Birth of an Assassin Read online

  Jez hadn’t meant to deliver such a blow, he didn’t mean… “Stop, what’s done is done, just get on with it. Concentrate on getting out.”

  His mind calculated, but cold numbness ran the length of his spine. The thought of killing an innocent soldier terrified him and he knew that, whatever happened now, he really had committed a crime.

  His heart went into freefall. The military dream was over and he was lost. His whole life passed through his mind. His dreams, shattered. His dedication, pointless. His ambitions, worthless. And Anna, finding Anna again had been a slim hope, but now she was lost forever – hopeless.

  Enough, feel sorry for yourself later, he thought. Now he had to find a way of fleeing the Soviet Union. A good enough idea, but before he could do that he had to escape Lubyanka, if that’s where he was. And if he could do that, he’d be the first he’d heard of.

  The silence of the cell echoed and the pounding in his ears isolated him from life. “Centre your thoughts. Forget Boris. Nothing has changed with regard the escape.”

  He moved into action, pulled Boris across the floor and laid him on top of the bunk, turned him to face the wall and covered him with the greatcoat. The lighting was poor. It would be difficult for anyone to be sure which of them lay there.

  “It might just give me an edge, and every second will be precious.”

  Now, until someone was ready to respond, he would take position – and stay there.

  Chapter 32

  Adrik waited in the guard’s room a couple of corridors along from Kornfeld’s cell. There was only one way out, so the Jew had to pass this room. He spun a Makarov on his finger, aimed at imaginary targets and thrilled at the thought of using it. The gun was standard issue, but he would’ve chosen it anyway. Totally reliable, pull the trigger and out pop the bullets. The blowback design expels the spent case to the right and loads the next cartridge into the chamber – easy. And fully armed with eight rounds, he would use them all.

  This wouldn’t be his first killing and sure as hell wouldn’t be his last. Kornfeld was a pain, and it was Otto who mattered. He would do anything for him. Why should he care about some Jew who got in the way?

  But time dragged, and Kornfeld hadn’t yet made a show. For one horrible minute he thought there might be another way out – but no, that isn’t even possible. Calm down, be patient... Try as he might, he couldn’t, and the idea ran around his head, irritating him beyond measure.

  He left the guardroom and paced the corridor outside. At first a short distance and then a bit further into the next passageway. No good – he had to find out what had happened. With gun in hand and footsteps stealthy he reached the cell door – it was slightly open. Oh shit, did that mean there was another way out? Or maybe Kornfeld had gone deeper into the prison block. Or maybe he was in the cell hoping the element of surprise would be with him.

  Possibilities ganged up. Kornfeld knew Lubyanka well. What if there was another way out and that little bastard knew it? If so, Otto would kill him, never mind the Jew. He kicked the door fully open, slammed it against the cell wall, stood back and then moved in, pointing the gun around to make sure Kornfeld wasn’t hidden on either side of the opening. The cell was dimly lit and he found it difficult to see. He would stay put until his eyes got accustomed to the light. A body, he saw a body. It was covered with a greatcoat, on the bunk facing the wall.

  He was clearly supposed to think it was Kornfeld. In that case he’d be under the bunk waiting... But then that’s obvious too, so he might be on top with the guard pushed underneath. That made more sense – it would be easier for him to make an attack from on top – but, shit, wouldn’t that be what he wanted him to think?

  To be sure of the kill, Adrik wanted to shoot above and below – but he couldn’t. How would he explain the soldier’s death? Oh, Otto, if only Otto was there to tell him what to do. But he wasn’t, he had to make up his own mind. The Jew was on top – yes, definitely on top.

  Cautiously, he edged forward, pointed the pistol to the back of the person’s head and pulled the body towards him with gun steady and ready to fire. As quickly as his huge form allowed, he pulled the greatcoat away.

