Snow Wolf (25 page)

"Better let me be the judge of that.
But if anyone can do it, Popov can."

When Popov had settled in he met them
downstairs in the dining room. Stanski had poured coffee and the three of them
sat at the table.

The Ukrainian looked across at Anna and
Stanski. "First things first. The program. You wake every morning at
four-thirty. We take a five-mile run, even if there's snow,@then back here for
more exercises. After breakfast we do some selfdefense training, how to defend
yourself, and also how to kill."

He looked at Stanski. @"You too,
Alex. The day you think you know nothing more you're dead. The woman here, I
know about her background, so I'll have to assume she knows nothing and go on
from there." He looked directly at Anna. "What kind of experience
have you had of this kind of thing?"

Stanski interrupted. "She's had
some, Dimitri."

Popov raised his eyebrows and grunted.
"I asked the girl, Alex. So let her answer." He looked at Anna.
"Show me your hands."

"What?"

"Your hands. Give them to me."

Anna held out her hands and Popov studied
them. Then he reached over and gripped them painfully hard. He seemed to take
pleasure as his big strong fingers pressed cruelly into her flesh, as if he was
trying to hurt her, but Anna only winced and didn't cry out.

Popov grinned, then released his grip.
"Good. You've known pain before. So what's your background?" Stanski
said, "Massey said no questions, Dimitri."

Popov turned to stare at him and spoke
gruffly. "I'm not asking her life history. But I need to know how much
training she's had. How much pain she can take."

"I've had military training, if
that's what you mean," Anna answered sharply.

Popov's bushy eyebrows rose. "Which
army?"

"Dimitri ..." Stanski went to
interrupt.

Popov stared back at him. "You
realize as well as I do it's important I know something of her background,
considering what she might have to face when the time comes. I need to know
what I'm working with." He looked back at Anna. "Which army?"

"The Red Army."

Popov frowned, an unpleasant look
crossing his face before he grinned again and stroked his beard. "I
guessed as much. So, we were once enemies. This should make for an interesting
time. But I can tell you that such military experience will hardly help you.
The Red Army are a rabble. Undisciplined. Unruly."

Anger flared on Anna's face. "Even
at Stalin-rad?"

Popov grinned. "First blood to you.
Stalingrad is the exception."

"And no doubt the SS were
better?"

Popov heard the bitterness in Anna's
voice and glanced at Stanski before looking back at her.

"So, you know something of me? As
fighting men, the Ss were infinitely better, believe me."

"Except the Ukrainian SS. They were
rapists and scum."

Stanski looked at Popov, whose face
turned red with fury Stanski stood up to break the tension.

"Let's get this under way. Whenever
you're ready, Dimitri."

Popov stood and pushed back his chair.
"There's still light outside. Let's start with ways to kill." He
looked at Anna. "We'll see who was scum. Go change." He grinned at
Stanski "You know, I think I'm going to enjoy this."

They were out behind the house, their
breaths fogging in the freezing air, but the cold didn't seem to bother Popov,
who hac removed his parka and sweater, and stood there in his dirty vest. The
smell from the man's body was unpleasant, a mixture of stale sweat and wood
smoke.

He faced them, his feet spread apart as
he hitched up his trousers.

"OK. Basics first. To kill properly
you need two things. Determination and skill. Forget anger. It makes for
mistakes and distracts you. You must be clear-headed about your purpose. OK,
without weapons first. Let's start with you, Alex.

Step forward." Stanski stepped
forward.

"Give up your hands. Palms up,"
commanded Popov.

Stanski offered his hands. Popov grasped
one, held it up and splayed the fingers.

He looked at Anna. "Five fingers.
Five simple but deadly weapons on each hand. You use them to gouge and poke out
eyes. To strangle and choke. Then there's your feet. And Your head, but use
that for anything other than thinking it can be both painful and dangerous.
Better to stick with the other parts-legs, hands and feet. OK, Alex, tell me how
you can kill with your hand@;."

Stanski's hand touched a point behind
Popov's left ear and pressed.

"Pressure points left and right
sides of the neck where the veins Carry blood to the brain. Depending on the
amount of pressure applied, you can knock a man unconscious or kill him in five
to ten seconds."

"That's assuming of course,"
said Popov, "you've (, got time. What if you haven't'? What if it must be
done instantly'?

A sentry, perhaps ' Someone you wish to
silence without a sound @and at once?"

Stanski showed him. With the edge of His
hand, he gestured like it was a blade. "Side cut to the throat shatters
the Adam's apple."

"And if You're coming from
behind?"

"The right way is to side cut or
punch to the pressure Points."

"But if it doesn't kill him?"

"Stamp on his throat."

"But if he's still standing?"

"You get him down on the ground as
quickly as possible. Crush his throat with your hand or foot."

"Which part of the foot?"

"The heel is the strongest."

"OK, do it to . me."

Popov turned, offering his back. Stanski
came up behind him and went to attack. As his hand came cutting through the
air, Popov turned quick as lightning and grasped Stanski's arm and twisted.
Stanski didn't scream even though the bone almost cracked. Popov released his
grip and grinned. "First mistake. I'm surprised at you, Alex. You've grown
rusty. Always and always be ready for the unexpected. Anticipate that the guard
is going to turn and look or have a piss," He looked at Anna. "If the
guard sees you, it can cost you your life, and worse, the lives of the others
with you. Never expect things to happen as you plan them. In short, expect
fucking anything to happen. And when you're making that kill, every sense must
be alert. Not only the ones you're using right now."

He stepped back a little. "Now try
it again." He turned, offering his back again. Stanski came at him. As he
was about to strike, Popov turned once again, but this time Stanski was ready.
As Popov's hand came around, Stanski grabbed it and twisted, at the same time
bringing his knee up and halting it an inch from smashing Popov's face, then
his hand It stunned the man but he was power-fully built, and as Stanski's hand
came down sharply to strike again Popov grunted and wrenched free, his hand
grabbing Stanski's hair, wrenching it back painfully from the scalp.

