Conspiracy in Kiev (37 page)
S
he pushed her way in and the light clicked on. The doors closed behind her. There was coolness to the stairway. She waited a moment and then realized why. Someone had left the window open on the first floor landing, one flight up.
Probably Maurice. But where was Maurice?
She paused for a moment, her senses alert to possible danger. Then she continued to the steps. An open window had allowed some rain to fall inside and the effect was soothing. It had been stuffy earlier in the stairwell.
She started up the steps. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the plaster walls and the wooden stairs. Lord, she was tired. Her brain buzzed with the events of the day.
She arrived on the first floor landing.
The floor was damp from the rain and she made a note to speak to Maurice. She could give him some friendly advice on home maintenance.
Well, no matter. The building was quiet.
Too quiet?
On the landing one flight up, she pushed the window shut and locked it. There was water on the floor. Someone was going to slip. She had been told that Maurice kept towels and mops in the closets on the landing. She decided to do her good deed for the day. She would drop a towel and quickly glide it over the floor with her foot, lest the next resident slip on this mess.
She stepped to the closet.
The door was stuck.
Her gaze gravitated downward. She caught the faint outline of crimson that was flowing from under the closet door.
She yanked the door open. Maurice, or what remained of him, slumped forward from a crouched lying position to a sprawling one. Her eyes riveted on the hole in his head just between the eyes. Then, she quickly took in the two bullet wounds to the chest. The gunshot wounds to the body were probably the first ones, followed by the head wound, which was the
coup de grâce
.
The bullet had passed through his skull and exited from the rear and into the wall, bringing some inevitable blood, fragments of bone, and brain splatter with it. His face was smashed in from the force of the bullet, which was probably point blank. From the size of the hole, it was clear that the bullet had been high powered.
Suddenly, the lights went off. Her first impression was that she had taken too long to climb the stairs and that the lights, as they did in European hallways, had turned off automatically. But then she realized someone had manually cut the power.
Meaning, someone was waiting for her. She had walked into a trap. Her left hand went fast for her gun, snapping the safety catch to “fire.”
In the darkness, the door to her own apartment opened one flight above. She heard the heavy footsteps of a man rush outward. Simultaneously, the blue doors down below opened and she heard someone else rush in.
Cerny? Rizzo?
She was in the middle, trapped in the darkness. Was the intruder below her savior or assassin? From above there was a flash and a brutally loud retort. A bullet crashed into the woodwork of the steps a few feet from her. Then there was a second shot at her and then a third.
Her hand whipped upward as she ducked away from where she had stood. She went into a low crouch, pointed her weapon upwards, and pulled the trigger. Either God guided her hand or just plain dumb luck prevailed.
Or maybe it was her years of training, because the agonized profane scream from the top of the stairs, followed by a torrent of obscenity in Russian—not Ukrainian but Russian!—told her that she had hit her target.
Alex heard the man’s body slump toward the wall. Then in the darkness she saw the erratic wavering flash of his pistol and heard the ear-splitting “bang” as he fired twice rapidly again and still tried to kill her.
The bullets shattered against the wall above her. One hit several feet above her head. The other passed so close to her right ear that she felt it go by. The impact sprayed powdered wood and concrete from the wall.
She steadied her own weapon. She could see a silhouette in the darkness and fired twice at the midpoint of it. She hit the target, heard the impact of the bullets and then heard the tumbling crashing sound of the man’s body on the stairs. All this rose above the sound of other heavy footsteps rushing upward from below.
She shifted her position, standing now. She leaned flat, her back to the wall.
“Rizzo? Cerny?” she asked.
Mistake. The response was the repetitive flash and loud bang of an automatic weapon and more shots impacting against the wall behind her.
She lowered her own weapon, fired toward her second assailant, and scored another hit. She heard a howl of pain and the clunk of his weapon hitting the floor, followed by the heavier thud of his body, followed by groans and cursing.
She heard the weapon rattle across the wooden floor and drop down two or three steps. She moved toward her only possible escape. She raced down the stairs and tried to step past the fallen body. The man who had tried to kill her cursed profanely and grabbed at her. Clearly she had not hit him in a vital spot.
He slashed at her body. With a powerful arm, he brought her down.
She fell hard to a knee. He cursed her in Russian. He had one strong hand on the shoulder of her jacket. His other hand, wet with blood, pushed at her throat. She threw an elbow at him and made contact. But he still fought, cursing in Russian that he would kill her. She could tell that the other hand was grasping for his gun.
She swung downward again with an elbow and smashed at him with the hand that held her gun. Both blows landed hard, catching him on the side of the face, then on the side of the skull. She felt his grip on her weaken. She swung hard again with the hand that held her weapon. It cracked across his forehead.
His grip on her shoulder weakened. She followed with the same elbow crashing downward, pile-driver style, onto the top of his skull.
