Assassin (44 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Assassin
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C
hernov mounted the stairs to the reviewing stand atop Lenin's Mausoleum as the bells inside the Kremlin finished tolling midnight.
Workmen were busy putting the final touches on the platform for President Kabatov and the several dozen dignitaries who were expected to show up. Lights, banners, and a sound system were being installed here, as well as across the vast square that had been blocked off from all normal pedestrian traffic.
Soldiers and Militia officers manned the barricades and checked the papers of everyone entering or leaving, in part because McGarvey still had not been flushed out of hiding, but also because such precautions were normal for these kinds of events. This May Day parade and celebration was supposed
to be the biggest in twenty years because Kabatov had made his conciliatory gesture to the Communists by assuming the party chairmanship.
But the carnival would backfire on them when Tarankov swept into Red Square at the head of his column of commandoes and announced to his people that he was returning the
Rodina
to them, the same message he'd been repeating for nearly five years. This time everybody would believe it.
Unless McGarvey killed him.
Chernov stood at the parapet and let his eyes drift across the periphery of the square, which tomorrow afternoon would be crammed with a million people. Special riot police and anti-terrorism squads would be dispersed throughout the crowd, but even Chernov had to admit to himself that spotting one man in that mob would be next to impossible.
“Let's see your identification,” a gruff voice demanded.
Chernov turned to face an older man dressed in the special Militia uniform worn by guards detailed to Lenin's Mausoleum. He handed his identification book over, then glanced up at the Kremlin walls towering over the rear of the mausoleum.
“Pardon me, Colonel,” the guard said, handing the booklet back. “But we can't be too careful.”
“Who are you looking for?” Chernov asked.
“Anyone who doesn't belong up here,” the guard said.
“Aren't you aware that we're looking for someone? Weren't you briefed before you came on duty?”
“No, sir. When we closed up downstairs I was ordered to help check everyone who came up here.”
“You weren't shown a photograph?”
“No, sir,”
Chernov took McGarvey's photograph out of his jacket pocket and gave it to the guard.
“Ah, the Belgian gentleman. He was here, visiting Lenin, about three weeks ago, I think. Name is Allain, if my memory serves.” The guard looked up. “What's he done?”
Chernov fought to keep his temper in check.
“There must be a thousand people visiting here every day, many of them foreigners, and yet you can recall this one?”
The guard shifted his stance. “He wasn't like most of them. He was respectful. He even brought flowers.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Just a few words,” the guard responded diffidently, suspecting that he was in trouble. “But he seemed genuinely interested.”
“So he came to visit the tomb, he dropped off some flowers, you and he had a little chat, and then he left. Is that correct?”
“No, sir. He wanted to come up here so that he could stand where so many … great men had stood.”
“You brought him here?” Chernov demanded harshly.
“Yes, sir,” the guard said miserably. “But he only stayed for a minute.”
“What did he do while he was up here?”
The guard shrugged. “Why, the same thing you did, sir. First he looked down at the square, and then he looked back up at the Kremlin wall.”
“Do you know how to use your gun?”
The guard looked down at the Makarov pistol in its holster at his side. “Yes, sir.”
“The next time you see your gentleman, I want you to shoot him. Don't ask any questions. Don't stop to chat, or admire the scenery, just shoot him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chernov raced back to his car, and got on the phone to the Kremlin locator to find Kabatov's chief of security, General Korzhakov, in his car heading home.
“The son of a bitch was carrying a KGB general's uniform. He's going to try for a clear shot at Tarankov from inside the Kremlin, and make his escape in the confusion.”
“That's inventive,” Korzhakov said. “But he's not going to last until June in the sewers.”
“I want security in and around the Kremlin tightened up.”
“After we get through today's nonsense I'll review our procedures with you—”
“Do it tonight, General.”
The line was dead for a moment.”
“Tarankov wouldn't dare show his face in Moscow now.”
“Just do it.”
“Where are you getting your information?” Korzhakov demanded angrily.
“It's common knowledge on the street, General. I'm not saying that Tarankov will show up, but a lot of people believe he will. Maybe McGarvey does too.”
“You have a point, Bykov,” Korzhakov said. “I'm turning around now. I'll be back in my office in a half hour.”
Sometime after midnight, by Elizabeth's reckoning, she finally managed to work a corner of the window's blackout shade loose so she could look outside. But it was pitch black and there was nothing to see except some woods across a narrow clearing.
In the thirty-six hours since Liesel had tried to molest her, she'd been left on her own. Except for the pleasant soldier's bringing her meals at 8:00 A.M., noon, and 8:00 P.M., nothing had happened and she was half-crazy with fear and boredom.
She sat back disappointed, then got up and pulled down the tiny sink so that she could splash some water on her face. Her eyes in the mirror were bloodshot because she'd not been able to get any sleep since the incident
with Liesel. Nor had she allowed herself to get undressed so that she could take a shower. She was worried that Liesel would return and catch her in a vulnerable position.
