The Moscow Vector c-6

by Robert Ludlum

  The blond-haired man grimaced. If so, it would be better by far to present the Russian spymasrer with a fait accompli in the form of Smith, Fiona Devin, and their unknown accomplice—dead if necessary, alive and under interrogation if possible. He glanced down at the sniper waiting patiently for his orders.

  “We’ll cut off their first avenue of retreat,” he decided. “Disable their get-away vehicle.”

  The other man nodded calmly. “Easily done, Herr Brandt.”

  He put his right eye back against the telescopic sight, shifted his aim slightly, and squeezed the trigger. The SVD sniper rifle fired, barely kicking up as its long, well-balanced barrel recoiled gently against his shoulder.

  * * *

  Smith scrambled to his feet and crossed the short open space between the ambulance and Kirov’s all-wheel drive SUV at a dead run. Another shot rang out. Still running flat-out, he dived forward, rolled on his shoulder, and came up crouching behind the Niva’s battered front end. He held the Makarov in a two-handed shooter’s grip, ready to fire immediately if any target presented itself in range.

  “Very acrobatic, Doctor,” Kirov called wryly. The silver-haired Russian and Fiona Devin were King prone a couple of meters away. “I envy you your youthful agility.”

  Smith forced himself to grin back, mainly conscious of the pulse pounding in his ears. The sniper zeroing in on them was too damned good. And he was close enough to put his rounds almost anywhere he chose with absolute precision.

  The 4x4 rocked suddenly, hit by yet another 7.62mm round. It tore into the engine compartment, hit the block, and ricocheted up and out through the crumpled hood. Within seconds, the marksman switched targets and fired again, this time sending a heavy slug straight into the Niva’s fuel tank. Gasoline spilled out through the punctured metal, dripping onto the street at an ever-increasing rate. The next bullet hit the dashboard, smashing instruments and tearing through wiring.

  The rifleman was destroying the Niva, Smith realized abruptly— methodically putting rounds into every key system and component. “They’re trying to make sure we can’t bug out,” he told the others grimly. “We’re being held in check here for the militia to deal with.”

  Fiona nodded. She bit her lip. “Does anyone have any bright ideas?”

  “We leave,” Kirov said simply. “Right now.”

  Fiona stared at him in disbelief. “And just how, precisely, do you propose that we do that?” she demanded. “This street will be swarming with militia in a minute or two. We won’t get two blocks on foot. And the closest Metro station is at least a kilometer away.”

  “We liberate a car,” Kirov replied, almost smugly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Take a look. We have plenty of options to choose from.”

  Smith and Fiona turned around. The Russian was right. There were at least half a dozen vehicles scattered across the road, deserted by their panicked owners when all the shooting started. Most had been abandoned so hurriedly that the keys were still in the ignition. Some still had their engines running.

  Jon nodded quickly. “Good idea.” He glanced back at Kirov. “But we’ll need a distraction, something big. Otherwise that sniper out there will drop us one by one before we’ve gone even ten meters.”

  The Niva shuddered again, hammered by another high-velocity round into the fuel tank. The sickly sweet stench of gasoline grew stronger. Leaking fuel spilled out from under the vehicle, slowly melting a meandering path through the dirty snow piled up around its tires.

  “Very true,” Kirov agreed. He reached into his coat pocket and calmly pulled out a packet of matches. He bared his teeth in a quick, predatory grin.

  “Fortunately, the means for such a distraction are close at hand.”

  He struck a single match and used it to light the whole book, which blazed up in an instant. Then, without hesitating, the former FSB officer tossed the flaming matchbook under the Niva, right into the biggest puddle of gasoline.

  It went up with a soft whoosh. Bright white flames leaped high, igniting the gallons of fuel still sloshing in the bullet-torn tank. In seconds, the whole back end of dark blue 4x4 was fully engulfed in fire.

