by Rik Stone
Afanasiy hung up the phone and it clicked, but Michel kept the handset to his ear and heard another click before the line drifted into a drone – someone had been listening.
Chapter 37
The Kremlin, Moscow, Russia
General Grigory Irishka watched from his office window. The views reached beyond the Kremlin walls and across the Moskva River. He noticed a sprinkling of icing sugar on pink towers and sighed miserably. Nearly summer and still the frost bites. The thought gave way to nagging concern and he wrung his hands behind his back while rocking on his heels. If Petrichova’s Smersh sergeants were to stumble onto something then Grigory could be finished … But that wasn’t about to happen. He had a spy in the Osnaz unit who had kept him informed every step of the way. All the angles were covered. He was too experienced to be beaten by paperwork …
Then why worry?
He shook his head. “No need; everything is secure,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. “And you know negative emotions are for losers.”
All the same, his most recent exploits had been flawed. He had signed off payment from his own budget for the Semtex explosive – overconfident – but it seemed so secure.
No! It was stupid.
He rocked harder and his hands felt as though they were giving him Chinese burns. He unclasped them and wiped sweaty palms down his uniform trousers. “Calm down, calm down, for fucks sake! The paperwork is destroyed as soon as business is completed. Nothing is kept. The Smersh team had only gone into Tula on what Georgy had told them and he’s dead. No, it’s all …”
The door swung open and Ferapont, a captain from the Kremlin arsenal, rushed in. Grigory spun round and let his mumbling dissolve as he cleared his throat. “Don’t you think to knock before you burst in on a senior officer?”
Ferapont removed his cap, nestled it in the crook of his arm with hammer and sickle insignia facing front, pulled his shoulders back, and said, “This is no time for protocol, Grigory. We have trouble at the ammunitions plant.”
Grigory’s face furrowed and his eyebrows rose in surprise. “What are you talking about? The ammunition plant is no reason to goosestep your way in here. Our mole in the Osnaz unit has fed back information since the Smersh people went into the factory. Nothing has been uncovered other than what they got from Georgy. And he’s in no position to tell any more tales – is he?”
Ferapont was Grigory’s front man for the unofficial side of business. He had maintained position through his ruthless efficiency and he never backed down – not from anyone. The captain looked to the sky and shook his head like a wet dog. “Huh, no, no, that’s not it. It’s the Semtex. The shipment we arranged before they impounded the plant, it left the depot. Our line tap on Petrichova has revealed the truck was seized at the gates of the Tula plant.”
Grigory felt his neck expand and his face burn. Ferapont seemed oblivious to the fact that this oversight was down to him. If he could get away with it, he’d pull out his gun here and now and blow his face off. “Ruthlessly efficient,” he muttered.
“What …?”
He measured the captain and puffed up as if for battle, but then reined himself in. There was little point in making an issue of it. It was done, but the time would come. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, and turned away, pacing the floor as he rubbed his chin and shook his head. “You’ve fucked up big time here, Ferapont. The truck drivers will have invoices with my sign off.” He sighed heavily. “Shit, they’ll have me for misappropriation of funds!” And much more if they found out the Semtex ended up in terrorist hands – and those terrorists included Chechen rebels. “Shit! … Look, there’s still a chance. Intercept the Smersh agents before they get back to Moscow, before the proof falls to Petrichova. The two assassins stationed in Tula, get the mole to contact them. The train will be the likely form of transport of the Smersh men. Tell our people to allow the targets to board before making an assault. That way we’ll know the evidence is with them. Kill them and remove all documentation.”
“What and we just sit back and wait? What if it goes wrong?”
“No, we don’t just sit back and wait. We have our escape routes in place. Let the others know what’s going on and we’ll make way to our respective safe havens – it will be at that point we sit back and wait. And don’t bother looking for Captain Gorbi; he’s in Africa. When everything has gone to plan, we drift back into position. In the unlikely event the Smersh people make it to Moscow,” he said, and knitted his brow, “we run.”
