Icon

  Monk’s third contribution concerned the Dolgoruki mafia. Grishin had long regarded all of them as scum concentration camp fodder for the future. But for the moment their financial backing was crucial.

  No politician in Russia could hope to aspire to the presidency without a nationwide campaign costing trillions of rubles. The secret deal with the most powerful and richest mafia west of the Urals had provided that treasure chest, which vastly exceeded anything available to other candidates. Several had already folded their tents, unable to keep up with the expenditure of the UPF.

  The six raids of the previous day in the small hours had been disastrous for the Dolgoruki, but none more so than the discovery of the financial records. There were few sources from which the GUVD could have learned such details. A rival mafia was the obvious choice, but in the closed world of the gangsters no one, despite the internecine rivalry, would inform to the hated GUVD. Yet here was Monk informing the Patriarch of the source of the leak—a disgusted and turncoat senior officer of Grishin’s own Black Guards.

  If the Dolgoruki ever proved such a thing—and Grishin knew rumors were flying around the streets, rumors he had passionately denied—the alliance would be over.

  To make matters worse, the tape revealed that a team of skilled accountants had already begun work on the papers found beneath the casino and were confident that by the New Year they would be able to prove the funding link between the mafia and the UPF. Those findings would be delivered directly to Acting President Markov. During the same period, Major General Petrovsky of the GUVD, who could be neither bribed nor intimidated, would keep up the pressure on the Dolgoruki gang with raid after raid.

  If he did so, Grishin calculated, there was no way the Dolgoruki gang would continue to accept his assurances that a Black Guard source was not behind the GUVD.

  The Patriarch’s intervention, coming as it did toward the end of the tape, was perhaps the most potentially damaging of all.

  The acting president would be spending the New Year celebrations with his family away from Moscow. He would return on January 3. On that day he would receive the Patriarch, who intended to make a personal intercession, urging Markov to invalidate the candidature of Igor Komarov as an “unfit person,” based upon existing evidence.

  With the proof of gangster linkage provided by Petrovsky and the personal intervention of the Patriarch of Moscow and All the Russias, Markov would be extremely likely to do just that. Apart from anything else, he was himself a candidate and did not want to face Komarov at the polls.

  Four traitors, Grishin brooded. Four traitors to the New Russia that was destined to come into existence after January 16, with himself at the head of an elite corps of 200,000 Black Guards ready to carry out the orders of the leader. Well, he had spent his life rooting out and punishing traitors. He knew how to deal with them.

  He personally typed out a copy of his handwritten transcript and asked for an uninterrupted two hours of President Komarov’s time that evening.

  ¯

  JASON Monk had moved from the flat by Sokolniki Park and was installed in another from whose windows he could see the crescent atop the mosque where he had first met Magomed, the man now sworn to protect him but who on that day would just as easily have killed him.

  He had a message to send to Sir Nigel Irvine in London, according to his schedule the second-from-last, if all went according to the old man’s plan.

  He typed it carefully into his laptop computer, as he had done all the others. When he was finished, he pressed the ‘encode’ button and the message vanished from the screen, safely encrypted into the jumbled blocks of numbers of the one-time pad and logged inside the floppy disk to await the next pass of the InTelCor satellite.

  He did not need to attend the machine. Its batteries were fully charged and it was switched on, waiting for the handshake from the comsat rolling in space.

  He never heard of Ricky Taylor of Columbus, Ohio, never met him and never would. But the pimply teenager probably saved his life.

  Ricky was seventeen and a computer freak. He was one of those dysfunctional young men bred by the computer age, most of whose life was spent gazing into a dully fluorescent screen.

  Having been given his first PC at the age of seven, he had progressed through the various stages of expertise until the legitimate challenges ran out and only the illegal ones created the necessary buzz, the required periodic “high” of the true addict. Not for Ricky the gentle rhythm of the passing seasons outside, nor the camaraderie of his fellows or even the lust for girls. Ricky’s fix was to hack into the most jealously guarded databanks.

  By 1999 InTelCor was not only a major player in global communications for strategic, diplomatic, and commercial use; it was also preeminent as deviser and marketer of the most complex of computer games. Ricky had surfed the Internet until he was bored, and had mastered every known and freely available game sequence. He yearned to pit himself against InTelCor’s Ultra programs. The problem was, to log in to them legitimately cost a fee. Ricky’s allowance did not run to that fee. So he had tried for weeks to enter the InTelCor mainframe by the back door. After so much effort he figured he was almost there.

  Eight time zones west of Moscow his screen read, for the thousandth time: ACCESS CODE PLEASE. He tapped in what he thought might do it. Again the screen told him: ACCESS DENIED.

  Somewhere south of the mountains of Anatolia the InTelCor comsat was drifting through space on its heading north for Moscow.

  When the technicians of the multinational had devised Monk’s coded sender/receiver they had, on instructions, included a total wipeout code of four digits. These were the numbers Danny had him memorize at Castle Forbes, and were intended to protect Monk in the event of capture, provided he could punch in the code before he was taken.