  * * *

  From his position up the street, Brandt saw the flames erupt suddenly beneath the Niva, spreading fast until the whole vehicle was alight. Black smoke boiled outward from the pyre. “Excellent work, Fadayev,” he told his marksman.

  Smith and the others were trapped. With luck, that fire would flush them out of cover, right into the sights of his waiting sniper. If not, the loss of their get-away car at least robbed the Americans of any real chance to escape the militia speeding to the scene.

  But then, as the cloud of smoke began spreading fast, Brandt’s smile faded.

  Buildings and whole swathes of the street behind the burning sport utility vehicle were disappearing from view, shrouded in smoke. The pall created bv the fire was acting as a screen, hiding the fugitives from view. “Do you have any targets yet?” he demanded.

  “Negative. The smoke is too thick,” the prone marksman said. He took his eye away from the scope on his rifle and looked up. “What are your orders?”

  Brandt listened to the sirens growing louder. His face darkened. The Russians would be here in moments. At last he snapped, “We’ll leave them for the militia and pick them up once they’re in custody. Smith and his friends won’t get far on foot.”

  * * *

  Smith lay flat behind the blazing 4x4. This close to the flames, he could feel the heat searing his face. Smoke from the inferno stung his eves. He breathed shallow ly, trving hard not to drag too much of the acrid fumes into his lungs. Visibilitv around them dropped to just a few meters as the smoke cloud billowed across the street. He glanced at Kirov and Fiona.

  The Russian nodded in satisfaction. “Now we go.”

  Without waiting any longer, they turned and loped awav. Kirov led them toward a small two-door car, a dingy, off-white Moskvitsh that had clearly seen more than its share of accidents and harsh winters. Its worn-out, lawn-mower-sized engine sputtered and coughed, left stuck in idle when its driver fled.

  Jon nodded to himself, approving the other man’s choice. Of all the cars left abandoned on the street, the Moskvitsh was the cheapest, the least colorful, and the least noticeable. There were tens of thousands just like it on Moscow’s streets. Even if someone spotted them commandeering the little car, the militia would have a verv difficult time picking it out among all the rest.

  Fiona climbed into the narrow back seat, while Smith and Kirov settled themselves in front, with the older man in the driver’s seat. The Russian slammed the gearshift into reverse and backed up fast, cranking the steering wheel hard over. The Moskvitsh swung round through an arc and ended up facing away from the direction it had been going.

  Kirov drove east at an easy clip, deliberately staying below the posted speed limit.

  “Oleg,” Fiona warned suddenly, leaning forward over the Russian’s big shoulder. She pointed ahead through the dirty windshield. Flashing blue lights were coming into view, rushing up the road toward them at high speed.

  “We have company.”

  The first militia squad cars were converging on the scene of the reported accident and gun battle.

  Kirov nodded coolly. “I see them.” He spun the steering wheel again, turning right onto a narrower side street. He drove on a bit farther and then pulled over to the curb, parking right next to the Mongolian embassy. The elegant nineteenth-century building now housing Lithuania’s embassy was just across the street. The ex-FSB officer reached down and flicked the little car’s headlights off. He left the engine running.

  Smith shifted around in the cramped seat, craning his neck to peer out through the Moskvitsh’s small rear window.

  In seconds, the first militia squad car flashed past their side street without slowing, still racing west up Povorskaya Street. Others followed in its wake, one after another, tearing along with their sirens wailing.

  They all br
eathed out in relief. Slowly, Kirov reached down and put the Moskvitsh in gear again. Then he pulled out and drove away, heading south, deeper into the Arbat district.

  “What’s our next move?” Smith asked quietly.

  The older man shrugged. “First, we look for a place to ditch this stolen car, discreetly if possible. And then we find a safe house for you and Ms. Devin.”

  “And after that?”

  “I try to think of some way to smuggle the two of you out of Russia as soon as possible,” Kirov said flatly. “After what happened tonight, the Kremlin will mobilize every element of the state security apparatus to hunt you down.”