Ferapont clicked his heels and rushed from the office. Grigory went back to the window, took stock of the situation, and tried to unfold every possibility of what might lay ahead. Even in a worst case scenario, his safety was assured. Once at the safe house the steps to a clean break were well thought out and would be straightforward. Even so, he wasn’t about to leave it there. Oh no, General Michel Petrichova would be made to pay. He … Stop! No time for planning revenge now; get the important stuff together and move.
*
Afanasiy gave Anchova an outline of his talk with Petrichova and then called in the Osnaz unit commander. “General Petrichova wants you to take command here, guard the Semtex, and make sure the factory remains closed for business until further notice,” he told him. The Osnaz sergeant wanted a few minor details clarified and then returned to the factory. Afanasiy had no reason not to trust the sergeant, but decided against telling him of their travel plans. As the general had said, “Don’t let any of the soldiers know what’s going on with regard to the documents.”
“Petrichova wants us back in Moscow and the quickest way is by air. What do you think?” he asked Anchova.
“If there are people after us and we come unstuck, it’s a long way to fall,” he said, whispering both words and hissing a laugh.
“You’re right, and driving ourselves would leave us exposed. We’ll take the train. Put the genuine documents in your briefcase. I’ll put some of this other legal paperwork in mine; can’t make things too easy for them.”
To keep the loop tight, they took a marshrutka, routed taxi cab, to the Tula Railway Station where they could pick up the Moscow railroad.
Anchova went to the ticket kiosk. “We need a private compartment on the first train to Moscow.”
“There are no private compartments,” the ticket clerk told him, shaking his head, unbelieving.
“Then I suggest you make one,” Anchova whispered, slapping his KGB ID on the counter. “This is state business and your refusal could be the difference between you having a job and looking for one.”
The clerk ran a finger between his neck and shirt collar. “Oh, very well, sir, give me a moment. I’ll see what I can do,” he said, while clearing his throat.
They managed to buy coffee in wax-board beakers just before the train pulled in. The stewardess greeting embarking passengers tried to stop them from boarding with the drinks, but another show of ID and Afanasiy and Anchova were shown to an empty, eight-seat compartment. Afanasiy stared out of the window, leaned his head against it, and watched the platform appear to move back as the train pulled out of the station. A few minutes after reaching full speed, they had put the industrial region behind them and their fellow passengers had settled into the relatively short journey and returned to their seats. But the new emptiness was suddenly filled by footfall that sounded like soldiers goose-stepping into Czechoslovakia. The steps slowed as they neared their cubicle. The noise, however, belied the reality; there was only one man and he stopped at the door to stare through the glass partition. He wore a dark, double-breasted raincoat, black trilby hat, and was big enough to almost block out the light on that side of the carriage. Afanasiy looked to Anchova, who had already reached a hand into his full-length, leather trench coat. The man seemed to have noticed the move and, without a change of expression, turned and walked on. Anchova relaxed his arm.
“Another three hours and we’ll be in Moscow,” Afanasiy said with a low rumble, “and I’ll not be sorry to get there.”
A
nchova nodded. “We’ll take a marshrutka from the station to Lubyanka. Having this paperwork is making me feel jittery. Our snooper has gone, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see him back, not the way he was weighing us up.”
Afanasiy agreed with a grunt, but his thoughts had already moved on to thinking of what the benefits of getting the paperwork to Petrichova could mean: an officer’s rank maybe. Why not? It was a big deal. Still daydreaming, he caught sight of something, someone – the big man. Both men reached for their weapons simultaneously as a man made a show, but to Afanasiy’s relief it wasn’t whom they’d expected. But then tightness gripped when, instead of walking by, the man stopped and gawped through the window. Nearer the height of him and Anchova, he was gaunt and skinny, but while his height and build was opposite to the first snooper, he was dressed identically.
