Snow Wolf (27 page)

Kislov sighed. "I suppose you'd
better fill me in on what's been happening."

"We're using Lombardi to watch the
woman, of course, but Braun's acting as the link."

"Braun'? That animal?"

"Even an animal has its necessity.

"The woman had a suitcase with
her," Akashin went on, "so it's likely she was going to stay
somewhere. Lombardi's men followed the three of them out of the station but
lost them after they drove off in a vehicle driven by the man we think is
Stanski. But they got the license number-a New Hampshire registration-and had
it checked out. It's definitely registered to an Alex Stanski, with an address
at a place called Kingdom Lake in New Hampshire, which confirms his
identity."

"Go on," prompted Kislov.

" Curious, but the terrain around
there is not unlike Russia. It would seem an ideal place for mission training
if Massey is planning a drop."

Kislov nodded. "Anything else?"

Akashin half smiled. "There's a
Soviet cargo ship due in New York docks in five days, which rather suits us if
things go the way I plan. I'll need you to authorize a dollar payment for
Lombardi if we're to go ahead with the woman's abduction."

"Can Lombardi be trusted with such a
delicate matter as this?"

Akashin grinned. "He's as shifty as
a sewer rat, but a true capitalist who'll do anything for money. Besides, he's
not averse to killing."

"Surely Lombardi won't get involved
in this personally?

He'll want to leave it to his men."

"I'll insist that he does,
considering what we'll pay him. I don't want this business botched."

Kislov thought a moment. "Could
Braun and Lombardi make the deaths of Massey and Stanski look like accidents?
So that the Americans can't come back at us""

"It could be arranged, I'm
certain."

Kislov grinned slightly. "Then
perhaps your second option was best after- all, There could be promotion in
this for both of US."

Akashin smiled back. "That's what I
thought."

"But just remember, the woman is the
priority. It's her we want. It's fine if Massey and Stanski are there when we
take her, we can deal with them, but if not, just make sure you get that bitch.
And tell your people to be careful. By all accounts this Wolf is a dangerous
proposition."

New Hampshire.

Popov had recovered, and the following
days had been spent on weapons training. He didn't reproach Anna but Stanski
saw the blaze of anger in the trainer's eyes every time he looked at her. The
meaning was obvious It had started to snow that early afternoon, a late fall
that covered the forest and land in a sprinkling of'white. They spent an hour
examining Soviet weapons which Popov had laid out on the table in the front
room.

"Some of these you may meet on your
travels, so it's important you know what you're up against and how to use them
if you have to." He picked up the first weapon. "Kalashnikov assault
rifle," he said. "Not really a rifle at all, but a machine-pistol and
rifle combined. It can fire single shots, semiautomatic or automatic bursts.
Designed by an NCO in the Red Army by the same name in 1947. That's how it got
its model number--AK47. It fires 7.62 ammunition. An excellent weapon, I have
to admit. Hardly ever jams and you can throw it in the mud and dance on it and
it will still fire."

He put it down and picked up another
weapon with a drum magazine. "PPSU machine-gun. Standard issue to Soviet
NCOS during the war. It's noisy and inaccurate, and it fires too fast. Steel
pressed parts. It's still in use in all countries behind the Iron Curtain. Fine
if you're up close to a kill or need to spray a room at speed but otherwise a
waste of fucking time."

He replaced it and selected another.
"And now for the Crim de Resistance German MP40 machine-pistol, sometimes
inaccurately called the Schmeisser. The Soviets captured thousands of them from
the Germans. The Reds even preferred this weapon to their own models during the
war. They've armed some of the militia with the MP40 in Soviet Bloc countries
until they're replaced with the latest Soviet arms. A lethal weapon, way ahead
of its time. Nine-millimeter parabellum shel ' Is, thirty-two rounds in a clip.
Better than any of the others You've seen, in my opinion."

Popov put down the German machine-pistol
and turned to a Couple of' handguns, "Only two that should really concern
you. The Tokarev TT33 automatic pistol and the Na gant revolver. Both
reasonably accurate and reliable. The shortcomings of the Tokarev are it's an
awkward design and badly finished. The Na gant is really a Belgian weapon, but
the Soviets manufacture a direct copy. It's a good, solid, dependable
revolver."

He looked up at Anna. "Pick them up.
Handle them. Feel the weight and get used to the mechanical action. You too,
Alex. You can never have enough practice. Then outside in the woods in ten
minutes."

Anna had begun to feel fit again. The
running through the woods and the excruciating exercises had toned her body and
she felt more alive than she had in a long time. Stanski had covered the
rudiments of parachuting and he and Popov had rigged up a basic training drop
to teach her how to land properly. The entire regime had given her little time
to be alone and think, her days preoccupied by what she was doing and her
nights a haze of sleepy exhaustion.

It was snowing on the second to last day
of training, and when they had finished supper and Stanski and Vassily had
cleared away the plates she threw her coat over her shoulders, left the cabin
and walked down to the lake.

She heard the voice behind her minutes
later and turned. Popov came down to stand beside the water. He looked over at
her.

"So, we only have another day
together. No doubt you're happy to see me go. But I hope you've learned enough
to save your life in an awkward situation?"

She looked at him coldly. "Are you
worried about me, Popov?" He grinned in the darkness. "I always worry
about my pupils. But it's up to them to take as they will of what I teach them.
Either they learn enough to survive or they don't and they're dead." He
hesitated. "When did you escape?"

"I don't think that's any of your
business. And who says I escaped?"

Popov grinned. "How else could you
have got out of Russia?

