by Mark Terry
Grechko laughed again. “And Stillwater will be contacting you again soon?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is the General trying to track down the phone?”
“Of course.”
Grechko laughed again. “I want Stillwater. I rather like the boy. Dmitri, well, I don’t give a damn about him. He’s a pawn in this game, Yakov, and if he has to be sacrificed, he will be.”
Silence on the line. Yakov finally said, “The General feels otherwise.”
Grechko snorted. “He only pretends to feel otherwise. He would not abandon his ambitions just because Dmitri gets in his way. Goodbye, Yakov. Call me when Stillwater gets back with you.”
“What will I tell the General?”
“Tell him whatever you want,” Grechko said, and clicked off the phone. He glanced over his shoulder. Raisa was watching him closely. The boy, Lev, was playing with a toy that he carried, what Grechko recognized as a cartoon ogre named Shrek. He wondered if the boy had named Shrek something else, because as he walked the toy up and down his lap he said, “Dork, dork, dork, dork.”
Derek rode with Misha. Konstantin had Dmitri. Konstantin was doing all the communicating with the man on the other end of the phone, who Dmitri had identified as Yakov Shos. Derek sat in the passenger seat and communicated with Konstantin by phone. Otherwise he checked and double-checked his weapons and considered the many, many ways things could go wrong.
Misha said, “What are you prepared to do?”
“What needs to be done.”
They drove toward Moscow. Going to the dacha seemed silly now, but they hadn’t known how long contacting Zukhov would take.
“So you say.”
“Tell me what’s on your mind, Misha.”
The man glanced at him. “You are Lev’s father, da? Yet he is two years old and you only just met him. He is a wonderful boy.”
“That’s my impression as well.”
“Konstantin thinks of him as a son. Konstantin already lost a daughter.”
Derek remained quiet, waiting and listening.
Misha said, “Would you die for Lev?”
“I hope I won’t have to.”
“Konstantin seems to trust you.”
“And I seem to trust him,” Derek said. “But you don’t trust me much, do you?”
“I do not know.”
“Fair enough. Certainly we don’t have much reason to trust each other. But I’ll do what needs—” The phone rang. It was Konstantin.
“First point of contact for Grechko is out front of the Bolshoi Theater. You will be there first, but stay out of sight as planned.”
“How did Grechko respond?”
“I don’t know. Shos is intermediating.”
“Okay. We’ll make this work.” Derek hung up. “How close are we to the Bolshoi?”
“Five minutes.”
“And Grechko’s supposed to be there in thirty. That gives us time to set up.”
General Zukhov paced around his office, clenching his fists and trying to determine what to do. His anger was blinding and he could not concentrate. It wasn’t worry for Dmitri so much as rage that his son was being used as leverage against him.
He and Dmitri were not terribly close. The boy had always been artistic, but Zukhov had thought after his mandatory eighteen months in the army he would follow in his footsteps. He had expected it. Demanded it. But the boy’s mother had supported Dmitri’s choice, and because she had primarily raised the boy since their divorce ten years ago, she had won out.
Zukhov had drawn the boy into the Red Hand, but primarily as an errand boy and liaison between him and Shos. And now this.
It was not just the American, Stillwater. Someone else, someone Russian, someone in either the military or the government was behind this. He paused, rubbing his cheek. Plucking his phone from his pocket, he called his contact at the FSB. “It’s Z,” he said.
“What do you want?”
“Nikitinov.”
The voice was silent. “What about him?”
“I want his location.”
“Nikitinov… nobody knows where Konstantin is.”
“What do you mean, nobody knows where he is?”
“Exactly that. The last report was at one of the bombing locations. Before that, he was in a car accident and there was a shooting. He’s apparently running a side investigation, but for all anyone knows, he’s dead.”
“He’s not dead,” Zukhov murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud. If anyone hears from him, let me know.”
“As you wish.”
