The Kremlin Phoenix (9 page)

“Hey motherfucker! I’ll take your
wallet, or I’ll take your life!”

The other man laughed and sucked
hard on his joint.

Nogorev didn’t break stride. In
one fluid motion, he brought the machine pistol up and fired a short burst into
each man. He cursed silently, knowing the muzzle flashes might have given him away,
but as he ran on, it became evident the chopper hadn’t seen him fire.

At the end of the alley, he
stopped and changed ammo clips. The sound of rotor blades continued to fill the
air above while the growing number of sirens told him police were coming from
everywhere.

Nogorev checked there were no
police in sight, then ran to the manhole in the center of the street and used
the hook to haul up the metal cover. Before he’d killed Goldstein, he’d spent
over an hour forcing the manhole cover open, coating the edges with grease to
ensure it would come away easily. Now his preparations were rewarded as the
cover slid easily aside. He quickly climbed down into the narrow shaft and pulled
the cover back into place moments before the helo passed overhead, unaware of
his hiding place.

Nogorev climbed down the narrow
ladder into the tunnel’s blanketing darkness before switching on the flashlight.
The tunnel was filled with the drip of water and the occasional squeal of rats,
neither of which concerned him in the least. He had hours of splashing through
stinking dark tunnels ahead of him, but he knew he’d escaped.

* * * *

“Can I borrow your laptop, in case I
need to read the flash drive?” Craig asked as he sipped his morning coffee.

Nikki sat in front of the
television, dressed in her negligee and holding a bowel of breakfast cereal. “Sure,
it’s on the table.”

He retrieved her small computer
and locked it in his brief case.

“Craig!” Nikki yelled, pointing
at the television screen. She grabbed the remote control and boosted the volume.

“. . .
wanted
in connection with the fatal shooting of an as yet unidentified man yesterday at
a Manhattan restaurant
,” a female voice reported as Yegor Demidoff’s covered
body was wheeled out of Romano’s and loaded into a forensic vehicle.
“Balard is also wanted for the murders of three prominent New
York lawyers and a police officer. A gun believed to be the murder weapon, and
registered to Balard, was recovered from the house of one of the victims, a Mr
Philip Powell, early this morning. Police are appealing to the public to report
any sighting of Balard, but warn not to approach him as he is considered to be
armed and highly dangerous
. . .”

When the bulletin ended, Nikki
turned the sound down. “You should turn yourself in. Explain what happened. If
this killer is after you, the police can help you.”

“They couldn’t protect Powell,”
Craig said, sad to discover the third partner of his law firm was now dead.

“Tell them he stole your gun. Show
them your apartment. They’ll believe you.”

“Even if they did, they wouldn’t
let me leave the country, and right now, I have to go to find this Valentina
woman in London.” He could have added, the strange woman who appeared each time
his life was in danger had told him to give the MLI master list to Valentina,
although not why. “When I get back, I’ll sort this out.”

“Suppose they’ve put you on a
watch list?”

“Then it’ll be a short trip!”

Nikki knew his mind was made up. “I
suppose you want me to drive you to the airport?”

“There’d be less chance of being
recognized if you did.”

“I’m too good for you,” she said,
shaking her head.

He smiled. “I was hoping you
wouldn’t find out.”

* * * *

Nikki’s car pulled up beside the
airport terminal ninety minutes before Craig’s flight was due to depart. She
gave him a long hug and a short kiss, tears welling in her eyes.

“I’ll be back in a few days.”

“You better be!” she said.

Craig climbed out of the car,
waved as she drove off, then hurried into the terminal. He checked in, collected
his seat allocation, then strolled through the terminal killing time until his
plane boarded. At a news stand, stacks of newspapers fresh off the presses were
on sale. He went to pick up the New York Times, and saw his face splashed
across the front page. It was a grainy rendition of his driver’s license
picture, when his hair was shorter. He turned sharply and walked away from the
newsstand, feeling as if his own face now betrayed him as one of the country’s
most wanted men.

Desperate to hide his face, he
walked into the men’s room and locked himself in a cubicle. There was still fifty
minutes until his plane boarded. He hid there for over half an hour, then with
barely enough time to board the plane, he slipped the bolt back and headed
towards passport control. No one paid him any attention as he crossed the
terminal at a brisk pace, appearing to be a businessman late for a flight.

He joined a line, keeping his
face down to avoid security cameras. When he handed his passport to the
immigration officer, he tried unsuccessfully to look relaxed. The officer
checked his picture, flicked through the pages, then scanned his passport into
the computer. Craig could barely breathe as the immigration officer seemed to
read a message on her screen, then she stamped the passport and handed it back.
Unable to believe his luck, he hurried to the gate, wondering how the
authorities had missed having his name added to a watch list.

Craig passed through the final
security checks, and was the last to board the United Airlines 747. He took his
seat, unable to relax until the flight crew locked the doors and the plane began
to taxi. A few minutes later, he was airborne, on his way to London.

* * * *

Nogorev sat in a room in a boarding
house in Jersey City, after having scrubbed off the filth from hours splashing
through rat infested tunnels. He dialed an unlisted number at the New York
Residency.

“Room 206,” a man answered, then
Nogorev gave his authorization code. “What do you require, sir?”

“I asked for call tracking on a
phone number yesterday,” Nogorev said, then read out Craig’s home telephone
number.

The operator checked the
electronic intelligence gathering activity Nogorev had requested before
replying. “One call was made from that number.”

“Give me the details.”

“Yes sir.” The operator said,
then read out Nikki’s phone number and home address.

