Russian Law (Law Series ) (Volume 1)

by Camille Taylor

  “In fact I’m doing better,” she continued, telling Alexei her good news. “Director Mishkin has put me on a case this morning.”

  “Yes, I heard you drew the short straw with the American.”

  Her eyebrow rose. “You are well informed. Especially for someone who doesn’t work for this Agency.”

  Alexei Dmitrovich shrugged. “It’s my job Elena.”

  “Since when have I been your job Alexei?”

  He watched her closely to the point where she was starting to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Since the day Nikolai died, I know he would’ve wanted me to look after you,” he said earnestly.

  She let out a deep breath. “And I appreciate that Alexei I do, but I don’t need someone looking out for me. I really am doing better and I doubt he would want you to look after me for the rest of your life Alexei. You need to move on as well, get your own life away from me.”

  Alexei was one of the few people who had seen her at her worst. After Nikolai had been murdered she had been a mess. Determined to prove his death was no coincidence. She and Alexei had never been true friends, they had just put up with one another because they had both cared about Nikolai. After his death they had mourned him together.

  “Yes well, let’s not get into that now. It’s certainly good to see you back working again, you were born for this job. Nikolai always said that and he was right. You look happy.”

  Elena smiled, Alexei never said anything he didn’t mean so his observation was of the highest praise. She looked about her office, at the pile of folders on her desk she had yet to get to. “I’ve never stopped working.”

  She had been relegated to desk work though. Her denial about Nikolai’s death had caused some ripples.

  “Paperwork doesn’t count Elena, so tell me about this American,” he suggested.

  He sat down in the chair Lucas had vacated. She noticed his voice sneered the word American. Elena sat down in her chair and regarded him from across her desk.

  “Well for starters his name is Special Agent Lucas Gates not American, Alexei,” she stated.

  He shrugged, it did not matter to him one way or the other. One American was the same as another. “Why is he here?”

  “So you don’t know everything,” she smiled at him. “He’s just here to catch a wanted man who has slipped into the country.”

  She kept her information sparse, it was not that she didn’t trust Alexei but rather it was none of his business. If there was anything Nikolai had taught her was to keep things close to the chest and everything was need to know. Alexei didn’t need to know. She had always listened to Nikolai’s advice, his had always been learnt from previous mistakes and she had no desire to experience them first hand herself. If you expected to live you paid attention to what those more knowledgeable had to say. You didn’t become a seasoned agent by walking around with blinders on to the world.

  Alexei nodded. “Well you be careful Elena, those American’s are loose cannons, so used to making up their own laws. I’d hate for his actions to come back at you.” He prepared to leave, “My advice to you - keep him on a short leash Elena.”

  Elena contained her urge to roll her eyes. Alexei had always been anti-American, often spouting off insults at the country. Russia had always had a love-hate relationship with the United States, often in competition. She escorted him to the door. “Thank you for your concern Alexei, but I can handle it.”

  “Just looking out for you,” he told her.

  “And I appreciate it, I always do.”

  She closed the door firmly behind him.

  Chapter 6

  Lucas was well in his element as he entered the seedy nightclub. He may not speak the language but he had other equally as important gifts, ones that could not be ignored, even by the most heinous of creatures. And Lucas had many of them since he had left Elena’s office.

  It hadn’t taken him long to find out where Alvin Pochenchov spent his time. All he had to do was ask the right person the right question and here he was standing before one of the many nightclubs on Tverskaya Street, the most trendy area for tourists and Russian’s alike. Tverskaya Street was also the most expensive street to shop on throughout Russia but Lucas didn’t plan on paying for the information he was shopping for. He didn’t buy coincidence, and Agent Nagregor’s death seemed much too tidy for him.

  As he entered Pochenchov’s club, he glanced about, his eyes noting the position and threat level of each patron, scanning their clothes for bulges that concealed hidden weapons. His eyes barely skimming over the many female dancers dressed scantily in little pink panties and nothing else, their breasts on display for all to admire and ogle.

