Birth of an Assassin Page 19

  The steelwork bit into his fingers: he couldn’t hold on much longer. One more effort; he had to muster enough spirit for one more effort. He swung again, and this time looped a foot onto the tray. With only moments to spare, he wrapped the other foot on the other side and the train boomed past below. The powerful suction almost dragged him with it.

  With the carriages gone, he was about to let go his hold. But then it dawned on him: he’d wrapped both feet above the tray. Could there be a cavity big enough to force his body into? Strength came from an adrenaline rush and he pulled himself round, pushing his body into the void. A tight squeeze, but somehow he wedged himself between the cable and the roof. For the first time in his living memory, he was thankful not to be a big man. His only worry now was if he might still be visible from the ground. Exhausted and in need of rest, the cold damp shook him. He should move, limber up, get warmth to his muscles, but all he could do was wait it out.

  Chapter 34

  Silence – then the dogs screeched and barked their way along the track. Several got to the greatcoat and tore at the pockets. The handlers came and the foot soldiers followed. Flashlights shone along walls and roof and the soldiers stopped in a group while the handlers took control of the animals. More joined from the opposite end of the tunnel and the dogs barked at them while pulling on the leashes.

  “The slime is scraped from the wall over here,” one shouted and a couple of the others went to him.

  A sergeant said, “He probably leaned against it to avoid the trains when they came through.”

  “Yes, the back of this trench coat is covered with it,” a handler agreed.

  “There’s a finger trail in the slime here,” another said loudly.

  Jez watched, his insides shivering through his body, but he had to keep still at all cost. And then, “Over here,” a searcher shouted.

  The soldier was directly below where he was hidden.

  “What is it?”

  “A Makarov PM – KGB standard issue.”

  The pistol! Jez almost reached for his waistband, but thought better of it. Idiot, the gun had obviously fallen from his trousers when he swung for a foothold. Where else could it have come from?

  Focusing on the roof near to where he was, the group shone torches – so many that Jez felt as if he’d died and was being drawn into the light.

  “I think there’s a chance he’s somehow jumped one of the trains while we waited for permission to enter.”

  “I don’t see how he could’ve done that when they’re going so fast. It’s as likely the ground opened and swallowed him; he is KGB after all.”

  They laughed and some began walking away, but the sergeant halted them. “Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted as if on the parade ground. “This man has murdered a young soldier and a sergeant. Do not treat this lightly. I want you to return to your own platforms and light up this tunnel as you go. If there’s anywhere to hide, roof or wall, I want to know about it.” He shone his torch at the ceiling, almost blinding Jez with the light. “A man couldn’t get behind the cable trays here, but you don’t know that’s true in other parts of the tunnel. Check everything thoroughly on your way back.”

  The group moved off in fragments and the sergeant stayed where he was until the glare of the torches had disappeared.

  The previous days caught up with Jez and his spirits flagged. He’d been tortured, his friend murdered, and he’d killed an innocent guard. Now, he was a hunted man and his trackers were probably on shoot to kill orders.

  His muscles cramped where the cold damp had worked its way in. As much as was possible in the confined space, he practiced muscle manipulation. Time passed and a train rumbled into the tunnel. The service had resumed.

  Painfully, he swung back under the cable tray, moved hand by hand along to the girder and shinned down. They’d taken the gun, but not the coat. A good shake and he slipped into it. The dogs had torn it around the pockets, but if he could get to street level it might go unnoticed. That train should’ve been the last of the day, so he’d try to rest. He wrapped the coat tight and snuggled into foetal position until warmth took the ache away.

  Two trains passed in quick succession. It was morning, and he had to move. He trudged as close as he dared to the platform and pressed against the slimy walls. It was time for another round of waiting. Another blue train rolled past and stopped. A couple of soldiers were on guard, so he crept along the blind side of the coach and slid under the Solebar onto the chassis.

  The train pulled away and he watched the guards monitor as it did. If there were sentinels at this station, they would be at most of them. Yugo-Zapadnaya was a terminus, so going that far was no longer an option. He’d get off at the first unguarded stop.

