The Nazi's Son

by Andrew Turpin

  Johnson did not sleep again after that and waited for Katya to wake up, which she did at about quarter to four.

  He pushed the H&K into his belt and put on his jacket, covering up the gun, then thanked Nina, who was hovering in the living room, still in her day clothes. She also appeared to have had little sleep but showed no surprise or irritation at the subterfuge taking place in her apartment. Maybe she was used to this kind of thing, Johnson surmised.

  It was still dark outside when Johnson and Katya left. Before they did so, Katya screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of her H&K. She noticed Johnson looking at her and shrugged. “We might need it,” she said. Johnson decided against attaching his; in his experience of using suppressors on H&K pistols, they did reduce the noise but not dramatically so. He preferred to be able to keep the gun tucked in his belt, which he couldn’t do if the suppressor cylinder was screwed on.

  They got Nina to check the corridor outside her apartment first, but there was no sign of anyone there, so they followed the corridor around to the service elevator at the rear of the building.

  Once in the elevator car, Katya pressed the button for the second basement and simultaneously kept her thumb on the Close Doors button, holding her gun in her right hand. She continued to push the two buttons as the car descended. Sure enough, it continued through all floors without stopping.

  The second basement had one dim lightbulb illuminating the short corridor onto which the elevator door opened. The floor was bare concrete, and there was a set of double swing doors at the end of the corridor. Without hesitating, Katya led the way through the doors and into a darkened room. She flicked on the flashlight on her cell phone and covered the light with a finger to minimize its beam.

  The room was about fifteen yards long, ten yards wide, and completely filthy. It stank of diesel fumes, and the bare brick walls were covered with dirt and cobwebs. A loud humming came from what Johnson assumed was an electricity transformer that stood behind a wire mesh barrier in one corner. In the center of the room was a large diesel tank next to a generator that was not functioning. Presumably this provided backup power in the event of an electricity grid failure.

  Katya did not pause. She strode across the room to another set of double doors on the far side and passed through them.

  Now they were in another smaller hallway that was empty apart from a rusting old bicycle that stood against one wall and four garbage cans.

  Katya pointed toward a set of twin fire doors, painted black, with horizontal bars that needed to be pushed downward to open the doors.

  “We go out there, then up some steps to street level. Follow me,” she said.

  “Wait,” Johnson cautioned. “Slowly. We’ll need to check carefully for anyone out there. Don’t charge ahead; let me do the checking. We can’t afford to blow this. How far is it to your car?”

  “Two minutes’ walk, maximum. Maybe one minute.”

  Johnson nodded and indicated for her to continue. He hoped the fire doors were not linked to some kind of alarm.

  Katya pushed one of the bars down and gently pushed the door a few inches outward. A rush of cool air came in. She slipped through the gap, with Johnson close behind, and moved to the left of the doors.

  No alarm sounded. Johnson pushed the door closed behind him but didn’t click it shut. They might need to go back.

  They were in a small courtyard, no more than a couple of yards wide and ten yards long, paved with concrete slabs and located at the bottom of a kind of pit. The fire doors from which they had emerged were right in the corner. Behind them the vertical wall of the building stretched upward; in front was another steep brick wall with a set of steps cut into it leading up to ground level. There was a handrail down the right-hand side.

  Johnson took several moments to survey the steps and listen. There was no sound other than the distant hum of traffic. No footsteps rushing toward them, no voices.

  With no warning, the fire door behind them squeaked and rattled. Johnson whirled around and instinctively flattened himself against the building wall so that the door hinges were immediately to his right. Katya soundlessly did likewise.

  Simultaneously, Johnson pulled out his pistol and flicked off the safety. He heard a faint sound to his left as Katya did the same.

  The door opened slowly and silently, swinging back inch by inch in their direction. Someone must have followed them into the basement, although Johnson had heard nothing. This had to be one of the FSB gorillas.

  Eventually, the dark outline of a man’s head appeared at the side of the fire door. He was looking the other way, scanning the small yard.

  Johnson’s thoughts raced. Did he want to shoot the guy, thus making a noise that could alert other security guards nearby? The answer was no. Instead, he raised his pistol, preparing to club it down hard onto the man’s temple.

  But as he did so, there came a loud bang right next to him, making him jump involuntarily.

  The man’s head whiplashed back. His arm stretched out, and his body catapulted backward. The man, who wore a black jacket and trousers, slumped to the ground and lay motionless.

  Johnson felt a hand grasp his arm. He turned to see Katya holding her H&K and signaling urgently to him with the barrel that they should go up the steps and away.

  Shit, Johnson muttered inwardly. Who is this woman?

  She moved to the bottom step and started climbing, taking them two at a time, using the handrail to help haul herself upward.

  His first reaction was to be angry. The gunshot had been far louder than he would have expected with a suppressor—certainly not the muffled thwack that emerged from certain other models. It had possibly been magnified by the quiet of the night, but either way, it would almost certainly have woken people in the apartment block: they were probably scurrying to their windows right now. It must surely also have alerted the man’s colleagues, assuming he had some nearby. But Katya had not given him the option.