  But if his machine was captured intact, so reasoned the chief encoder, a former CIA cryptographer from Warrenton brought out of retirement for the job, the bad guys could use the machine to send false messages.

  So to prove his authenticity, Monk had to include certain harmless words, all in sequence. If a transmission took place without those words, the ex-CIA man would know that whoever was out there was off the payroll. At that point he could use the Compuserve mainframe to log in to Monk’s PC via the satellite and use the same four digits to obliterate its memory, leaving the bad guys with a useless tin can.

  Ricky Taylor was already into InTelCor’s mainframe when he hit those four digits. The satellite rolled over Moscow and sent down its “Are you there, baby?” call. The laptop replied “Yes, I am,” and the satellite, obedient to its instructions, wasted it.

  The first Monk knew about it was when he went to check his machine and found his message, in clear, back on the screen. That meant it had been rejected. He negated the message manually, aware that, for reasons beyond his comprehension, something had gone wrong and he was out of contact.

  There was an address Sir Nigel Irvine had given him just before he left London. He did not know where it was or who lived there. But it was all he had. With economy he could compress his last two messages into one, something the spymaster would have to know. That might work for getting a message out. Receiving any more was out of the question. For the first time, he was completely on his own. No more progress reports, no more confirmations. of action taken, no more instructions.

  With the billion-dollar technology down, he would rely on the oldest allies in the Great Game: instinct, nerve, and luck. He prayed they would not let him down.

  ¯

  IGOR Komarov finished the last page of the transcript and leaned back. He was never a man of high color, but now, Grishin noted, his face was like a sheet of paper.

  “This is bad,” said Komarov.

  “Very bad, Mr. President.”

  “You should have captured him before now.”

  “He is being sheltered by the Chechen mafia. This we now know. They live like rats in their own subterranean world.”

  “Ra
ts can be exterminated.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. And they will be. When you are undisputed leader of this country.”

  “They must be made to pay.”

  “They will. Every last one of them.”

  Komarov was still staring at him with those hazel eyes, but they were unfocused, as if their owner were looking to another time and another place, a time in the future, a place of settlement of accounts with his enemies. The two red spots were bright upon the cheekbones.

  “Retribution. I want retribution. They have attacked me, they have attacked Russia, attacked the Motherland. There can be no mercy for scum like this. …”

  His voice was rising, the hands starting to tremble as the rage cracked his habitual self-control. Grishin knew that if he could argue his point with enough skill he would win his argument. He leaned forward over the desk, forcing Komarov to look him in the eyes. Slowly the rage subsided and Grishin knew he had his attention.

  “Listen to me, Mr. President. Please listen. What we now know enables me to turn the tables completely. You will have your revenge. Just give me the word.”

  “What do you mean, Anatoli Grishin?”

  “The key to counter-intelligence, Mr. President, is knowledge of the enemy’s intentions. This we now have. From that stems prevention. It is already taking place. In a few days, there will be no selected candidate for the throne of All the Russias. Now we have a second revelation of their intentions. Once again I must propose both prevention and retribution, all in one.”

  “All four men?”

  “There can be no choice.”

  “Nothing must be traced back. Not yet. It is too early for that.”

  “Nothing will be traced back. The banker? How many bankers have been killed in the past ten years? Fifty? At least. Armed and masked men, a settlement of accounts. It happens all the time.

  “The policeman? The Dolgoruki gang will be happy to take the contract. How many cops have been wasted? Again, it happens all the time.

  “As for the fool of a general, a burglary that went wrong. Nothing could be more common. And for the priest, a house servant caught ransacking his study during the night. Shot down by the Cossack guard, who in turn is killed by the thief as he dies.”

  “Will anyone believe that?”

  “I have a source inside the residence who will swear to it.”

  Komarov looked at the papers he had finished reading and the tape beside them. He smiled thinly.

  “Of course you do. I need to know no more about all this. I insist I know nothing more of all this.”

  “But you do wish the four men bent upon your destruction to cease to function?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. That is all I need to know.”

  ¯

  THE room at the Spartak Hotel had been booked in the name of Mr. Kuzichkin, and a man of that name had indeed checked in. Having done so he then walked out again, slipping his room key to Jason Monk as he did so. The Chechen guards filtered through the lobby, the stairwell, and the access to the elevators as he went upstairs. It was as safe a way as any of having twenty minutes on a telephone which, if traced, would reveal only a room in a non-Chechen-owned hotel far from the center of town.

  “General Petrovsky?”

  “You again.”

  “You seem to have stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

  “I don’t know where you get your information from, American, but it seems to be good.”

  “Thank you. But Komarov and Grishin will not take this lying down.”

  “What about the Dolgoruki?”

  “Bit players. The key danger is Grishin and his Black Guards.”

  “Was it you who put out the rumor that the source was a senior officer in the Black Guard?”

  “Friends of mine.”

  “Smart. But dangerous.”

