Black operator complete.., p.20
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 20
“No, but…”
“And now this latest failure, a gunman in Central Park, for God’s sake. Women and children enjoying the winter sunshine, and two of them are dead. Your man is also dead, and the police are questioning this…” He glanced at his notes to remind himself, “This Cris Rhodes, her bodyguard, who is currently in custody. I prefer not to consider what he’s telling them. They’re sure to ask about the four men you sent before to do the job, and who failed. Now this.”
Ushakov waited while Makeyev fought to assemble his thoughts. The General was entitled to defend himself. Provided it didn’t take too much of his valuable time. Afterward, that was different. He couldn't be allowed another cock-up. A pity, but that was a fact of life.
“I can assure you he will tell them nothing,” Makeyev said. He shook the bead of sweat running down his forehead, “The four men he killed would have been impossible to identify as belonging to us. This latest one, Felix Yezhov, carried no papers. Even his clothing was American. As was his weapon.”
‘They are not fools,” Ushakov reminded him. “They will get to the truth, and there will be repercussions.”
The Deputy Defense Minister shook his head. “I don’t think so. With any luck, they’ll charge this Rhodes with murder, and take attention away from our own man. Plus, with Rhodes out of the way, she’ll be an easier target. He has been extraordinarily effective in protecting her.”
Ushakov admitted he had a point, although it didn’t exonerate the old fool. Tereshkova had to go. And Makeyev had to go. He checked his watch. They’d be here soon. Best to keep him talking to keep him off guard.
“What are you planning to do, General Makeyev?”
The man’s face showed relief. “I’m working on a number of ideas; my current thinking is SVR. The successors to the KGB, they still have a few ‘wet work’ operatives from the old days. Poison, polonium, something like that. They’ll take care of it.”
Ushakov could hardly believe his ears. Polonium! They may as well take a full-page ad in the New York Times and announce what they’d done, and who’d given the order. Just as well he’d decided the General’s future.
“I think not. General. Have you heard of Red Square?”
A shrug. “Who hasn’t? This coffee bar is adjacent to Red Square. What kind of fool question is that?”
Ushakov gave an impatient shake of the head. “Not the place, the people.”
“The people?” He shook his head in puzzlement, and then something clicked in his mind, “You don’t mean…”
“The Red Square Club, yes. You know the kind of men who operate from there?”
Makeyev paled. “A criminal organization, who hasn’t heard of them. Former KGB and Spetsnaz operatives, men who were considered too wild even for those organizations. The worst cutthroats and hatchet men in Moscow, you’d be unlocking a cage of wild beasts. No, we cannot use them. Impossible.”
“They are also superb killers, and they are for hire to the highest bidder. We will contact them, and they will finish this for us.”
“I don’t agree. This is wrong.”
Ushakov ignored him. “Their boss, the owner of the Red Square club, is Pavel Stolypin. I have already spoken to him.”
“You’re making a big mistake.”
“Perhaps, but I think you should meet him.”
“No.”
“In fact, now would be a good time.”
He gave a slight nod of his head, and the man standing beside the next table stepped forward in a fluid movement. Almost casually, he slipped a fine wire noose around the neck of the Deputy Defense Minister. A casual twist of powerful forearms, and the General reddened, gasping for air. Ushakov went to him, held his frantically waving arms to stop him attracting untoward attention, and announced to a nearby waiter, “My friend is sick. Please, get someone to call an ambulance.”
Seconds later, the General was dead. Two more minutes, and the ambulance arrived. No surprise, as it had been waiting around the corner. Two hard-faced men in paramedic uniforms lifted the dead body onto a wheeled gurney and took it away. It was all so slick and smooth, many of the patrons of Café Bosco weren’t even aware of the drama.
When the body had disappeared, Ushakov nodded to the other man.
“Pavel, the job is yours. Soon, she will return to Russia, and you know what to do.”
