Birth of an Assassin Page 20

  The greatcoat was on the floor: he saw it and remembered the logic. The landlord of better class rooms would’ve reported him to the authorities. He sat on the wrinkled, grey sheets and stubbed his thumb on a bug. The hard shell cracked and the demon exploded under the pressure.

  “Pull your thoughts together,” he said. But his mind blanked; he couldn’t think of his location or how he’d got there. “Kapotnya, I got as far as Kapotnya in south-east Moscow.”

  Memories oozed into his consciousness.

  “And there are bathing facilities, a communal washroom in the backyard.”

  He came back indoors shivering. “I slept heavily,” he said to the old woman who’d rented him the room. “I can’t remember if I paid for breakfast.”

  She laughed. “Not very worldly, are you? If I was to say no, you’d have to pay again. But I don’t take advantage of comrades down on their luck. Yes, you paid; come and eat.”

  She stood in the doorway and watched him tuck into a scant Borsch and a piece of stale black bread. He ignored her.

  On the other hand, he had to get rid of the greatcoat and get hold of civilian clothing. He smiled, and winced having aggravated the pain in his face. “Are there any second-hand markets in the area?” he asked.

  She stood straight, pressed a finger against the outside of her nose and sniffed hard to clear a nostril. “Yes, there’s a flea market today, on the southern outskirts of the district.”

  With the morning nearly gone he left the lodgings. He was headed south anyway, so the flea market wouldn’t put him off track. Without too much effort, he could still be in Tula by day’s end. By then the search would thin out.

  The woman’s directions were good and he came to open scrubland where the market was in full flow. Knee-high tables were strung out in rows. He wandered between them and rummaged through the stalls. China dolls fashioned as peasant girls, snuffboxes with pictures of pre-Revolution rustic scenes on the lids and copies of Fabergé eggs incongruently depicting fairytale scenes – all of it useless to him – to anyone. The next stall had brass urns and oil lamps – again no use. But then he came to a table selling old army issue. He bought a wash bottle and mess tin combo, and moved on to a new row where he found a second-hand clothes stall.

  “Let me try on that black leather jacket and this check shirt,” he said, and pointed to the jacket, while holding a washed out shirt against his chest.

  The hawker rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Are you buying the clothes or is this a lead into selling me the greatcoat?”

  Jez wondered why he’d asked that or, more worryingly, how he’d known that. “Both. I have money, but have no need for the coat.”

  The vendor smiled: “Ah, another soldier on the run from conscription.”

  “I wish; I’m much too old to be a conscript,” he said.

  “Well, even with the bruising, you don’t look it.”

  Jez smiled appreciatively but felt anxious. He didn’t need people analyzing him, or his injuries.

  In a pile of old garments, he then found a pair of dark trousers. They were a fit. He agreed to pay too high a price and, after hearing a few titters from women as he changed, hurried away wearing the trousers, checked shirt and leather jacket. At least he looked the same as everyone else and could take public transport without scrutiny; things were about to get easier.

  But as he cleared the scrubland, someone yelled, “Hey!”

  He turned to see where the noise came from, and saw the clothes vendor pointing him out to a policeman. The officer had got off his pedal bike and aimed his rifle at Jez.

  There was an alley across the road, always good for a quick getaway. The policeman wouldn’t shoot, it was too urban. He ran… but was out of luck. A dead end with only a fire escape dangling tantalizingly overhead. He jumped, but it was out of reach. Back outside the entrance, he came face to face with the militiaman. The vendor had left and the officer waited patiently.

  “Put your hands up and walk to me,” he said.

  He turned Jez to face away, legs open, hands on head and, patting him down, found the knife. Apparently satisfied, he nudged Jez towards the market to where his fallen bicycle lay. The vendor leant against his stall, grinning. Jez almost reacted, but the militiaman noticed, poked him with the rifle and marched him away.

  He was a young officer, not unlike the soldier he’d killed when escaping Lubyanka. But no, not really, the only thing the young men actually had in common was that Jez couldn’t remain in custody. He had to escape, or he would die.

