The Equalizer (54 page)

McCall walked down to the Volga and along it until he stopped in a Yarmarka at a dock. He looked at the various stalls, merchants selling local goods, most of them souvenirs. Granny didn't think he saw any of them. Finally McCall just stood on the edge of the dock and looked out at the boats and barges on the river. He stayed that way for a long time. When it was clear he wasn't going to throw himself in, or anyone else in, Granny walked away.

When he talked to Control at the debriefing that night he learned that McCall had, indeed, resigned from The Company.

And no one knew where he was.

He had disappeared off the radar.

*   *   *

In his quiet living room McCall scrolled down Serena Johanssen's file on his laptop screen. It was very detailed and complete until it got to her removal from Kresty Prison and transfer to the abandoned automobile factory. McCall had not been at the Yaroslavl debriefing. He had not given a detailed report as to what had happened after he'd rescued Serena from the factory. He had fallen off the face of the Earth as far as The Company was concerned. There were his two phone conversations with Granny from Tver Oblast and the preparations to make the rendezvous at the Spaso-Preobrazhensky Monastery in Yaroslavl. There was virtually nothing on how McCall and Serena escaped from the automobile factory, got to Tver Oblast, got to Yaroslavl, except the assumption they had taken the bus from Kostroma because McCall had mentioned that to Control in Yaroslavl Red Square. There'd been eight Company agents in place at the Transfiguration of the Savior. They hadn't been enough. Because the sniper in the bell tower had been the wild card, someone The Company had no intel on. Not how and when he entered the bell tower, nor how he'd escaped from the compound, although it was conjectured that he had used the tunnel connecting the old monastery dungeons with the Gatehouse Church and had simply walked away, carrying his briefcase with the broken-down sniper's rifle in it. He certainly hadn't left it behind.

McCall scrolled down a little more. The Company had worked overtime to discover the identity of the assassin. They had only been successful in hearing a name, and that was not verified.

The name leaped out at McCall from the screen.

Diablo
.

Now the elusive memory from within the horror of the Spaso-Preobrazhensky Cathedral came rushing back to him with absolute clarity. There had been the staccato chatter of the Kedr submachine guns in the assassins' hands. But in a momentary lull, McCall had heard distinctive shots fired
from outside
. The sounds had been muffled, like a finger tapping on a kettle drum.

Four
taps.

Four
shots.

When McCall had rushed outside, and seen Serena's body slumped on the ground, with the top of her head blown away right above her eyes, he hadn't looked for other wounds. It had clearly been a sniper's shot. From a high position judging by the trajectory of the bullet. He had raced to the stairs and entered the bell tower with his mind reeling and rage coursing through him. By the time he had climbed back down the stairs and reentered the courtyard, Serena's body had been removed before the
poltisya
could arrive. McCall had never seen her again. But now he read the autopsy report in the top secret document. She had been shot three times before the fatal bullet through the head. Once in the leg to bring her down … once in the chest, just above her right breast … once in her left arm. She had been lying in the courtyard, in excruciating pain, for at least forty seconds. Why hadn't the sniper just executed a clean kill shot?

McCall knew the answer. Because the assassin had
wanted
her to suffer first. He had wanted to watch her through his magnified rifle scope, writhing in agony, before he finished her off with the fourth bullet to her forehead. Danil Gershon had talked about Borislav Kirov being part of a worldwide elite assassination group.

“How many assassins?”

“Maybe three or four, but a new one recently, with a signature. Code name Diablo.”

“Got a real name for him?”

“No.”

“What kind of signature?”

“He wants his targets to suffer pain before he puts them out of their misery.”

McCall got up from the sofa and walked into his bedroom. He opened the top drawer of the bureau and removed the shoebox. He took off the lid and picked up the picture of Elena with a glass of wine in her hand, toasting the camera. He set it on the bureau, propped up against the wall. He shuffled through the few photos in the shoebox and took out a picture of Serena Johanssen, the one he had been given by which to recognize her when he'd become Vladimir Gredenko. It was a college snapshot of her with her brunette hair cut very short, the smallest of smiles on her lips. He set the photograph beside the one of Elena, propped up against the wall, and stepped back and looked at them.