She fought and pulled away. She struggled to her feet. In the dim light from the outside, she then saw him access his gun. Alex had no choice. She pushed her Glock to the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The bang was enormous, and she could feel the spray of blood as his body tumbled away and sprawled backward.
She felt sickened but kept moving.
She found her way to the door, swung it open, and found the street blocked by another huge man. For an inexplicable second they glared each other in the eye.
“Kaspar,” she said, recognizing him from Kiev.
“Alex LaDuca,” he said calmly.
Once again, Alex was faster. She brought her knee up and caught him hard between the legs. He bellowed and reached for his weapon. She hit him again, chopped at his hand to freeze it. She knew he had a huge advantage in physical force. If she gave him the slightest chance to overpower her, she was dead. In turn, she knew she had the advantage of speed and surprise: he hadn’t expected her to survive the trap inside the building. She kicked him in the shins, then the kneecap. Somehow she thought of Robert and the carnage in Kiev as she was fighting.
Where was Rizzo? Where was Cerny?
Kaspar staggered. He slumped slightly.
She smashed him across the back of the neck, and with all the strength that remained in her, she shoved at him. He staggered backward into a car but rebounded like a tiger. He kicked at her and got lucky, catching her in the wrist, sending her Glock flying from her hand. Her wrist was hit so hard that it felt frozen. Her fingers wouldn’t move. Kaspar lunged at her gun. She chopped him hard behind the neck then followed with a kick to the ribs. Momentarily he blocked her access to her own gun.
Then she turned and ran like the devil himself was chasing her.
She dashed toward Cerny’s car. And then she saw what had happened. The front windshield had been riddled with bullets, probably from a silencer-equipped automatic. She saw Cerny’s body in the front seat, slumped on the wheel, blood all over his skull.
She would have been sick. But there wasn’t time. She ran past his car, ran faster than she had run in years. She heard the profane shouting of Kaspar struggling up from the sidewalk behind her.
Something hit a parked car nearby as she fled. She knew it was a bullet, fired by a pistol equipped with a silencer, probably the same one that had dispatched Cerny.
She ducked and wove between parked cars.
In front of her, the rear window exploded on another parked car. It was a good thing that even in trained hands the best handgun was only accurate—in terms of hitting a human sized target—to about seventy yards. Obviously she had inflicted some pain on her assailant; his aim was wildly inaccurate.
She kept low, zigzagged, and wove. At one point she slipped and was thankful that she was wearing boots, otherwise she could have torn up an ankle.
Another silent round smashed into the bricks above her head. She heard yet another one smash into a plate-glass shop window.
The
police judiciaire
were going to have a ball with this one, she thought for no good reason.
Then she turned the corner.
She was on the Quai Conti by the river. Some isolated traffic passed.
Then there was a shout from a doorway, a crash of some heavy glass shattering a few feet away. A human form. A man. Rising to his feet, moving toward her.
Alex nearly expired from heart failure and figured this was the end of her life. She was about to be killed unless she somehow eluded him.
She stepped up her pace. No traffic, the skyline of nighttime Paris across the river, Notre Dame Cathedral illuminated like a giant wedding cake.
Her legs felt strong. She ran on the wet pavement and turned the next corner. She breathed heavily and leaned against the wall.
Good. No one had seemed to follow. Yet she knew from long experience that there was no substitute for getting as far away as quickly as possible from any place of trouble. She reached into her coat pocket, gripped the cell phone and opened it. She waited. And waited. No answer.
She turned left and ran into the dark Paris night, not yet knowing where to run, just wanting to escape.
Come on, Rizzo! Answer, answer, answer!
Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up.
Then Rizzo did answer.
Her mind scrambled. It rejected Italian. They spoke French.
“
C’est moi! Alex!
” she blurted out. It’s me, Alex, she said, breathlessly.
“
Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?
” Rizzo asked. What’s wrong?
“
Tout!
” Everything, she said, continuing to run.
She turned slightly as she moved and saw Kaspar in pursuit.
She turned westward. She stepped out into the busy traffic. Her ankle caught on something, twisted, and she went down. A taxi blared its horn, swerved, and sped by, barely missing her. She pulled herself back up, her ankle throbbing, a knee bleeding. She gathered up her cell phone and stumbled back onto the sidewalk.
She ran hard. She turned toward him and saw he was limping badly too. But Kaspar must have packed another clip into his weapon. The sidewalks and asphalt around her exploded with the pattern of bullets that just missed her on each side.
Her heart was pounding in her throat and she ran for her life as the Ukrainian assassin followed.
S
he flipped open the cell phone. Rizzo was still there.
“Find your way to the Métro,” Rizzo said, referring to the Parisian subway. “Then get to the Odéon station. That was the closest stop to your apartment. We have a team of people there,” he said.
