Birth of an Assassin Read online

  “Don’t blame yourself, Jacob. Mitrokhin took me in and I’m supposed to be an expert.”

  He agreed with a weak smile.

  Jez bought expensive suits for himself and Jacob with the money from Andrei’s drop and they went to KGB headquarters. He showed the ID of his high-ranking official persona to the duty officer. The soldier sprang to attention and fetched a senior officer, Captain Apostol.

  “Ah, Captain,” Jez greeted him, “I’m sorry to come and impose my will on you like this.”

  The captain preened, clearly pleased to be treated with such respect from one in such high places. “Not at all, sir, how can I help?”

  “First, this package contains top secret documents that must reach General Michel Petrichov in Moscow’s Kremlin as soon as possible. The parcel has travelled through many countries and has been carried by many agents, which is why it looks a bit scruffy. But don’t let that fool you, it has infinite value and must be given the highest priority. Can I trust you and rely on you to see the task is carried out, Captain Apostol?”

  The captain’s chest expanded. “Yes, of course, sir. I’ll arrange for a courier to take it immediately.”

  “Good, thank you. Your name will not be forgotten. When I came to Leningrad, it was in a hurry because of the nature of my business, so I flew in. Now you are about to complete that business for me, I can travel at a more leisurely pace to my next task in Minsk. I’m afraid my plans have run ahead of me and I didn’t have time to arrange transport. I need a car. Do you think you can help?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, sir. Will you need a driver?”

  “No, thank you. My aide here will double up on his remit.” Jez opened a palm towards Jacob.

  They hadn’t waited long when a black Volga GAZ 21 was brought to the front of the office block. The captain walked Jez and Jacob to the vehicle.

  “I’m sorry it’s not a limousine, sir; this is the best there is available at short notice.”

  Jez smiled again. “Believe me, Captain Apostol, as long as the fuel tank is full, this will do very nicely. I appreciate your indulgence.”

  The captain saluted and returned to his duties. Jez climbed into the back of the car and Jacob took the driver’s seat.

  “Maybe I should have asked earlier, Jacob,” Jez said. “You can drive, can’t you?”

  Jacob pulled away without a reply, but he sniggered, clearly relieved to be driving out of the city – and not heading for Minsk, as they’d told the captain, but on the main trunk road to Moscow.

  Chapter 55

  Moscow

  Jez watched and waited. The only movement he witnessed was from the late shoppers as they returned home after a long day of queuing; recognizing some of those who’d gone into town at first light, he wondered just how long he’d been standing there. The insight bothered him. Could this be a waste of time? It’d been a while since he’d taken Nabokovski’s file from The Red Lite. Maybe he’d moved house.

  Stefan’s notes implied that Nabokovski lived in the Sputnik Hotel on Tverskoy Boulevard. They alleged his people used the whole of the third floor, and more specifically that he occupied room 317. But darkness had joined the watch and still no lights had fired up on that floor.

  Jez had stood in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite corner since daybreak. But the drizzle was unrelenting and blew horizontally. The alcove of his vigil had done nothing to protect him. His clothes were soaked through. He tired of the idea, as he stamped his feet to keep the cold at bay, but only managed to fill his turn-ups with more water. Enough; his plans had scope for change.

  After half an hour trying to convince himself to leave, a black limo pulled up in front of the hotel – could it be him? But then came a new problem: how would he know if it was Nabokovski?

  Two large men in heavy black overcoats emerged from the front of the vehicle. Whoever it was had bodyguards. Jez could see that one of the men looked army fit. The other, though big, had let the good life get the better of him. His waistline pushed out aggressively and deflected the tailored contour of the top coat away from his body. One opened the back door of the limo for his boss, while the other looked back and forth along the boulevard.

  A man stepped out onto the pavement, turning this way and that with antics bordering on the theatrical. Not overly tall, but as wide as anyone Jez had seen. Even from the other side of the street it was clear that his clothes were expensive. A globed bald head stuck out from the top of a black double-breasted leather coat. Even in the rain, he wore the coat nonchalantly draped over his shoulders.

