Snow Wolf (78 page)

"Then let's get out of here before
someone raises the alarm. Don't forget the uniform."

Lukin crossed to his locker in the corner
and removed his spare uniform, gloves, boots and cap.

Stanski went out, pausing only to check
the hallway, but it was deserted.

Lukin took a long, painful look at Pasha's
bloodied face, then followed him out.

They reached the Kuntsevo road ten
minutes later.

There was hardly any traffic. Once they
had left the suburbs behind, Stanski said, "Pull over. I want to go over
the plan one more time. There can't be any mistakes, Petya."

Lukin shook his head. "There's no
time. It won't take long before someone discovers the guard on the door is
missing. After that, all hell's going to break loose."

"How much time have we got?"

"The shift changes in half an hour.
But someone's going to notice the missing guard before then."

"How much longer to Stalin's
dacha?"

"Ten minutes, a straight road all
the way. Another ten to get in, if we're lucky, We're cutting it fine.'@

Stanski looked ahead through the falling
snow. There was a blaze of lights off to the right side of the Kuntsevo road,
some sort of red-brick factory compound with massive gates, and then he saw an
ambulance inch slowly out through the gates and realized the place was a
hospital. On the left side of the road a narrow track led off into darkness. A
squat, flat-roofed derelict building in the same red brick as the hospital
stood to the right of the track.

Stanski pointed through the windshield.
"What's that?"

"A bomb shelter from the war."

"Pull in beside it."

"But "We only get one chance to
get this right. Let's go over the plan again. I want no mistakes. Pull
in."

Lukin swung the wheel and pulled over in
front of the shelter. The flat roof was covered in snow and steps led down
beyond the dark mouth of the entrance, the door hanging off its hinges.

As Lukin switched off the engine, he saw
the silenced Na gant appear in Stanski's hand. Before he could speak, Stanski
had pointed the weapon at him.

Alarmed, Lukin said, "What's going
on?"

"Listen to me, Petya, I can do this
alone. You have a wife and child to think of. There's no need for you to throw
away your life. I want you to live. At least one of us should live. Do it for
me. Do it for Katya and our parents."

Lukin saw it then. Saw everything. His
face drained of color as he stared at Stanski. "You never intended for us
to do this together, did you?"

"I guess not."

"Mischa ... please ... you'll never
get inside the villa alone."

"That's where you're wrong. You made
the call and you're expected. I can get in with your identity card."

"But you don't even look like
me!"

"Apart from hair color we're pretty
much the same build.

As for the rest, let me worry about
that."

Lukin shook his head fiercely.
"Mischa, this is crazy. Together we stand some chance. Alone you have
none."

"It's a better chance than having
you explain I'm one of your fellow officers. With security so tight they may
not even let me inside." He shook his head. "Like I said, I don't
want you to die. If you come with me he'll have killed all of us in the end. I
won't let him kill you. I won't let him destroy us all.

If there was time, I'd tell you about all
the times I missed you.

How much I loved you and Katya. How much
I longed to be with you both again. But there isn't."

Suddenly there was a hint of tears in
Stanski's eyes. He quickly removed a set of keys from his pocket. Then he
nodded to the bomb shelter. "I'm going to leave you here. Lebel's waiting
with the train at a station called Klin, northwest of Moscow. There's a blue
Emka van we passed half a kilometer back down the road, parked and waiting with
a full tank of fuel. Here are the keys. You can make it if you hurry." He
stuffed the keys into Lukin's breast pocket. "Live your life, brother.
Live it for all our family."

"Mischa, no ... !"

"Goodbye, brother."

Stanski's fingers came up quickly and
closed around Lukin's neck like a vice, the thumb pressing hard into the point
below his ear. Lukin struggled and fought back, his arms flailing and his body
bucking wildly, but Stanski was stronger.

It was only a matter of seconds before
Lukin slumped in the seat and blacked out. Stanski stepped out of the car into
the freezing night and went down the steps into the shelter.

The building was in darkness and smelled
foul. He had to go back to the car and get the flashlight; then he flicked it
around the walls and saw that the place was strewn with garbage. He cleared a
corner and then quickly carried Lukin down from the car and propped him against
a wall.

It took him another five minutes to do
everything he had to do, moving quickly, then prying the interior mirror from
the car and using it to apply the engine oil to his hair. Only when he had
finished did he pull on the single leather uniform glove. He found the identity
card with the photograph in Lukin's breast pocket. Everything else he needed
was already in the car.

When he had checked himself in the mirror
he shone the flashlight at the unconscious figure propped against the shelter
wall. In the cold, he wouldn't be out for more than another five minutes.

For a long time Stanski stared at Lukin's
face, until he was almost overcome with emotion, then he knelt down and kissed
him hard on the cheek, suddenly aware of his struggle to keep back the tears,
before he tore himself away and went out and up the steps.

As he climbed back into the BMW, he
glanced over his shoulder at Massey's corpse lying across the backseat.

" Well, I guess you got to see it
through to the end after all, Jake. If there's a heaven, and you're already
there, wish us both luck, We're going to need it."

He checked his watch. It was 1:15 A.M. He
started the car.

so The guards heard the car long before
they saw it.

One of them pulled back a shutter in the
green-painted metal gate and peered out into the falling snow. Headlights
blazed through the veil of white, and when the BMW drew up in front and its
lights were extinguished, searchlights in the watchtower above the gate
suddenly sprang on, flooding the area with in tense white light.

The man carefully checked the
license-plate number against his list before he stepped out through a gate and
approached the car. He didn't fail to notice the bullet holes in the body work,
and that part of the rear window was shattered. "Papers."