  *

  Near freezing, he rolled from the train’s framework onto the tracks at Leninskie Gory and crept to the end of the platform. No guards that he could see, so he discreetly joined the commuters and felt lucky to emerge from the station unseen.

  On the street, the cold fresh air brought life to his face; and enough people pounded the pavements for him to go unnoticed. Then he caught sight of himself in a window. At best, he would pass as a hobo. He needed to change persona. The use of trams wouldn’t be a good idea; tramps never seemed to hurry anywhere. But he needed to put some distance between him and the city without detection. How? The nearest public baths – if he changed appearance enough, he could use public transport.

  *

  “What on earth happened to you, Private?” the attendant asked.

  Private – so he didn’t look like a tramp.

  “I assume you’re a private: the coat is dirty.”

  “Yes, I’m a private – and dirty, as you say. You obviously haven’t heard about the overnight commotion. I thought the whole of Moscow would’ve known by now.”

  The attendant shook his head.

  “We chased a fugitive into the metro tunnels and I fell off the platform. That’s how I got the injuries, but I wasn’t finished there. I tripped on the track and fell against the slimy walls.”

  The attendant seemed to have trouble not laughing.

  “And did you catch your fugitive?”

  “No, and I couldn’t go back to barracks to clean up. I had almost left for a four-day furlough – my parents are expecting me – but the KGB wanted every available man and I was dragged into the chase at the last minute.” He spread his arms, palms upward. “Now here I am trying to make myself presentable before my mother sees me.”

  The attendant handed him a towel, a wafer-thin tablet of soap – used – and a robe. “I’m sure you’ll look good as new by the time you’ve cleaned up.”

  Jez bathed, wallowing in the warmth of the water, and tried to forget – everything. After drying, he brushed off his clothing; and while he didn’t look as good as new, he might just about pass for normal.

  He caught a tram south towards the city suburbs.

  *

  Anna stared out across to the Kremlin’s perimeter walls. The remains of an early frost covered Red Square with an icing sugar beauty, but the view held less of a chill than the atmosphere in General Petrichov’s office. Again, she’d been asked to observe at a meeting between him and Mitrokhin. The captain waited outside now and the general wasn’t happy about it.

  She’d not long heard of Jez’s arrest and subsequent escape. But his alleged transgression was of no concern to her. His safety was her only worry. In her heart she hoped never to let him down again. Now she was about to face Mitrokhin. Yuk, just the thought of the man increased the distaste she felt for him.

  “You can show Mitrokhin in now, Lieutenant,” the general ordered.

  He entered and saluted – nonchalantly.

  “Captain Mitrokhin, you know Lieutenant Puchinskaya.” Mitrokhin nodded without interest. “You know she is my aide, but she will take on the task of running a parallel investigation to yours an…”

  He looked appalled. “Parallel investigation, investigat
ion into what? I was under the impression we were hunting down a killer who’d operated a slave trade. Frankly, I don’t see that there’s much to investigate. I think my inquiry up to the point of Kornfeld’s capture is evidence enough to send him to hell.”

  “Yes, I’ve read the reports, Captain, and you can probably back them up. But we can’t assume that because one man is exposed, the problem will go away. The trafficking operation has to be stopped. I want to know how long it’s been going on, how many girls are missing, and where they are now. And I want his accomplices – all of them.” Petrichov stood and his face reddened as if building up a head of steam. “And don’t you ever interrupt me when I speak.”

  Mitrokhin shrank back and the smug expression choked on his face. “No, General, I beg your pardon, sir, please excuse me. Kornfeld is responsible for killing two of my partners and I’ve been obsessed with thoughts of recapturing him. I realize the trafficking case isn’t closed and I will be only too happy to share my findings with Puchinskaya.”

  The general’s eyes slatted and he brought a hand to his chin. “Your two partners… Maybe you can give me a little insight into Sergeant Sharansky’s death? Why would Kornfeld kill him? My understanding was they were close friends as well as old colleagues.”