The hard, brutal face stared back at him, expressionless, eyes without emotion. Stolypin was overweight, slightly pudgy, but it hadn’t diminished his awesome power and skill at what he did best. “I know what to do. I will use my best men, and they will not fail.”
Ushakov frowned. “She’ll be surrounded by her own people, my friend. Bodyguards, supporters, well-wishers, it may not be easy.”
A shrug. “She can surround herself with the Chinese People’s Army, it will make no difference. She will die.”
Ushakov’s lips relaxed in a small smile. “Excellent. Then our business is concluded.”
Chapter One
It took five days for the lawyer she’d hired to get him bail, before they released him from police custody. He entered the apartment, and she was waiting for him. Smiled and gave him a hug.
“I was worried they were about to charge you with murder, Cris.”
He shrugged. “Your lawyer knew which buttons to press, and he had them running around in circles. He threatened to sue the city for millions.”
“You did nothing wrong, after all, you didn’t kill him. You didn’t kill anyone.”
He thought back to that moment when he’d cannoned into the Russian and sent him teetering over the edge.
Could I have grabbed him at the last minute and stopped him going over the edge? Maybe.
“They weren’t sure, not at first. It was all so confused. Besides, people died, in the park and in the subway station, so they had to investigate. In the end they cleared me.”
“Not your fault.”
“No. Where’s Alex?”
“He’s staying with distant relations of mine who live in Brighton Beach. They’re nice people, came to America almost ten years ago, and they have two young sons of their own. What’s more important is they have no obvious direct connection to me. He’ll be fine, for now. Cris, I’m leaving him there for a while.”
“Leaving him? Where are you going?”
“Back to Russia.”
He gaped. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s the only way. I must talk to the man in the Kremlin, and get him to call off the chase. Otherwise, we’ll never be safe. They could get to Alex, to you, to me, who knows where they’ll strike next? They’ll never give up, not unless I can persuade them. I must do a deal.”
“You tried that before. Their reply was the four men they sent to kill you.”
She wore a determined expression. “I’ll work harder this time. I know what you’re going to say, that I’ll be exposed in Russia. But remember, I have tens of thousands of supporters. They’ll surround me with my own people and keep me safe.”
He shook his head. “You should wait. I can’t leave, not while I’m on bail. Give it a few weeks, until the cops finally drop the charges. I’ll come with you.”
“No.” Her reply was sharp, “Not this time. I’m doing this on my own, so there’s no need for you to put yourself in the firing line. I want you to stay here and sort out your difficulties, and by that time I hope to have a deal. I can come back for you and Alex, and we can plan for our future. Here or in Russia, it depends on what arrangement I make.”
“This is all so sudden. What made you decide?”
She hesitated for a moment, and then sidestepped the question. “A man I trust. Someone as concerned for Alex and me as you are. His advice was to go back and talk, and I think he’s right.”
She refused to say any more, and he realized it was beyond his powers to persuade her.
“When do you plan to leave?”
“Three days. I’ve spoken to my people, and they’re fixing up a meeting with the President for a full and frank discussion.”
“You’re crazy. He’ll kill you.”
“I don’t think so.”
He tried again to dissuade her, but she was adamant, and in the end, he had no choice but to accept her decision. She was going back to Russia, had even booked her ticket on an Aeroflot Boeing 777-300ER. At least it wasn’t one of the Russian built airliners that gave the flag carrier the nickname ‘Aeroflop.’ A nickname they acquired after the tendency of their planes to fall from the skies with depressing regularity. He made a single binding condition, to which she readily agreed.
“You’ll keep your cellphone on at all times, and never fail to answer it. Day or night. if I don’t get an answer, I’ll know you’re in trouble.”
She smiled her agreement. “I promise I’ll keep it switched on, and I’ll always answer. Satisfied?”
He wasn’t satisfied at all, but he gave her a curt nod. “Okay.”
