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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Assassin
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BKA Chief Investigator Franken studied the dozen separate documents that Legler had faxed to his office, comparing the photograph in the Pierre Allain passport to that of the Kirk McGarvey photograph circulating on the Interpol wire.
“They don't exactly match, but the height, weight and date of birth are close,” he told his deputy chief of special investigations.
“Passport photos never do, unless they're recent ones,” Lieutenant Dieter Waltz said.
“According to the Belgians, the passport is legitimate.”
“True, but they can't confirm Allain's address. Nobody by that name lives there or ever has.”
“He has a proper driving license.”
“Same story on the address,” Waltz said. “But Allain has never been issued a voter registration card. Nor has he ever served in any unit of the Belgian military. Unusual for a man his age.”
“Then you think this man is in reality Kirk McGarvey?” Franken asked.
“I think it's likely,” Waltz answered carefully. “Which brings up an interesting speculation about him.”
“What's that?”
“According to the Belgians, this passport was first issued fourteen years ago. Means McGarvey is a professional.”
“How do you see that?” Franken asked, although he knew the answer. He liked to play devil's advocate with his people. It kept them on their toes, free from sloppy thinking.
“Why else did he maintain a false identity for so long? In all those years there's never been an inquiry about the passport. So up until now he's been a very careful man. Never made a mistake.”
“Until now,” Franken said quietly.
“What about his bank accounts?” Waltz asked.
“That's none of our business. For now the only law McGarvey has broken concerns his fake passport.”
“Interpol wants him for something.”
“Indeed,” Franken said. He gathered up the papers and handed them to Waltz. “Put this on the Interpol wire.”
“Shall I work up a cover report?”
Franken shook his head. “We'll leave the speculation to others. Get this out right away, and then get back to work. We've already spent too much time on this business.”
“Do you want me to telephone the Latvian Federal Police?”
“I don't think it's necessary, Dieter,” Franken said. “Anyone who's interested in Herr McGarvey will pick it off the wire.”
Chernov was standing on the reviewing stand above Lenin's Mausoleum when Militia Captain Petrovsky called his cellular telephone.
“Pierre Allain. He's traveling on a Belgian passport. The photos are a pretty good match.”
“Where'd that come from?” Chernov asked, stepping back from the rail.
“The German Federal Police in Leipzig. But the best part is the Mercedes four-by-four automobiles. Allain is exporting them from Leipzig to Riga. Thing is the Latvian customs people show that two cars came in so far, but only in transit.”
“To where?”
“Russia. It means he is coming by highway. Probably across the border near Zilupe. I sent this over to Gresko who'll alert the border crossing. We might still have a chance of stopping him.”
“I want every square meter covered. What do we have up there?”
“Not much except for an air force training squadron at Velikiye Luki. That's near Toropets, about two hundred kilometers from the border. Shall I have them cover the highway?”
“Order them to send up everything they have.”
“He won't get away this time, Colonel, I guarantee it,” Petrovsky promised.
Tarankov's train was hidden near Klin less than fifty kilometers outside Moscow. Chernov had dropped McGarvey's daughter out there and had raced back into the city. But unless McGarvey had delayed leaving Latvia for some reason, he'd already be across the border somewhere between there and Moscow. The thought was almost too interesting to bear.
“I'm in Red Square. Have a helicopter pick me up in front of Lenin's Tomb as soon as possible. We'll follow the highway west.”
“It'll be dark in a couple of hours.”
“Then you'd better hurry, Captain.”
Chernov broke the connection, pocketed his phone and looked out across Red Square again. In three days Russia would be Tarankov's. Before that happened McGarvey would be dead, and it would be time to get out for good. He decided that he wouldn't regret any of it.
A
bout seventy-five miles east of the Latvian border, McGarvey followed a narrow dirt track off the highway down to a thick stand of birch and willows that followed a creek. Although most of the trees had not budded yet, the growth was thick enough to obscure the outline of the Mercedes from the highway and from the air. Even if someone was looking for him, which he doubted, he would be safe here until dark.
With the engine off, he stood smoking a cigarette as he listened to the burble of the gently flowing creek, and the distant hum of an occasional truck above on the highway. Through a stand of trees on the opposite side of the creek he could see a farm field rising to the crest of the hill. But there were no farm buildings or animals in sight. Nor did it seem as if the field had been worked in recent years, because it was overgrown with a brown stubble.
Crossing the border had presented no problems. When it was his turn the same customs official as before came out to examine his papers.
“No lunch this afternoon, Comrade Allain?” the official joked.
“Not this time,” McGarvey said. “But I'll be back next week, and maybe I'll bring something good.” He handed the official an envelope with five hundred marks in cash.
One of the border guards came out of the shack with the long-handled mirror, but the officer waved him back.
