Читать книгу Extraordinary Rendition - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Kotlin Island

Some nights, when sleep deserted him, Gennady Sokolov amused himself by trying to surprise his sentries, catch them napping, as it were, although he’d never actually found one sleeping on the job. Such an infraction would have earned a penalty far worse than mere dismissal, and his soldiers knew it.

Sokolov wasn’t a man to trifle with.

He’d made that point with each of those he had disturbed that night, reminding all of them in no uncertain terms that they relied upon him for some measure of their affluence, and that their fates were linked to his. That was a risky game, since any one of them, if pushed too far, might turn against him.

But Sokolov knew people. He could read them—almost read their minds, it seemed—and use his knowledge to control them. How else had he survived four years in Russia’s army, seven in the Kremlin’s secret service, and nearly two decades of personal dealings with volatile dictators, warlords and rebels? If Sokolov wasn’t the best at what he did, he would be rotting in a jungle grave or desert trench by now.

Or worse yet, he’d just be ordinary, some pathetic drone punching a time clock, slaving for his daily borscht.

No, thank you very much.

Better to die than be deflated to the status of a peasant, groveling before the powers that be.

Sokolov took a vodka bottle and a shot glass from the wet bar in his office and retreated to his massive teakwood desk. He pressed a button on the desktop intercom but didn’t speak. Only one person in the household would answer that summons.

Less than a minute passed before Sokolov heard the rapping on his office door.

“Come!”

Sergei Efros entered, closed the door behind him and crossed the room to stand at attention before Sokolov’s desk. He didn’t move again until Sokolov ordered him to sit.

Sokolov spent a moment staring at his chief of security, framing his thoughts before speaking. Efros had spent eleven years with Spetznaz, in the “Alfa” unit, whose main duty was suppressing terrorism. He’d done time in Chechnya and was among the troops who’d stormed the House of Culture in Moscow’s Dubrovka district, during the theater siege of October 2002. As one of those cashiered to satisfy public outrage, he had left the service embittered and never thought twice about serving the Merchant of Death in return for a general’s salary.

“Still no word from Moscow,” Sokolov told him at last.

“I don’t trust the militia or FSB,” Efros replied. “Let me go there myself, sir. I’ll get the information you require within a day.”

“It’s tempting,” Sokolov admitted. “But you may be needed here.”

“As you require, sir.”

Compliance normally pleased Sokolov. This night, it irritated him. “There’s something on your mind, Sergei,” he said. “Out with it.”

“Sir, it isn’t only the police and FSB that I distrust. The Solntsevskaya Brotherhood are scum.”

“But useful scum,” Sokolov said. “Most profitable scum, as you’ll no doubt agree.”

“And then, there’s General Kozlov.”

“Ah. A personal acquaintance, is he not?”

“We never met, sir, but I had the misfortune of serving in his command, as you know.”

“The Nord-Ost siege.”

“Which he coordinated with the FSB, attempting to impress his own superiors and thus advance himself.”

“It’s the way of the world, Sergei.”

“Yes, sir. But when his plan failed—disastrously—a real man would have claimed responsibility, instead of sacrificing those who simply carried out his foolish orders.”

“You believe the Colonel General may betray us?”

“It’s a nasty habit of his,” Efros said.

“Perhaps you should go down to Moscow, after all. To keep an eye on friends and enemies alike.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Providing that you leave me in good hands, of course.”

“Of course, sir. Ivan has my every confidence. I will instruct him personally, prior to leaving.”

Ivan Fet was second in command to Efros, concerning Sokolov’s home security. He had dealt with one of the FBI snipers himself when the kidnappers came.

“In which case,” the Merchant of Death told Efros, “make me proud.”

Moscow

NO ONE AT Lubyanka Square was pleased when Maksim Chaliapin worked a night shift. His presence after normal quitting time for officers in charge meant tension, aggravation and a risk of collateral damage.

The Lubyanka was erected in 1898, as headquarters for the All-Russia Insurance Company. Following the Bolshevik Revolution, it was claimed by the Communist Party as headquarters for the new secret police—the Chrezvychaynaya Komissiya, or Extraordinary Commission, shortened to Cheka. That agency had changed names many times over the next seven decades, eventually becoming the home of the FSB.

A prison on the Lubyanka’s ground floor had witnessed the detention, torture and death of thousands. Some of its celebrated inmates included British spy Sidney Reilly, Swedish humanitarian Raoul Wallenberg, Czechoslovakian Count János Esterházy, Polish Jesuit Father Walter Ciszek, and Nobel Prize-winning author Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

They were among the survivors.

When Maksim Chaliapin found out who had spoiled his evening, he vowed that the persons or persons responsible would not be so lucky.