Zukhov clicked off and thought about Konstantin Nikitinov and Derek Stillwater and Yakhov Shos and Mikhail Grechko. He called Shos.
“Da?” Shos’s voice sounded throaty, as if he were coming down with a cold.
“The woman, Khournikova. Did she turn up?”
“Maybe,” Shos said. “FSB’s got a guard contingent at City Hospital #1. We’re pretty sure they’re guarding her.”
“Is Zoya Maximova there?”
“Da.”
“I want to talk to her.”
A moment later Captain Maximova came on the phone. “Yes sir?”
“I have a high-risk job for you.”
“Yes sir.”
“Go to City Hospital #1, track down Irina Khournikova and kill her. Call me when it’s done.”
Grechko parked his car a block from the Bolshoi and turned to look at Raisa and Lev. “You will do exactly as I say exactly when I tell you do so. Understand?”
Her gaze stony, Raisa said, “Or what?”
“Or I will be forced to hurt you or the boy. Or, quite possibly, the people who are trying to rescue you will hurt you or him accidentally. I do not intend to hurt you, but this could be a very dangerous situation.”
She continued to glare at him without answering.
“Yes? No?” he probed.
“Da. I understand.”
“Good. You can control the boy?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now we walk.”
He got out of the car and opened the door for Raisa and Lev, picking up Lev. He and the boy were eye to eye. Lev studied him closely. Grechko met his big blue eyes and recognized the eyes and features of his father.
“Walk, wanna walk,” Lev said.
“But you will hold my hand,” Grechko said gravely. “Da?”
Lev nodded.
He set the boy on the ground, who raised his hand for the assassin to hold. Turning to Raisa, Lev raised his other hand. Eyes tightening, Raisa held his hand. She glanced at Grechko, who nodded.
They walked through the frozen slush to the Bolshoi, which was quiet this time of day. A few people walked on the street, but there was no performance today, no crowds. Some tourists in the area, checking out the famous building for the famous ballet.
They stopped and stood in one place. Raisa said, “What are we waiting for?”
Grechko said, “Something to happen.”
“I hope they have a sniper who shoots you in the head.”
“Perhaps, but I do not believe they will. I do not think Stillwater will risk the boy that way.”
And he was right. A moment later his phone rang. He answered it with a curt “Da.”
The voice on the line was not Stillwater, Grechko noted. It was a native Russian, probably Konstantin. “Now go to—”
Grechko cut him off. “You have made a crucial mistake, my friend. Is this Konstantin Nikitinov, the famous counterterrorism expert?”
“You will follow—”
“Konstantin, please. This is Konstantin, correct?” He jerked Lev closer to him. The boy yelped and tried to squirm away, but Grechko gripped his hand tight to him, holding him against his body. “Identify yourself or I will hurt him.”
“Yes. I am Konstantin Nikitinov. You known who I am?”
“FSB. Of course. And you must be working with Stillwater. Quite interesting. But not pertinent
.”
“We will trade Lev and Raisa for Dmitri Zukhov.”
“That is your mistake, Agent Nikitinov. I don’t care about Dmitri Zukhov. Kill him, cut him into little pieces, bake him in a pie and send him back to his father for supper, I do not care. I will trade the boy and his grandmother for one thing and one thing only: Derek Stillwater. Now you have two minutes to get him to talk to me or I will leave with the boy and you will never see him again.”
He clicked off the phone and waited, counting slowly in his head.
Fifty-three seconds had gone by when the phone buzzed. “Da?”
“It’s Derek Stillwater.”
“Meet me here. Right here where I stand. Once you are here I will release the boy and his grandmother.”
“It will take a couple minutes.”
“You have five.” Grechko clicked off the phone and smiled down at Lev. “Your father is coming.”
Zoya Maximova studied Yakov Shos. She thought he looked tired and pale. She said, “I understand what the General wants me to do, but I’m asking you if you agree.”