“Sometimes he takes his job too seriously,” the officer said, pocketing the money. “A lot of them do.”
The meaning was clear.
“Do you take a day off each week?” McGarvey asked.
“Sundays.”
“I prefer to rest on Sundays myself.”
“It's a good philosophy,” the officer said. He stepped back and motioned for the gate to be raised.
With dusk beginning to settle in, McGarvey removed his gun from the computer, loaded it, and pocketed the spare magazines and silencer. Then he started on the extra spare tire, deflating it, popping the seal with the tire irons, and removing the plastic bags containing Voronin's KGB uniform. Next he unlatched the primary spare tire from its bracket on the cargo compartment lid, and removed the uniform cap. The cap and uniform went into a nylon zippered bag which he tossed in the back seat.
If he were to be stopped and searched before he got to Moscow he would have no explanation for the uniform. But since he would be driving at night, and planned on remaining well within the speed limit, there was no reason for him to be stopped.
He reattached the main spare tire to its bracket, then reinflated the extra spare tire using the electric pump plugged into the car's cigarette lighter.
When that was done, he tossed the pump and tire irons into the thicker brush, cleaned his hands in the creek, then lit a cigarette as he waited for the deepening dusk to turn to darkness.
A faint sound came to him on the light breeze and he cocked an ear to listen. A helicopter, he thought. Maybe more than one. He tossed the cigarette aside, and stepped away from the overhanging trees.
The sun had already set but the western sky was still dimly aglow, making it easy for him to pick out a formation of four helicopters heading cross country toward the southwest. They were Mi-24 Hind attack helicopters, their silhouettes easily distinguishable. So far as he knew the FSK did not use such aircraft, which meant there was probably a military base somewhere in the vicinity. The most likely explanation was that the formation was on a training maneuver.
McGarvey glanced up at the highway. The helicopters were heading in the general direction of the border. Such exercises were common because of
the ongoing trouble between the Latvian government and Russians still living in Latvia. The maneuver could be one of intimidation.
But he doubted it. The timing was too coincidental. But if they knew or suspected that he would be coming across from Latvia, then a great deal of his preparations had somehow been blown. Possibly by Yemlin. Possibly his Allain passport had been compromised. The list wasn't endless but it was long. He'd been on too many assignments where a number of little errors and coincidences added up to a major problem for him to ever believe that he was truly safe.
When the helicopters finally disappeared in the distance, he started the Mercedes. At the crest of the hill he paused a moment to make certain there was no traffic in either direction, then headed east on the M9 toward Moscow a little over three hundred miles away, as he considered his options should the helicopters return.
It was dark by the time the modified Hormone-D search and rescue helicopter finally cleared Moscow's airspace, the city of Volokolamsk directly ahead of them. Petrovsky had picked Chernov up on Red Square late because there'd been some delay in obtaining the necessary clearances from the Moscow District Military Command to overfly the city. Once they'd passed the outer ring highway the pilot found the M9 and followed it west, the throttles pushed their stops. The crew had not been told what the mission was about, but they were suitably impressed by Bykov's credentials so that when they were told to hustle they asked no questions. They hustled.
Traffic on the motorway was heavy, but Chernov expected that it would thin out to next to nothing on the other side of Volokolamsk, which was one hundred kilometers from the center of Moscow, because there were no major cities between there and the Latvian border. The problem, of course, was picking out a specific automobile in the dark, when all that was distinguishable were headlights.
Petrovsky had been speaking on the radio, and he came forward to where Chernov was braced behind the co-pilot, a concerned expression on his face.
“He crossed the border two hours ago.”
“Under the Pierre Allain passport?” Chernov demanded.
“
Da.
He's driving a gunmetal-gray Mercedes sport utility vehicle, with the proper in-transit documents. There was no reason for the customs people to detain him because the warrant for McGarvey didn't show up until fifteen minutes ago.”
“What about the air force up there?”
Petrovsky looked uncomfortable. “They sent up a squadron of Mi-24s, but their instructions were to remain within their training area. They're not authorized to go any farther.”
“Exactly how far is that?” Chernov asked, holding his temper in check.
“Two hundred kilometers from the border.”
“They spotted nothing, of course. Because he had nearly a two-hour head start,” Chernov said. He turned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. The man cocked his head, but did not take his eyes off the windshield.
“Sir?”
“As soon as we get to the other side of Volokolamsk, I want you to fly right up the middle of the M9, but no higher than eight or ten meters. I want to be able to identify every vehicle down there. Can you do that?”
“Yes sir,” the pilot said. “What are we looking for, Colonel?”
“A gray Mercedes four-by-four.”
“Will do,” the pilot said.
Chernov turned back to Petrovsky. “Radio the base commander up there and tell him that I want his helicopters to start again at the border, and follow the M9 toward us, at an altitude of no more than eight or ten meters.”