  Johnson too set off up the steps after Katya. The stairs were steep and all the steps were shallow, leaving little space for footholds. But Johnson climbed as quickly as he could, also taking most of them two at a time and clinging to the handrail as he went.

  By the time he reached the top, he was breathing hard. Katya had veered right and was ten yards ahead of him, jogging across a small concrete parking lot toward a narrow access street, no more than an alleyway, that ran parallel to the rear of the building. She unscrewed the suppressor from her gun as she went and stuffed both items into her jacket pocket.

  Johnson glanced to his right and left. There was no sign of anyone running, no shouting. Behind him, he heard what sounded like a window creaking open, but he didn’t turn to look.

  Their only option now was to get to the car as quickly as possible and away. He too began to run and caught up with Katya in the street. They continued another twenty yards and then she wordlessly turned left onto another narrow street, where they slowed to a brisk walk. At the far end, four cars were parked in a bay to the right of the street that was illuminated by a streetlight. A fifth car, a blue Volkswagen, was reversing into the space nearest to them.

  “Mine’s at the far end,” Katya said.

  As they drew near to the row of cars, the driver’s door of the Volkswagen swung open, and a woman stepped out. Johnson immediately recognized her as the same woman whom he had tailed into the apartment building hours earlier.

  The woman shut the car door, clicked on her key fob to lock it, and then turned and started off in Johnson’s direction. She was wearing a blue jacket that was unzipped, showing a white tunic-style nurse’s dress beneath.

  The woman looked up, saw Johnson, and stopped momentarily before appearing to gather herself and walking on.

  Johnson swore beneath his breath but continued past her, deliberately not making eye contact or showing any kind of recognition.

  What to do now? Wait until she was out of sight before jumping into Katya’s car, or just go as quickly as poss
ible? His gut instinct was to not let the woman see his getaway vehicle. But hanging around would seriously increase the risk of any FSB surveillance catching up with them—he estimated that every second counted following the gunshot—and would also look suspicious.

  Johnson decided to say nothing and just go. Katya opened her car, a red Škoda Octavia, got into the driver’s seat, and immediately started the engine. Johnson climbed into the passenger seat.

  As Katya pulled out of the bay, Johnson could see the woman from the Volkswagen turning the corner toward the apartment building. She glanced back briefly in his direction, then continued.

  Katya turned right onto Malyy Prospekt, a broad street lined with apartment buildings and offices, and accelerated hard past a stationary garbage truck, causing her tires to squeal a little as she let out the clutch.

  Johnson turned and glanced behind, his heart now racing. Beside him, he could hear Katya was breathing heavily, her knuckles showing white as she grasped the steering wheel.

  Johnson could see no pursuing cars, but in the distance he heard a siren begin to wail.

  Wednesday, April 9, 2014

  St. Petersburg

  Severinov watched as Pugachov flipped open his laptop in the safe house and went through three layers of security before he was able to access his FSB account.

  “I’m going to put an alert out to local police,” Pugachov said. “We’ll get them to keep a tight watch over the rail station, airport, and the highways out of St. Petersburg. Don’t worry, we’ll track Johnson down.”

  He began to type in staccato fashion, using two index fingers.

  As he did so, Pugachov’s phone rang. He answered it, then listened, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. He stood and walked slowly around the room, the phone pinned to his ear.

  “Shot dead? Pizdets, dammit,” Pugachov said. He let rip with a stream of curses. “Where?”

  Severinov picked up the gist of what had happened from Pugachov’s end of the conversation. He stood and waited with his hands on his hips, listening. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

  How the hell had Johnson managed to get the better of the FSB team that Pugachov had put in place at the apartments? And where had Balagula been? He assumed that the FSB had pulled rank over him—it was highly unlikely that Balagula would have made the kind of error that apparently had occurred. He was too professional for that.

  Pugachov gave a stream of instructions to whomever he was speaking to, who Severinov assumed was at the FSB headquarters in the Lubyanka in Moscow. Eventually he ended the call.

  “Johnson’s shot dead one of my surveillance team outside the apartment block,” Pugachov said. His voice croaked a little, and a bead of sweat dripped down his cheek. “They found his body outside the basement fire doors. Johnson was apparently with a woman; they’ve left by car.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes. He was with her, and they got into a red Škoda. One of the women from the apartments—the one I spoke to—spotted them leaving in it and called the information desk number I gave her.”

  Severinov realized instantly what had happened. “That’s most likely the daughter Katya’s car,” he said. “I saw a photograph in the apartment of her sitting in a red Škoda with her parents. Do we know how your officer spotted them?”

  “Apparently he was guarding a service lift at the rear of the building and noticed a car coming down from the fourth floor. He pressed the elevator call button to intercept it, but the car shot straight through and down to the basement. He realized something was wrong, radioed for assistance—which is how we know about it—and chased down the stairs to try and track whoever was in the car. We now know it was Johnson and the girl. My officer must have caught up with them outside the building where Johnson shot him. At least, we assume it was Johnson who did the shooting.”

  “So either Johnson must have returned to the apartment to meet the daughter, or—”

  “More likely they were hiding in the building somewhere,” Pugachov said. “You could argue we should have searched more thoroughly, but we couldn’t break into apartments if nobody was answering.”