* * * *

Bill Corman lounged in Harriman’s
chair, talking on the phone with his feet on the desk. When Harriman entered
the office, Corman motioned him to the visitor’s chair, as if it was his
office. Harriman decided to stand.

“. . . Arrange support through the
usual channels . . . Yes. I’ll want a car and a driver . . . twenty four hours
. . . “

Woods came in carrying several
reports. He handed one to Harriman. “The ballistics report confirms Balard’s
gun fired the bullet that killed Powell and Officer Kernigan.”

Harriman looked at the report,
not surprised. He had no doubt the gun found in front of Powell’s house was the
murder weapon. “It’s an obvious plant, but why frame Balard? It makes no sense.”

Woods shrugged. “Maybe the killer
wants us to arrest him? Or just throw us off the trail?”

“Or he wants Balard on the run.” He
passed the ballistics report back to Woods. “Ridley shouldn’t have sent that
press release out. It was stupid. We’re playing right into the perp’s hands,”
Harriman said softly, so as not to be overheard criticizing the captain by
other detectives.

“You might want to look at this,”
Woods said, handing a lab report to Harriman. “Our forensic guys have been testing
the gas canisters recovered from Powell’s house since one AM.”

Corman hung up. “Yes – BZ gas – nasty
stuff! Chemical name, 3-quinculidinyl benzillate. It’s six thousand times
stronger than morphine. One whiff and good night!”

Harriman looked from the unread
lab report to Corman, irritated that this civilian should know the contents of
the report before he did.

Woods lowered his voice so only
Harriman and Corman could hear. “It’s the same gas Russian special forces used
in the Moscow theatre siege back in 2002. They killed 39 terrorists and 129
hostages with it. It’s why our team, and Powell’s family, are all in hospital.”

“At least they’re alive,” Corman
said, “Which is more than we can say for Powell.”

“How did the perp get the gas?”
Harriman asked.

Corman gave Harriman a knowing
look. “He’s Russian special forces.”

“You know this for a fact?”
Harriman asked, surprised.

Corman nodded. “He’s almost
certainly Spetsnaz. Crazy sons of bitches. Hard as nails. Not people you want
to mess with. I’m surprised they can deliver BZ by canister. Shows they’ve
weaponized it quite effectively.”

“Since when did you become an
expert on Russian nerve gas?”

“I’m not, but I can read.”

“So how do we track this guy?”
Harriman asked, still furious at the death of the two ESU officers at the
warehouse and the protection officer at Powell’s house.

“We don’t,” Corman said. “He’s a
wolf, chasing a rabbit. We follow the rabbit.”

“The rabbit?” Harriman said
puzzled.

“Craig Balard. He flew to London
this morning, bought a ticket last night with a credit card. He’s a dumb ass,
leaving electronic footprints a blind man could follow. My people tracked him
from the moment he set foot inside the airport, all the way to the plane. The
idiot actually hid in the men’s room for half an hour! If this assassin had
been on his tail, he’d have had no escape route.”

“You let him go?” Woods asked
incredulously.

Corman nodded. “We were worried
he was going to get himself killed before he even got on the plane. That would
have really screwed things up! When he reaches England, we’ll nursemaid him
around old London town, not that he’ll have any idea we’re following him.”

“Why are you doing this?”
Harriman asked.

“Because he’s more use to us out
there, than he is in one of your cells.”

“To catch the killer?”

“No, to lead us to his contact.”

“His contact? What contact?”
Harriman asked.

“We have good intel on the
assassin, and who he represents. It’s the guy that was killed in the restaurant
yesterday that has our interest. Him, we know nothing about. We need to find
out who he represents, and what they’re up to.”

“Why?” Harriman asked. “What is
going on?”

“All I can tell you is there are
serious global implications, and Balard seems to have bumbled his way into the
middle of it.” Corman stood up. “I understand you got a good look at the
assassin, last night?”

Harriman nodded. “Yeah. I’m going
to work with a sketch artist today.”

“No time for that. Our flight
leaves in two hours. We’ll pick up the tickets at the airport.”

“What flight?”

“To London. To follow Balard.”

“I have no jurisdiction over
there.”

“No, but you know the assassin by
sight. That’s why you’re coming with me. Detective Woods will continue the
investigation here.”

“I take it, if I refuse, Captain
Ridley will just make it an order?”

“He already has. See you at the
airport,” Corman said, then hurried towards the exit.

Harriman yawned, not having slept
for over twenty four hours. He glanced at his crumpled suit, and rubbed the
stubble on his chin. “I guess I better go home and change. Looks like I’ll be
sleeping on the plane.”

* * * *

Nikki arrived home late that night,
tired and ready for bed. She flicked the light switch, but the room remained
dark.

“Damn! Not again,” she said
irritably, thinking the bulb had blown.

She set her brief case down, then
felt her way in the dark toward a table lamp. When she pressed the lamp’s switch,
nothing happened. She straightened, wondering if a fuse had shorted out. She decided
to find the torch she kept in the closet when suddenly her ears picked up the soft
patter of footsteps approaching.

Fear gripped her as she realized
someone was in the apartment, then she noticed the curtains were closed. She
always left them open when she went to work. The room should have been bathed
in light from the city, not shrouded in darkness.

She threw herself forward, not toward
the door – she knew she couldn’t reach it – but for her brief case. Nikki
flicked open the latches as a powerful hand caught her left hand and twisted it
back. She squealed as the sinews of her arm strained, and she reached
frantically into the brief case with her right hand. A fist crashed onto her
jaw like a sledge hammer. She stopped screaming, stunned by the blow, but still
conscious. Her fingers wrapped around the small cylinder in her brief case, then
she twisted wildly.