Red Snow (16 page)

As Joseph Avacomovitch methodically stripped Nick Craven’s corpse of its layer of gold paint, he mulled over one of the most notorious of Cold War crimes: the umbrella assassination of Georgi Markov on September 7, 1978.

Markov was a Bulgarian novelist, playwright, and anti-Communist dissident. After his defection to London in 1969, he worked as a journalist for the BBC and Radio Free Europe, which was supported by the CIA. Markov’s criticisms of the Bulgarian dictatorship were broadcast to his homeland, where they fanned social unrest. Angry, the Communist rulers plotted to silence him.

Enter Russia’s secret police, the KGB, and a mysterious laboratory called the Chamber.

Markov was queuing for the bus near the south end of Waterloo Bridge, as he did each workday, when he felt a stinging pain in the back of his right thigh. Turning, he saw a heavyset man bend down to pick up a dropped umbrella. The foreigner apologized in a thick accent, hailed a taxi, and disappeared.

The pain continued as Markov bused to work at the BBC. There, he told his colleagues about the incident, showing one friend a pimple-like bump on his thigh. At home that night, he developed a high fever. By the next day, he was being treated in hospital for a mysterious form of blood poisoning. Before long, he was vomiting blood, and soon his kidneys and heartbeat crashed.

Markov died on September 11.

If not for Markov’s reputation, his illness might have been put down to natural causes. Instead, his body underwent a forensic autopsy. From his thigh, pathologists recovered a tiny metal sphere the size of the head of a pin. The iridium pellet—a jeweler’s bearing used in watch making—had been drilled with two minuscule X-shaped bores by a high-tech laser. Stuffed with ricin, a powerful toxin derived from castor bean seeds, the holes were sealed with wax that melted when they came in contact with Markov’s warm body.

He was poisoned.

But how?

It wasn’t until the fall of the Soviet Union that the facts came to light. Codenamed “Piccadilly,” the Waterloo Bridge assassin was an envoy of the Bulgarian secret police. The weapon—created by the Chamber—was an umbrella with a cylinder of compressed air hidden in its stem. A trigger on the handle released the gas, blasting a pellet from the tip of the “barrel” like a gun discharges a bullet.

The means of death in Markov’s case was an umbrella gun.

With that in mind, Joe concentrated the magnifying glass from his Murder Bag on each inch of Nick’s flesh as he stripped away the gold paint. He was looking for an entrance wound, something like the pimple on Markov’s thigh. Assuming the poison was administered during sex—Gill’s theory—Joe needed to determine how and where it was injected into Nick’s bloodstream. Curare has no effect when taken orally, so there
had
to be a puncture wound somewhere on Nick’s skin.

Working from that theory, Joe examined Nick’s back. He focused the magnifying glass on every patch of lacquer-stripped skin. When that turned up nothing, he repeatedly parted the dead man’s hair to scan his scalp. And so it went, with the Russian checking every nook but coming up empty each time. Then, all at once, a you-don’t-suppose insight into a femme fatale’s sexuality prompted him to search where the means of death lay hidden.

“Diabolical,” he said aloud.

Dialing Robert’s cell, the scientist heard a recording that meant the chief was engaged. He abandoned the makeshift morgue for the hall and donned his coat, then stepped outside and locked the door. The quickest route to the El Dorado took him across the backyard and past the corpses still sprawled in the snow. The falling flakes were white on blue, like cotton batting backed by melancholy. Joe was just inside the gate at the far end of the yard, his finger pressing Redial to leave Robert a message, when he walked into the trap.

Would there be a knock on the door?

As he placed a mental bet on that question, Zinc ejected the ammo clip from his service pistol and emptied the cartridges into his palm. The trap he’d set for the femme fatale who’d set her own trap for Nick was missing a crucial element: he didn’t know
how
Nick had died. Zinc’s plan to expose that method would separate him from his gun. If it worked and the femme fatale dashed for his weapon as a fallback, he didn’t want to get shot when she pulled the trigger. So he stuffed the bullets into a pocket of his parka and hung the coat in the closet.

Knock, knock
…

He’d have to remember to pay himself. He won the bet.