  The dancers up on stage were moving provocatively, some making love to the poles before them, sliding up and down while maintaining eye contact with their marks. Lucas could never understand what men saw in coming to places like these. To look upon women jaded in their lives, showing their well used bodies for a buck. Lucas liked mystery and romance. He liked to use his imagination when it came to women. To imagine what she was wearing under her clothes, to wonder whether she wearing red panties or blue, cotton or silk, or if was she naughty today and wore none at all. A man could spend hours contemplating such things, like he had earlier today in Elena’s office. He couldn’t help himself, he admitted freely.

  Between her grey eyes and tempting supple body, he had had a hard enough time not giving into his Neanderthal urges by throwing her to the floor and having his way with her. There was something about Elena that hit him hard in the stomach, had all other thoughts bar her rush out of his well trained mind. She was unlike any woman he had ever met. Intriguing, beautiful, smart and sassy – a complete package and he was attracted to her.

  Lucas looked around at the bar. A man in a tight black shirt designed to show off his impeccable six pack and pectorals was drying sturdy glasses, his attention on the wrestling match playing on the widescreen TV above the bar. Lucas moved over to the bar and sat down, allowing his gaze to settle on the wresters. He wasn’t one for watching sport games – he was more into being part of the action rather than the spectator but he wanted more time to check out the establishment before making his move.

  Lucas indicated at the bar tender with a jerk of his head and the man poured two fingers of Vodka into a glass he just finished cleaning and dumped it down on the scarred wood of the bar. It was the type of business that served only two types of drink and what you were given you drank without comment. Lucas put the glass to his lips and swallowed the liquid fire as he surveyed the darkened room, lit only by neon lights.

  To an observer Lucas looked like an ordinary American tourist, out for a good night - a few drinks and a lap dance to warm his chilled body. One of many they would see come and go through the months. None saw just how sharp his eyes were, how intelligent and shrewd, how he built a map of the nightclub in his head, marking the exits and obstacles, making sure he had a plan B in case the first went askew.

  How gaudy, Lucas thought with disgust as he lay down money on the bar, placing his empty glass on top. The quintessential strip joint. No matter what era or even country every single one looked the same, seen one, seen them all. Without giving away his avid interest, Lucas’s gaze skimmed over the man in the corner booth, two skanky large bosomed women hung onto his every word, giggling ever so often whilst stroking the man high on his thighs.

  Two large, thick armed, broad-chested men stood to the side. They wore the same black shirt as the man behind the bar, matched with black trousers and shoes. They wore identical expressions that would strike fear in any man’s heart and if any fool failed to be fearful, the large caliber weapons clipped to their belts would surely do the trick. Lucas was unimpressed. He had seen more scarier men.

  Lucas stood up and directly looked at the man who was gleefully lapping up his female companion’s attentions. His hairy hand, gleaming as the light hit the gems in his oversized rings, slid up from one woman’s waist to her larg
e double D breast and squeezed possessively. Lucas’s mouth curled at the disgusting display and strode across the floor purposefully. The two goons went on instant alert, their bodies stiffening in preparation of action.

  Lucas kept his eyes on Alvin Pochenchov, dismissing each guard as nothing but a small barrier he had yet to get through, but didn’t anticipate an issue. With one swift motion, Lucas grabbed one by the wrist, applying pressure to certain crucial points and dropped him to the floor without exerting any effort whatsoever. The second man pulled out a knife from the small of his back and swashed the blade back and forth through the air. Lucas moved deftly and side-stepped each strike, one barely missing his chest by but a mere inch. His hands were fists, raised high on his chest, protecting his heart as he waited patiently for the moment to strike.

  Pochenchov’s man was cocky, believing himself to have the upper hand. Lucas could tell the man had no formal training, his movements too slow, too unrefined. He may be a large man, but he knew nothing of wielding a knife properly. Lucas was soon to teach him that having a sharp blade meant nothing, that one first needed to know how to use it before trying to end a life with it.