  The officer balanced the rifle on the crossbar while pointing it at Jez. He had to be careful: even the rawest of recruits could pull a trigger. They walked through a maze of concrete Plattenbaus, and on several occasions the boy gave Jez a gentle reminder not to try anything. As he did, Jez observed the body language. The officer lifted his head back as he spoke. A weakness Jez could exploit.

  Jez watched: when the young man warned him again he smashed the side of his hand into the officer’s larynx. The bicycle and the rifle dropped away and the young man clutched at his throat with both hands. He fell to his knees, gasped, choked and fought to pull air into his lungs.

  The militiaman still spat blooded bubbles as Jez frisked him. “I’m sorry, but it was you or me.” He retrieved the knife, took his ID, money and, more importantly, a single action Tokarev TT pistol from the flapped holster. “And for me, that’s a no-contest.”

  The rifle was no good to him, but leaving it might only get him as far as a bullet in the back. He bent the barrel in a drain and thought of Viktor: one of his tricks. Right, ready to leave, and he almost did, but looking at the officer he decided to take the overcoat and Ushanka hat. Circumstances had changed again and he might well need the extra warmth.

  He dropped the earflaps of the Ushanka and sped off on the bicycle. He needed to put distance between him and the suburb, and as quickly as possible.

  *

  After a couple of hours’ hard pedalling, he eased the pace and thought things through. How could Mitrokhin have known about him getting his sisters out? No one knew. And the captain must have believed evidence existed, or why try to kill him? There had to be something… he pulled hard on the brakes and nearly went sailing over the handlebars.

  “Rula Korbet!”

  Rula and her mother, Adelaida: they could testify that he and Viktor had worked together. At last, an oversight in Mitrokhin’s plan. But if the captain had the same thought after Jez’s escape, he’d have already taken measures. No, he couldn’t think like that. He had to put his trust in the belief that Mitrokhin had played safe when he tried to assassinate him, and no more. Otherwise, not only would the Korbets be in danger, but the proof would be gone.

  But then more misery hit him. Even if he could vindicate himself up until the arrest, how could he possibly justify killing the cell guard? With regard to that crime, he was guilty as charged. He bounced from one decision to another: run, stay, or… he thought of Viktor. Could he really walk away, let his friend’s murderers go free? No, he didn’t think so.

  He needed somewhere to stay for tonight, to think out a new strategy. Another stint on the pedals brought a small forest into view – that would do. The autumn trailed his movements; deciduous trees shed summer finery in readiness for winter hibernation, and conifers dropped cones on the forest floor in their perpetual ritual of propagation. Pine needles had mixed with fallen leaves to provide a soft carpet underfoot.

  Three fallen Arolla pines lay side by side near the centre of the woods, as if rafted together. They must have toppled in a storm and, not being able to hold each other up, fell together. Whatever their story, they’d not been there long. Jez scooped a nest out in the soft ground under the trees. It would give him warmth and security for one, maybe two nights.

  Time was on his side, he felt, and he took several days to rest and regain strength, living primitively from the land. An early snow had fallen and would impede his pursuers. Now he had clear intention
s in mind. Carry on with the journey to Tula. Leave a calling card to say he’d been there, so that Mitrokhin would believe he was still headed south. On arrival at Tula, change direction west; head for the border town of Smolensk. Smolensk had a different administration and it was unlikely that Mitrokhin would have friends there. In Smolensk, he would go to KGB headquarters and give himself up to Petrichov. He would secure justice for Viktor, whatever the cost.

  Occasionally he doubled back to make sure he wasn’t trailed; he cycled the 40 kilometers to Serpukhov, an old town on the junction of the rivers Oka and Nara. By now no longer did his muscles verge on seizure, no longer was his body constrained by pain, and no longer was he rigid with tension.

