Assassin km-6

by David Hagberg

  He was escorted upstairs where he was met in the penthouse foyer by a secretary who led him back to a corner study with panoramic views of the city.

  Five minutes later, Mikhail Gorbachev, wearing a button-up sweater over an open-neck shirt, corduroy trousers and house slippers, entered the study.

  “Mr. President, Russia is heading toward certain disaster and you’re the only man I know who can help,” Yemlin said.

  St. Basil’s Cathedral

  By 3:40 one million people were jammed into Red Square — and still more poured in from around the city. Bleachers east and west of Lenin’s Mausoleum were filled with visiting dignitaries and the press. Dozens of television vans were lined up end-to-end along the Kremlin walls, their satellite dishes pointed up to the sky.

  Soldiers and police manned barricades that held the people back from a broad boulevard that ran up from the river, past the Cathedral, crossed in front of the reviewing stand and opened into Okhotny Ryad at the north end of the square. It was the traditional parade route taken by the troops and their military hardware.

  McGarvey had managed to get a little sleep, and afterward he’d used his pocket knife to remove the lead holding a roughly triangular piece of stained glass about twelve inches wide at its base from the round window. He crouched well back from the narrow opening through which he would shoot and studied the reviewing platform through the Dragunov’s powerful scope. No one had shown up yet. No ceremonial guards, no officers, nor any of the sound technicians. Aimed soldiers were still stationed on the Kremlin walls above and behind the mausoleum, but the reviewing platform was empty, the flags and banners snapping in the stiff breeze that had developed since noon.

  Traditional Russian folk music thundered across the square from loudspeakers sprinkled here and there. Some people danced to it, and around the edges of the vast crowd vendors sold everything from ice cream to beer. It was a carnival atmosphere, except it was obvious that the people were waiting expectantly for something.

  With Kabatov dead no one had stepped in to fill his place or else they would have come to the reviewing stand by now. The city, and the entire country was waiting for Tarankov’s triumphal entrance to Red Square where he would mount the platform and tell his people that he had come to restore the Soviet Union, to give them back their dignity and their pride, to feed and clothe and house them, to give them back their jobs, their hospitals and their peace of mind.

  But at what cost, almost no one seemed to be asking.

  Most of the frequencies the scanner was picking up had been oddly quiet. Very little had come from the Kremlin’s security detail after the search of the tunnels by divers had ended in disaster. Only the frequencies used by the Militia and army crowd control units remained busy. A dozen arrests had been made, a few fights broken up, and a number of handguns confiscated.

  Jacqueline had positioned herself beneath one of the arches on the opposite side of the central dome from where she could watch the main entrance below. So far the church remained empty. McGarvey glanced over at her at the same moment something coming over the radio caught his attention.

  “Azarov Brigade, say again your ETA at Leningrad Station.”

  “We’re three minutes out,” an excited voice responded. It sounded as if he were radioing from a moving vehicle.

  “Pull back to point B. I repeat, pull back to point B, he’s already there.”

  “Copy. I don’t want to get into a firefight with his people up here. We won’t have a chance without reinforcements.”

  “You’ll be coming in behind him, so watch yourself,” the first speaker warned. “Gamov and Sokol brigades, are you in position yet?”

  “Gamov, roger.”

  “Sokol, roger.”

  “Keep your eyes open, this is a go,” the first speaker said.

  Apparently the government was finally doing something, but McGarvey was almost certain that they were making a very big mistake. If they meant to stop Tarankov, yet keep the civilian casualties to a minimum, the job should have been done out in the countryside by a direct attack on his train. Or else Leningrad Station could have been evacuated and as Tarankov’s troops dismounted they could have been cut down. But by avoiding a firefight up there, they were taking the battle to a Red Square jammed with innocent people. No matter how many troops they had at their command, a crowd of a million people was an unstoppable force.

  McGarvey carefully laid the rifle down, climbed out of the arched cupola and waved at Jacqueline until he caught her eye.

  She started around the scaffolding, and he met her halfway.

  “Has it started?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “His train just pulled into Leningrad Station so he could be here in fifteen or twenty minutes. But the government is going to try to ambush him.”

