enough, and turned onto the secondary road. Within five miles he came to a collection of a half-dozen peasant houses, shuttered and dark, and on the other side of this village the road continued, but the pavement stopped.
The winter had been a harsh one, and the spring very late in coming so that the road, which at times was little more than a dirt track, was still reasonably firm. In a couple of weeks it would turn into a ribbon of deep sticky mud that even the big Mercedes might not be able to manage.
For stretches he was able to push the Mercedes to speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour, but for most of the way he had to keep below forty, and sometimes he was even slowed to a crawl as he had to detour around ruts that were five or six feet deep.
He was passing through mostly farmlands, he could tell that much but little else in the dark. Occasionally he passed through tiny villages of eight or ten crude hovels, and for twenty minutes he had a conglomeration of lights in sight, low down on the horizon to the west, which he took to be a factory, or possibly a power station.
But he never saw the helicopter again, so by 10:30 when he finally reached the M1 near the town of Gagarin with the outskirts of Moscow barely one hundred miles away, he dropped back to the posted speed limit of 90 kilometers per hour and lit his first cigarette in two and a half hours.
West of Moscow
For nearly four hours there was no sign of the gray Mercedes anywhere on the highway between the Latvian border and the outskirts of Moscow. Given the time since McGarvey had crossed the border, he could have made it to Moscow by now. So far Petrovsky had received three radioed reports of Mercedes four-by-fours in Moscow, but in each sighting the cops, on the ground checked the license tags with the motor vehicle department and found them to be legitimate. In all three sightings the officers reported that the drivers were not alone, they carried passengers, something Chernov didn’t think McGarvey would do.
“Where the hell did he go?” Petrovsky asked a little before midnight. “He couldn’t have disappeared’ into thin air, unless he’s hiding somewhere.”
They’d touched down in a farm field just off the highway three hundred kilometers from Moscow to take on fuel from one of the air force Mi-24s, and stretch their ‘ legs. “He might have spotted the helicopters and done just that,” Chernov said, staring into the darkness. “He’s not a stupid man.”
“If that’s true than he knows that its all over for him. He’ll probably ditch the car and try to make it to the nearest border. He might be hiding somewhere in Volokolamsk, changing his identity and waiting for the morning train.”
“Do we have anyone watching the station?”
“No, but I’ll see to it. We’ll close that place up so tightly that even a mouse couldn’t get through,” Petrovsky said. “It’s his only option now. He’s not on the M9, which is the only route from Riga into Moscow, so he has to be in Volokolamsk.”
Petrovsky went back to the helicopter to radio his instructions, leaving Chernov standing by himself in the darkness.
He shook his head, tiredly. McGarvey was smart, but he wasn’t a fool. If he had seen the helicopters, and realized that they were searching for him, he would have to turn tail and run. But he had not run. Chernov was certain of it, because men like McGarvey never did.
Chernov thought about it, putting himself in McGarvey’s position. His mission was to assassinate Tarankov, for which he had a plan. He would understand that things could go wrong, they always did, and he would have planned for them. McGarvey would be able to think clearly on the run. Even backed into a corner, he’d find a way. His extensive file made that quite clear.
Chernov turned and looked at the helicopters. The fueling operation was complete, and the squadron commander, who was a young man barely out of his twenties, started over to where Chernov was waiting.
Petrovsky was wrong. It came to Chernov all of a sudden. The M9 was one way into Moscow, but not the only highway. To the north was the M10, and to the south the M1, either of which could be reached with the right vehicle. Such as a half-track or, now before the fields and dirt road had turned to mud, a Mercedes four-by-four.
The squadron commander saluted. “Your helicopter has been refueled, Colonel. Do you want us to make another sweep back to the border, or should we concentrate our efforts toward Moscow?”
Petrovsky jumped out of the HormoneD and came across the field in a dead run.
“Return to base, Lieutenant,” Chernov said. “Thank your people for me, but your work is finished for tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” the squadron commander said. He saluted and went back to his helicopter.
Petrovsky came up in a rash. “The bastard’s in Moscow. He must have been spooked because somehow he made it to the M1. They spotted him on the outer ring road.”
“They didn’t try to stop him, did they?” Chernov demanded.
“Nyet. They’re just following him for the moment. There’s enough traffic that they think they can pull it off without being spotted themselves, especially if he’s tired and he thinks he’s home free.”
He and Chernov hurried back to their helicopter. “Inform your people that I’ll have then” heads if they lose him. All we need is one hour to get up there.” ‘
“The sonofabitch has made a big mistake after all,” Petrovsky said triumphantly.
“Don’t count on it,” Chernov said.
Moscow
McGarvey parked on the outer fringes of the bustling Dinamo flea market amongst several rows of big Mercedes and BMW sedans, each with one or two bodyguards who eyed him cautiously. He shut off the engine and lights and sat in the darkness smoking a cigarette, the window down. He was very tired. His eyes were gritty, his throat was raw from too many cigarettes and his stomach was sour from lack of food. Several times he thought he might have picked up a tail. But each time he doubled back it was only a Moscow police car on ordinary patrol.
With luck they were still searching for this car somewhere along the M9, figuring that he had pulled off the highway and was hiding under cover. In the morning they would flush him out. Unless Bykov or the people with him were smarter than that. For the next two days, he thought, he would have to lay low. They knew he was coming, and by morning they would know that he had reached Moscow. It made his task even more difficult, but still not impossible.
He tossed the cigarette away, checked the load on his gun, then locked up the car and walked around to the west side of the huge parking lot where the entrepreneur Vasha was leaning up against an American HumVee and talking to a couple of surly-looking men. When he spotted McGarvey he said something to them, and they left.
“Ah, Corporal Shostokovich returns,” the beefy man said. He stank of stale sweat and booze. He looked beyond McGarvey. “I ju
st saw Arkady. Did he bring you out here tonight? He has a lot of money these days. Maybe an inheritance?”
“Something like that,” McGarvey said. “Maybe you’ll have an inheritance too.”
The salesman got a bottle of vodka from the HumVee, cracked the seal and gave it to McGarvey, who took a big drink, then handed it back. Vasha took a deep drink, and smacked his lips.
“Do you want to purchase another uniform?”
McGarvey shook his head. “This time my needs are more specific, and perhaps even difficult to fulfill.”
Vasha motioned toward his Russian army supply trucks. “I have a lot of good stuff here. Some of it pretty damned important, you know.” He shrugged. “Of course if you want a MiG it would take a little longer. But I can get one.”
“A Dragunov,” McGarvey said quietly. “Two magazines of ammunition, ten shots each, a good telescopic sight, and a bag big enough to carry it all when the rifle is partially disassembled.”
“An interesting choice,” Vasha said. The 7.62mm rifle was the Soviet sniper weapon, very simple, lightweight and extremely accurate. “Would there be anything else?”
“A pair of good bolt-cutters.”
“A small explosive device might be more effective, if you could tell me your exact need.”
“Too noisy.”
“What about the noise of the rifle? Given a few days a suitable silencer could be manufactured that would not seriously deteriorate the weapon’s accuracy.”
“It’s not necessary.”
The salesman took another drink and passed the bottle to McGarvey.
“What currency would you pay me for this … equipment?”
“American dollars.”
Vasha thought about it for a moment. “Five thousand.” “For that amount of money I could hire a shooter who would have his own weapon and there would be no need for me to come back to you for more equipment in the weeks to come.”
Vasha licked his lips. ““Then this is not the big project?”
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