The uniformed KGB major with the gloved
hand rolled down the window and smiled as he handed them over. "Major
Lukin. I'm expected."

"This vehicle looks like it's been
through the wars."

"I think you could say that."

The guard examined the identity card, then
studied the major's face closely.

"Your car keys, comrade."

When the major handed them over the guard
flicked on @a flashlight and went around the back and unlocked the trunk.
Moments later he slammed it shut and shone the flashlight inside the car. When
he saw the body lying across the backseat he recoiled in horror and said,
"What the fucking hell ... !"

The major grinned. "I think if you
check with the duty watch officer you'll find everything is in order." He
glanced back at the corpse with obvious disgust. "An enemy American agent
apprehended by the Second Directorate. Comrade Stalin wishes to see the body
personally, so don't hang about."

When the shaken guard had regained his
composure he said sternly, "Wait here."

He stepped back inside the gate and
Stanski heard the jangle of a field telephone. Moments later he reappeared,
flicking a distasteful look at the body in the back as he handed Stanski his
papers.

"Looks like you're in business,
Comrade Major. Follow the road for half a kilometer until you reach the dacha.
No stopping until you get to the main entrance."

As the guard stepped back inside the
gate, Stanski switched on the ignition and the BMW's headlights sprang to life.

The green metal gates yawned open. Half a
dozen elite Kremlin Guards with blue bands on their caps stood inside the
entrance, fingering their weapons. The woods beyond the gate were illuminated
by the car's headlights, the shafts of light probing the snowy darkness. A
narrow road wound around through the trees, the snow cleared away and raised in
high banks on either side, and here and there the shadowy figures of more armed
Kremlin Guards patrolled the forest with leashed Alsatians.

Stanski shifted into gear and released
the clutch, sweat rising on his forehead. He saw the Kremlin Guards stare
curiously at the corpse in the back as the car rolled forward.

As he drew up outside the dacha entrance
he saw a massive two-story building of pale granite stone that looked like a
Boston manor house.

The walls were covered in creeping vines,
their leafless tendrils clinging to the granite like dead bones. Lights were on
in the downstairs rooms and the white lawns were lit up in front.

A miniature wooden pavilion stood off to
the left, its onion dome encrusted with huge hanging icicles, Stanski wiped the
sweat from his brow before he switched off the engine and climbed out of the
BMW. As he did so, two Kremlin Guards stepped out from behind the
douhle-fronted oak doors of the dacha entrance.

Behind them in the lighted doorway
appeared a massive Guards colonel. He stood well over six feet and was ruggedly
built, his uniform immaculate, his boots brightly polished. He stood with his
hands on his hips and stared at Stanski suspiciously before he strode down the
pathway to the car.

"Major Lukin, I believe."

Stanski saluted and the colonel returned
the salute smartly. He looked at the damaged BMW, then stared into Stanski's
face. "Colonel Zinyatin, Head of Security. Your papers, Major.

"They've already been checked at the
gate, sir."

The colonel smiled coldly. "And now
they're being checked again. We can't be too careful, can we? I'm the duty
officer responsible for Comrade Stalin's personal safety. No one goes inside
without my permission." He held out his hand stiffly and Stanski handed
over his papers.

The colonel examined them thoroughly,
looking from the photograph to Stanski's face, checking the stamp on the
identity card and rubbing his thumb vigorously on the print. Then he glanced at
the black leather glove on Stanski's hand. He seemed to hesitate, as if
uncertain of something, before he slowly handed the papers back and peered into
the back of the car.

Stanski said, "Not a pleasant sight,
Comrade Colonel. An American agent." He gestured to the bullet holes in
the BMW. "He proved to be quite an adversary. Unfortunately, I was unable
to capture him alive."

"So I heard."

"Then no doubt you know Comrade
Stalin wishes to see the body personally."

The colonel glanced back at Stanski with
no expression, then he opened the rear door and examined the body, gripping
Massey's stiff jaw and looking into the lifeless white face.

"Definitely dead, I think you'll
find, sir," Stanski offered.

"Don't be smart, Lukin. I'm not
blind."

The colonel stared down at the corpse
before turning back. "I'm certain it won't be necessary to take the body
inside. Comrade Stalin will take my word for it the American's dead."

The colonel smiled without humor. ':

If he's in doubt, I'll have the corpse
delivered to him personally. I believe congratulations are in order,
Lukin."

"Thank you, sir."

The colonel's smile was replaced by a
cold stare. "One more thing."

"Comrade?"

"Your sidearm. Procedure forbids
visitors to Kuntsevo to carry weapons."

The colonel thrust out his hand.

Stanski hesitated, then unholstered the
Tokarev and handed it over.

"Now, if you'll follow me, Comrade
Stalin is expecting YOU."

The polished double oak doors opened
silently on their hinges and the colonel went in first.

Stanski followed him into a dazzling
room. A log fire blazed in one corner, and a long walnut table stood in the
center, a dozen or more chairs set around it. An omate crystal chandelier hung
overhead, its light flooding the entire room. Bokhara rugs were set around the
floor and rich tapestries draped the gilded walls.

Josef Vissarionovich Djugashvili-Joseph
Stalin--General Secretary of the Communist Party, Generalissimo of the Soviet
Union, stood at the end of the table. He smoked a pipe and held a glass in his
hand, a half-full bottle of vodka on the table beside him. He was dressed in a
simple gray smock tunic and his thick graying hair was swept back off a
pockmarked face, his mouth half hidden under a bushy gray mustache. Hooded,
watery gray eyes stared cautiously at his visitors.