"Better. But not quite good enough.
You would have killed me, but not silently. We'll improve on it. Remember,
always anticipate. The SS trained their men to expect everything." He
looked at Anna and grinned. "And now you. Step forward please,
madam."

There was something in the way Popov said
madam that was almost goading. Anna took two steps forward. The grin behind the
Ukrainian's beard widened.

"With women," Popov said
dismissively, "it's even more difficult. They haven't got the natural
strength a man has. But even nature's weaklings can be taught technique.
Remember, always anticipate and react. And it must be quickly, or your life
gets snuffed out. Got it?"

"I think so."

"We'll see. OK, the same again. Try
and remember what you saw Alex do. Come at me from behind."

Popov turned again, showing Anna his
back.

There was a swishing sound and Popov felt
the force of the kick as a foot slammed hard between his legs. He vomited as he
went down, his face turning purple as his hands went to cover his genitals.

At the same time Anna came around in
front of him. Her hand sliced through the air and hit Popov a glancing blow to
the side of the neck as he pitched forward.

As Popov writhed in pain, Stanski saw the
barely concealed smile on Anna's face, and then it was gone, her face deathly
serious as she looked back at him.

"His first mistake. He didn't heed
his own advice to anticipate. That's the sign of a poor instructor,"
Stanski grinned, "I'd have to agree. What's the idea, are you trying to
kill him?"

"There are many ways to stop a bear.
The Mongolian troops I served with at Stalingrad taught me that. That's how
they've silenced a sentry since the time of (Christ. A hard, sharp kick between
the legs to a man's most vulnerable spot. The pain is so intense he can't
scream or cry out even if he wants to. He goes dumb with shock. Then you kill
him."

Stanski smiled over at Popov squirming on
the ground. "I think you've made your point."

"Then tell him for me I hope the
rest of the training is better. And remind him a good instructor should always
practice what he preaches. Tell him that. I'll be inside when your friend has
recovered."

Stanski watched as she turned and went
back up to the house. He saw Popov try to struggle to his feet, cross-eyed with
pain as he tenderly massaged his genitals and moaned.

Stanski laughed and lit a cigarette.
"I guess she's better than you thought, Dimitri."

Moscow. February 12th It was almost noon
when the Finnish DC-3 carrying Henri Lebe] landed at Vnukovo airport. Situated
ten kilometers southwest of Moscow, Vnukovo served as the city's main civilian
airport, but it was also a military airbase, ringed by a highsecurity fence and
guarded by a battalion of crack paratroops.

Lebel remained quietly in his seat long
after the aircraft had taxied to a halt. There were only a dozen passengers on
board that Thursday morning, and among them Lebel recognized several faces he
had seen before on Moscow flights-two prominent Dutch diamond merchants, a
German oil magnate, and a minor Finnish embassy official. They all waited
patiently in their seats, frequent visitors to Moscow who knew the drill that
was to follow.

Lebel glanced out of the window and saw
an Enika car drive the short distance across the snowy tarmac to the plane. He
noticed that, as always, there were few Western aircraft on the aprons.

The Enika halted below on the apron and
the two passengers climbed out and came up the metal stairway. The procedure
was always the same, The two men were KGB, and they came on board but remained
at the door. Before the passengers were allowed to disembark, the Finnish
stewardesses went through the cabin removing any Western newspapers and
magazines and storing them away in a locked cabinet in case anyone was tempted
to take one.

Lebel and the passengers were finally led
across the snowy tarmac to the terminal by one of the KGB men. Inside, two more
men were waiting, standing beside a long metal table, where the passengers'
bags would be examined.

Lebel identified his bag from a trolley
and the man opened it and thoroughly examined the contents. When he had
finished, he indicated for Lebel to move to another official sitting nearby,
waiting to check passports. The man, whom Lebel knew from previous visits, was
KGB. He examined the passport along with the official document declaring Lebel
an honorary Soviet citizen, then stamped the passport and handed it back
without a flicker of recognition.

There was a Zil and a driver waiting, as
usual, for since his outburst years before the Ministry of Foreign Trade had
treated Lebel royally. When he stepped inside it drew away from the curb.

Lebel liked the cosmopolitan, noisy
atmosphere of Moscow there were Russians, Slavs, Mongolians, lots of Chinese,
and a hundred other ethnic faces. It reminded him a little of New York, except
that it was slower, colder, there were no really excellent restaurants, and it
was much more drab.

But nothing could have been drabber than
Moscow's hotels. There were only four in the capital which were used for
foreign visitors, and the best by far was the Moskva on Marx Prospect, with a
grand frontage and a summer cafe terrace that overlooked the Kremlin. The
Moskva was the chief hotel assigned to important visiting foreigners and dignitaries.
Lebel used it as his office, although he already had an official bureau
assigned to him with a staff of three Ministry of Foreign Trade employees,
situated near the Arbat. It was a drab two-room place he avoided as much as
possible.

As the Zil pulled up outside the hotel,
there was a uniformed militiainan on duty at the entrance, wearing a long blue
overcoat with red and white tabs. Lebel told the man from the Ministry he
wouldn't need him or the car until the next morning at nine-he had a meeting to
discuss his next shipment-and the Zil drove off.

Whenever Lebel stepped into the Moskva it
reminded him of a magnificent, if somewhat dismal, palace. Vast, with miles of
deserted polished marble halls and glittering chandeliers, it still gave a
bleak impression-there was no flower shop or newspaper stand, no concierge, and
not a uniformed bellboy in sight. Guests were expected to carry their own bags.