The FSB no longer had a government license to torture and kill on a whim, but there were exceptions to every rule. Its primary raison d’être was maintenance of national security, and that was clearly at risk when foreigners appeared in Moscow and involved themselves in gunplay as if they had time-traveled from the American Wild West.

Moscow suffered far too much mayhem already from home-grown thugs and mercenaries. Importation of more gunmen to make matters worse was unthinkable. Intolerable.

And it could prove costly to Chaliapin.

While his rank brought him a measure of respect—and fear—from fellow Muscovites, a civil servant’s salary in Russia allowed for few luxuries. Maksim Chaliapin, like nearly all of those around him in the present government, supplemented his normal income with gratuities from affluent citizens whom he had helped in one way or another. He resolved their problems, shifted obstacles out of their path, and they were naturally grateful.

What was wrong with that?

None of his private clients was more grateful—or more generous—than Gennady Sokolov. Of course, that gratitude and generosity depended on his satisfaction. Payment for services rendered, not for excuses delivered with failure.

Loss of such a friend, and his money, would gravely affect Chaliapin’s lifestyle. Worse yet, if Sokolov was extradited and tried, the proceedings might reveal his ties to Chaliapin. Which, in turn, could force Chaliapin’s superiors to protect themselves by sacrificing him.

This night, Chaliapin was doubly worried, fearing that the problem that vexed him might have originated under his own roof, at the Lubyanka. Like any other intelligence agency or large police department, the FSB was split into sections: Counterintelligence, Economic Security, Operational Information and International Relations, Control, Investigation, Science and Engineering, International Relations, and Chaliapin’s own Service for Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism. Within such a system—even within a specific department—there were times when the left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing.

There could be rogues at work under his very nose, following orders Chaliapin hadn’t issued and of which he had no knowledge. Orders which, for all he knew, might include his destruction.

But he would soon find out if that was true. And he would put a stop to it, oh, yes.

No matter who fell by the wayside in the process.

“EVERY TARGET on the list is dangerous,” Anzhela Pilkin said as they drove past Gorky Park, southwest of downtown.

“Targets always are,” Bolan replied.

“Before we start,” Pilkin said, “you need to understand that crime and politics are not distinct and separate in Russia.”

“That’s been my experience around the world,” Bolan observed.

“But it is not the same. In your country, a mafioso bribes the politicians secretly. To pass a law or to ignore one, grant some favor, close the eyes to this or that transaction. Yes?”

“That’s right.”

“And when those dealings are exposed, you have a scandal.”

“True,” said Bolan. “But it seldom changes anything, in the long term.”

“In my country, the Mafiya and politicians make no secret of their friendship. They appear in public, shaking hands, attending balls and banquets. Reporters for the tabloid press observe, but rarely publish. Do you know of Dak Safronov?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Bolan admitted.

“He covered military affairs for the Kommersant, a daily newspaper in Moscow. In 2007 he reported on an army plan for selling arms to Iran and Syria through Belarus. First, he was ‘cautioned’ by the FSB. When that did not dissuade him, he fell from a fifth-story window. Four months before that, it was Anna Politkovskaya, shot by contract killers after she criticized Russian policy toward Chechnya. The president denounced the crime, of course, but added that her influence was ‘very minor.’ Others got the message.”

“So, I’m up against a monolith,” Bolan said.

“We are up against it,” Pilkin corrected him. “And it won’t help that I am part of it. You know the Bible saying about many mansions?”

“Vaguely.”

“It refers to heaven.” She surprised him yet again. “But it applies to Earth, as well. Maybe to hell, for all I know.”

“Meaning, your own people could wind up hunting us?”

“I guarantee it.”

“One more reason why you should consider backing off. It’s your life and career on the line.”

“I’ve thought about it,” she replied. “It makes me angry to consider that I cannot trust my own superiors. If they were hoping that I would be frightened, they’ve made a mistake.”

“Anger’s not the best emotion for a soldier going into battle,” Bolan counseled. “It can breed mistakes and get you killed.”

“I understand this.”

“You’ve heard of General Patton?”

“Blood and Guts,” she said. “I know of him.”

“He once said, ‘No poor bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making other bastards die for their country.’”

“Or for their cause.”

“That’s it.”

“So, Mr. Cooper, which poor bastards shall we visit first?”

KIRIL ASTAPKOVICH DREW deeply on his cigar, then waved away his aide with the gold-plated lighter. “Leave us now,” he commanded, and heard the door close seconds later.

“Major Chaliapin,” he said, through a light veil of smoke, “you are aware of why I summoned you?”

Leaving no doubt as to their relative position in the pecking order—or the food chain.

“I am, sir,” Chaliapin replied.

Some might consider it an honor to be summoned by one of Moscow Oblast’s two senators on the Federation Council of Russia. At the present hour, though, most would be wise enough to know that it was not a social call. The senator had to want something, and he wasn’t accustomed to refusal.