  He reached the town limits. It was rural: even the local Kremlin and neighbouring churches were surrounded by greenery. But as with many of the towns and cities in the Moscow suburbs, intensive urbanization had Plattenbaus hedging the skyline. Clean habits in the forest kept him free of infection, but he needed a room, a bath and a change of clothes. If he assumed Mayakovski’s identity, he could get what he needed and leave a footprint at the same time.

  In the foyer of the Hotel Sachi on the main street, he swaggered over to the receptionist. The greatcoat had been left behind in the forest, so there was nothing military about him, and the clothes from the market were proletarian. He would need to bluff his way through.

  He unzipped his leather jerkin and slapped the ID card on the counter. “Mayakovski,” he said. “I need a room for two nights – now!”

  “Yes, sir,” the receptionist answered, and ran a finger down the register. “I don’t see the name Mayakovski here. We are just about full; have you booked, sir?” she asked.

  “What?” he screamed, loud enough to draw attention from anyone and everyone in the lobby.

  A man at the opposite side of the entrance hall heard the fuss and rushed over. A guest with a copy of Pravda peeped round the side of the newssheet for a sneak view of the action. Four or five people milled around the lobby. They stopped what they were doing to watch. Jez glared and they simultaneously spotted something on the carpet.

  “Is there a problem, Odette?” the man asked.

  “The only problem,” Jez interrupted, “is I’m still waiting for a room key.”

  “I’m the manager here, maybe I can help. Have you booked, sir?” he asked.

  “Not you as well, no I haven’t booked,” he yelled. “Look, if I can’t get a room when needed, how can I do my job?”

  The manager looked at Mayakovski’s ID and, clearly unwilling to be drawn into dispute, condescended. “Odette, give the gentleman one of the held rooms, please,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir,” and abruptly returned to whatever he’d been doing at the other side of the lobby.

  The nervousness of the girl increased as she shakily sorted out room keys. Jez signed the register, Adrik Mayakovski, and snatched the key from Odette’s hand. He turned away indignantly without a thank you.

  The communal bathroom was at the end of the corridor. He commandeered it and luxuriated in a hot bath. His head wound had healed well, which was not much in the greater scheme of things, but at least he didn’t have to worry about it.

  The following day he went into town and bought a small holdall and a three-quarter-length ski jacket with a hood. There’d been a heavy overnight snowfall that brought a new worry: the buses might not be running. But luck rode high: there was a bus due to leave for Tula.

  With forehead pressed against the window, they pulled out of the terminus and Jez smiled to himself. By the time the hotel manager realized he wouldn’t be paid for the room, the culprit would be far gone. His action would be enough to merit the incident being reported to the authorities and subsequently, because he’d used Mayakovski’s name, it would be followed up by Mitrokhin.

  By late afternoon, the bus pulled into the Tula depot and Jez disembarked. A vendor put a hand on his arm. Jez turned and glowered.

  “Never, ever touch me,” he yelled.

  He took hold of the man, under his chin, and pinned him to the wall. A man who’d been standing nearby rushed over.

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?” he asked. “He’s only a comrade trying to make a living like the rest of us.”

  Jez let go of the vendor and grabbed the newcomer by the lapels. “You dare interrupt me? I am Sergeant Adrik Mayakovski of Osnaz security services. I am on a mission and I do not expect peasants to manhandle me. Anyway, who do you think you are?” he asked.

  “I’m Rudolf Attaturk, Mayor of the province of Tula, and I don’t believe you bullying this man can be justified, whatever mission you might be on. And you can take your hands off me – now!”

  “Oh, okay, so you’re the mayor,” he said bullishly, but let go of the lapels and backed off.

  “Yes, I am, and may I ask what your intentions are here? Will you be staying overnight?”

  “No, I’m on my way south, to Belgorod.”

  “Then please, Sergeant Mayakovski,” he said, “don’t let me detain you.”