  “Good, then we can get out of here right now,” said Jacqueline, relieved.

  “They’ve missed him at the station, so they’re coming down here.”

  Jacqueline glanced over toward the window. “It’ll be a massacre with all those people waiting for him. Merde, are they stupid?”

  “They’re desperate,” McGarvey said. “And they won’t succeed, so I’m staying here.”

  Jacqueline looked into his eyes. “Then I too shall stay.”

  “I want you to go down to the garden entrance, the one you used to get in here, and make sure it’s clear. As soon as I take my shot, we’ll get out. We can lose ourselves in the crowd.”

  She wanted to argue with him, but after a moment she kissed him on the cheek, and then made her way down to the gallery level that provided access to the other parts of the Cathedral.

  McGarvey was glad she hadn’t asked him about Liz. Listening to the radio had given him an idea for a contingency plan in case everything fell apart here.

  Leningrad Station

  Elizabeth McGarvey was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, yet she was still determined to somehow kill Tarankov with her bare hands, if need be because she had no weapon. They’d not fed her breakfast or lunch, so she’d not been able to steal a table knife or a fork. Nor had she found anything in her compartment that could be used as a weapon.

  Two minutes ago they’d screamed to a halt a hundred yards from the big railroad station, the doors on most of the armored cars crashed open, steel ramps were extended with a tremendous din, and a dozen armored personnel carriers roared into life, forming up along the tracks next to the train.

  Thousands of people up on the street waved banners and cheered, the noise they made so overwhelming that even over the roar of the APCs, Elizabeth could hear them. The door of her compartment opened, and she spun around, ready to attack like a wild animal, but Tarankov was not with the two stern-faced commandoes.

  “You will come with us now,” one of them ordered.

  “Fuck you,” Elizabeth shouted in Russian, and she lunged at them, swinging both fists.

  The commando grabbed her by the arms and sent her crashing into the compartment wall, bending her elbows behind her back so hard she thought her shoulders would be dislocated.

  When she settled down they pulled her out into the corridor, where one of them pawed her crotch and grinned.

  “We’ll have some fun with you tonight, you little bitch,” he promised.

  Outside, she was hustled across the tracks and shoved into the lead APC with eight commandoes. Tarankov stood on top in the gunner’s turret, and the moment the hatch slammed shut he gave the order to move out.

  Elizabeth was pushed into a bucket seat near the back of the vehicle, and had to brace herself in order not to be tossed around.

  It was happening as she feared it might, leaving her no chance of fighting back. But the opportunity would come, she kept telling herself. It was her only hope, her only connection with sanity.

  The Kremlin

  Chemov put down the telephone as one of the city engineers came rushing down the corridor into the deserted Security Center with Captain Petrovsky. The SVR heli
copter he’d ordered would touch down inside the Kremlin walls on the opposite side from Red Square between the Borovitskaya and Water Drawing towers in ten minutes. The pilot, a Tarankov supporter, agreed to stand by until Chernov showed up.

  “St. Basil’s,” Petrovsky shouted.

  The engineer spread a large scale yellowed plan drawing of a part of the river and storm sewer system downtown. Over this he laid a clear plastic sheet upon which had been drawn the locations of the metro stations and tunnels, and the’ major buildings from Dzerzhinsky Square all the way down to the Moscow River.

  The outflow they entered drops into what is part of the Neglinnaya River System. But it branches into three tunnels so that during the spring melt off the system won’t overload and flood. It’s why only a portion of the dye showed up here. A third of it went directly beneath Red Square, and the last third here.” The engineer stabbed a blunt finger on St. Basil’s outlined on the plastic overlay.

  “Is there access from the river into the church?” Chemov asked.

  “Yes, sir. Through the crypts,” the engineer said. “They didn’t come up here, and they didn’t show up in the Moscow River. So unless their bodies are still down there, they came up inside St. Basil’s.”

  “Within shooting distance of the reviewing stand,” Petrovsky said.

  “That’s it,” Chernov shouted, and he bolted for the door, shouting for Petrovsky to follow him.