That evening they sat apart, and the coolness between them was stark. He suspected she may be going to her death, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Except prepare for the worst, and that’s what he did. The following day he drew every last cent from his bank account and went shopping. First to an old contact from his DEA days, Ben Isaacson, wheelchair bound since birth and an electronics genius. When Rhodes told him what he wanted, he agreed. He still owed Cris a favor or two. Maybe more.
On one occasion, he’d followed a dealer to New York, and caught the pain-ridden Ben Isaacson in the act of bulk-buying a large quantity of Percocet to help him with his addiction to prescription drugs. Enough to make it a felony. He felt sorry for the tiny, bespectacled paraplegic, and made a deal. Get off the drugs, and he wouldn’t file charges. He got off the drugs, and told Cris he’d do anything to return the favor.
Ben gave him a list of what he’d need, and Cris went shopping. He needed a gift, something special, and he found what he wanted. A Gucci Queen Margaret leather purse, and even he had to admit it was beautiful, almost a work of art. A gift that told the receiver how much the giver loved and appreciated her; a purse she’d carry with her everywhere, what woman wouldn’t?
He gave it to her when she was about to leave, and she was enthralled. “Cris, this must have cost you a fortune,” she enthused, unable to take her eyes off the bag. She grinned at him as she read the ID tag holder, gold embossed with ‘Blind for Love.’
“You’re a true romantic, I never realized.”
He tried to shrug it off. “I just wanted you to have something nice. Something to remember me.”
“It’s magnificent. I’ll carry it with me always.”
“Make sure you do. You deserve the best, Maria.”
He picked up her suitcase and they went down to the waiting cab. She would never know the gift was more than it appeared. Inside, sewn into the leather lining, Ben had fitted a low power, low current electronic bug. He’d been clear about its limitations.
“Cris, it can only transmit at short distances, to keep the battery drain low. It’ll last the week, so provided she comes home before then, it won’t be a problem.”
“What’s the range?”
“Two hundred meters. It’s the best I could do.”
He’d done all he could, with her agreement to stay in contact on her cellphone. In addition, she’d be carrying the tracker, so he’d know where she was at any time. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. He took her to JFK and waited for her flight to depart. Three hours later, the Aeroflot Boeing 777-300ER took off. Bound for Moscow Sheremetyevo, and as it gained height, his stomach lurched. He knew it was about to go as wrong as it could possibly go.
* * *
She tried to sleep during the long, eleven-hour flight, but inside, the tension formed a knot in her stomach. She was worrying about making the deal, worrying whether they’d go for it, thinking about Alex and Cris. And about the fate of the people who wanted to vote for her, if the iron hand of the Kremlin would let her run for office. If she couldn’t make an arrangement, she’d be letting them all down. It had to work, no matter how much she had to concede. Eventually, tiredness and one glass of wine too many overcame her, and she dozed. When the cabin attendant snarled they were descending into Sheremetyevo, she came awake, in time to hear her order passengers to fasten their seat belts, or they’d be in breach of air traffic regulations.
She was slow buckling up her seatbelt, and the surly attendant, who looked like she’d missed out on a career as a tank driver, snapped a reminder. Less than a minute later, the wheels bumped onto the tarmac, and the big jet rolled toward the stand, wheels bumping on the uneven concrete surface. She glanced out the window, and once again wondered if she’d done the right thing.
I didn’t have any alternative. It was either this or keep running for the rest of my life. Starting each day not knowing if it could be Alex’s last. Not knowing if a gunman will riddle the vehicle Alex was traveling in with machine gun bullets. Or put a bullet into Cris, who’s taken insane risks to protect me. I want them to live. I want all of us to live. Together. This must work.
The immigration clerk checked her passport, and his eyes widened when he scanned it into the computer.
“Maria Tereshkova?”
“Yes.”
“Purpose of visit?”
She smiled. “This is no visit. I am coming home.”
“Of course.”
