The Kremlin Phoenix (8 page)

* * * *

Present Day

Craig took the elevator up to his
apartment from the underground carpark. When he stepped off the elevator, he
froze. His front door was ajar. He listened a moment, but no sound came from
inside. Cautiously, he pushed the door open to discover a tornado had hit his apartment.
The sofa cushions were slashed, chairs were overturned, his computer was
missing and his personal possessions littered the floor. He entered the
apartment warily, finding nothing had been stolen from the lounge room.

In the bedroom, the drawers and
all his clothes were on the floor, the lining of his jackets had been slashed
and the mattress had been cut open and pushed off its base. Thirty dollars in
cash from the bedside table lay on the floor.

He went back into the lounge room
and dialed Nikki. “My apartment’s been broken into.”

“Oh no!”

“Do you mind if I come over
tonight?”

“Of course not. I’ll be waiting.”

He hung up as he realized one
item had been stolen – his father’s gun! He searched the bedroom floor, in case
it have been buried under the items thrown haphazardly onto the carpet, but it
was definitely gone. His sneakers had been partially buried, but still
contained the flash drive. He pulled it free of the tape in the shoe and slipped
it into his pocket.

When he entered the kitchen, he
discovered every cupboard door was open, its contents thrown onto the floor, and
Pete lay in a pool of blood in the corner having taken a single bullet to his
tiny skull. Craig resisted the urge to wrap the cat’s body, certain its
execution wasn’t simply a mindless act of brutality, but a message. He snatched
up his brief case, with the counterfeit MLI master list still inside, and
hurried out to the elevator.

Standing to the right was the
female apparition he’d seen in his office and at the restaurant. Mariena had
been speaking to no one, unaware he was in the apartment.

“I hope you’re listening. Use the
fire stair, not the elevator!” Mariena said.

Craig stepped toward her, watching
her curiously, no longer bothering to test if she could see him.

Mariena looked to her left. “Has
his time of death changed?” She asked someone Craig couldn’t see, then turned
back towards the landing. “We’re still showing your time of death at 9.08 PM.
This was based on reports from a neighbor who discovered your body. Get out of
there now!”

My time of death?
Craig wondered as he glanced at his watch. It was 9.07 PM. He
glanced up at the elevator floor indicator. The elevator was climbing, and was
just two floors below his apartment. He realized there’d been enough time for the
elevator to go the ground floor and pick up the killer. Perhaps he’d even been
waiting in the underground carpark, watching his car space?

That’s why
the gun’s gone!
He thought in a flash of understanding.
So I can’t use it!

He ran to the fire exit, pushing
the heavy door shut behind him, concealing his escape route as the elevator
door opened. He waited, listening with his ear to the door for the jangling of keys
indicating the arrival home of a tenant. After a few moments, he heard a clicking
sound as Nogorev expertly picked his apartment’s door lock for the second time
that day. Not waiting for Nogorev to discover he was gone, Craig crept down the
stairs. He decided he couldn’t use his car in case it had been rigged to
explode, the way McCormack’s car had been.

He stepped cautiously out of the
fire exit at ground level. No one paid him any attention, so he hailed a cab
and gave the driver Nikki’s address.

* * * *

Nikki’s doorbell rang three times in quick
succession. When she answered, Craig stepped inside and locked the door behind
him.

Seeing the tension on his face,
she said, “Burglars aren’t going to follow you across town.”

“It was Goldstein’s and McCormack’s
killer.” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “Now he’s after me.”

“Why?” she asked anxiously.

“I’ve got something he wants. He
didn’t find it, but he took my gun.”

“You have a gun?”

“It was my old man’s. And Pete’s
dead.”

“Your cat?”

“The bastard shot him!”

“Oh my god!”

He noticed she had set the dinner
table with plates and cutlery. Two candles were placed in holders in the middle
of the table, but had not yet been lit. “I have to go out again,” he said as he
produced Yegor Demidoff’s phone and dialed, glancing at the set dinner table. “I’ll
make it up to you. Can I borrow your car?”

“Sure. Where’s yours?”

“I had to leave it. I’ll explain
later.” When a woman answered, he said, “Valentina, it’s me. Demidoff’s killer
broke into my apartment. I didn’t see him this time, but I’m sure it was him. Can
I meet you tonight so we can get this over with?”