  The guards walked to the steps with their charge between them. One held a large black umbrella and fought to retain a grip against unpredictable wind gusts. It seemed a pointless effort, as the rain blew in under its canopy. The shorter man stopped on the top step and, under the protection of the awning there, turned as if for applause. Before he went into the hotel, Jez noticed the light from the foyer gleam on Italian-style shoes. Shame they were fitted to the end of such dumpy legs.

  He left a two-minute gap, followed them in, checked in as a guest and specifically asked for room 217, directly below where he believed Nabokovski resided. Inside was nice, and if he’d been on honeymoon he wouldn’t have been disappointed. But that would be something he’d never do.

  Room 217 greeted him with welcome warmth. Dark yellows of carpet and linens were enhanced by the illumination of matching bedside lamps, already switched on. The furniture was pine: his and her wardrobes, two cabinets straddling the double bed, and a dressing table against the opposite wall which doubled as a writing desk. A picture hung over the bed with a winter scene that reminded him of Siberia: high snowdrifts piled against meagre wooden structures, the kind of shacks only poor Siberian peasants called home, nestled between deciduous trees. He took five minutes to wring out his clothing.

  After dressing, he investigated. A heavy net curtain concealed an inward-opening French door. Behind the door was a Juliet balcony. He went out to find that the room overlooked a quiet street. Above, there was another balcony that he hoped would lead to room 317. He got on top of the rail and stood on tiptoe, reaching his hand towards the iron stays that supported the veranda. It was a meter out of reach. Not a difficult jump, but if he were to miss he would certainly crash to the street below. He looked down to see how far he would fall, and decided to worry about it later. First, he had to verify that it had been Nabokovski who had come in. And the only way he could do that was to go up to the third floor and find out.

  *

  Inside the lift, the buttons with the floor numbers were arranged in two vertical rows. He selected the third floor, went one stop and came out into the corridor. The two goons from the limo stood outside room 317. It must be Nabokovski.

  The men saw Jez and rushed along the corridor towards him. Both reached into jackets at the same time and both snarled their way towards him like a pair of fighting dogs. Jez gave a startled look and swiveled his head in panic. He turned his attention to the elevator, and gazed directly at the floor number on the wall to the side of the door.

  “Sorry,” he said meekly and raised a hand apologetically, “I do know this is a private floor. I pressed three instead of five. Sorry.”

  The men slowed, stopped and their arms relaxed. Jez stepped back into the lift and went to the fifth floor. He killed a few minutes, wandered the passages and returned to the second floor. Inside his room, he fitted the silencer to the PB and carefully slipped the gun into the back of his waistband. Carefully, because he didn’t want it to fall out again – like back in the subway. His plan was in motion.

  Within moments, he was balanced on the balcony rail. He squatted down on his haunches, propelled upwards and grabbed the stay with both hands. Rain, wet hands, wet stay and his body jerked. He lost the grip with one hand and hung there, dangling, heart pumping double time. If he hadn’t been able to hold on with two hands, the odds were against him keeping the grip with one. His tenuous hold slipped a bit further a
nd his weight hung on the end joints of his fingers. But if he fell, Mitrokhin had won.

  He took a second, got his thoughts together. The rain continued to bounce on the glistening street below, but he had to take charge of the situation. Grim determination took control. He’d performed fingertip push-ups until he’d been blue in the face. He could do it… But if his hand slipped from the bar… Don’t think about it, just do it. With his fingers taut, he pulled the weight of his body up, grabbed the bar with his free hand and secured a better grip with the other. Next, he pulled his chin up to the bar and hooked his legs up-and-under to grab the main rail. With a flip he stood on the balcony and stared down at the street that could have claimed him.

  As with room 217, heavy net curtains shielded the French door, but he saw movement and it was from two people. If he should go in through this door, they would have time to alert the guards. Another door to the right of the bedroom proved that the Nabokovski residence was different to the space he’d rented below. It had been converted into a larger apartment with extra rooms that led off on one side. And multiple rooms could work in his favor.