  Fuck! The guard! No time to react. A leg came from under the bunk with incredible speed and wrapped around the back of his. At the same time, the Jew’s other foot came against his knees and pushed. Adrik had brought his legs together when he tore the coat away and Kornfeld used the imbalance to his advantage. Adrik’s arms went out. He hovered awkwardly, then almost regained control, but Kornfeld pushed harder and Adrik went flying backwards with his legs in the air. A sense of suspension ended and he fell heavily, striking the hard stone floor. His head bounced, shudders chased through his brain and he found himself staring at the ceiling, wavering between conscious and unconscious.

  The pain pierced his skull and he noticed his head had rested in a pool of warm liquid. He hadn’t seen that when he came in. Numbness consumed his body; he couldn’t move. But then his blurred vision saw the bleary outline of the Jew. Awareness came that his body was being rolled over. He was paralyzed, but it didn’t stop the surge of fear that ran through every fibre of his being.

  *

  Jez saw the opportunity when Mayakovski’s legs came together. Now, following the success, he rolled the sergeant’s semi-conscious form face down into the pool of blood that had gushed from the back of his head. He pressed a knee between his shoulder blades, took the bloody head firmly between chin and scalp, pulled back and gave a sharp sideways twist. A crunch yielded to a snapping sound. Mayakovski’s neck had broken and his taut body went limp. It was done with time to spare before the change of guard.

  He washed the bloodstains from his hands and then rolled Mayakovski onto his back. The sergeant’s face was smeared with blood that had clung like an oil slick to the sea. He looked as if he’d been skinned.

  Jez rifled Mayakovski’s pockets and found a wallet stuffed with money, an ID card, cigarettes and matches, spare bullets, and a flick knife with a four-inch steel blade nested in a bone handle. He swished out the blade and closed it back into the handle. Everything could be used. He took the greatcoat from the young soldier and put it on, then removed the boy’s socks and boots. They were a fit, not good, but a fit.

  Be positive: getting out wouldn’t be an impossible task. Maybe some had escaped Lubyanka and the pride of the KGB kept the fact concealed. If things had run in his favour, Mitrokhin would have kept quiet about the arrest. He had a chance; as long as he stayed positive, he had a chance.

  Jez passed the interrogation rooms on the way through the poorly lit corridors and had no doubt now: this was Lubyanka prison. Two soldiers walked towards him as he neared street level, and his heart sank on recognizing one. A moment of terror – stay positive.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” the sergeant greeted. “You look a bit worse for wear.”

  “Ah, Sergeant, yes, I must admit I’ve been better, and I’m still in the middle of the case. Some other time maybe.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, sir, sorry, sir.”

  “No problem, Sergeant. Goodnight.” He shuddered at the word: was it night?

  “Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

  He stepped out onto Dzerzhinski Square and took a deep breath of fresh air, filling his lungs to capacity. He could taste freedom. But then elation soured on hearing a couple of men behind him. One had an incredibly deep and gravelled voice. It couldn’t be – the Smersh interrogators?

  They walked faster than him and in the same direction. Only seconds now from being stopped. He pulled up the collar of the greatcoat and let his head sink into his shoulders. The interrogators passed without looking his way.

  The metro station would be the quickest way out of the city, but it wouldn’t be long before the clamor begun. He had to hurry. He clung to the Makarov like an infant with a dummy and walked at a pace that bordered on trotting.

  Chapter 33

  The evening had aged. Adrik should have killed Kornfeld and been ba
ck by now. What the fuck had happened down there? Otto paced, only stopping to swallow more vodka, or pour a fresh one. He looked at the contents of the glass and grimaced. With this little problem taken care of, and Petrichov believing the task over, he had to cut back. He drank too much and… What the fuck’s happened to Adrik?

  A knock at the door brought an army lieutenant. Clever Adrik: he’d worked it through the regulars to make the net of collusion broader.

  “Excuse me, Captain,” the officer began, “you have a prisoner in the lower cells.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “What about him?” He tried his utmost to stay calm, but renewed excitement bubbled in his stomach.