  Outside, they piled into Chernov’s car and shot across the Kremlin toward the Trinity Gate, figuring they could circle around the crowds in Red Square and approach the Cathedral from Varvarka Street.

  “Radio your people and have them cover every exit,” Chernov ordered.

  “They’re gone,” Petrovsky said.

  Chernov glanced at him. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Just that, Colonel, and I can’t say that I blame them. But we have another problem. General Vashleyev’s people are going to try to arrest Tarankov.”

  “I heard,” Chernov said. “They missed him at Leningrad Station, but if they try anything down here there’s going to be a blood bath.”

  “Mostly civilian,” Petrovsky said dourly.

  “I thought you didn’t support Tarankov.”

  “Let’s just say that I’m hedging my bets, Colonel,” Petrovsky said.

  St. Basil’s

  Tarankov’s column roared into Red Square from the north, raced down the broad boulevard in front of the masses of people who were joyously screaming his name, and pulled up in a semicircle in front of Lenin’s Mausoleum. The soldiers and police manning the barricades were overwhelmed by the press of people trying to get closer, aided only by the intimidating presence of the twelve heavily armed APCs now facing outward, their big diesel engines idling as if they were a pack of rabid dogs making ready to attack. The crowd surged only so far then stopped, their front ranks making an undulating line back up the square to the north.

  Even the international media kept its respectful distance, though dozens of television cameras were trained on the column, and a few of the bolder photographers closed in on the lead APC from both sides hoping to catch a shot of the Tarantula. “Target is in place, are you in position Gamov Brigade?” the radio beside McGarvey stopped at the active frequency.

  “Roger, we’re in place at the south end of the square.”

  “Sokol, any trouble at your position?

  “Nyet, we’re clear.”

  “Okay, Azarov Brigade, we’re set down here, what’s your ETA to bottle the northern route?”

  “Five minutes.”

  McGarvey studied the lead APC through the Dragunov’s telescopic sights. The top hatch of the gun turret was open but no one was manning the position as they were on the other eleven vehicles. The wind had increased in the past half hour, and whipped the exhaust from the diesel engines from McGarvey’s left to right, making any attempted shot in the cross wind difficult at best.

  The music suddenly stopped, and the crowd began to quiet down.

  “COMRADES, MY NAME IS YEVGENNI TARANKOV, AND I HAVE COME TODAY TO OFFER MY HAND IN FRIENDSHIP AND HELP,” a voice boomed from the loudspeakers.

  Now the vast crowd fell totally silent, and even the soldiers at the barricades looked over their shoulders at the lead APC.

  The APC’s personnel hatch opened, and McGarvey switched aim, moving the sniper rifle’s safety to the off position with his thumb.

  Chernov and Petrovsky were stopped from entering Red Square from the east by a skirmish line of five hundred heavily armed troops backed by three T-80-T tanks, with Moscow Defense Division markings on their sides, so they had to double back to Ilyinka Street that ran along the south side of the department store GUM.

  Tarankov’s amplified voice boomed across the otherwise silent square, as Chernov and Petrovsky left the car and hurried down the street on foot.

  They had to show their IDs before they were allowed through the barricades into the square itself, which took more precious time. By now Tarankov would be climbing out of his APC, exposing himself to McGarvey’s shot.

  When they were through, they raced along the edge of the crowd, shoving people out of their way as they ran, Tarankov’s speech continuing to roll across the vast open space.

  “OUR COUNTRY IS FALLING INTO A BOTTOMLESS PIT OF DESPAIR,” Tarankov said.

  A figure appeared at the open hatch, paused a moment then stepped out. It was one of Tarankov’s young commandoes. McGarvey held the scope’s cross hairs steady on the hatch.

  “OUR FORESTS ARE DYING. OUR GREAT RIVERS AND LAKES HAVE BECOME CESSPOOLS OF WASTE. THE AIR IS UNFIT TO BREATHE. THE ONLY FOOD WORTH EATING FILLS THE BELLIES OF APPARATCHIKS AND FOREIGNERS.”

  Seven more armed commandoes dressed in plain battle fatigues climbed out of the APC, and formed a tight knot in front of the hatch.