  The brickwork ran level with the base of the balcony and had a ledge. With his fingers edging along the mortar, he used the ledge to shimmy to the next window. The window lever wasn’t in the locked position and the lower half pushed up without effort, but it scraped and scratched where the sashes were worn. He froze his movements, listening… If anyone heard, there was no response.

  The pistol he’d fixed to his waistband could still fall out, so he put it on the inner windowsill and pulled himself up to kneel beside it. His eyes took a moment to get accustomed to the dim light, and his view cleared. An office and… he couldn’t believe it: a gun cabinet mounted on the opposite wall. Two rifles, he couldn’t see what type, but they were rifles and he wanted one. Adrenalin got the better of him, his knee shifted and he knocked the pistol from the windowsill.

  Time stayed on hold as the gun clattered to the floor. He darted through the window, picked up the weapon, crouched on his haunches, pointed the pistol towards the bedroom door, and waited.

  Chapter 56

  The girl sat on the bed in dread of what the evening held in store. She pulled and twisted at waxed spikes, shaped her hair into cones, pointed them forward, up, back, any direction, as long as it took her mind off Nabokovski. Stripped naked, she shivered, wondering whether it was because of the cold or because that grotesque pig was about to use her again. The thought of him fawning over her body sent shudders down her spine, and knowing what she would be doing to him made her want to retch.

  “I hate you, you bastard,” she whispered, but knew there was nothing to be done.

  Abused from the age of ten, she was still only fifteen now. Some of the girls had dreams, but she knew there was no way out. Nevertheless, of all the men she could be with now, this one had to be the worst. Why, oh why did he always demand her when he had all those others to choose from? And most of them thought it might do them some good because of his position – so why her?

  Her meanderings halted when he strutted in from the bathroom, and she cringed as her horrors came closer to reality. He cast off a white towelling bathrobe and sat next to her, letting his monstrous naked body flop back to the mattress, then opened his legs.

  “Come,” he ordered.

  She stood, moved between his legs and slowly let her body come to rest on his. But something distracted her and she lifted her head. It was a scraping noise, and it came from the office.

  “Get on with it,” he snapped impatiently.

  She followed orders, nuzzled into his neck. “Oh Vladislav,” she whispered.

  The flat of her tongue licked from his neck to his face and then she dragged it back down over his chest. He took her upper arms and pushed her lower, but she drew back sharply.

  “What the fuck are you doing now?” he cursed. “I didn’t send for you so you could be fucking jittery. Get on with it.”

  Hatred raised hackles on her neck. Such an irritable, revolting bastard, she wished he were dead.

  “But didn’t you hear the crash in the office?”

  His manhood dwindled. “For fuck’s sake get out of my way, you silly bitch, you’ve got me twitchy now. Wait there.”

  Still holding her upper arms, he used the grip to cast her roughly to one side, then stormed across the bedroom and flung the office door open.

  Chapter 57

  The door swung open and Nabokovski filled the frame. He stared over to the window beyond where Jez crouched. In a snap, Jez rose to his feet and stuck the silencer into Nabokovski’s face.

  “Walk backwards to the bed,” he insisted, and a rumble of laughter welled up from within. The naked form of Nabokovski stood in all its glory and only one word sprang to mind – gross.

  Nabokovski shuffled back. “What do you want?”

  A girl, also naked, stood near the bed and moved away as Nabokovski backed up towards her – but for the moment, Jez had more pressing concerns.

  “Don’t be stupid, Nabokovski, I’m the one with the gun. If you raise your voice in an attempt to attract your guards again, I’ll shoot you through the eye and be gone without another thought.”

  The girl took a sharp intake of breath and Nabokovski continued with his journey – in silence. The muscles in his face froze when his buttock grazed a table with a tray of champagne flutes on top. The glasses wobbled, undecided whether to crash to the floor. But the quivering lessened and the goblets held position.