“No, I’m at the airport. I’m
about to board a plane.”

“You’re leaving?” Craig asked
surprised. “Why?”

“When my superior found out Yegor
had been killed, he decided it was too dangerous for me to remain here in New
York alone. I’m being sent to London.”

“Don’t you want the file?”

“I do, but I can’t stay here.”

“What about my father?”

“I’m sorry. Be careful. If the killer
is after you, he’ll never give up. You should leave the city. Go somewhere far
away and hide.”

“Is there somewhere in London I
can contact you?”

“Yes, the Irish Rose in Norfolk
Garden, . . . I’m sorry we got you involved,” she said and hung up.

“I guess I’m staying for dinner
after all,” he said as he hung up the phone.

“Craig,” Nikki said in a soft,
uncertain tone, her normally brown eyes flashing green, “Who is Valentina?”

Nogorev had been sitting in his rented
Buick a block from Powell’s two story mansion for almost an hour. Around 10.30
PM, he climbed out of the car wearing black clothes and gloves and carrying a nylon
sports bag. He started toward the house, carefully rehearsing the battle plan
in his mind, determined to execute each step with clinical efficiency. He’d
been watching the house long enough to know Powell was guarded by a police
protection unit, and that they were unprepared for what was coming.

The protection unit members had
been warned that the killer was armed with a high powered assault rifle, so they’d
taken up protected positions inside the house. An unmarked police car was parked
in the street and another in the driveway. The ground floor windows were all
dark, telling Nogorev that was where the protection officers were stationed,
while several top floor windows were lit, although the blinds were drawn
concealing any occupants.

When he entered the grounds, he took
a tube shaped launcher with two metal legs from his bag, and positioned it among
the bushes near the driveway. He aimed the launcher at the large window near
the front door and set the timer for six minutes. Nogorev then crept to the unmarked
car in the drive, using it for cover as he pulled a small rectangular explosive
from his bag. He set the incendiary’s timer for five minutes and placed it
beneath the petrol tank.

Silently, he slipped into the
shadows and made his way up the drive to the white fuse box mounted on the side
of the house. When he opened the panel, its rusting hinges made a grinding
metal noise, but no one emerged from the house to investigate. He placed a
small explosive charge inside the fuse box, with the timer set for four
minutes.

Nogorev replaced the fuse box
cover, then crept to the rear of the house, where he memorized which of the top
floor windows were illuminated. With a minute to go, he removed a gas mask and canister
gun from the bag. The gun was fitted with a broad tube and a large rotating
barrel magazine. He rolled the sports bag up tightly, slid it into a pouch that
hung from his belt and counted down.

The unmarked car exploded first,
consuming the vehicle in a torrent of fire. Knowing the attention of the
occupants was now focused on the front of the house, Nogorev walked calmly out
onto the back lawn, stopping beside the pool. He aimed the canister gun at the
right side ground floor window. When he heard the pop of the timed launcher
from the front lawn, he shot his first canister into the rear of the house. With
precision and calm, he fired several more canisters, ensuring a wide spread
through the ground floor. Before he’d finished, the fuse box blew, blacking out
the house.

Nogorev raised the canister gun,
and fired projectiles into each of the top floor windows that had shown a light.
The last window on the left was small, made of frosted glass, and had been
brightly lit before the power had gone out. He took a few extra seconds to aim
at the tiny target, then fired the canister perfectly through the window. Nogorev
shifted the bulky launcher to his left hand, donned the gas mask and drew the pistol
he’d stolen from Craig’s apartment. He waited patiently for the nerve gas to
spread through the house, then walked calmly to the back door and fired once
into the lock before kicking the door in.

Nogorev stepped through into the
kitchen. It was foggy with gas and a protection officer lay unconscious on the
floor beside a gun. He fired a canister into the lounge room and waited for the
gas to do its work before entering. A second unconscious man lay at the foot of
the stairs and a third slept beneath the front windows. Once he confirmed neither
man was Powell, he launched a canister into the hall above. Again, he waited
for the gas to spread, then climbed the stairs. Another protection officer lay
face down in the hall, still holding a pump action shotgun in one hand.