They were in Shos’s office at the school, headquarters of the Red Hand. Shos said, “It is chess. It is war, right? He is making his moves. The enemy is making their moves. It was not what he expected, so he’s responding in a way that he hopes they will not expect. But I don’t know why he bothers. Focus on getting his son back, well, I believe Dmitri has certain uses, but I wouldn’t risk my entire operation for it.”
“He’s not your son.”
“No. I understand Z’s motivation here, but at the same time, I suspect he might be complicating matters by sending you after Khournikova in the hospital, if that’s where she actually is.”
“I can handle that.”
Shos sighed, turned his head and coughed into the crook of his elbow. “We do not know if the FSB has set up guards around her. It could be a trap. I don’t want to risk you on this.”
“I think we need to,” Zoya said slowly, leaning back in her chair.
“Why?”
“I understand that Z’s buying insurance with her to get at Stillwater and Khournikova—damn Stillwater for getting involved in this at all, it’s all that fool’s fault, Titov, panicking that Stillwater was going to dig into Khournikova’s death. If Grechko hadn’t tried to kill him and failed, Stillwater wouldn’t have gotten involved at all.”
“Perhaps. But your point? Why bother with Khournikova?” He sighed again, cleared his throat and said, “I’m perfectly content not sending you over there. We have a lot to do in preparation for tomorrow. But why do you think we should take care of Khournikova?”
“Because she might know our location here.”
He nodded. “I think if she knew, or was conscious, she would have told the FSB and they would be here already.”
“So perhaps she’s unconscious and when she wakes she will tell them.”
“Very well. That’s a good point. Do you want to take anyone?”
She shook her head. As far as she was concerned, Khournikova was another miscalculation, this one by Shos himself. When the FSB agent had survived the raid on the warehouse in Novosibirsk, Zoya would have been perfectly happy putting a bullet in her head. But Shos wanted to try and turn her, give them one more mole inside the Kremlin and Lubyanka. Yet another gamble that had negative repercussions and might yet prove fatal. “I’m good.”
“If security’s tight, back off. We have other things to do.”
She nodded. Before leaving, she pulled him close and kissed him passionately. To her, Shos felt hot, feverish. She wondered if he was getting the flu that was going around. She brushed her fingers over his forehead. “Take some aspirin. You feel warm.”
“I’ll be fine. We have too much to do to get sick.”
Kissing him again, Zoya left his office, dressed for the weather and stopped at the armory on her way out, collecting an additional handgun to carry with her, as well as a knife and a grenade. There were many ways to kill someone in a hospital that would look accidental. But if there were guards, she would try something more brutal. One way or the other, she intended to eliminate Irina Khournikova as a player on the Moscow chessboard.
Derek stood outside the Bolshoi Ballet. To Derek, it seemed very un-Russian in its neoclassical design. There were a few tourists standing in the bitter weather, but overall it wasn’t a bad location for a hostage swap. Dmitri was with Konstantin.
Hunched in his jacket, ushanka on his head, he scanned the area.
His phone rang. Putting it to his ear he said, “Stillwater here.”
“Take your hands out of your pockets.”
“Where are you?”
“Do it.”
He took his remaining hand out of his pocket.
Over the phone Grechko said, “Walk to the street.”
He walked around the fountain, down the steps to the street. A tour bus rumbled past.
“Look to your right.”
He looked over. Around the corner of a theater across the street stepped Grechko. Lev was holding his hand. Raisa stood on the other side of Lev, holding his other hand. Grechko had his right hand in his pocket and was wearing a Bluetooth device in his ear.
Derek said, “Let them go and walk away, Grechko.”
“I want you, Stillwater. They have paid me to kill you.”
“And that involved kidnapping a little boy and murdering his aunt and uncle?”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“And you expect me to believe you?”
“I don’t actually care, Stillwater.”
“Let them go.”
“When the traffic clears, cross the street. We’re waiting for you.”