There was a special place in his heart for his ex-wife Cassie. He had once loved her very much and she was the mother of his son. That place was sacrosanct and no other romance or passion ever touched it.

He looked at the pictures of the two women who had mattered the most to him in his life. One of them for a long time, the other very briefly. The two women he had truly loved. Both of them killed, a year apart, by the same assassin, code name:
Diablo
.

The same assassin who was linked to Borislav Kirov and to Alexei Berezovsky.

McCall smiled at the two young women in the photographs.

Diablo was
so
dead.

*   *   *

Dolls nightclub was jumping at 2:00
A.M.
The dance floor was packed. They'd finally got the kaleidoscopic ball to spin properly and spill its rainbowed colors over the dancers. Katia was dancing with a twenty-something hotshot who was doing his best to impress her. She smiled and nodded. He wasn't getting anywhere, but he was certainly getting his money's worth around the dance floor. He didn't look like he was propositioning her.

McCall could see obliquely into the alcove, but could not be seen from it. Borislav Kirov was holding court at his table, as usual. A lean, swarthy young man sat on his left. Danil Gershon's replacement. He was quiet and calm and his eyes looked through the crowd he could see through the alcove entrance. A man who had guarded important people before. At the head of the table Samuel Clemens leaned forward and shook hands with Kirov. Closing the deal. A new Dolls nightclub would soon be opening in Fort Worth, Texas.

More young women to be exploited.

More profits for Alexei Berezovsky.

McCall climbed the stairs to the second floor.

He tried the first door on his left. It was unlocked.

Borislav Kirov's office.

It was nicely furnished with antiques. There were two more Rustam Sardalov paintings on the walls. The one above the desk was a hawk-faced man playing a violin that was disintegrating into a brilliant blue background. McCall liked it. He fired up Kirov's old Mac on his desk. It was slow. McCall looked up at the Sardalov painting on the opposite wall. There was a woman's face taking up most of the canvas with horses galloping on either side of her head through cascading water, as if she was being hit by a tsunami. The woman was screaming. Two tiny white horses were galloping down her tongue to get out of her mouth.

Kirov's warning to all of the girls.

Open your mouth about anything that happens in this club and you will scream,
McCall thought.

The Mac pinged. McCall punched in the password “Sardalov” and went to Kirov's e-mail. McCall had been listening in on the bug in the alcove downstairs, but Kirov had not mentioned any travel plans to anyone. He would have a confirmation if he was flying anywhere tomorrow. Sam Kinney had said: “Whoever the intern was talking to is going out of town tomorrow. Some big deal.” McCall scrolled down Kirov's in-box until he got to a travel agent. He double-clicked on the message. There it was. American Airlines flight #106 from JFK the next night, overnight to Heathrow in London, then American Airlines flight #6481 from Heathrow at noon to arrive in Prague at 3:00
P.M.
in the afternoon. Kirov had a confirmed reservation at the Ventana Hotel on Celetná near Old Town Square.

McCall heard the footsteps coming up the metallic stairs through the ajar office door.

He got out of Kirov's e-mail, closed the program, put the laptop onto sleep. He had three seconds to exit the office, step into the first room on the other side of the corridor and shut the door.

The room was in darkness except for a nightlight emanating from a small bathroom, its door ajar. McCall could see the naked figures of a man and a woman on the narrow bed. He recognized the young woman. It was Melody. The man was on top of her. She looked at McCall. He put his finger to his lips. Shhh. The man, whose clothes were neatly folded on a chair, had not heard anyone come in. He was in the throes of ecstasy. Melody clearly recognized McCall also. Tears of shame sprang into her eyes. The man dug his nails into Melody's bare shoulders and then grabbed her long hair, pulling on it.