Just in case the attacker had decided to waste no time—greeting him with a hypodermic stab to the neck, for instance—he opened the door at arm’s length to give himself space to respond. No need. The vamp who crossed the threshold had her coat draped over one arm and the carryall slung from her opposite shoulder. Zinc could see both hands, and neither grasped a weapon. Her manicured nails held his business card out in front of his nose.

“Is this the party?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Invitation only, I hope.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How many invited?”

“Just you,” the Mountie replied.

“Now that’s my kind of ball. I don’t share toys. It says here on the invite, ‘Want a bodyguard to see you through the night?’ So let’s see your gun.”

Zinc raised his ski sweater to flash the nine-mill.

“Tsk-tsk,” the sexpot scolded, wagging his card at him. “I thought you Mounties were military men?”

Her finger pointed to his Smith.

“This is my pistol …”

Her finger pointed to his groin.

“This is my gun …”

Her finger returned to the firearm.

“This is for fighting …”

Moving closer so he could whiff her perfume, the vamp danced her hand down his chest and gripped his genitals.

“This is for fun.”

The clutch caught the cop by surprise.

“Rifle,” Zinc corrected.

“Rifle?” she echoed.

“It’s ‘This is my
rifle
/ This is my gun / This is for fighting / This is for fun.’”

“Smart guy, huh? So whatcha gonna do?” she goaded. “Cry like a baby and arrest me for sex assault? Or stand up like a man and pour me a glass of chilled champagne?”

“Release my gentles and we’ll raid the mini bar.”

That was the danger of femmes fatales: dumb schmucks let down their guard around them. And what straight male wouldn’t play the schmuck with a bombshell like Jessica? The way she tossed her titian mane, the smoldering green gaze, the full red lips that complemented the fire in her hair, the fuzzy emerald sweater that clung to her breasts like moss—all combined to create a siren who turned men into fools.

Including Zinc.

Despite his best intentions.

For it occurred to him that if her nails were poisoned with curare, the next squeeze could lay him out on the slab right next to Nick.

Schmuck, he thought.

Jessica released her grip on what made him a man, then shucked the bag from her shoulder and passed him her coat to hang up. Zinc kept his eye on the carryall, which she retained. Together, they crossed to the mini bar. The vamp dropped her bag on the bed as they passed. Fetching a half bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Zinc popped the cork with a blast that could have put out an eye. He caught the froth in a champagne flute and filled the glass.

“Aren’t you gonna join me?” Jessica asked.

“I don’t drink,” he said. He didn’t tell her about being shot in the head in Hong Kong. Or about the pills he took to ward off seizures.

“Good,” she said. “The bubbly won’t dull you. I have this fantasy I like to play. I’ll be Cleopatra, and you’ll be my slave. Unless you’re the best lover I’ve ever had, I’ll have my eunuchs prepare you to join their ranks.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Call it incentive,” she teased. “If I let someone make love to me, I want to ensure he performs.”

“I get the feeling you
take
what you want.”

Jessica drained the champagne flute and wiggled it for more.

Zinc played Jeeves.

“You’ve heard the Springsteen song ‘Red-Headed Woman’?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“According to the Boss, it takes a red-headed woman to get a dirty job done.”

Zinc pretended to mop his brow. “Is it hot in here?”

“That’s me,” said Jessica, forming a pout. “Did you see the film
Body Heat
?”

“Years ago.”

“In it, Kathleen Turner tells William Hurt, ‘My temperature runs a couple of degrees high. Around a hundred.’ Well, mine, too. Thus the fiery hair.”

“You’ve got me all hot and bothered.”

“You know what some president said? ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the bedroom.’”

“I thought he said ‘get out of the kitchen.’”

Jessica put a hand to her brow and swiveled around. “I don’t see a kitchen, do you?”

“You want to heat things up?”

“Whatcha got in mind?”

“The sauna’s on. Let’s sweat.”

“Chief, something’s wrong.”

There was deep concern in Rachel Kidd’s voice as her words were broadcast through the snowstorm by way of the police radio. Her alert was received by Robert, Jackie, and Dane, but not by Rick. The corporal had turned off his communications equipment for the trudge to the Rover. He didn’t want to draw the bad guys to any radio squawks.