He waited for a dozen cars to flash by, then jogged across the street. The trio stood fifty feet away. Derek knew Misha and Konstantin were in the area. Misha had a rifle with a scope. He’d take out Grechko if he had the chance.
As if aware of Derek’s thoughts, Grechko leaned down and picked up Lev.
“Take off your coat, Stillwater.”
“What?”
“Take off your coat and drop it on the ground.”
Derek thought of the handgun in the pocket. Bastard. He shrugged out of the jacket and dropped it in the snow. The icy wind blew right through his shirt.
“Take ten steps toward us. I’m counting.”
Carefully Derek stepped closer.
“Take off your shirt.”
“Are you out of your mind? It’s freezing out here.”
“Poor baby. I can turn around and walk out of here and you’ll never see Lev again. Ever.”
Shivering, Derek unbuttoned his shirt.
“Raise your hands and turn around. Slowly.”
Derek followed the order. Goose flesh broke out all over his body.
“Ten steps closer.”
He moved closer. Lev saw him and waved. Raisa had a fixed expression on her face. Derek thought Grechko looked strained. If he was right, he’d shot Grechko last night in the office building. Maybe it wasn’t that easy holding the little boy with a gun in one hand and a bullet wound.
“Stop.”
Derek thought he could probably kill Grechko from here if he were holding a gun. He was a good shot, particularly when the stakes were high. But Lev was in his arms. Raisa stood next to him.
“Take off your pants.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I want you completely unarmed.”
“You planning on having me freeze to death?”
“I’m planning on your being unarmed.”
Derek reached for the snap to his jeans.
Raisa, until that moment, had been standing quietly to the side. Without warning she slammed her elbow into Grechko’s ribs. He shouted in surprise and pain, fumbling to hold on to the suddenly squirming Lev.
Raisa snatched the little boy from his arms and kicked Grechko hard in the knee, turning on her heels and darting into traffic.
Konstantin raced around th
e corner of the nearest building, firing his gun at Grechko.
The assassin turned, gun raised, firing back.
Derek sprinted toward the man, closing the distance.
A gunshot rang out in the cold Moscow air. Grechko spun around, looking for the sniper. The crack of gunfire. Misha, trying to take out Grechko.
Grechko rolled on the ground, aiming his gun at Derek, firing. In the same fluid motion he had hit the ground he rolled to his feet and sprinted away.
Derek, bare-chested, spun and threw himself to the ground. Sliding half-naked in the snow and slush, he skidded off the curb and between two cars, slamming his head against the bumper. Everything went dark.
26
Konstantin rushed to Raisa and Lev, shielding them with his body. Dmitri was still in the car, wrists cuffed, gagged. Konstantin snatched Lev from her and pushed them along, heading for shelter. He heard gunfire, knew Misha was trying to kill the assassin.
People noticed. They screamed and shouted. Traffic stopped. He threaded his way through the cars, urging Raisa on. “Hurry, hurry!”
They tripped up over the curb. Lev was crying, hands out to Raisa.
Behind them gunfire tore through the air.
In horror, Konstantin turned to see Derek slamming to the pavement, smashing into a parked car.
He fired off several rounds at Grechko, who was already on the move, racing away from the scene.
Handing Lev to Raisa, he pointed. “Go. Hurry. My brother Misha is over there.”
He ran back to Stillwater, who was unmoving, crumpled in a snow bank that was stained black and gray from soot, but was now splotched red with blood. Konstantin thumbed 04 into his cell phone, ordering an ambulance to the Bolshoi. He picked up Derek’s shirt and coat and covered him, pressing his fingers to the American’s throat. Alive. Blood poured from a gash in his scalp. He pressed the shirt to the head wound. He understood that head wounds bled a lot, even minor ones, but he couldn’t tell if this was minor. The man was not responding. He must have driven his head right into the side of the car.
Already he heard sirens.
Crouching next to Stillwater, he tapped the number for Misha. “Got them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Get them out of here. And get your family out too. Call me.”