  Disconcerted, Jez slinked over to the Belgorod bus stop. If only everything went this well: another confrontation reported. He waited ten minutes for the sake of possible observers, but the vendor had moved on and the mayor couldn’t be seen. All was safe. He made his way to the railway station and caught a train to Smolensk. From here on in, his guise would be that of Private Glebski, the militiaman he’d disabled at the Kapotnya flea market.

  With the intention of telephoning Petrichov from the KGB building in Smolensk, he stood across the street for an hour and watched. He decided it was safe to go in, but nearing the entrance, a couple of agents he knew from Moscow came out of the main door. He ducked his head and veered off along the street. That wasn’t expected, he was still too close. But just how far would he have to travel to be safe? There was no way of knowing, but the next nearest major city was Minsk. He would travel to Minsk.

  Chapter 37

  Otto waited for Andrei Peskivich, Adrik’s replacement, to drive the 1966 Volga GAZ 21 around to the front of the Lubyanka building.

  Wandering back and forwards he thought of Adrik, as the cold morning stole in. Large snowflakes fell gently, small avalanches built and drifted from the peak of his cap. “Hurry up, Andrei, for fuck’s sake. I’m freezing,” he muttered, clapping his hands together.

  The car drew up. Otto stamped his brogues, shook his cap and climbed into the front.

  “First stop Kapotnya,” he said.

  Andrei nodded and pulled away with care, but a gear shift in slippery conditions caused a surge. The rear of the vehicle snaked one way and then the other before straightening its path.

  “Whoa, gently does it,” Otto smiled. “Should’ve fitted the snow chains.”

  Overnight snow lay thick and virginal and crunched under the tyres. The car’s heater blew at full fan, but the de-misters failed to prevent frost from drawing leaf-like pictures on the windscreen. Andrei rubbed circles with the back of his glove.

  Otto had taken possession of this vehicle when he’d transferred to Moscow. Now he sank into the seat and thought of Adrik.

  “Adrik loved this car,” he said, to himself as much as anything.

  The car was built with a bullet-proof engine and had sleek bodywork as elegant as the American cars he’d seen in Cuba. He watched wistfully as the windscreen wipers built ever-growing mounds of flakes at the base of the window.

  Andrei smiled, leaned forward, and squinted through the least frosted part of the screen.

  A minute passed. “It’s been a long time since we were together.”

  “Must be eight or nine years now.”

  “More like twelve.”

  “Shit, no, time flies whether you’re having fun or not.”

  Andrei sniggered. “Remember when we got together, me, you and Adrik, ready to change the face of Spetsnaz?”

  “Yes,” Otto grinned ruefully. “Didn’t take long for us to realize there was mo
re money to be made changing the face of military protocol instead.”

  He turned to look at Andrei. There had always been some sort of electric charge between them, which was why he chose to partner Adrik when the trio was split up. Andrei had given him strange feelings that made him uncomfortable. The way his father reared him, it was the last kind of avenue he would venture down.

  Andrei laughed, his hands jittered and the car veered slightly. “Whoops. Those were the days. Everything’s so intense now – and losing Adrik… How many tours did the three of us do together?”

  “Two before we got caught with our hands in the till, and then one more before General Irishkov split us up.”

  “Irishkov was a godsend. And his guidance has made more money than we could have dreamt of.”

  “And it’s thanks to him you’re sitting there now. A quick word and voilà, before I could catch my breath there you were.”

  Otto needed space, so stared out of the side window. Talk of the old days brought memories of Adrik. If he’d been sat next to him now, Otto knew he’d have to tell him what they were up to for the second time round and then again later. With that in mind, he should tell Andrei for a first time.

  “I phoned ahead and asked that the assaulted policeman come in for duty this morning.”

  “I’m still not up to speed, Otto.”

  “I need to be sure we’re chasing Kornfeld and not some insignificant absconder.”

  “Oh, right, yes, of course. I know you hate Kornfeld for what he’s done, Otto, but don’t let him turn into a monster. Think of our model. Nothing is personal, the business is what matters. You know that, I know that, and more importantly, Adrik knew that.”