  Jez didn’t speak, but raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

  “When you reach the bed, position yourself near the cabinet, but not too near. Enough so your legs are against the mattress and your back is to the window.”

  “I don’t understand – why?” His voice quivered.

  “I have a man across the street and he has a rifle pointed into this room. With you by the bed he can see you. That gives me insurance, and if I’m calm you’re safe.”

  Nabokovski maneuvered into position and Jez shot him once in the forehead and again through the heart. There was no opportunity for the squat man to even look surprised as his overweight body fell lifelessly onto the mattress. Other than his throat rippling softly, the assassination was over without sound.

  The girl watched, hands over her mouth, eyes wide and glazed. Jez faced her and for the first time noticed her nipples: long and thick, like pencil stubs. He’d never seen anything like it. The breasts they protruded from were small, almost boyish, and her body was skinny. Then her hair: Jez wondered how that hadn’t been the first thing he’d noticed. Short spiky peaks jutted from her head and pointed off in every direction. The tufts were dyed purple, red, yellow, pink, green and orange. He smiled in disbelief. Her small face had petite features, pretty, filled with youthful innocence, and while her ears were small, they stuck out like a pixie – a beautiful little girl. Her trembling turned to an uncontrolled tremor and her face paled to the whitest of shades. After what she’d just seen, she would be terrified for her own life. He should pacify her.

  But the guards, he had to get rid of the guards. It didn’t matter that they could identify him, but if the girl raised the alarm when he left through the back window, he might have to kill her. If he enlisted her help and she betrayed him, well, that outcome would be down to her. For now, he would trust her, but stay alert.

  “I want you to do something for me,” he said, “but you must be calm to take it in. Please believe me, there’s no reason why you should get hurt.”

  “Just give me a minute,” she said, voice hushed.

  “Of course,” he said.

  The girl took tiny steps towards the bed, but looked at the window, stopped and veered off to the chair next to the dressing table. On the way, she reached for the dressing gown.

  “Leave it,” he said. “I want you naked for the moment.”

  She stood by the dresser and Jez waited. He gave her time to come to terms with the situation and was more than surpri
sed to see normality return so quickly.

  “Right, when you’re ready I want you to go to the door. Open it and say there’s something wrong with… whatever it is you call him.”

  She calmed herself further, took deep breaths in and blew out as if to whistle. She braced herself then walked to the door with Jez by her side. He crooked his arm and the barrel of the pistol pointed to the ceiling.

  “Just a minute,” he whispered.

  She stopped with her hand on the doorknob and he positioned himself to one side of the jamb.

  “Okay.”

  The panel almost snatched from its hinges as she shouted, “It’s Vladislav, come quickly, please, there’s something wrong with Vladislav.”

  A moment’s hesitation and the guards rushed into the room. Slow reactions: maybe distracted by the girl’s nakedness as planned, but regardless of the nudity they weren’t too bright to begin with. Jez kicked the door shut and the men spun around. Not so slow after all. Hands went into jackets, but before they could withdraw their weapons, Jez squeezed the trigger.

  The pistol’s mechanism jammed. He squeezed again – nothing. The henchmen wasted only a moment in surprise and pulled their own guns. Jez’s mind went into turmoil. Automatic didn’t work… quickly, use it in manual.

  With a calm façade, he pulled back the hammer and pressured the trigger, cocked again, and fired a second, but the second guard got off a shot of his own and the gun boomed. Jez’s shot had spun him slightly and the missile thudded into the solid wall. Blood sprayed and the calm of the beige carpet and cream-colored walls changed to anger.

  The men remained upright, hands clamped to their throats. Jez pulled the trigger without cocking the hammer. Automatic mode had freed and both men fell heavily, each of them hit in the left cheek. Jez had aimed center forehead, but the accuracy of the 6P9 had been diluted by the silencer. Although he’d made the mental adjustment for Nabokovski, and Vasili come to that, confidence had got the better of him. He cursed himself for being blasé.