The Kremlin Phoenix (15 page)

Nogorev sat in the front seat of the
car nursing the small metal case Viktor Kaskhov, the SVR’s London Resident, had
given him at the start of the operation.

Kaskhov, a tall well groomed man,
sat in the driver’s seat. He picked up the mike and radioed his team, “We’re
ready. Report any sign of him.”

“He was a fool to choose this
place!” Nogorev said. “It’s easy to hide our team amongst so many people!” He
turned to Zhurav. “Just walk to the end of the road and wait. He will come to
you.”

Zhurav nodded nervously. He’d
barely slept the previous night. Memories of the knife against his throat had
jarred him awake every time he dozed off. Now, tiredness and fear were blending
into a toxic mix that made him increasingly unreliable.

The radio crackled to life. “I’m
in position,” Azyev, one of the SVR team members, reported from the second vehicle.
He was parked in Buckingham Gate Road, barely two minutes drive from the
meeting point.

“I have visual contact with the
target,” a woman’s voice sounded over the radio. “He’s in Green Park, heading
for the Victoria Memorial.”

She appeared to be a kindly,
grandmotherly type, out walking her small dog. She wore a tiny microphone
embedded in a broach and a hearing aid that doubled as a short range radio receiver.
In her purse, she carried a copy of Craig’s driver’s license photograph being
used by the US media and a small pistol for which she had instructor level
proficiency. Other operatives patrolling both sides of the road began moving
towards the section of Constitution Hill road that Craig would have to cross to
reach the monument.

 “Remember,” Nogorev said to
Zhurav, “don’t look at him. He knows you haven’t seen his face. If you show recognition,
he’ll run.”

Zhurav’s fingers tapped nervously
on his case as he nodded, silently rehearsing his orders. Nogorev and Kaskhov
exchanged worried looks. Zhurav was not the sort of man either would have
chosen to work with, but that was why Craig had selected him.

“Go now. We’ll be watching you
all the way,” Nogorev said.

Zhurav took a deep breath, then
climbed out of the car and headed west along The Mall towards Buckingham Palace
and the marble and gold Victoria Memorial standing in front of the gates.

“I see Zhurav,” a male operative
whispered over the radio.

“He’s too tense,” Nogorev observed
as he drew a small gun-like object from the metal case on his lap.

“Balard will expect him to be
afraid,” Kaskhov said. “Zhurav’s fear might make Balard overconfident.”

“He’s got a weapon,” a young
female voice crackled over the radio. “It’s under his left arm.”

“It’s probably the knife,”
Kaskhov said. “He couldn’t get a gun without help.”

Nogorev absently balanced the unusual
weapon in his right hand. “He won’t get a chance to use it, whatever it is.”

“The target has seen Zhurav,” the
young woman reported. “He’s moving towards the road. Start your run now.”

Kaskhov edged the car around into
The Mall, giving Nogorev his first glimpse of Craig walking quickly out of the
park.

“Faster, don’t let him get across
the road!” Nogorev snapped.

* * * *

Craig crossed the sidewalk and darted
to the middle of the road near the corner of the fence surrounding Buckingham
Palace. The sight of uniformed guards inside the palace grounds, and police
officers strolling outside the high fence, reassured him. He watched the
approaching traffic, deciding to cross after the next fast moving car had
passed. On the other side of the road, Zhurav had almost reached the circular
Memorial. He was staring robotically at the base of the statue of Queen
Victoria, arms straight by his side, too frightened to raise his eyes.

Craig saw the frozen Zhurav, then
glanced down the street, checking the traffic. The speeding car crossed into
the middle of the road, heading straight for him. Craig shifted uneasily, then
the car hit its brakes and slewed sideways until the open passenger window was
facing him. A moment later, Craig locked eyes on Nogorev, who was aiming a
strange metallic weapon at him.

It’s a trap!
Craig realized.

The car skidded to a halt almost
on top of him as Nogorev fired. A square, two pronged electrode caught Craig in
the chest before he could run. The taser pulsed electricity through his body,
triggering muscle spasms that forced him to collapse onto the road.

Nogorev jumped out the car and
stabbed him in the side of the neck with a small syringe. When the injection
was complete, he pocketed the needle and gave Craig a second jolt with the
taser to keep him paralyzed while the sleep drug went to work. He pinned Craig
to the ground with his right hand, ready to electrocute him again if he tried
to call for help.

Craig’s vision blurred. His arms
and legs grew numb, then his head settled on the road and he lost
consciousness. On both sides of the street, pedestrians gathered, wondering
what had happened. Kashkov’s team infiltrated the crowd, saying the car had hit
a man crossing the road. A siren sounded nearby, as a middle aged woman rushed across
the sidewalk, intent on helping.

A young man stepped in front of
her and put his arm up, barring her from crossing the road. “Give the laddie
some air, darling,” the SVR operative said in pure, fake Cockney.

“Let me through, I’m a nurse!”

“He’s OK. Stay where you are.”

“I can help him,” she said with
genuine concern, “Get out of my way!”

Several other people tried to
walk out into the middle of the road. Each one was intercepted by SVR operatives
who prevented them approaching. Nogorev made a show of placing his coat over
Craig’s chest comfortingly as he caught Zhurav’s eye and nodded for him to
leave. A relieved Zhurav turned quickly, and hurried away towards Victoria
Station.

An ambulance came racing out of
Buckingham Gate Road, siren blasting, lights flashing, and swung quickly around
the Victoria Memorial. It stopped close to where Craig lay, then Azyev and
another SVR officer jumped out wearing ambulance officer uniforms. They slid a
stretcher out and roughly placed Craig on it.

“Careful!” the nurse called out. “That’s
not how you handle a man with a neck injury!” She pushed the operative’s arm
down and took a step toward the middle of the road.