  Clearly ready for the question, Mitrokhin’s self-assurance returned. “As far as I’m concerned, it shows his vices are more important to him.”

  Anna could see the general wasn’t convinced – and listening to that bullshit, neither was she.

  “You say you worked alongside Sharansky: how did he feel about investigating his friend?”

  “I wasn’t inside his head, but he seemed comfortable with the situation, sir.”

  “Before you go, tell me, how long was Kornfeld detained before his escape? I gave express orders that I should be kept informed, and you didn’t tell me of his arrest. Why?”

  Mitrokhin nodded, all knowing. “I arrested him two days before he escaped. I told no one, because I wasn’t sure who could be trusted. Of course I don’t mean you, sir.” He shifted his glare to Anna. “But I thought that if information filtered out, it might have gone to the wrong people.”

  “If you are given an order to keep me informed, then keep me informed. Do we understand one another, Captain?” The general was usually composed, but Anna could see he was losing it.

  Mitrokhin on the other hand seemed to be on a roll of conceit. “I think we do, yes, sir.”

  The general calmed. “That will be all.”

  The captain left and Petrichov slumped back in the chair.

  “What are your thoughts about him now, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “My judgment hasn’t changed, General. He’s economical with the truth, and the reason he gave for not telling you of the arrest is plausible; but he could also have wanted to beat a false confession out of the lieutenant before the detention went public. If you were right with your initial thoughts, then the latter part of my opinion seems more likely.”

  “Maybe, but I think the evidence against Kornfeld is damning. My thoughts are along the lines that they were in on it together and fell out.”

  Anna didn’t agree: he was wrong. “Yes, sir, but you must remember that the evidence against Lieutenant Kornfeld has been accrued by the captain. If Mitrokhin is corrupt, then that evidence could be fabricated to deflect suspicion.”

  He looked at her from under a scrunched forehead. “Yes, Lieutenant, but you must remember that the regular soldier on guard had nothing to do with Mitrokhin, and Mitrokhin wasn’t attached to the unit when Kornfeld smuggled his sisters out of…” He stopped. “Humph, nevertheless, what you say may be right and I would prefer to see it that way… Very well, I’ll remain open-minded until something unfolds.”

  Chapter 35

  Otto left the Kremlin spitting nails. He thought it was all wrapped up with nowhere to go. Should’ve been too... and would’ve been if not for that fucking Petrichov. Why, for Christ’s sake? Now he had to cover his tracks.

  The flesh trade had become dead wood for starters. If that Puchinskaya bitch had any luck with her investigation, the trail could end up on his doorstep. No, he had to get rid of it. And Irishkov wouldn’t help either. Their fundamental rule of engagement: if in trouble, watch your own back.

  A plan came to mind as he crossed the square back to Lubyanka. First, he’d arrange a meeting with Vladislav Nabokovski, and then work out how to present his change of heart.

  *

  One day, only twenty-four hours later, and already Nabokovski wanted to see him. Either he was keen to get his hands on the business or – shit – Boris. Otto sauntered through the old bohemian quarter, keeping his pace slow, taking his time to work out the angles.

  In Arbat Street, an open-backed lorry thundered past at the far end. The roar startled him. The truck ran over an uneven surface and the Ushanka rabbit-skin hats on the militiamen in the back bobbed erratically. Probably off to another demonstration. There’d been quite a few lately: fucking Jews wanting to go to their promised land – fucks.

  The thought evaporated as he turned off into Serebriany Lane, named after the silver coins fashioned for the mint by craftsmen who used to live and work there. About halfway down the lane lay the Belarus café. Nabokovski sat out at a pavement table with one of his minders standing over him. Otto realized he’d left it too long. Nabokovski had specifically said not to take too long about it. And the Boris situation could be a problem, more of a problem than he cared to think about.

  Two glasses and a bottle of Kubanskaya Vodka were set out on the table. Otto stared at the label: a Cossack soldier dressed in black and mounted on a white horse... Never mind that shit, why was Nabokovski outside in this weather? Everywhere was covered in frost – he was either mad or macho. Humph, both equated to the same thing.