She knew her way around Paris but in her haste to escape had run in exactly the wrong direction to get to the Odéon stop. She now would have to take a circuitous route.
“Or do you want them to abandon their positions and come find you?” Rizzo asked.
“No. They’ll never find me,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll get there.”
She tried to assimilate everything that had happened, but the horror of it acted as a block. She wondered about the men she had shot.
Had she left them dead? Dying?
Who knew, though she was sure she’d be reading about it in the newspapers, if not watching it on the news. A wave of disgust overcame her, quickly followed by an urge to survive.
Her thoughts were punctuated by police sirens. The distinctive European ones, like the ones in the open car of police going to round up “the usual suspects” at the beginning of
Casablanca
.
The traffic was heavy on the
quai
. But she darted into it, barely missing a car, then another. She was on the bank of the paved promenade above the river. The floodlit Cathedral of Notre Dame was behind her. One of the great views in the Western world, and she was scared out of her mind. No time to be a tourist.
Heavy drops of rain were falling. A gift from heaven maybe. If Kaspar was trailing her, it would make her more difficult to see. She kept her head down. She couldn’t see the rain but she could feel it on her face. What she could see was her breath against the humid mist of the night, that and the recurring image of Maurice’s body tumbling out of the closet.
She moved as fast as she could on a bad ankle, urging herself to run and resisting the urge at the same time. She broke into a fierce sweat and crossed the river on the Pont du Carrousel. The massive Musée du Louvre loomed on the other side. She came off the bridge and was on the right bank.
Alex looked over her shoulder and thought she saw Kaspar’s dark figure still crossing the bridge, limping badly also, following her.
Suddenly a police car approached, its siren wailing, its blue light flashing, heading in the way she had come. She tried to flag it down, but in the rain the gendarmes didn’t see her. They kept going. So did she.
She limped two blocks eastward, keeping Rizzo on the phone. She could see the lights of the Place de la Concorde up ahead. She knew there was a Métro station there and she figured it would be crowded. From Concorde, there would be a short ride to safety. It was too risky to cross a bridge again on foot. A perfect route? No, but she prayed it would work.
Alex picked up her pace. The rain intensified as she passed the gardens of the Tuileries. She cursed her original decision to run north, not south, when she fled the scene of the shooting.
Her body trembled. Within minutes, she arrived at the busy Place de la Concorde and, looking over her shoulder, still saw Kaspar in pursuit. She darted through the maniacal traffic and accessed an entrance to the Métro.
Alex ran down the old concrete steps to the platform. Her footsteps echoed noisily. She slipped badly on the wet stairs. She skinned her other knee and her ankle wailed in pain. But she struggled up to her feet and continued.
She found the Number 12 line southbound. She had thrown Kaspar, at least for a few moments. Without seeing her, he would have no idea which line and which platform she had fled to. Where was he? She was torn between leading him to the Odéon stop and losing him completely. She wished now she had worn a bulletproof vest. What would protect her if he tried to pick her off?
She went to the far end of the platform. She kept her head down, her eyes on the steps. Then, amidst the crowd on the other side of the platform, waiting for a train in the opposite direction, there stood Kaspar.
From a distance of about fifty feet, directly across the tracks, their eyes met. He had a clear shot now, across the tracks. In the distance, she heard the sound of a train approaching the station.
Kaspar glared at her, reached for his weapon but then realized the train rumbling into the station would take his shot away. So he turned and ran. He was trying to cross over.
A train roared into the station. A crowd flowed off the train and another crowd surged on. It was almost midnight but the subway was moderately busy.
She stepped onto the last car. Just before she boarded, she saw Kaspar descend the distant steps in pursuit. She couldn’t see whether he had gotten on or not. She assumed he had. She turned against the wall of the subway car. She wished she had recovered her gun. The empty holster made her feel naked.
The train rumbled along. Why did these Parisian subways have to zigzag like snakes beneath the city? Stations were often only two hundred yards apart.
One stop. Two. She got off and switched cars, trying to throw her pursuer. The train arrived at the Sèvres Babylone station.
She stepped off, stayed in the crowd, and transferred to the Number 10 line going east to the Gare d’Austerlitz, the ancient train station. The 10 would take her to Odéon within two minutes.
She finally started to catch her breath. Under her clothing, her body was soaked. Sweat rolled off her. This train was crowded too. She kept waiting to see if Kaspar would come through looking for her. The doors between the cars were only for emergency use but were unlocked in case emergency use was required.
She took out her phone again. She found Rizzo on the other end.
“Where are you?” he asked.
She told him.
“Still got Kaspar after you?” he asked.
“Probably. I haven’t seen him for several minutes.”
“We’re ready for you,” he said. “When you arrive at Odéon, get off as quickly as possible. You’ll see some musicians playing. Walk toward them as quickly as possible.”
“Where will you be?” she asked.
“Watching,” he said.