  “We’re not leaving, Oleg,” Fiona Devin said firmly. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Fiona!” Kirov protested. “Don’t be a fool! What can you possibly hope to accomplish by staying in Moscow?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said stubbornly. “But I do know that we still have a job to do here. And so long as that is true, I have no intention of tucking my tail between my legs and running.”

  Fiona held up the bloodstained binder. “Those bastards back there murdered Elena Vedenskava to prevent her from passing these medical records to us. Right?”

  Both men nodded slowly.

  “Well, then,” the dark-haired woman told them grimly. “As I see it, that means that Colonel Smith and I had better do our best to uncover the secrets thev contain.”

  PART THREE

  Chapter Nineteen

  Berlin

  The Bundeskriminalamt (BKA)—the Federal Criminal Police—served as the German equivalent of the American FBI. Like the FBI, its several thousand law enforcement officers and forensic experts provided assistance and coordination for the separate police forces of the sixteen individual German states.

  And like the FBI, the BKA was also responsible for investigating a wide range of high-level crimes, among them, international arms and narcotics traffick-ing, money laundering, and terrorism.

  The agency was in the middle of a large-scale reorganization. The bulk of its personnel and facilities were being gradually relocated to Berlin, with the predictable result being a certain amount of chaos and confusion as BKA units settled into unfamiliar locations around the city.

  The State Security Division—charged with investigating high-level political crimes that threatened the Federal Republic—was no exception. Its Berlin-based officers and clerical staff now occupied a five-story building in the Nikolaiviertel, St. Nicholas’ Quarter, a labyrinth of crowded streets, alleys, restaurants, and small museums along the brick-lined banks of the River Spree. The building itself was a modern reconstruction of a centuries-old structure that had once housed medieval merchants and artisans.

  Inside the foyer. Otto Fromm sat behind a long counter, manning the front desk at the beginning of the long, dull night shift. He yawned, already bored with the tabloid newspaper he’d brought to keep himself occupied. As a young man straight out of technical school, he had joined the BKA as a lowly uniformed security guard, imagining himself one day promoted to chief detective on the basis of sheer merit. Twenty years later, he was still trapped in the same dead-end position, though at least with substantially higher pay and six weeks of vacation time.

  The door from the outside opened in a quick gust of clean, cold air.

  He looked up from his paper. A tall, long-legged young woman with fashionably short, almost spiky, auburn hair, a straight nose, firm chin, and very bright, deep blue eyes crossed the foyer, coming straight toward his desk. She was already unbuttoning her long winter coat, revealing a slender figure with small but firm breasts that set his pulse racing.

  Fromm’s eyes brightened at the sight of such an attractive woman, especially one without a wedding band on her left hand. His last live-in girlfriend had kicked him out of her apartment just six months ago and now his drinking pals were all urging him to “get back in the hunt.” Unconsciously, he sat up straighter and smoothed back his unruly, thinning hair. “Yes, Fraulein?” he asked politely. “Can I help you?”

  She handed him her Bundeskriminalamt identity card with a dazzling smile. “I’m sure you can. My name’s Vogel. Petra Vogel. I’m with the Information Technology Division in Wiesbaden.” Then she swung her leather attache case lightly onto the top of the counter and unsnapped its flap, revealing an array of CD-ROMs nestled in separate compartments. “I’m here to install new software upgrades for your local-area network.”

  Fromm looked up at her, unable to conceal his bewilderment. “Now? But almost everyone here has already gone home for the night.”

  “That’s precisely the point,” the young woman said pleasantly, still smiling.

  “You see, to run the upgrades, it’s possible that I’ll have to shut down parts of your system for an hour or two. This way nobody is seriously inconvenienced or loses too much valuable computer time.”