“Perhaps you will explain, in that case,” Astapkovich said.

At forty-eight, he was a rising power in United Russia, the Federation’s strongest political party. In the last parliamentary election, United Russia had won 305 seats out of 450 in the State Duma, and eighty-eight out of 178 in the Federation Council. Its centrist message steamrolled special-interest opposition from competitors including Yabloko, Right Cause, Just Russia, Patriots of Russia and the misnamed Liberal Democratic Party of Russia, whose right-wing ultranationalism bore little resemblance to liberal democracy.

“Our friend in Saint Petersburg cannot have instant results on his latest demands,” Chaliapin replied. “So he calls you to draw me away from my work and delay me with threats.”

“You have it, precisely,” Astapkovich said. “There is no need for any hard feelings, however.”

“No, sir. If I gave that impression—”

Astapkovich waved off the budding apology. “Not a bit of it, Major. I simply wish to hear your insight on the matter, which was not, perhaps, explained to me in full.”

“Quite simply, Senator, we received word yesterday that a second attempt would be made to remove Gennady Sokolov from Russian soil.”

“Another G-man melodrama?” Astapkovich said with a sneer.

“No, sir. According to our information, one man was expected to arrive at Domodedovo this evening and proceed from there.”

“One man, in place of…what was it, last time?”

“Eight, sir.”

“That’s confidence for you. But proceed where? To what end? Surely, Saint Petersburg would be a better starting point?”

“That would depend, I must suppose, on what he meant to do.”

“I see,” Astapkovich said, though he saw nothing. “This stranger, then. Is he American?”

“He’s traveling on a Canadian passport, for whatever that’s worth. Flying from Montreal to Moscow, via London. Which proves nothing, as you know, sir.”

“Do we know this pilgrim?”

Chaliapin shook his head. “No, sir. He’s traveling—or was—as Matthew Cooper. We assume it is a cover. Immigration at the airport failed to make a photocopy of his passport, although we requested it.”

“An oversight, you think? Or sabotage?”

This time, Chaliapin shrugged. “Most likely, simple negligence. Failure to pass the order on, perhaps.”

“This Cooper was expected, though. You had his flight number?”

“Yes, Senator.”

“So, he was met?”

Chaliapin cleared his throat. His nervous eyes made a quick circuit of the room, as if seeking escape.

“Sir, I was told… That is, our friend requested that the interception be left to private parties.”

Meaning the Mafiya, presumably the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood. At least they were fairly efficient when it came to killing.

“And?” Astapkovich prodded his anxious guest.

“Sir, I regret to tell you that they failed.”

“Failed to do what, exactly, Major?”

“To detain the subject, sir.”

“Meaning that he escaped.”

“Yes, sir. That’s true.”

“Did they pursue him?”

“To their sorrow, Senator. Four men are dead tonight.”

“And greatly missed, I’m sure. This Cooper killed them?”

“With the possible assistance of a woman.”

“What?”

“Two members of the interception team were spared, sir. Something about separate cars. They were together at the airport, though, and saw a woman give the man a ride. The chase began from there. They were delayed, but followed from directions they were telephoned. When they arrived, the rest were dead, sir.”

“Most unfortunate.”

“Indeed.”

“But you, of course, are doing everything within your power to redeem the situation?”

“Absolutely, Senator.”

“I would expect no less. What progress, then?”

“So far, sir, none.”

“An unknown man and woman, lost somewhere in Moscow,” Astapkovich said. “Two out of millions.”

“If they’re still inside the city, sir.”

“Again, why fly to Moscow, if your target is Saint Petersburg?”

“Some kind of misdirection, possibly.”

“If so, Major, it’s working.”

“Not for long, sir.”

“Do I have your word on that?”

“You do!”

“Then I shall leave you to it. Thank you for your time. By all means, hurry back to work.”

TARAS MOROZOV kept his rugged face deadpan, emotionless, while Leonid Bezmel glowered across his desk. If looks could kill, he thought.

“I’ve just had Sokolov back on the line,” Bezmel declared. “Third time tonight, so far. The bastard never sleeps.”

“He’s worried,” Morozov replied.

“With reason, I suppose.”

“After that business with the FBI, I’d say so.”

“He bloodied them last time.”

“And they’ll be hungry for revenge.”

“We should have stopped this agent at the airport, Taras.”

“Yes.”

“Instead, he killed four of our men and made us look like idiots.”

“We would have had him,” Morozov said, “if the woman hadn’t intervened.”

“Would have is just another word for failure.”

It was two words, but Morozov didn’t think it wise to interrupt his boss with grammar lessons.

“I will find them,” he declared.

“Personally?” Bezmel asked.

“If that is what it takes.”