  “I’m afraid he’s escaped, sir, and he murdered two soldiers in the process: the guard on cell duty and an unidentified Osnaz sergeant.”

  He gasped. “Murdered… What, what do you mean, escaped? And what do you mean, unidentified sergeant? Quick man, for fuck’s sake get it out.”

  Panic took a hold of his chest. Adrik!

  “We can’t identify the sergeant. Other than the uniform, his body has been stripped, sir, even his ID.”

  Tears bulged behind his eyes; he had to turn away to hide the involuntary crinkling in his face. Adrik was his best friend. And he worshipped the ground Otto walked on. Now he was dead, poor Adrik was dead. Anger pushed grief aside, the shock and pain dissolved and the cavernous void in his chest filled with fury and hatred.

  “Do you know how long he’s been gone?” he asked, as he recovered composure. Whatever it took he would get that bastard, and when he did, he would die in terror. But for now think straight, for fuck’s sake, think straight, for Adrik.

  “Yes, sir, an Osnaz sergeant saw him leave Lubyanka within the last hour.”

  Otto slumped into his chair and considered events. What would Kornfeld do? He wouldn’t be able to charm anybody into believing his claims now, so he couldn’t run to Petrichov. He was a murderer on the run. His only realistic option was to get out of the Soviet collective, but before he could do that he needed to escape the city, and as quickly as he could, which meant the – metro.

  “Right, get as many men together as you can muster: militia, internal security, everyone. I want the city’s metro stations flooded with soldiers, especially those within walking distance. And I mean flooded.” Otto’s mind raced. “He’ll be in one of them, but if he’s slipped that net he’ll have headed south. Make sure all militia posts from the south-east to the south-west of the city are notified. I want every terminal stop covered. Do it now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer answered, shutting the door with a slam on the way out.

  Otto pivoted on his chair, absorbing the relative finery of the office. For a soldier of his rank, this was about as good as it got; but with Adrik gone, none of it seemed to matter.

  *

  At Dzerzhinskaya, the nearest metro to Dzerzhinski Square, Jez huddled behind a heavy concrete pillar trying to keep out of sight. He hadn’t hidden there long when a blue train rolled up to the platform. His plan: use different trains to travel through to Yugo-Zapadnaya in south-west Moscow, and from there journey south to the Black Sea. He got on the blue train and thought about sitting tight, going to the terminus in one hit. But what if the military and militia searched the carriages? He got off after only one stop.

  Prospekt Marksa was located just west of the Kremlin, a junction for numerous lines heading off in different directions. Escalators chugged round to different levels, pedestrian tunnels led off to various platforms. If his pursuers saw him, he’d have more avenues of escape. There were alternatives.

  By now Mitrokhin would know about the death of his precious sergeant, so his outrage would almost certainly cause him to swamp every available avenue. Jez had to kill time, give the stampede a chance to ease off. It would be safer to stay in central Moscow and wander around the station complex. If he could go undetected for the rest of the evening, they would move the search further afield.

  If soldiers were left to guard the platform he wanted, he could change his travel plans, use a safer track, head into the heart of an area with a heavy military presence, as he had with his sisters.

  The city’s metro stations were considered by some as the most beautiful in the world, and this one was typical. Above his head, pre-formed tiles fitted together to make a single picture in an arched ceiling. Large globe lights dangled on the end of decorative black iron tubing and ornamental railings encompassed cavernous openings that made space for escalators to revolve on a personal journey to nowhere.

  There were no bustling crowds in the tunnels, but enough people that he didn’t look conspicuous. He flitted between shadows and recesses for what seemed hours, his only conflict arising when he turned to look behind. An old lady had been in his path and he bumped into her. She wore a long heavy black coat down to her ankles. A black scarf covered most of her silver hair and framed a small wizened face. The two bags she carried looked too heavy and the contact he made nearly knocked them from her hands.

  He dusted a hand down her arm. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “I seem to get clumsier as I get older.”

  The relief from her smiling took a weight from his shoulders.