As if using the glass as a mirror, he straightened his posture, smoothed his lapels, and walked on. Afanasiy relaxed. He was letting things get to him. After all, most business travelers dressed like that. Barely coming to terms with the thoughts, a new worry jolted him. His interrogation methods had always worked around understanding people, how they reacted through facial expression. He was more than adept in the art. And the latest voyeur had the same lack of expression as the first, exactly the same. Afanasiy would go as far as to say they were travelling with the same intentions in mind.
“What did you think about him after taking our first visitor into account?” he growled to Anchova.
“I think I’m thinking the same as you,” he replied quietly, and revealed a pistol he had tucked in against the side of his leg.
Afanasiy took out his gun, clasped it in a fist, and kept it out of sight. Another couple of hours passed uninterrupted and they stopped at Chekhov Station before beginning the final leg. “Nearly there,” he said, but no sooner were the words spoken than both snoopers appeared at the door and rushed in on either side of the opening. Afanasiy slipped from the bench seat to the floor to make himself a difficult target. The door was fully open but he couldn’t see to shoot. Instead of taking cover, Anchova had jumped to his feet with his pistol clenched in his hand. But he had stepped out in front of Afanasiy and covered the line of fire – he was out of position and couldn’t give back-up to his comrade.
A shot boomed out and then a second. A third shattered a compartment window and a fourth brought a scream from the corridor. Anchova dropped to his knees as he fired off another round and Afanasiy managed to push himself to one side. Now he saw the big man and reacted quickly, firing twice, striking him in the chest and head. The man was thrown back but he didn’t go down; Anchova had killed the skinny man and it was his body that stopped the big man from falling further.
“Well done,” Afanasiy said victoriously while turning to his comrade. “We got them.” But Anchova was clutching his chest, his gun was on the floor, and blood oozed through his fingers and over his knuckles. Panic struck Afanasiy. “Come, Comrade, let me help you onto the seat.”
“No, don’t move me,” Anchova said with an alarmed whisper, eyes widened in fear.
“No, don’t give up …” he said, but could see he was wasting his breath. The brightness faded in Anchova’s eyes and his lids dropped under their own weight. Resistance left his body and he went limp. Afanasiy felt for a pulse but there was none. His friend was dead. He lifted him to a sitting position, sat on the floor beside him, linked an arm through his, and stared blankly out of the window and up to the sky. Afanasiy remained motionless until the train pulled into Moscow central station.
Chapter 38
KGB Headquarters, Moscow, Russia
Afanasiy seemed overcome with emotion – or lack of it. He’d handed in the documents, delivered his report as if he were part of some sort of robotic program, and then sat staring over Michel’s shoulder towards a sky that was as dull as his eyes.
“The evidence you have accumulated here is gold, Sergeant. Irishka’s trading in Semtex will surely win him a firing squad. Even if by some strange quirk of fate he escapes that sentence, we have him for misappropriation of military funds. That alone will get him life – in Siberia. I can’t emphasize how valuable your work has been here. Because of it this corrupt line of command is toppling.”
Afanasiy said nothing in return, and then Sergeant Filat burst into the office. Michel turned his attention and was about to reprimand him, but Filat spoke first.
“I have a twelve-man team assembled in Dzerzhinski Square, General. If you want this done quickly we need to hurry.”
Michel reined in his pomp and a tingle of excitement painted his skin. He would lead them to the Kremlin, make the arrests himself. He couldn’t wait to see Irishka’s face, arrogant bastard. He gave his attention back to his little Smersh man. “Sergeant Afanasiy, I want you at my right hand when we go into Irishka’s office. I want him to know that you were the final instrument that brought him down. I think your comrade would’ve appreciated it.”
“Thank you, sir,” his throat grated monotonously.
Arriving double-time at the Kremlin, they raced through the corridors until coming to the passageway of Irishka’s office. Noticing Irishka’s aide was absent from his desk, Michel felt a tinge of apprehension. They exploded into the office unannounced and Michel felt his chest grow heavier. Irishka wasn’t there. Of course, he might be at a meeting or … in fact there were a million things he could be doing. But Michel could feel it – he’d skipped. Afanasiy stared at the floor, shaking his head, and Michel sighed.