“You mean to catch the bastard between us?” Petrovsky said.
“That's the idea.” Chernov said, although he didn't think it was going to be quite that easy.
Petrovsky started to turn away when Chernov called him back.
“When you've done that, I want every cop in Moscow to be on the lookout for that gray Mercedes. It was stolen.”
“He'll never get that far, Colonel.”
“Just do it,” Chernov ordered sharply.
“What are they supposed to do if they spot him? My street cops wouldn't be any match for him if he's as good as you say he is.”
“Tell them to report directly to you, and follow him. Nothing more.”
It was nearly eight o'clock when the Mercedes pulled off the main highway near a tiny hamlet dark at this hour, followed a bumpy road up to the onion domes of an Orthodox church and parked under the shelter of a grape arbor at the entrance to a cemetery. McGarvey shut off the headlights, got the gas cans from the back and filled the tank.
He estimated that he was two hundred miles from the outskirts of Moscow, and with any luck he'd be in the city well before midnight with plenty of time to take care of one final preparation before he went to ground.
What little traffic he'd encountered were mostly trucks heading east, with an occasional passenger car, and one bus.
The only city of any size that he would have to pass through would be Volokolamsk. By then the traffic would pick up, but it was only another fifty or sixty miles into the outskirts of Moscow where he figured he might be safe unless they'd transmitted a description of his car to the police there. But he'd picked this color Mercedes because it was common in Moscow.
Finished with the gas cans, he put them back in the cargo section, and happened to glance down at the highway east of the village in time to see
what at first appeared to be a truck. Its headlights were unusually bright and seemed very far off the ground.
McGarvey stepped around the back of the Mercedes to get a better look, when the lights rose up into the sky at the same moment he heard the distinct chop of a helicopter's rotors.
As the machine slowly flew over the village, a spotlight searched the main road and the side streets.
McGarvey eased back a little farther under the grape arbor. This was no coincidence. The military helicopters at the border had been conducting a search. And now this machine was coming directly down the M9, obviously searching for someone.
The helicopter's spotlight went out as it dropped down to twenty feet or so above the highway on this side of the village, and headed west.
It was possible that the military helicopters he'd seen earlier were a part of a coordinated search, and would be heading east by now. When this helicopter met them without any sign of McGarvey they would turn around and retrace the highway, greatly expanding their search pattern to include hiding places such as the trees where he'd stopped by the creek, and this grape arbor.
While he waited for the helicopter's lights to disappear into the distance he studied his road map. Three main highways entered Moscow from the west. The M9, which he was on, came from Riga. The M10 from St. Petersburg was well to his north, and the M1 from Smolensk and Minsk was about ninety miles to the south. Even the most recent Russian maps, however, showed very few of the secondary roads that connected the smaller towns and villages between the main motor routes, although he knew they were there.
The three highways funneled into Moscow, so the farther east he got before turning south, the closer he would be to the Ml. If he got off the M9 now, he might get bogged down in the countryside and never reach the other highway. But if he remained on the M9 too long, the helicopter that had just passed might turn around and overtake him. One hour, he decided, as he watched the receding lights of the helicopter. Then, no matter how far he got, he would turn off the M9 and head across country to the south.
Abandoning the speed limit, McGarvey barreled down the highway at ninety to one hundred miles per hour, slowing only for small towns and villages, and the occasional truck still on the highway. Each time he saw the oncoming lights of another vehicle, he slowed down and prepared to douse his own headlights and pull off the road until he made certain that what he was seeing wasn't another helicopter.
It was a few minutes after nine when he came upon an unmarked paved road heading south. He'd been watching his rearview mirror, but so far there'd been no sign of the returning helicopter. Nonetheless he figured he'd pushed his luck far enough, and turned onto the secondary road. Within five miles he came to a collection of a half-dozen peasant houses, shuttered
and dark, and on the other side of this village the road continued, but the pavement stopped.
The winter had been a harsh one, and the spring very late in coming so that the road, which at times was little more than a dirt track, was still reasonably firm. In a couple of weeks it would turn into a ribbon of deep sticky mud that even the big Mercedes might not be able to manage.
For stretches he was able to push the Mercedes to speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour, but for most of the way he had to keep below forty, and sometimes he was even slowed to a crawl as he had to detour around ruts that were five or six feet deep.
He was passing through mostly farmlands, he could tell that much but little else in the dark. Occasionally he passed through tiny villages of eight or ten crude hovels, and for twenty minutes he had a conglomeration of lights in sight, low down on the horizon to the west, which he took to be a factory, or possibly a power station.
But he never saw the helicopter again, so by 10:30 when he finally reached the M1 near the town of Gagarin with the outskirts of Moscow barely one hundred miles away, he dropped back to the posted speed limit of 90 kilometers per hour and lit his first cigarette in two and a half hours.

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