During the day it had been easier for her, because there'd been a great deal of activity in and around the train. She'd heard machinery running, men talking and laughing, and a constant stream of footsteps past her door. Once she'd heard a woman's voice raised either in laughter or in a shout, she'd not been able to tell which. But she thought it must have been Liesel, because she didn't think there were any other women aboard.
She'd thought that perhaps they were getting ready to move out, but by the time her evening meal was delivered the activity had all but ceased, and they'd gone nowhere.
Drying her face, she went to the door to listen, but there were no sounds. She knew that she was in the last car of the train, but other than this compartment she had no idea what was in the car or who shared it with her.
She tried the knob as she had several times before, this time it turned easily in her hand, and the door opened a crack. She froze, her stomach doing a slow roll. She reached over and flipped off the lights, plunging the compartment into darkness.
Guards would be posted outside, but they'd be watching for someone to come toward the train, not get away. If she could reach the woods she thought she might have a good chance of getting several miles before she was missed. By then she didn't think they'd come after her.
Girding herself for the dash she opened the door. Tarankov was standing there, an intent look on his face. She knew why he had come, just as she knew that there was probably nothing she could do to prevent it. She was alone, and her luck had just run out.
“Were you going somewhere?” Tarankov asked. “Not such a good idea having you running around the countryside at this hour of the morning.”
Elizabeth stepped back and he entered the compartment, switched on the light, and closed the door.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice dry in her throat.
“I think you know.”
“I'll fight you, and you might even have to kill me. If that happened I wouldn't be much use as bait.”
“Your father wouldn't find out about that until it was too late for him,” Tarankov said quietly. “They almost had him tonight in Moscow. He was wounded, and now he's trying to hide in the sewers.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Leonid wanted me to send an impersonator to make my speech in Red Square, in case your father got through. But I don't think that's necessary any longer.” Tarankov smiled. “I don't think you'll be needed at my side on the reviewing stand either. So it makes no difference if you're damaged tonight.”
“I'll tell your wife—”
“She thinks I'm a god,” Tarankov cut in. “So will you after tonight.”
Elizabeth lunged at him, but he easily stepped aside and backhanded her in the side of her head with so much force she was knocked across the compartment onto the narrow cot, spots and pinwheels of lights flashing in front of her eyes.
He ripped open her fatigue shirt, and pawed her breasts, the pain of the assault real but so distant she was unable to defend herself for the moment.
He tore the front of her trousers open and pulled them down around her ankles, and off, then spread her legs and opened his trousers and pulled them down, his erect penis leaping out.
“No,” she cried, trying to fight him off as she regained consciousness. “Oh, God no. Please, no!”
The compartment door slammed open, and Tarankov reared back as his wife stormed in, a big semi-automatic pistol in her hand.
“I thought I'd find you here, you rotten prick,” she screeched, waving the gun around.
Tarankov got to his feet, and calmly pulled his trousers up. “Well,
Schat-zle,
you were right about one thing. Neither of us will get to fuck her.”
“Not until after you're in the Kremlin, you mean,” said Liesel, who was not mollified.
Tarankov moved away from the cot as Liesel came closer, pointing the pistol first at him, and then at Elizabeth. The woman had been drinking, and her face was flushed and she was unsteady on her feet. But she was also crazy, a maniacal glint in her eyes, spittle flying from her mouth as she ranted.
“If you and your little whore were dead, maybe the people would sing a different tune!”
“Over fucking her?” Tarankov asked mildly. “If you want her that badly, go ahead, I won't stop you—”
Liesel pointed the pistol directly at her husband's head and cocked the hammer. “First you, you cocksucker!”
Elizabeth had gathered her legs beneath her, and she sprang up suddenly, shoving Liesel aside. The gun fired, but the shot went wild. Liesel crashed against the door and Elizabeth snatched the gun from her hand, and tried to step back out of the way. But the German woman was wild with insane rage, and she charged, leaving Elizabeth no other choice except to fire.
The shot caught Liesel high in the chest between her sternum and esophagus, and she was driven backward, blood splattering the wall.
Without thinking Elizabeth spun on her heel, pointed the gun at Tarankov, who hadn't moved, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The slide was back, in the locked open position.
Tarankov came forward and took the gun from her hand, just before the first of the commandoes appeared in the doorway.
“There are never more than two bullets in Liesel's gun,” he told Elizabeth gently.
“There were shots, sir,” one of the men said.
“An unfortunate situation here, Lieutenant,” Tarankov said, staring at Elizabeth. He shook his head. “My wife tried to rape this girl, who was forced to defend herself.” Tarankov looked up. “Have the body removed, please, and get someone in here to clean up the mess.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure everybody settles down, this will be a busy day. A busy day indeed.”
McGarvey, one hand pressed against the wound beneath his armpit, the other propping him up against the cold damp tunnel wall, held his breath for several moments to listen. It was after 2:00 A.M., and there was nothing now, other than the distant rumble of fast-moving water, probably one of the underground streams.
For a time he'd thought that he would not escape. There were too many men searching for him, seemingly coming from all directions. Several times he'd nearly stumbled into a search party, each time ducking back into a side tunnel at the last possible moment to avoid being trapped in the beams of their flashlights.