  “OUR CHILDREN ARE DYING AND OUR WOMEN ARE CRYING, BUT NO ONE IN MOSCOW CAN HEAR THEM. NO ONE IN MOSCOW WANTS TO HEAR THEM.”

  McGarvey caught a glimpse of a smaller, much slighter figure emerging from the APC, and his stomach fluttered when he recognized his daughter. Directly behind her Tarankov climbed out, and taking Liz’s arm immediately moved behind the protective screen of his much taller, much larger commandoes, making any shot impossible.

  “OUR HEALTH CARE SYSTEM IS BANKRUPT,” Tarankov said, as he and his men moved toward Lenin’s Mausoleum.

  “All units, sixty seconds to first air strike, “the scanner radio beside McGarvey stopped at the active frequency.

  A ninth commando emerged from the APC, and went immediately over to Tarankov, who was still speaking.

  “OUR MILITARY HAS BECOME LEADERLESS AND USELESS.”

  “Azarov Brigade, what is your ETA?”

  “Two minutes,” an excited voice radioed.

  “Sokol and Gamov will back you up if he heads your way, but you’re going to have to hold him.”

  “HOOLIGANS AND PROFITEERS ERODE OUR LIVELIHOODS LIKE CANCER. THE MAFIA EATS BEEFSTEAKS AND CAVIAR, DRINKS SWEET CHAMPAGNE AND DRIVES CADILLACS AND—”

  Tarankov’s amplified voice cut off in mid-sentence.

  McGarvey caught glimpses of Tarankov, and the ninth commando to come out of the APC. They seemed to be arguing. The commando pointed back at the APC, and then up to the sky to the southwest.

  “Forty seconds, all units keep your heads down in case he doesn’t move,” the excited voice on the scanner radioed.

  Liz suddenly tried to break away, but Tarankov pulled her back, slapped her face, rocking her head back, and the commandoes surrounding him closed ranks even tighter.

  No shot. Even without the wind there would have been no guarantee that if he fired he might hit Elizabeth, and McGarvey was beside himself with frustration and rage.

  The ninth commando said something else to Tarankov and then the knot of commandoes headed back en masse to the lead APC.

  McGarvey waited for an opening, any opening, but Tarankov ducked into the safety of the APC first, followed by Eliz
abeth and then his commandoes, and the hatch was shut.

  “He’s on the move! He’s on the move! Azarov Brigade, he’s coming your way right now!”

  Two of the APCs moved out, leaving Tarankov’s vehicle to take up the third position, the others falling in behind, and they roared off to the north, the crowds stunned into inaction, hardly able to believe what they were witnessing. Their savior was deserting them for some unknown reason.

  Pocketing the scanner radio, but leaving the now useless sniper rifle behind, McGarvey climbed out of the arched cupola, and scrambled down the scaffolding to the gallery level seventy-five feet below and started for the rear of the church where Jacqueline was waiting at the garden door. He was sick at heart for his daughter, because he didn’t know how he would make it in time to save her.

  He reached the rear of the main onion dome, when the church doors crashed open below him.

  “McGarvey,” a man shouted, the same man from the storm sewers. Chernov!

  McGarvey slipped back into the shadows as he took out his Walther and removed the silencer. There was no longer any need for stealth, and the silencer seriously degraded the accuracy of the gun. From where he stood he could see the arch leading to the outer vestibule.

  “It’s all over, McGarvey,” Chernov shouted. “There’s no way out for you now, but if you give yourself up you’ll live to stand trial, and your daughter will be released unharmed. You have my word.”

  McGarvey eased a little closer to the rail so that when Chernov came out of the vestibule he would have a clear shot. At this point the Russian had to believe that McGarvey was still somewhere up inside the onion dome.

  “I have him! I have him! But there’s too many civilians up here!” McGarvey’s radio blared.

  He reached in his pocket to shut it off as a man in uniform darted out from the vestibule and fired four shots up at the gallery, two of them ricochetting off the rail inches from where McGarvey stood.

  McGarvey returned fire, one of his shots catching the man in the torso, driving him backward, at the same moment Jacqueline opened fire from the rear of the church.