The operative threw a sharp punch
into the nurse’s abdomen, then guided her away from the road as she gasped for
air. “Don’t make a sound!” the operative ordered as he pressed a small pistol
into her side.

Azyev and his accomplice strapped
Craig firmly into the stretcher before loading him into the ambulance. He
exchanged curt nods with Nogorev, then Azyev and the second officer climbed
into the ambulance and drove away. Nogorev and Kaskhov returned to their car and
followed the ambulance at a sedate pace. A moment later, the operatives who had
been managing the crowd of onlookers, melted away.

The officer restraining the nurse
whispered into her ear, “You saw nothing,” then he released her and walked
brusquely away across the park.

Holding her stomach the nurse
turned back to the road, trying to understand what had happened. The pedestrian
who’d been run over, the car that had hit him and the ambulance that had picked
him up, had all vanished.

* * * *

When the ambulance was out of sight of
Buckingham Palace, Azyev turned the siren off and slowed to the speed limit. Nogorev
and Kaskhov followed close behind through crowded, twisting streets all the way
to the docks on the south bank of the River Thames. They skirted an old brick
building that had once served as a bond store, before driving onto a wharf
where an aging cargo ship, the
Krasnii Dama
out of Murmansk, was tied up.
She was streaked with rust, flew the pennant of the Russian Merchant Marine from
her mast head and mounted a small derrick amidships.

The ship’s schedule had called for
it to leave port the previous day, but the captain had received an instruction
to delay his departure so he could take on a special cargo. In order to avoid
attracting attention, the captain reported engine trouble to the port
authorities and occasionally released short bursts of thick black smoke from
the funnel to validate the ruse. When the ambulance was sighted from the
bridge, the derrick unloaded an empty container onto the wharf. Deck hands
opened the container door, then Azyev drove the ambulance inside the container
and parked. He checked Craig’s condition, ensuring his captive was firmly strapped
down before he and his companion reported to Nogorev waiting outside.

“He’s sleeping like a baby,”
Azyev said.

“Good,” Nogorev said. “Close it
up.”

The seaman locked the container’s
metal door, then the derrick hauled it up onto the ship where other deck hands
secured it in place.

Nogorev turned to the leading seamen.
“Tell the Captain to get under way immediately.” The seaman hurried off toward
the metal gangway while Nogorev turned to Kaskhov. “Do not file a report on
this operation.”

Kaskhov suppressed his surprise, remembering
the instruction to follow Nogorev’s orders came from the head of Military
Intelligence himself. Technically, the SVR reported directly to the President,
but a request from the Director of the GRU carried undeniable authority. “Very
well.”

Nogorev headed for the gangway while
Azyev and Kaskhov watched. When Nogorev disappeared into the ship, Azyev asked,
“What will happen to the prisoner?”

“That is not our concern,”
Kaskhov replied, certain Nogorev’s captive would never be seen again.

* * * *

The drive out from New York City,
through the Catskill Mountains to Prattsville, had been a pleasant one,
although when Hal Woods reached the town he had difficulty locating Joan Balard’s
house. The people in town were reluctant to give directions due to the horde of
reporters who’d besieged the house since Captain Ridley’s announcement linking her
son to the murders. When Woods arrived, he skirted around the handful of TV
news crews still lingering in front of the house and made his way to the rear.

“Hello?” he called out as he
approached the back door, hearing a deadbolt lock. “Open up ma’am, it’s the
police.”

A curtain over a window beside
the back door was pulled aside and a woman peered out. Woods held up his badge
in front of the window so she could see it.

“Do you have a warrant?” The
voice was half confrontational, half frightened.

“No,” Woods replied in his most
soothing tone. “I just want to talk.”

A woman, near sixty, reluctantly
opened the door. “What do you want?”

“Are you Joan Balard?”

“Yes,” she replied cautiously. “I’ve
already spoken to the police. Several times.”

“I know your son was set up,”
Woods said, cutting to the chase.

“How?”

“Could I come in and discuss it?”

“No point standing out there in
the sun,” she said opening the door and leading him into the living room,
motioning Woods towards the sofa.

“Do you know where Craig’s father
is,” Woods asked when he was comfortable.

“Jack?” Joan’s eyes widened in
surprise. “He was killed, many years ago.”

Woods gave her a puzzled look.
“His girlfriend believes your son has gone to England looking for his father.”

“That’s impossible. Jack was shot
down over Serbia in 1999.” She glanced at the mantle where photos of a smiling
air force pilot were lovingly preserved. “I didn’t keep the telegram from the
air force, but it’s official.”

Woods followed her gaze, puzzled.
“Do you have any idea where your son is now? Has he been in contact with you at
all?”

“No, I haven’t heard from him.”
Joan said, blinking back tears. “Why are those people saying all such terrible
things about him on television, if you know he’s innocent?”

“It’s complicated. All I can say
is, we’re working as hard as we can to clear him.” Woods ran his eye around the
room. It was impeccably maintained and spotlessly clean. “Did Craig ever mention
anything unusual about the company he worked for? Anything illegal?”

“No, never.”

Woods handed his card to her.
“This is my name and number, in case you hear from your son, or if you think of
something.”

She took his number without
committing herself and walked him to the door.

“The media will leave you alone
in a day or two, once the story dies down,” Woods said, then walked to his car
while Joan watched through the curtains.

Woods drove off as a courier
pulled up in front of the house, walked past the TV crews, up the driveway to the
entry. He slid a single letter under the front door, then returned to his van.

Joan scooped the letter up off
the polished wooden floor, noting it bore an English postmark. She tore open the
envelope to discover two sheets of paper inside, one with a row of numbers on
it, the other with a brief note written in Craig’s handwriting.