Nogorev moved down the hall
purposefully, opening doors and identifying the occupants of each room. A young
boy lay in bed in one room, a teenage girl slept in another. Two thirds of the
way along the hall, he opened a door facing the front of the house. The window
was open and a gentle breeze fluttered through the drapes. A floor board
creaked to his left. Nogorev spun and fired as a barely conscious officer,
holding a handkerchief over his mouth, staggered toward him trying to shoot. The
officer crumpled, firing once into the floor, then Nogorev continued towards
the last door.

At the end of the hall was the
master bedroom where Powell’s wife lay unconscious in bed. She was blonde,
pretty and much younger than Powell, clearly his second wife. Nogorev barely
glanced at her as he followed the sound of running water into the en suite. Phil
Powell lay slumped in the shower, water beating down on his naked body. On the
floor in a corner of the bathroom, a canister hissed gas. Nogorev confirmed Powell’s
identity, then shot him once in the temple. Blood and brain tissue spilled into
the steaming water, smearing the shower with red swirling stains.

Nogorev turned and strode out of
the bedroom, down the stairs, and through the front door. He passed the
furiously burning unmarked car, retrieved the gas grenade launcher from the
bushes, and tossed Craig Balard’s pistol into the bushes where even the most
incompetent police investigator would find it.

Satisfied, he hurried back to the
parked Buick a block away, not removing his gas mask until he was safely inside
the car. Neighbors had heard the police car explode and several gun shots.
Several had called the police and all had stayed inside. The wail of approaching
sirens drifted through the darkness, but they were already too late. Nogorev
put his equipment into the sports bag, then drove away, staying well within the
speed limit.

It had been an easy kill.

* * * *

Harriman watched the main street with
binoculars from the second story of the building opposite the warehouse. To his
left, two derelicts slept on the sidewalk. When they had first settled there,
Harriman had considered moving them in case the killer showed up and thought
they were police, then realized they probably slept there every night and if
they were gone the killer might wonder why.

Further down the street, a pretty
young woman leant against a wall wearing revealing skin tight clothes, speaking
with two men. They’d been there for hours, masquerading as a working girl negotiating
with her Johns. Half a block away, two addicts laughed as they sat on the
sidewalk smoking dope in front of their car, both highly trained ESU officers waiting
for the signal to move in, while less than three minutes away, a police
helicopter was on permanent standby.

Harriman was beginning to wonder
if the killer really would show, when a dark colored Buick appeared, moving
slowly down the road. “We have a looker,” he radioed.

Woods sat by another window,
hidden in the darkness, holding a camera with a fast telephoto lens. The
digital camera’s light sensitivity was pushed as high as possible, in the hope
of getting a picture of the suspect’s face, even though there was little chance
of a good shot in the darkness. He raised the camera, ready to start snapping
pictures as soon as the car came into view.

The Buick slowed as it passed the
repaired side door. Harriman focused his binoculars on the driver, getting a
clear look at Nogorev for the first time.

“He’s checking the door,”
Harriman radioed. “Heads down, I have eyes on the suspect.”

The Buick rolled past the
repaired door slowly, which Nogorev studied with routine care, before moving on
past the warehouse.

“He’s now checking the bum’s
sleeping near the bench . . . and the cars.” Harriman said.

Woods focused manually, snapping
pictures of the driver and the car’s license plates. “The light over the plates
is out. Don’t think I got it,” he whispered as the Buick turned into the first
side street.

“Hold your positions,” Harriman said.
He put the radio down and picked up the telephone, dialing fast. As soon as
there was an answer, he said, “I want the chopper in the air, now! Tell him, no
lights.”

“Did he make us?” Woods asked.

“I don’t think so,” Harriman said
as he hung up.

No one spoke for several minutes.
After an agonizing wait, car headlights shone down the alley beside the
warehouse. Harriman picked up the radio, finger poised on the send button. When
the same Buick turned into the street, he radioed the team.

“He’s back! Stand by.”

The Buick turned in towards the warehouse,
then Nogorev got out and opened the roller door. He failed to notice the patch
job on the front door, or the screw in the padlock, but the new splash of
graffiti momentarily caught his attention. After glancing up and down the
street, he returned to the car and drove into the warehouse, then pulled the roller
door down.