  “But you still need an official authorization for that,” Fromm muttered, fumbling quickly through the papers piled on his desk. He looked up at her in confusion. “And I don’t see any approval for this software upgrade. There’s nothing listed here. Plus, Herr Zentner, our IT specialist, is away on vacation for the next three weeks. Somewhere on the beach in Thailand, I think.”

  “Lucky for him,” the auburn-haired woman said enviously. “I wish I could get away to the sun and sand, too.” She sighed. “Look, I don’t know why you don’t have the right paperwork. Someone, somewhere, must have fouled things up. Wiesbaden was supposed to have faxed all that here yesterday.”

  She rummaged through one of the inner compartments of her attache case and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Here’s my copy. See?”

  Chewing his lower lip nervously, the security guard got up from his chair.

  He read quickly through the copy that she handed him. Written on official letterhead and signed by the director of the Information Technology Division, it ordered Computer Specialist Petra Vogel to conduct a systems software upgrade at the Bundeskriminalamt’s Nikolaiviertel office.

  Fromm’s eyes brightened as he saw a discrepancy. “Here’s the problem!” he said, pointing to a telephone number appearing at the top of the document. “This was sent to the wrong place. Our fax number here ends in 46 46.

  But your office in Wiesbaden sent this to 46 47 instead. That’s probably the number of a local bakery or a flower shop or something.”

  The young woman leaned forw ard to take a look herself, bringing her face very close to his. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling as though his shirt collar and tie were choking him. The fresh, clean floral scent of her perfume wafted into his flared nostrils.

  “Unbelievable,” she murmured. “They muffed it. And now the office in Wiesbaden is closed until tomorrow morning.” She sighed. “So now what am I supposed to do? Go back to my hotel and kick up my heels while waiting for my director’s slow-witted secretary to untangle the mess he’s made?”

  Fromm shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I don’t see what else you can do.”

  The auburn-haired woman sighed in regret. “That’s a shame.” With a slight pout, she began closing her attache case. “You see, I really wanted to finish this project tonight, so that I could take a day’s leave tomorrow, to explore more of Berlin.”

  Fromm caught what he thought might be a subtle nuance in her words. He cleared his throat. “You have friends here to visit? Or family, perhaps?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.” She looked meaningfully up at him from under her long, half-lowered eyelashes. “I had hoped to find a new friend. Someone who knows all the ins and outs here in Berlin. Someone who could show me around … maybe even take me to the most exciting new clubs.” Then she sighed. “But I guess I’ll be tied up here instead, just trying to finish the job before my train leaves—”

  “No, no, Fraulein,” Fromm said in a strangled voice. “That won’t be necessary.” He held up her authorization letter. “Look, it’s simple enough. What I’ll do is make another copy of this f
or our records. Then we’ll just pretend it arrived by fax, as it should have. And then you can go ahead and finish your work this evening, as planned.”

  “You could do that? Bend the rules that way for me, I mean?” the young woman asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Fromm said expansively, puffing out his chest. “Absolutely. I’m the senior security officer on duty. So it’s not a problem. Not a problem at all.”

  “That would be wonderful,” she said delightedly, smiling directly at him in a way that made his mouth go dry.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, at a landing on the building’s deserted fifth floor, the woman who called herself Petra Vogel stood watching Fromm clomp heavily back down the central staircase running all the way to the ground level. Once he was well out of sight, CIA officer Randi Russell wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What an idiot,” she murmured. “Luckily for me.”

  Then she took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the risky work ahead. Now that she had vamped her way in through the castle gates, it was time to storm the inner keep. She dipped her hand into her coat and came out with a pair of skintight surgical gloves.

  She slipped the gloves on, then turned and entered the room unlocked for her by the ever-helpful Otto Fromm. She carried a set of lockpicks that would have done the job, but it was nice not to have needed them. Even the most sophisticated picks left small scratches inside locks that would show up under close investigation. This operation depended on her getting in and out of the Nikolaiviertel building without leaving hard evidence behind that could tie the CIA to the strange and unexplained actions of the phony Petra Vogel.