  A couple of tables along, two elderly men played chess. Wrapped up for winter, unmindful of the cold, they seemed oblivious to all but their game of war. Shoppers hurried by, trying to finish errands before the chill worked its way in. Other than those brave few, the area was clear. Nabokovski looked up. An expression of surprise crossed his face, as if Otto wasn’t expected.

  “Otto,” he said, thin pale lips cutting into a barely visible smile. “While I’m glad to see you, I thought it would have been sooner, especially as I had said not to think too long.”

  Otto shook Nabokovski’s hand, embraced him and kissed him on each cheek.

  “Yes, I know, Vladislav, but it’s worth the wait. I tried getting to you earlier, but as you may know there’s been trouble at headquarters.”

  “The only thing I know about trouble is that my man Boris is dead. And the whisper on the street says you’re responsible.”

  “Well, the whisper is wrong. But I do know who the guilty party is.” He looked about and appreciated how easy it would be for Nabokovski to make a hit outside.

  “Then why take so long before coming to me?”

  “The generals have everyone watching everyone else. Until now my seeing you has been impossible.”

  No, surely if they planned a hit Nabokovski wouldn’t have turned up. He’d have left it to his minions. Relax.

  “Sit, have a drink, we’ll talk.”

  He poured two, swallowed one, and refilled the glass. Otto sipped slowly.

  “So if it wasn’t you, then who?”

  “Someone in my department – an officer moved in from Spetsnaz. Somehow he found out about the business and made a takeover bid.”

  Otto emptied his glass and picked up the bottle. “May I?” Nabokovski gave a single nod and Otto poured slowly, pondering on getting his story straight. “He went to the South Moscow area and brought pressure down on my people, and yours as it turned out. A clumsy assault ended with him killing Boris and then Adrik. He screwed up so badly that he even killed his own partner – and a regular soldier who had nothing to do with the operation. Now he’s on the run with half the Soviet Army on his trail.”

  “And his name
is?”

  “Kornfeld, he’s a Jew. If you have doubts about what I’m telling you, there are official reports. I can get you copies.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Otto, of course I believe you. A Jew, in Spetsnaz, why would you make up such a silly thing?” He laughed and the tension mellowed. “And all this trouble is why you want to sell the business? Well, I’m still interested but the price has just dropped.”

  Otto shuffled his feet under the table. Nabokovski hadn’t cared about Boris. The crafty bastard just wanted the business for a give-away sum.

  “I must admit, Vladislav, they are the reasons, but not because the operation is under scrutiny. Just the opposite: the department is under the impression it’s sorted, so it’s safe enough for an outsider. No, my main motive is that another investigation has started and even I am being looked at. It seems that corruption is everywhere, even in the very foundation of our illustrious military ranks.” They laughed mockingly.

  “Good, okay, but that doesn’t change what I’ve said about the price.”

  “It seems to me that I don’t have an alternative.”

  “No, Otto, you don’t.”

  Otto gave Nabokovski details of Kornfeld and haggled for the business, but folded almost on the first price offered. He made the excuse of being cold, shivered unhappily and left.

  In Arbat Street a spring came into his step and the elation superseded his fears. It was done. Any future moves by the military would be against Nabokovski. For his part, he would chip away at some of the pimps to keep Petrichov happy. The imminent peril had been removed. But that didn’t mean that Adrik’s death could be pushed aside. Now he had time on his hands he would get even. He would go after the Jew.

  But first things first: he had to visit Mother. His feet trailed the sidewalk as he made his way to the institute. He’d never realized before how much he’d enjoyed teasing Adrik about these visits.

  Chapter 36

  Jez woke to the sound of heavy vehicles thundering by his window. He looked at Mayakovski’s watch: ten in the morning. He’d slept for eleven hours, a heavy sleep that was yet to let go of his muscles. Consciousness brought throbbing pain, and he had nothing to wash in. Why had he chosen such a dump when Mayakovski’s wallet was packed to bursting? If the military searched the area, they would be as likely to include a fleapit as a decent lodging. Taking a filthy room had been a mistake.