Once the door was locked, Nogorev
checked the layout of the warehouse, lit by the car’s headlights. He had a
habit of making a mental picture of his base before he left. Now, his mind’s
picture did not match what he saw. The chair was in a slightly different
position. So was the cable from the telephone to the wall. He’d laid the cable
out in an S shape across the floor – now one end was straightened.

I’m blown!
he realized.

He ran to the car’s trunk,
knowing he only had seconds. Lying on one side of the trunk was a heavy machine
gun, which he was tempted to use, but couldn’t be sure how many people he
faced. Instead, he grabbed the German machine pistol, a black metal hook and a
flashlight, then set the timer on the last and largest of his incendiaries to
fifteen seconds – barely enough time to escape.

Nogorev sprinted towards the concrete
road barrier at the far end of the warehouse, silently counting seconds. He
leapt over the barrier, rolled on the hard floor, squeezing his eyes shut and
placing his hands over his ears.

* * * *

“The rat’s in the trap,” Harriman
yelled. “Go now! Go!”

Harriman jumped out of his chair,
and ran for the door, followed by Woods and two uniformed officers. The working
girl and her two Johns ran across the street, both men now showing guns in
their hands. One threw a pistol to the girl as they ran towards the warehouse
entrance. To the right, one of the addicts climbed in behind the wheel of their
Chevy, while the second retrieved a pair of shotguns from the trunk and jumped
into the passenger side. The car started rolling forward slowly at first, so as
not warn the killer with screeching tires, then it picked up speed.

Harriman started across the road
as the two ESU men crashed their car into the roller door, tearing it out of
the wall. An instant later, a fiery blast erupted from the warehouse, and the
entrance disappeared in a wall of flame. Windows blew out of every building
within fifty meters and every cop in the street was blown off their feet.

Harriman hit the pavement hard,
feeling a wave of heat wash over him. For a moment, he was stunned and deaf,
then through unfocused eyes, he caught sight of the warehouse. It was a blazing
inferno that had completely swallowed the two ESU men and their car.

* * * *

Nogorev’s ears rang from the blast,
but the concrete road barrier had deflected the shock wave, saving him from the
worst effects of the explosion. He stumbled to his feet, trying to clear his
head as he staggered the last few meters to the back of the warehouse and the
rusted old metal ladder that reached to the ceiling. Every window at the back
of the warehouse had blown out, and air was now being sucked in to feed the
flames engulfing both the Buick and the Chevy.

He fell against the ladder, then
forced himself to climb two rungs at a time. When he was halfway up, he glanced
over his shoulder without slowing. The burning cars blocked the warehouse entrance
as flames climbed the front wall. Soon the entire warehouse would be ablaze,
threatening adjoining buildings. Through the roar of the fire, he heard men
yelling, and hammering at the padlocked front door.

Nogorev climbed to a precarious
metal catwalk suspended beneath the rafters, then staggered along it to a
rusted metal door. He pushed it open, tumbling out onto the roof where he fell to
his hands and knees, gulping down fresh air. After a few seconds, he climbed to
his feet and stumbled across to the edge of the roof, where he threw himself
across onto the adjoining building, landing heavily.

Overhead, the beat of approaching
rotors grew louder. A searchlight flicked on, dazzling him in its brilliance,
and a loud speaker blared down at him from above. “STAY WHERE YOU ARE! THIS IS
THE POLICE!”

He shielded his eyes with one
hand as he fired a short burst at the light with the machine pistol. The searchlight
winked out, plunging him into darkness again. He fired a second burst,
shattering the pilot’s window, forcing the police chopper to bank sharply away.

Nogorev sprinted across the second
building’s roof to its fire escape, blinking hard to regain his night sight. He’d
carefully researched his escape route, rehearsing it several times until he
could run it almost blind. He leapt onto the building’s old iron fire escape
and clambered down, crashing into the railing several times and jumping the
last few meters into the dark alley. Hiding in the shadows, he heard the beat
of the helicopter’s rotors approaching again, this time with a sniper in the
open side door. He started running, staying in the shadows close to the wall. Halfway
down the alley two street thugs appeared as silhouettes out of the shadows. The
glint of a blade in the hand of one of the thugs caught Nogorev’s eye.