But it had been at least twenty minutes since he last heard anything. He didn't think they'd given up the search, they were probably concentrating their efforts in ever-widening circles around the Ploshchad Revolyutsi metro station. For the moment he was outside their search pattern, but it wouldn't last.
Picking up the satchel, which was becoming heavier the farther he went, he made his way along the pitch-black storm sewer tunnel toward a circle of very dim gray light about twenty-five yards away.
The news that Tarankov had Elizabeth was nearly impossible to bear, and yet the bright spark of hate it produced kept him going. She was his flesh and blood, his only child, who had been placed in harm's way because of what he was. It didn't matter that the Howard Ryans of the world gave the actual orders, it was men like himself who made those orders possible, and from a certain point of view even necessary.
If it had ever been possible for him to walk away from this, it had become totally impossible for him with Elizabeth's capture. The men responsible—
all
the men responsible—would pay.
The light on the tunnel floor came from a grate in the roof, that led two hundred feet straight up to a storm grate in the street. In a spring snow meltoff, or during a strong rainstorm, the storm sewers would become raging maelstroms as the water was channeled into the underground torrents that eventually emptied into the Moscow River. Where the tunnels sloped down they led to the rivers, and where they sloped up they led to collection points.
He cocked an ear to listen again, but still the only sound he could hear was the distant roar of rushing water.
The rally in Red Square was set for four o'clock this afternoon, which gave him something under fourteen hours to get into place undetected. But first he was going to have to take one more chance. He had to warn Jacqueline to stay in the French Embassy no matter what happened, because in the aftermath there was no telling which way the country would go, or what the crowds or the military would do.
Another fifty yards and he came to one of the maintenance openings set every quarter mile or so into the tunnel just like the one he'd used to get down here from the metro track level. The steel door at the top would be locked, but on the way down he'd spotted steel rungs set in the wall that led back up to a drainage opening in the floor of the metro tunnel.
The stairs were damp and slippery with algae so he had to watch his step. By the time he reached the top he was winded and claustrophobic, the narrow walls pressing against him in the absolute darkness.
It took him several minutes fumbling around until he found the steel rungs a half-dozen steps from the landing. He slung the satchel over his shoulder and climbed the last ten feet or so until he detected a very faint light filtering down through a grate about three feet in diameter.
Bracing himself as best he could he put his shoulder to the grate and pushed. At first nothing happened, except that he could feel a fresh gush of warm blood trickling down his side.
He tried again, this time using his powerful leg muscles to push upward with every ounce of strength he had. The grate gave way with a tremendous screech that echoed off the metro tunnel walls, then fell away with a clang.
McGarvey waited for a full minute, spots dancing in front of his face, as he tried to catch his breath while at the same time listen for the sounds of someone coming down the tunnel to investigate the racket.
But no one came, and he climbed out of the access tunnel, looked both ways down the metro line, and headed the hundred yards toward the nearest lights.
The metro wouldn't be running again until 6:00 A.M., so the only people in the stations or on the platforms would be maintenance workers, and Militia watching for him to try to make his escape.
An empty train was parked at the platform, its rear lights shining red, and its interior lights on. Ducking around the train, McGarvey looked up over the edge of the platform floor. The chandeliers had been turned low, but even so the light glinted off the tiled walls and ornately friezed arches. The long hall was empty.
Climbing up from the tracks, McGarvey crossed the platform, passed through one of the arches and found a bank of pay phones next to the restrooms near the foot of the stationary escalators. A steel accordion gate blocked the escalators for the night.
He went into the men's room where he peeled off his jacket and opened his shirt. The wound was deep, and oozed blood, but fortunately the bullet had not hit a bone or cut a major blood vessel. He pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, wetted them in the sink and washed the blood away. Then he pulled another wad of paper towels from the dispenser and stuffed them under his armpit. It wouldn't stop the blood flow, but it would help.
He splashed some cold water on his face, put his jacket back on and went out to the pay phones where he dialed the French Embassy number from memory.
“
Bon soir.
You have reached the Embassy of the Republic of France,” a woman's voice said. It was an answering machine, but a night duty officer would be manning the switchboard. “Our normal office hours are—”
“This is an emergency. My name is Kirk McGarvey, and I need to speak to Jacqueline Belleau immediately.”
A man came on. “This line is probably being monitored.”
“I know,” McGarvey said.
“Stand by,
monsieur.”
McGarvey glanced up at the station name. He'd come up at the Lubyanka, directly across from the headquarters of the FSK. The irony just now was rich.
Jacqueline came on a minute later, out of breath. “Oh, Kirk, where are you?”
“It doesn't matter,” McGarvey said. “I've only got a minute before I need to leave here. I'm calling off the hit, do you understand?”
“Thank God—”
“But I know about Liz, and I'm going after her. In the meantime you have to stay inside the embassy. No matter what happens, stay there.”
“I can come pick you up.”
“Just stay there, Jacqueline,” McGarvey said, and he hung up.

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