  Lucas pivoted about on his foot and had in short order, broken the gorilla of a man’s wrist, the knife he had favored lay on the ground, useless and out of reach. Within seconds, Lucas finished him off with a headlock, cutting the air supply off and rending him unconscious. He fell to the floor in loud thud.

  Alvin Pochenchov had obviously, after tearing himself away from more pleasurable pursuits, seen how ineffective his men where and was in the process of reaching for his gun when Lucas produced his Smith and Wesson and aimed it right at Pochenchov’s heavily beating heart.

  “Drop it,” Lucas ordered in a voice no one would dare to disobey.

  Gingerly, Alvin tossed his weapon to the floor, it slid along the smooth surface and came to a stop beside the unconscious bodyguard.

  Alvin swore with guster, no doubt calling Lucas everything from a bastard of a whore to the son of Satan, of course he couldn’t be sure. But if the rapid fire Russian was anything to go by, it certainly wasn’t a lullaby. Lucas admired the lengthy tirade, it meant he had inconvenienced Pochenchov and the man would be more than happy to part with information for the simple delight of being rid of him.

  “Are you done?” Lucas asked idly as he retrieved his badge from his pant pocket and flashed it to Alvin. “Special Agent Gates,” he identified himself.

  Pochenchov glared up at Lucas, his rounded stomach protruded heavily over the waistband of his pants, placing great pressure on his belt and zipper, a man of leisure who thought of nothing but his own pleasure.

  Alvin sneered, “What do you want American?” He practically spat the words out, his lip curling in distaste as if he had just swallowed something foul. His eyes were narrowed and he was looking like he would enjoy killing Lucas. That was fine, Lucas would enjoy killing Alvin but first he wanted information and he wanted it now.

  Lucas looked Pochenchov in the eye, showing him no fear. He was there for a reason and he wasn’t leaving until he had all his questions answered. “Information on Michael Ducane.”

  Alvin feigned any knowledge. “I know no Ducane.”

  Lucas shook his head. “Really see that’s not what I’ve heard. Now listen up scumbag, we know Ducane met with you yesterday. I want to know where I can find him and if you’ve already delivered his supplies.”

  Two dark eyes pinned him. Lucas could see the ruthless man beneath the greasy exterior. Lucas had dealt many times with men like Pochenchov over the years and knew they were ruled by money and greed and nothing else. There was no such thing as loyalty and friendship in their world.

  “You better be careful American – going around asking questions that are none of your business, you’ll end up in landfill.”

  He shrugged. He wasn’t overly concerned with the Russian’s threats. “I’m not too worried.”

  “You should be. You see I have insurance which is why I am not in prison like some of my other associates. So beware American. I have friends in high places. Higher in the government than even you, I could make you disappear.”

  “And I bet all I have to do is tell some of your ‘colleagues’ that you are sitting here enjoying yourself with Federal insurance while they’re rotting in a maximum security prison and we’ll see how long you survive.”

  Pochenchov’s dark eyes darkened even more until they were almost black in his head. His face turned red with rage and Lucas could see the vein in his temple pulsating with an effort to control his temper and not to show that Lucas was getting to him. To a layman he would see quite calm. Lucas was no layman, he knew that letting his guard down now was tantamount to suicide.

  “You certainly have a way with bargaining American. What is it you want to know?”

  What didn’t he want to know?

  He wanted to know where Ducane was, what the target was and how long he had. He wanted to know where Zimtovich fit in and what he could’ve told Ducane that was worth his life. He wanted to know what happened to Elena’s husband and why in his gut did he feel like Nikolai Nagregor was involved. He opened his mouth, ready to ask the first question but instead another one came out.

  “Do you know a man named Nagregor, an agent for SVR?”

  Alvin Pochenchov nodded. “Of course. He was the SVR agent who was murdered six months back. He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong also. Perhaps you should take his death as a lesson American and do what he should have done.”

  “And was that?” Lucas asked mildly, as if he cared what Alvin thought he should do.