  “The weak point for Grishin lies in those papers you captured. I think they prove the mafia has been funding Komarov all along.”

  “They are being worked on.”

  “So are you, General.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are your wife and Tatiana still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish you would get them out of town. Now, tonight. Somewhere far away and safe. Yourself too. Move out. Go and live in the SOBR barracks. Please.”

  There was silence for a while.

  “Do you know something, American?”

  “Please, General. Get out of there. While there is time.”

  He put the phone down, waited awhile, and dialed another number. The phone rang on Leonid Bernstein’s desk at the Moskovsky Federal Bank headquarters. It was late at night and only a tape machine answered. Without the banker’s private home phone number, Monk could only pray that Bernstein would access his messages within the next few hours.

  “Mr. Bernstein, this is the man who reminded you of Babi Yar. Please don’t go to the office, however pressing the business. I am certain Komarov and Grishin now know who is behind the shutdown of their TV exposure. You keep your family out of the country; go and join them until it is safe to return.”

  He put the phone down again. Though he did not know it, a light flashed on a console in a heavily guarded house miles away and Leonid Bernstein listened to the message in silence.

  The third call was to the residence.

  “Yes.”

  “Your Holiness?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know my voice?”

  “Of course.”

  “You should go to the monastery at Zagorsk. Get inside and stay inside.”

  “Why?”

  “I fear for you. Last night proved that matters are becoming dangerous.”

  “I have High Mass tomorrow at the Danilovsky.”

  “The Metropolitan can take your place.”

  “I will consider what you say.”

  The phone went down. The fourth call was answered at the tenth ring and a gruff voice said, “Yes.”

  “General Nikolayev?”

  “Who is ... wait a minute, I know you. You’re that damned Yankee.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Well, no more interviews. Did what you wanted, said my piece. No more. That’s it. Hear me?”

  “Let’s keep it short. You should get out and go to live with your nephew on the base.”

  “Why?”

  “Certain thugs did not appreciate what you said. I think they might pay you a visit.”

  “Ruffians, eh? Well, bollocks. Stuff ‘em all. Never retreated in my life, boy. Too late to start now.”

  The phone went dead. Monk sighed and replaced his own. He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes. Time to go. Back to the warren of rat runs in the Chechen underworld.

  ¯

  THERE were four killer groups and they struck two nights later, on December 21.

  The biggest and best-armed took the private dacha of Leonid Bernstein. There were a dozen guards on duty and four of them died in the firefight. Two Black Guards were also cut down. The main door was blown out with a shaped charge and the men in combat black, their faces hidden by ski masks of the same color, raced through the house.

  The surviving guards and staff were rounded up and herded into the kitchen. The guard commander was badly beaten but kept repeating that his employer had flown to Paris two days earlier. The rest of the staff, above the screaming of the women, confirmed this. Finally the men in black retreated to their trucks, taking their two dead with them.

  The second assault was on the apartment house in Kutuzovsky Prospekt. A single black Mercedes pulled under the arch and drew up at the barrier. One of the two OMON guards came out of his warm hut to examine papers. Two men crouching behind the car ran forward with silenced automatics and shot him through the base of the neck, just above the body-armor. The second guard was killed before he could emerge.

  In the ground floor lobby the man at the reception desk suffered the same fate. Four Black Guards, ru
nning in from the street, secured the lobby while six went up in the elevator. This time there were no men in the corridor at all, though the attackers did not know why.

  The door to the apartment, although steel-lined, was taken apart by half a pound of plastic explosive and the six rushed in. The white-jacketed steward winged one in the shoulder before he was cut down. A thorough search of the flat revealed there was no one else there and the squad retreated frustrated.

  Back on the ground floor they exchanged fire with two more OMON guards who had appeared from the rest area at the back of the building, killed one, and lost one of their own. Empty-handed, they retreated under fire into the avenue and took off in three waiting GAZ jeeps.

  At the Patriarchal Residence the approach was more subtle. A single man knocked at the street door while six more crouched on either side of him out of the line of sight of the peephole.

  The Cossack inside peered through the hole and used the street intercom to ask who was there. The man at the door held up a valid militia identification and said: “Police.”

  Duped by the ID, the Cossack opened the door. He was shot immediately and his body carried upstairs.

  The plan had been to shoot the private secretary with the Cossack’s gun, and kill the primate with the same piece that had been used on the Cossack. This gun would then be placed in the hand of the dead secretary, to be found behind the desk.

  Father Maxim would then be forced to swear both Cossack and primate had disturbed the secretary rifling the drawers and in the ensuing interchange of fire all three had died. Apart from a huge ecclesiastical scandal, the militia would close the case.

  Instead the killers found a fat priest in a soiled dressing gown at the top of the stairs screaming, “What are you doing?”

  “Where’s Alexei?” snarled one of the men in black.

  “He left,” babbled the priest. “He’s gone to Zagorsk.”

  A search of the private apartments revealed that the Patriarch and the two nuns were not there. Leaving the body of the Cossack, the killer team withdrew.