“What’s your worry?” asked the chief.

“Rick’s been gone too long. He should have returned by now.”

“Don’t go outside.”

“I won’t. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“Jackie?”

“Here, Chief.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m inching along the highway between Green Lake and Emerald Estates.”

“What’s your ETA for Gill’s chalet?”

“I don’t know. It’s slow going, and I hear an accident has clogged the road ahead. If I can’t worm around, I’ll commandeer a vehicle beyond the snarl.”

“Dane?”

“I’m doing better, Chief. A plow’s pushed through so ambulances can get to the medical center. I’m passing Nita Lake, with Nordic Estates ahead.”

“Rachel, send the kids upstairs with the dog. I’ll phone Katt on her cell and tell her what to do. Douse all the kerosene lamps and put out the fire in the stove. Complete darkness. Build a furniture redoubt in the hall between the front and rear doors. That way, you’ll cover both entrances. What’s your firepower?”

“Rick took the shotgun. I have the .308.”

“These guys are pros. They may have armor. Aim for the head if you shoot.”

“Roger.”

“Dane, Jackie, you got all that? Don’t burst into the chalet without announcing it’s you. Rachel, give Rick a few more minutes, then try vibrating his phone. If he returns, radio me at once. In the meantime, I’ll muster the cavalry.”

*     *     *

After Katt hung up from talking to Robert, she crouched down by the girl at her coloring book. “Gather up your things,” she said. “We’re going upstairs. I’ll take the colored pencils.”

“Why?” Becky asked apprehensively. She’d already endured hell, and she sensed more coming.

“We have to clear the table so we can build a fort. Then you and I will hide upstairs.”

“Where’s Rick?”

“He’s outside, guarding us.”

“Are we going to die?”

“No. More Mounties will be here soon.”

While Becky stuffed the coloring book into her backpack, wiggled into the straps, and tugged her toque on down to her ears, Katt and Rachel shoved both leather couches across the hardwood floor to build two walls in the hall. The legs gouged the polished planks and bunched the area rugs. Fetching the low table from in front of the hearth, they tipped it sideways to reinforce the couch barricade facing the front door.

“Quick,” said Rachel. “Let’s get every pan from the kitchen.”

The kitchen was divided from the dining room by a counter with cast-iron cookware hanging overhead. Shuttling back and forth, Katt and Rachel lined the backs of the couches with an impregnable layer of pots and pans.

“I’ll do the rest,” the sergeant said. “You two get upstairs.”

Lit from below by the flames of the wood-burning stove, Katt led Becky up the staircase to the landing that overlooked the hearth. As they climbed, their shadows stalked them across the smooth-hewn logs. With the crossbow and a fistful of arrows, Katt did look like William Tell. At the top, they turned toward the bedroom in the dormer on the creek side of the roof.

The floor creaked as they walked.

Below them, Rachel opened the door of the stove and tossed in a pot full of water. As the fire went out, so did half the shadows besieging the kids. Rachel held her breath until they entered the room, then blew out the lamp and took up her position in the redoubt.

Outside, the Icemen closed in.

*     *     *

Robert’s cell had recorded a message while he and Katt were discussing security measures. He hit the key to retrieve it and cringed from a blood-curdling scream.

“Joseph?” he blurted.

The caller’s agony was excruciating. Whatever torture he suffered, it was extreme. Gasping, gurgling, grinding his teeth, Joe struggled to speak. Robert felt sick to his stomach. Even with the manpower shortage, he should never have left Joe on his own.

“Die …” Joe rasped.

“Ah!”
he choked, sucking in air.

Robert was on tenterhooks.

Die what?

“Frame …” Joe added.

Die? Frame? What did that mean?

“Gate …” Joe strained.

The recording ended. Robert tried calling back. The phone trilled and trilled until the Russian’s recording cut in.

“Hang on,” the chief encouraged. “I’m coming.”

After he and Joe had puzzled out the trackless double murder, DeClercq had returned to the El Dorado Resort by way of the street. But the shortest route from the morgue to the hotel—where Joe knew Robert was bound—was across the backyard and out through the rear gate. That was most likely the “gate” in his message.

Cold with apprehension over what he would find, the chief rushed back to the morgue by that route.