In ninety seconds, the train arrived at Odéon.
She stepped out at the south end of the platform. Her ankle continued to kill her.
This station too was busy. But she could hear some street musicians, a small band playing for change in the subways. Accordion, violin, and sax until 1:30 in the morning. Only in Paris. They were at the other end of the platform, about a hundred feet away. It was strange they were playing so late.
She looked in every direction.
She saw no help. She spoke into her phone.
“I don’t see anyone,” she said.
“We’ve got you,” came the answer from Rizzo.
“What do you mean you’ve ‘got’ me?”
“We see you. We’re watching.”
“Who’s watching?”
“Get past the musicians,” Rizzo said.
“I don’t see Kaspar,” she said.
“You must have lost him.”
“I don’t think—”
“
He’s behind you!
” Rizzo said. “Get moving!”
She turned. Eye contact immediately. His gaze again ran smack into hers simultaneously. She saw him reach for something under his jacket. He was about fifty feet behind her.
“Get moving!” Rizzo repeated. “Get away from him!” barked Rizzo’s voice on the phone.
She had never felt slower in her life. Her ankle wouldn’t obey. She cursed the boots and wished she’d had sneakers. She bumped into a couple that was kissing and the contact nearly knocked her over. Kaspar was gaining.
“I can’t move fast! My ankle!”
“Get past the musicians!”
“I can’t. He’ll catch me first.” The words in her phone barked at her. “Move! Move!” they demanded. “You’ll be safe!”
“Why don’t you shoot him?” she demanded. “Just shoot him!”
“We can’t! Not yet!”
“He’s going to kill me!”
“Keep moving!” Rizzo barked. “Now! Move!”
It was the endgame and she knew it. She zigzagged through the crowd. She had never felt slower in her life. She heard excited voices and she heard the assassin steps behind her. And she heard the music, which got louder and louder as she lurched toward it. How was she going to get out of here? She eyed the
sortie
, the exit, on the other side of the players.
Kaspar must have drawn his gun because she heard a woman yell and scream. Then there was chaos behind her.
She broke into a final attempt at a run. She edged past people and Kaspar was on the run behind her.
Then her earphone thundered again. “Get down! He’s got a gun!”
She tried to move, but her ankle turned again. She fell and went down hard. She knew she was a goner. She got up and stumbled past the musicians, fell hard again. The musicians stopped playing.
She got past them. The accordion player reached into his pocket. So did the violin player. She saw from the corner of her eye. She tried to stand.
Then she saw what the trap was, what this was all about. Like Anatoli in London, Kaspar had stepped into his own hell on earth.
The violin player raised a black pistol at the same time. The accordion player pulled one out also. Kaspar raised his own weapon and the Métro platform was a flurry of bullets.
The violinist aimed right at Kaspar’s gut and put two shots into him. The assassin staggered for a moment, and his eyes went wide in pain and in the realization that death was at hand. He flailed and fired two shots wildly. Kaspar staggered, his hand snapped back, and he fired his own gun upward instead of downward.
There was a flurry on the Métro platform and bullets rang in every direction.
Alex felt something wallop her hard in the midpoint of the chest, just above the breast bone, at the center where her stone medallion hung.
She saw the accordion player reach forward and put a bullet into Kaspar’s head. Then a second. But she barely saw that, because she felt something wet and sticky on her chest. Blood. She had been hit by a bullet in the midpoint of the chest. The feeling first was numbness, then the pain radiated, as did the shock.
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” was all she could say.
Alex had a bullet wound in the center of her chest. She was bleeding.
Unreal. But she knew how quickly it could be fatal.
She clutched the area. She lay on the ground in shock, wondering how everything since January had led to this time, this place. The pain was spreading now and so was the blood. From the corner of her eye, she could see Kaspar lying on the ground, his skull torn open by a team of assassins.
One of them stayed over her and cradled her head.
“I’m dying,” she said. “I’m dying.” The pain was radiating out from a center point in her chest. Shivers turned to convulsions. She put an unsteady hand to the area where she had been hit. She felt warm wetness, the blood, and the broken pieces of the stone pendant from Barranco Lajoya.
It was surreal. The accordion player-gunman ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and pressed it to her chest. She drifted. Consciousness departed, then returned halfway.
Then there were the sounds of police over her. Her eyes flickered and she didn’t know how much time had passed. She only knew that the musician had disappeared.
Strange faces, noisy men and women in Parisian police uniforms, hovered over her. They barked orders and tried to help. She could no longer understand the language. They worked on her with bandages, tubes, and breathing devices. She felt herself tumbling deeper into shock. Or into something or some place she didn’t understand.
Then everything went from white to black then back to white again, and she was thinking, “If this is dying, it’s easier than I ever thought. Much easier …”
A cloudy painless whiteness enveloped her.
Two minutes later, her heart stopped.