Still, I wouldn't like to see a woman as
pretty as yourself caught by the Reds, if that's the case. You know what they
would do to you?"

"I can imagine. Now why don't you
leave me alone."

"Believe me, if they caught you,
rape would be the mildest thing. Then torture. Excruciating torture. After
that, death would be a welcome companion. And with the KGB, that usually
happens slowly."

"Are you trying to frighten me,
Popov?"

The grin behind the beard widened.
"I doubt if that's possible. I'm just making sure you know what to expect.
You have better nerves than most men I've trained." He crushed the
cigarette under his boot. "But whatever you're going to do I hope it hurts
the bastards. Good night."

He stared over at her before he turned
and walked back up to the cabin.

"Nice conversation."

Anna turned. Stanski stood there in the
shadows. smoking a cigarette-she saw the glow from the tip of his cigarette before
she saw him. He strolled down to stand beside her.

"He's not as bad as he looks or
sounds."

"if you say so."

"You don't like Popov much, do
you?"

" No."

' "What you learned from him could
save your life, remember that."

"That doesn't mean I have to like
him," Stanski smiled. "I guess not."

He flicked away his cigarette and it
cartwheeled into the lake. "Tomorrow I'll take you into Concord. There's a
hotel, it's not up to much, but the cooking's better than Vassily's. And
there's a dance during dinner."

She looked at him, surprised. "Why
should you take me there?"

"No reason, except maybe you deserve
it after all our hard work. And besides, like you said, maybe it's time we
started to act like man and wife. Massey's going to be back tomorrow night to
go- over some final things, so we haven't much more time to get to know one
another." He went to turn, but hesitated. "Wear a dress tomorrow
night if you have one."

She hesitated. "Why are you doing
this?"

"Doing what?"

"Going into Russia. What's your
motive?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I think maybe you volunteered. And
happy men don't volunteer."

Stanski looked up at the night sky, then
back at her. "None of your business, I'm afraid. Just as yours is none of
mine. You'd better get back up to the house soon. You'll catch your death out
here."

He turned without another word and walked
back up to the cabin.

As he sat in his bedroom Stanski heard
Anna come in ten minutes later and climb the stairs. He heard her wash and
undress and then the creak of springs as she climbed into bed.

The house went silent again, except for
Popov's snoring Stanski \ crossed to the corner of the bedroom. Hunching down
near the window, he took out his penknife and flicked open the blade. He
slipped the blade between the two short wooden floorboards and pried. The wood
gave easily, and he removed the two foot-long sections. He put his hand into
the recess and removed the old rusting biscuit tin, and beneath it, the single
manila file Massey had given him to study.

This had been his childhood hiding place
when he first came to the cabin. He had trusted no one then, not even Vassily.
It had once hidden the only possessions he had brought with him to America as a
boy.

Now he opened the file on Joseph Stalin
and read through it again. It contained only the information Massey had said,
and no details of the mission. Stalin's habits, information on his health, his
personal security arrangements, and particulars of his elite bodyguard. The
entire body-guard system comprised almost fifty thousand people, dedicated to
his protection and divided into ' departments according to their expertise:
Stalin's transport, his food, his health, his physical protection, his
entertainment.

Every morsel he ate was produced on
special farms, rigidly controlled by the Guards Directorate, which supervised
the growing of foodstuffs and the slaughtering of animals, and then transported
these supplies along guarded routes to its own storehouses. And even then the
food was laboratory-tested and fed to test animals, as well as Stalin's
personal staff, before being consumed by Stalin himself.

The file also contained two detailed
maps, one of the Kremlin and Stalin's personal quarters, and another of his
Kuntsevo villa with information on its security system.

Before the drop Stanski would commit
every word and detail to memory. When he had finished studying the file he
replaced it in the recess in the floor.

He picked up the rusted biscuit tin,
opened it and removed the contents. Two locks of hair tied neatly with red
binding thread and a small photograph album, its black lacquered cover cracked
and worn.

He remembered how he had clutched them
both for months after his escape, clutched them hard to his chest, especially
during the long cold journey across the tossing Atlantic swells, hidden in the
hold of the stinking boat, hunger in his stomach like a pain but not as bad as
the terrible pain in his heart, what was in that little box the only tangible
reminder of his family. It offered a small lost boy the only sanity in the whole
wide, confused world.

He looked down at the locks of hair. He
had loved them both, Petya and Katya, had always wanted to protect them. He
vaguely remembered the night a storm came, and little Petya had been so afraid.
Lyin- in his bedroom in the darkness, Stanski heard him crying, fearful of the
noise and light, of the terrible and frightening sounds outside.

"Are you afraid?"

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled
beyond the bedroom window. Petya wouldn't stop sobbing.

"Don't be afraid. Come, sleep beside
me."

Petya had snuggled in beside him, a mass
of dark curls and puppy fat, still sobbing as Stanski's arms went around him
and hugged him close.

"Don't cry, Petya. I'll always keep
you safe. And if anyone or anything ever tries to hurt you I'll kill them. You
understand, Petya'? And when Mama has her baby, I'll keep baby safe too."

He had held Petya close all night, warm
and safe.

But he hadn't kept him safe afterwards.
Nor Katya.

Stanski put the locks of hair aside, one
dark, one faded blond, all that remained of Petya and Katya, then opened the
old album and stared down at the images.

The two men had parked the car five miles
away off the forest road and trekked through the snowy woods in @darkness up to
the clearing. It stood on a ridge across the lake, sheltered by pine trees, and
it was the best location they had found the previous day, with a reasonable
view of the cabin.