He stamped the document and stared at her. As if she was a ghost. Or maybe because he felt it would be the last time he’d ever see her alive. She exited the terminal and looked for the car they said they’d booked for her arrival. A man was holding up a notice board, and she felt relieved. He was her new bodyguard in Moscow, Sergei Reschov, and the sign he held stated simply M. Tereshkova. Suitably anonymous, there were plenty of people with the name M. Tereshkova in Moscow. But just one Maria Tereshkova, with a target painted on her back. She went toward him, and he gave her a smile of welcome.
“Maria, we’re all relieved you’ve finally come home. Good flight?”
“So, so. Aeroflot are trying harder these days, but they have a lot of ground to make up. Where’s the car?”
He pointed to the opposite end of the cab rank. “The black Mercedes, it’s waiting to take you to your hotel. We’ve booked you into the Sheraton Palace.”
“Excellent. “
They reached the car, and the driver took her case. His badge stated his name was Leonid Krylov. He nodded in a friendly manner and said, ‘I’m your driver. Call me Lennie.”
He stowed the case in the trunk, and she climbed into the rear seat. Moments later, they were driving away, and she relaxed against the smooth, soft leather upholstery. She could feel herself sliding into sleep, but she roused when Sergei spoke.
“We’ve booked rooms either side of you at the Sheraton. I’ll be one side, and four bodyguards crammed in together on the other. If the Kremlin tries anything, we’ll be ready for them.”
“Good, good.”
“We’re all armed. If they come, we’ll shoot first and ask questions afterward.”
“I wish it wasn’t necessary.”
“So do we.”
I’m home at last. Moscow, the capital city of Russia. One day I could make this country a better place, if I live long enough.
They drove south on the M-11, heading toward the outer ring road. The driver threw a left, and drove along the outer ring for two klicks. He made right onto Dmitovskoye Ulitsa, which would take them to the inner ring. From there, it would be a short ride to the Sheraton, and she looked forward to sleeping off the jet lag. Sergei was silent, understanding how tired she was, and the Mercedes droned on in quiet luxury. She dozed until the driver suddenly announced, “I have to make a stop.”
Reschov was instantly suspicious. “No stops. We go directly to the hotel.”
“Please, I just need to stop outside a house on this road and deliver an envelope. It is an important letter I picked up from the airport, from the same flight as Miss Tereshkova. A life or death message from an elderly grandparent who lives in the States.”
He considered for a moment and then relaxed. “Okay, but make it quick.”
“I will.”
He drove through the Moscow maze, until he came to a street named Novoslobodskaya Ulitsa. The streetlights were out, and he pulled up outside an old redbrick building. Climbed out of the cab, with a cheery, “I won’t be more than one minute,” and walked away toward a single door, with an illuminated sign fixed to the wall. The place was called The Red Square Club. He knocked and went inside. The door closed, and Sergei drew a gun from under his coat. Maria noticed the movement.
“You’re expecting trouble?”
“I’m always expecting trouble. It may be nothing, but I’m not sure. Stay alert.”
They watched the club entrance, but there was no sign of the cab driver coming back out, the cheerful ‘call me Lennie.’
A car swung into the street behind them, and Sergei watched it drive past, following it with his eyes, but it was no threat. Probably just a man and his wife coming home, or maybe going out somewhere. Lennie still hadn’t reappeared, and Sergei looked at her.
“I’m going to knock the door of the club. I won’t go inside, but I’m worried something could have happened to him.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
He opened the door and walked toward the entrance, gun held low at his side. Out of sight, but ready. He knocked the door. It opened, and she saw him crumple. Heard the two shots, and he was down, blood pooling on the sidewalk. She put her hand to the door handle, opened it, and rushed out to help him. But before she reached her fallen bodyguard, two big men stepped out from the entrance. Like club doormen. But they were more than mere doormen. Eyes like Arctic glaciers, soulless, long starved of compassion. They wore the kind of expressions she’d seen before, with trained killers. Like men Special Forces. Trained to kill, and then they kicked them out after the wiring in their brains went awry, and they turned into stone killers.