“Then, I’d suggest you do it soon. We’re to be graced with Sergei Efros helping us, first thing tomorrow. Gennady thinks that Spetznaz reject can accomplish something we cannot. In Moscow!”

“Maybe he intends to gas us,” Morozov said.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. I want someone covering him every minute he’s in town. If he breaks wind or eats a bag of pretzels, I expect to hear about it as it happens.”

“That’s no problem,” Morozov replied with utmost confidence.

Gennady Sokolov insulted him and all the Brotherhood by sending a man of his own to hunt the targets they were seeking. What could one damned Special Forces failure do that Morozov’s own army could not?

“We profit from Gennady’s business. There’s no doubt about it,” Bezmel said. “But in his agitation, he forgets about respect. I cannot reason with him in his present state. You must prevent Efros from running roughshod over any of our friends, especially official ones.”

“I will,” Morozov promised.

“I’ve been thinking that we might divert him toward Shishani and the Obshina. It does no harm to us, if he harasses them. And who knows? We might even benefit.”

If the damned Chechens killed him, for example.

“Won’t that agitate Gennady even more?”

“Perhaps. But he can’t blame us for whatever happens, and he’ll be in a forgiving mood when you produce this Cooper for him.”

“And the woman,” Morozov said.

“I’m not forgetting her,” Bezmel replied. “After we find out who she’s working for, maybe I’ll let her work for us. Pick out the worst whorehouse in town and make a reservation.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Morozov agreed.

And smiled, for the first time that night.

THE MEN’S CLUB known as Paris Nights stood eight blocks northeast of the Kremlin, on Nikolskaya Street. Its conservative marquee headlined singers whose names meant nothing to Bolan.

“So, this is the place?” he asked.

“Shishani’s primary casino,” Pilkin replied.

“It doesn’t look like much.”

“Just wait until you get inside.”

She’d given him the rundown on Russia’s gambling situation while they drove across town to their target. In the heady days after communism’s collapse, in the early 1990s, wide-open casino gambling was only one aspect of capitalism eagerly adopted by the former Soviet Union. The industry grew by leaps and bounds—an estimated thirty-five percent each year, with no federal laws to control it. Reported income from gambling topped six billion dollars in 2005, with few observers publicly willing to speculate on the extent of skimming.

Then, a reaction set in from the Russian Orthodox Church, conservative politicians and reformers outraged by rising crime rates coupled with reports of families left destitute by compulsive gamblers. In October 2006 the Russian Parliament had taken the first step toward strict limitation of legalized gambling, dictating that any licensed casino owner had to hold at least thirty million in liquid assets. Minimum sizes were decreed for gambling halls—eight hundred square meters for a full-fledged casino, one hundred for a slot-machine joint.

If that wasn’t enough to torque the shorts of big-time gamblers, a new law also mandated removal of all gambling facilities to one of four designated “uninhabited” areas by July 2009. Henceforth, players would have to seek their pleasure in Kaliningrad, in Krasnodar’s Azov City, in Siberia’s Sibirskaya Moneta, or on Russky Island in the Kara Sea, offshore from Vladivostok.

Faced with those restrictions, mobsters did what they had always done throughout recorded history. They went underground.

Granted, they didn’t burrow very deep. Club names were changed. Some neon signs came down. Proprietors dismissed the sidewalk barkers they had used to virtually drag new players off the streets in better days.

But play continued, at a price.

The same police who took bribes to ignore drug trafficking and prostitution willingly accepted more to let casinos operate with near impunity. On rare occasions when a raid was forced by public pressure, ample warning would be given to permit removal of incriminating evidence. The overzealous beat cop who had walked into a Mob casino unannounced and caught two judges shooting craps was reassigned, then fired and prosecuted after kiddy porn was found inside his locker at the station house.

“Do you have any specs on club security?” Bolan asked.

“All the usual,” she said. “Alarms inside and out. Full video surveillance on the players and employees. There will certainly be guards, but I can’t say how many, or how heavily they may be armed.”

“Shishani won’t send two or three to guard his gold mine with slingshots,” Bolan said.

“It may be too risky.”

“I didn’t say that. Those alarms you mentioned. Do they sound for an unannounced raid?”

“I assume so,” Pilkin said.

“So, there’ll be exits for players and staff, besides coming out through the front door.”

“I’ve heard rumors of tunnels,” she said.

“Should be doable,” Bolan declared. “While the players and dealers bail out, I can handle the watchdogs.”

“We handle them,” Pilkin quickly corrected.

“You know we’re not making arrests?”

“Understood.”

“So, we smoke the place.”

“And blame Bezmel, yes?”

“That’s the plan,” Bolan confirmed. “If we can’t leave a message here with one of his lookouts, we’ll phone it in and spoil his beauty sleep.”

“Too bad,” Pilkin said. “Aldo needs all that he can get.”