  Severinov paused for a second, thinking. “Can you check whether there is a Škoda of that type registered to the Yezhovs’ apartment address and get the plate number?” he asked.

  Pugachov nodded. “We’ll get the plate number and put an alert straight out to police to intercept it.” He quickly dialed a number and fired off another volley of instructions.

  There were probably hundreds of red Škodas in St. Petersburg, Severinov thought. Getting the plate number was essential.

  “We need to be ready to move fast as soon as we get word of any sighting,” Severinov said.

  “Agreed,” Pugachov said. “If Johnson’s killed an FSB officer, we get a free strike at him as far as I’m concerned—he’s a target.”

  Severinov took out his phone and dialed Balagula’s number. The call was answered inside two rings.

  “Vasily, I’m not going to ask what went wrong, but—”

  “I’ll tell you what went wrong. The FSB are a useless bunch of bastards. Amateurs. That officer got himself shot chasing after Johnson and that young girl. Pssht. My grandmother could have done better.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Listen. As soon as we get word where the daughter’s car has gone, I’m going with Leonid to head after them. For the moment, you stay at the apartments in case Johnson and the girl resurface there. We’ll come and collect you if we need you. And I’m changing my instructions: if you see Johnson, kill him. Understood?”

  “Understood, boss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wednesday, April 9, 2014

  St. Petersburg

  Katya drove northeast over a couple of road bridges that spanned the broad expanse of the Neva River. She accelerated hard and overtook two white vans and a truck on the second bridge; then, as she reached the north bank of the river, she cut back into the right-hand lane and braked when she saw a white car parked at the side of the street. It had a distinctive blue stripe along the side and a red-and-blue lights bar on the roof.

  “Police,” she said, unnecessarily.

  As they passed it, Katya glanced in her mirrors, but the police car remained stationary.

  “That’s my worry,” Johnson said. “They will be on red alert very soon. That woman saw us getting into this car. You can almost guarantee she would have been stopped and questioned on her way in—they must have found that guy’s body by now. She can’t fail to mention she saw us. You shouldn’t have killed him. It was unnecessary.”

  Katya shrugged. It didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. “You are right. We probably have twenty minutes maximum.”

  “So, what then?”

  “I have a solution,” Katya said. “Don’t worry. This was my father’s escape plan.” She patted her jacket pocket. “I have keys here for another car. We will swap.”

  “And the plan is to go where?” Johnson asked.

  “We are going north, to cross the border into Finland,” Katya said.

  “But the border police and customs will be on the lookout for us long before we get there,” Johnson said. “You’ve shot an FSB officer—you’ll be on every watch list there is, and I will be too.”

  “That is not a problem,” she said.

  “How do we cross the border, then?”

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet. Do you have an EU visa?”

  Johnson explained that he did not need an EU-wide visa, known as a Schengen visa, for a visit of less than ninety days under the agreement in place between the US and Europe.

  “Ah yes, of course,” Katya said. “We Russians do need one, which I have. I got it when I learned my father was planning to defect.”

  “Why can’t you tell me how we cross the border?” Johnson asked. His voice now took on a slightly irritated tone. He was pleased to see that she had security at the top of her mind, but she did seem a little too dogmatic about it
sometimes.

  “I can’t tell you in case we get stopped and interrogated,” Katya said. “It’s the same as with my father’s contact—if you don’t know, you can’t tell them. It’s how we operate in Russia, given the risks we face and the kind of interrogation we might face if arrested. They are brutal. But don’t worry, it will be fine.”

  By now it was getting light. Katya followed a tight loop before heading west along the busy Primorsky Prospekt, laden with traffic across all three lanes, that ran along the north bank of the river. Here the highway was lined with a series of elegant, well-spaced apartment and office buildings set back behind trees.

  She drove for a few minutes, past the distinctive yellow-painted circular domed structure of the Church of the Annunciation, and then cut a sharp right. Soon they were in an area dominated by apartment buildings, interspersed with badly maintained parks.

  Katya did another right turn onto Serebryakov Pereulok, then slowed as she drew level with a tall, ugly redbrick apartment building, eight stories high. She turned through an archway beneath the building to a parking lot at the rear. There she pulled into an empty space and switched off the engine.

  Two large dumpsters stood in a metal enclosure, filled with plastic trash bags from the apartments, which surrounded the parking lot on three sides. Johnson looked up. A man stood on a balcony outside one apartment wearing a white vest, smoking a cigarette and staring at them. On another balcony, two young children were riding a small plastic tricycle, laughing and giggling. The concrete paving slabs from which the lot was made were cracked and broken in places, but the cars parked there were mainly new, expensive models—Volvos, a BMW, and a couple of Audis.

  “We leave the car here. Police are unlikely to come in here. Come, our other car is across there.” She pointed to a row of vehicles in the next bay, then got out of the car, locked it, and led the way to a gunmetal-gray Lada Kalina, a five-door hatchback.

  Johnson figured that it was at least a better, far more anonymous option than the red Škoda. Ladas were easily the most common car in Russia, where they were built.