“We have a number of other officers implicated. We’ll split the unit up. Close in before they all make a run for it. Filat, Afanasiy, take four men each. We’ll meet back in Dzerzhinski with whatever we pick up.”
An hour later, the units came together in the square – empty handed.
The search continued over the next three days. Michel was at his desk trying to work out how the pickups had gone wrong. “Not one arrest,” he said to Afanasiy, whom had barely left his side during that time.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” the little man replied – without using sir. “They’d operated over a long period so were bound to have escape routes in place.”
Michel stared hard at him. “Yes, you’re right … and, because the assembly had us keep everything low profile to prevent the west from delighting in such news, the bastards will have slipped the net. They’re probably already out of the USSR … I have to go to Turkey, but this isn’t over.”
He had been speaking to himself and his mind was someplace else, but then Afanasiy said, “Of course not, sir,” and the present came back into focus.
“The Semtex … while I’m away I want you to go over everything again with the invoice sergeant from the Tula factory. Find out the procedure from shipment down to the last detail of delivery. Everything must go ahead as scheduled.”
Afanasiy looked surprised, hurt even. “What, you’re taking over where Irishka left off?” he said, gravel gurgling.
“No, Sergeant, don’t be stupid.”
*
Grigory hadn’t stopped pacing the floor of the Moscow safe house while waiting for news of the assassinations. And when Ferapont brought the news, it was all bad. The Smersh agents hadn’t been the ones terminated, but his assassins. Grigory’s world crumbled. He couldn’t believe it. Ferapont had gone on to say, “I’ll fill you in on the details as we go, but right now a limousine will take us to the airport, General. We need to get off Soviet soil as quickly as possible.”
Grigory had been ready for this ‘worst case scenario’ and it wasn’t long after hearing Ferapont’s revelations that they had driven the five kilometers northwest of Kublinka in the Moscow Oblast to board a military helicopter destined for Gdansk in Poland.
“When we land, a military limousine will take us to Port Szczecin,” Ferapont said, “where passage has been arranged to take us to Hamburg.”
“My exit strategy didn’t suggest that the ship’s crossing would terminate in Hamburg,” he
blustered.
“No, I should have said that the captain believes we are going all the way to Stockholm, but we slip away in Hamburg and lose our military trappings.”
“Mmm, yes, very well,” he said, but the concession was begrudged.
*
They had been on board since early morning the previous day. Now, the night was black and the sea moderate. Grigory and Ferapont finished a meal with the ship’s captain. A few pleasantries over an after-dinner cigar followed and the captain excused himself with, “I have to make checks, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
Grigory bid him goodnight, but remained at the table drinking what was left of a glass of cognac. “It’s been a very pleasant meal, Captain Ferapont. Maybe one more drink before retiring?”
Ferapont nodded and poured two large brandies.
Grigory sunk his in one, banged the glass on the table, and exhaled heavily “Ah … right, fresh air and a walk around the deck for me. What about you?”
Ferapont smiled eagerly, clearly happy that frosty days might be coming to an end. “Yes, it will be my pleasure to accompany you.”
Out on deck, Grigory leant over the balustrade and stared down to the deep, full of thoughts of life and what had happened for him to end up here.
“You’re quiet. Are you still unhappy with the situation, General?” Ferapont asked, suddenly wary.
Grigory huffed. “Am I still unhappy?” he mimicked. “Ferapont, I had you down as dogged, intelligent, a man to be relied on in crisis, and then you ask me am I still unhappy?” He bent over the rail, took a silenced Makarov from inside his jacket and pulled himself upright. “Yes, you fucking moron, I am still unhappy. The army has been my life, everything to me since I was a young man. You … you take it all away and then ask if I’m unhappy. Yes, I’m very unhappy, but I’m sure this will help.”
Shock spread across Ferapont’s face as Grigory leveled the gun and blasted him high on the head. The ship rolled on undulating waves and the bullet skidded over Ferapont’s scalp, taking blood and hair with it. The captain fell forward, clinging limply to the handrail.