McCall took an involuntary step toward the bed. Melody shook her head, the smallest of movements.
Don't. You'll only cause trouble for me.
McCall nodded. The unspoken conversation disturbed him. But there was nothing he could do for her.

At least not tonight.

The VIP slumped down onto her, all done. McCall stepped out of the room into the deserted corridor and climbed back down the shiny silver stairs to the ground floor of the club. He exited Dolls nightclub through a side entrance that was normally locked. He'd unlocked it when he'd entered and made sure it was locked now when he left. He walked down the street and pulled up his coat collar against the sudden biting cold.

Underground, where he was going, it was warmer.

*   *   *

When Candy Annie saw him she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. When she let go her face was alight with happiness. Her home in the old subway niche looked the same to McCall as it always did. Her bed was made-up, the colorful quilt pulled tight, all of her precious knickknacks neatly arranged on her bookshelves. She had jumped up from her rocking chair.

“How did I do at the cemetery?” she asked him. “I don't think the mark felt a thing.”

“He didn't. I've got his real lighter, he's got the one with the tracker in it. You could make a living at this in the upworld.”

She made a face. “I don't want to go back to a life of crime,” she said wryly. Then she did a turn in the dress he had bought her. “I love my new dress! And thanks for the underwear! I'm not sure about the bra yet. I need to get used to it.”

She nodded at the bras he had bought for her lying on top of a leather armchair. As she turned, the amber light from her lamps flooded through the dress, lighting up her ample breasts.

McCall hoped she would get used to it soon.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

They sat down on the Norman Rockwell quilt on her narrow bed. Behind her was Dolores and Eddie, sitting back to back on a theatrical trunk that had
DOLORES & EDDIE DANCE TEAM
written on it. Between McCall and Candy Annie there was a little boy and girl sitting together on a sagging bench looking at a bright round yellow moon while their dog sat forlornly at their feet.

“How did it feel being in the upworld again?” McCall asked her.

“It was scary. The sounds and the …
bigness
of it all. But Fooz was there. And you were there.”

“Fooz was not beside you and I was a long way away in the trees. You were on your own and you did great. I want you to consider going to the upworld for longer periods. Walk through Central Park. Sit outside a coffee shop. Look at the people going by.”

“There are too many of them.”

“They walk by one at a time.”

“They're on their cell phones or shouting for cabs or preoccupied with their very important lives. No time for strangers.”

“You won't always be a stranger.”

“I'm afraid.”

“We're all afraid of things. But we face those fears. You need them in your life. To get past them. You had hopes and dreams once, Annie. I'm sure you still have them. But none of them will happen if you stay down here in the tunnels.”

“Why are we having this pep talk?” she asked, distress in her voice. “You've never asked me to give up my life before.”

“I'm asking you to consider
starting
your life again.”

“Why now?”

“I'm leaving New York.”

She looked shocked. “For good?”

“That's not my intention. But there's a chance I might not come back. That means no more visits, no more bringing you supplies and food and candy from the surface. No more pep talks. You'd be on your own.”

“I have a family here in the tunnels,” she said defensively.

“You have friends here. Bound together by despair. All I'm asking is for you to consider a life where you can breathe fresh air and be free.”

“I can't do it,” she whispered.

He took her hands. “You can. I'm going to leave you some money.”

“I couldn't take it.”

“It gives you an option. Maybe one morning you'll wake up and look around your home here and decide it's not enough. Then you'll pack what you need and go up to the surface. Promise me you'll think about that morning.”

She nodded, but her eyes were very troubled.

“Why wouldn't you come back?”

McCall let go of her hands. He thought about spinning her a story, but she was much smarter and savvier than her sweet persona suggested.

“I'm going to kill a man,” he said. “A bad man. A man who took from me two of the most important people in my life. But I may not succeed.”