  Alvin lit a thick cigar and took a deep puff, filling the already smoky club with the potent stench. “Back off.”

  “Did you have him killed?” Lucas demanded, ignoring Pochenchov’s advice.

  Alvin chuckled. “Do you really expect me to answer that American? Even we here in Russia have a court system. But I admit I respected the man. He could not be bought or threatened. I don’t come across that integrity very often. No,” he shook his head. “I did not have him killed. I didn’t have too. Nagregor was a dead man from the moment he discovered something he shouldn’t have.”

  Now we were getting somewhere, everyone wanted to talk – even the most hardened criminals find it hard not to boast. “And what might that be?”

  Alvin smiled. “That there is a mole inside Russian Intelligence, you think the Russian’s cannot find me?” he laughed. “They do not look for me.”

  Pop.

  The gunshot echoed throughout the room. Lucas dived out the way just as the bullet from the gun whizzed past his head. He hit the floor hard, jarring his bones, even as he aimed his weapon. He didn’t watch where the bullet landed. It wasn’t his main concern at the moment. As long as one didn’t hit him he didn’t care. Screams surrounded him, blocking out any other sound he might hear. The dancers had dropped to the floor of the stage, too frightened to move any further, waiting until the last bullet was fired. The nightclub’s patrons, unsure of what to do and what was happening and why, moved in every direction, creating confusion whilst rushing for the exit.

  Pop. Pop.

  Two more gunshots sounded, Lucas watched as one bullet hit Alvin Pochenchov in the head, his body slumped back in his chair, his eyes open and sightless. Lucas moved slowly and silently amidst the flurry of activity, keeping low to the ground, out of sight. He stopped behind an empty chair, using it as cover. He leveled his gun in the direction of the shooter, his analytical brain having already determined where the shots had come from even whilst he had been under fire. From his position behind the chair, Lucas applied pressure to the trigger of his gun. He heard the loud pop, smelt the burned gunpowder and felt the gun recoil. Years of training had him keeping his weapon pointed towards the danger instead of the ceiling. The man in his sight jerked and dropped to the floor.

  Lucas got to his feet, accessing the danger as he crossed the floor and bent down beside Alvin. He didn’t
need to feel for a pulse. A neat round nine millimeter hole marred his forehead, blood and brain matter was splattered against the wall behind him. Alvin Pochenchov hadn’t had time to react. Good riddens, Lucas thought. One less asshole in the world. Lucas he stepped over towards the shooter, keeping his weapon trained on the man waiting for signs of movement. He kicked away the shooter’s Russian made semi-automatic MP-443 Grach pistol, a heavy feeling settling inside his stomach. Something was not right here. He knelt beside the body of the shooter and rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out a leather case and opened it to find an SVR badge.

  Well if that just didn’t suck.

  Lucas heard the telltale cock behind him of a gun’s safety being released. Lucas let his pistol slide from his hand, holding onto it by just his index finger caught on the trigger casing. He raised his hands to his head and turned around slowly to face the MDV police officer standing there, his service revolver pointed at Lucas’s chest.

  The man in blue and red spouted off Russian in rapid bursts. The words coming at him full force. Lucas looked the man in the eye, wondering at the wisdom of his plan. Wasn’t it written somewhere that when confronted with an angry dog never to look them in the eye, something about looking down at the ground in a subservient manner?

  Too late to change his mind now, might as well power on.

  The folks around here all seemed to think that every American was arrogant so he might as well live up to the stereotype. Not that he wasn’t arrogant but he had earned it by working hard and knowing with confidence that he could back it up with his abilities. He spoke very calmly, never breaking eye contact with the MVD officer.

  “I don’t speak Russian. I’m CIA working with the SVR. Call them and check.”

  The officer glared, his mouth curling much like the dead Alvin Pochenchov’s had. This was obviously not Lucas’s day, did anyone in this country not despise an American? The officer responded in a harsh voice, his English fragmented. “Put your weapon down!”