  “It’s living in the city,” she said. “No one has time to do anything but rush.”

  For her part, she didn’t look like city, more like someone who’d spent a lifetime working the land. They made eye contact and she gave him an open, pleasant smile that revealed an almost toothless mouth on a face full of sun-kissed lines and wrinkles. A sympathetic smile, as if she felt sorry for him. He smiled graciously and hurried on. Could he really be looking that bad?

  It became clear that his absence had been discovered when armed soldiers rushed through the tunnels towards the platforms, not noticing anything as they went. Just groups of men playing “follow my leader”, they probably thought he was already on a train and gone. But the numbers seemed endless and he knew it wouldn’t be just this station. It seemed that Mitrokhin had mobilized the whole of Moscow’s military for the task. And that was likely: his boy had just been killed.

  Of course Jez had expected military presence, but not this many at one station. Mitrokhin had second-guessed him again. He had to pay attention to what the captain might be thinking. He’d gone through the same training, so Jez had to stop reasoning like a soldier – at least until he was clear of Moscow.

  As he watched the units come and go, half an hour passed, the cover thinned and he felt it should be safe to go to the platform and resume his journey. He should get rid of the greatcoat on the way, he thought, they’d be looking for it… But it was cold and, without a jacket and having military clothing under, he’d stand out even more. No, take a chance, keep it on.

  On the platform, he kept his head down, wove his way through a small crowd and waited near the tunnel from where the train would emerge. But then people at the entrance scattered and soldiers broke through their ranks. Dogs whined and barked. Jez trembled: they had dogs. As he slipped off the platform and onto the track below, he crouched, trying to keep out of sight while he entered the tunnel. He disappeared into the darkness and thought he’d got away with it, but a shot rang out and ricocheted off the wall to the right. The resonance from the gun panicked the crowd, and Jez got an extra few seconds to cover a safer distance.

  He ran along the tunnel. The handlers didn’t release the dogs and he wasn’t followed. No time to think why. He sprinted towards the middle, stumbled along in the darkness and stopped about 200 metres along. Still no one had followed, and there were no more shots fired. Then he realized they couldn’t.

  “They have to wait until the train system is brought to a halt.”

  The clock was ticking. Soon those behind would follow and they would be met halfway by soldiers from the other end.

  He dropped his pace, ran a hand along the damp and slimy wall, felt for anything that might be of use. But it would be difficult to climb up, even if there was something to get hol
d of.

  A train came into the tunnel, thundering towards him. He pressed his back against the sludge and stared towards the oncoming engine. The front light lit up the gloom and he saw that an iron girder spanned the half circle of the cavern. Something at the top of the archway… what?… some kind of cable tray… the train passed.

  He hastened to the iron support and gripped it with both hands: wet but no slime. He could do it. He had to do it. Transferring Mayakovski’s belongings to the clothing under the greatcoat, he took off the coat and threw it as far along the track as he could. The pistol pressed uncomfortably against his hip, so he moved it to the back of his waistband. A wet girder, but easy enough to shin up; he kept his feet on the ironwork so as not to leave marks on the mossy wall. He took a grip on the steel cable tray, and at almost half a metre wide it was bigger than it had appeared from below.

  Thin edges cut into his fingers as he began hand-walking along the tray, moving away from where he’d climbed, in case he’d left tell-tale marks on the girder. From scuffed knuckles and nicks from the girder, blood ran down the back of his wrists. He worried it might drip to the ground and the dogs pick up on it.

  When the time came, he would try to pull his feet up, grip the tray and press his body flat against it. A fragile hope, but from below he just might look to have melded into the framework. But the time for action came earlier than anticipated. Another train rumbled its way into the tunnel. If he didn’t get an immediate grip on the tray, it would hit him and all bets would be off. Fatigue from the previous day’s torture scuppered any idea of using his arms to pull his body up, so he swung back and forth and tried to hook his feet over, but he only kicked the tray and dropped back. The engine closed in and he dangled in its path.