Thriller (17 page)

to Dmitri: “Come along, Comrade Garnitsky.” He held up handcuffs. “We’ll make a good show of it. A lesson for others who

would harm our Soviet.”

Dmitri climbed off the chair and tucked the packet under his

arm. “Why bother with handcuffs? You want me dead to scare

the others into recanting publicly before you send them to the

gulags. You’ll kill me here anyway.”

“That’s almost true,” Olenkov said easily. “But I see no reason

to make myself sweat carrying you. And my specialist was not

hired to lug corpses. No, it makes much more sense to shoot you

at the van where there’ll be witnesses that you resisted.”

The other man’s head whipped around. Expressionless, he

studied Olenkov.

Dmitri’s rib cage clenched. Olenkov’s words thundered in his

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mind “—my
specialist
was not
hired
.” The other man must be the

Carnivore.

“What about my wife?” Dmitri demanded.

“I’ll deal with her later.” Olenkov gestured with his weapon

and ordered the other man, “Bring him!”

The Carnivore did not move. “A man in my business must be

careful.” His tones were quiet, commanding. “You’re the only one

who was to know who I am, yet you had me followed.”

“So?” Olenkov asked impatiently.

“I never do wet work in public.” His eyelids blinked slowly as

he considered the KGB officer. “Never on the street. Never where

there are witnesses who can identify me. My security rules are

absolute. You knew what they were.” It seemed almost as if he

was giving Olenkov a chance to come to his senses. “I work

alone.”

But the muscles in Olenkov’s jaw bunched. His face tightened. “Not this time!” he snapped. “The chief’s in a hurry for

Garnitsky’s corpse
. Get him!
”

Disgust flashed across the Carnivore’s face. His silenced pistol lashed around in a single smooth motion. He fired.
Pop.
The

bullet slammed into Olenkov’s overcoat, burning a hole blacker

than the black cashmere. Blood and tissue exploded, spraying the

gray air pink.

Rage twisted Olenkov’s features. As he staggered sideways, he

swung his pistol around to aim at the assassin. The Carnivore

took two nimble steps and slammed a foot into Olenkov’s knee.

The KGB man grunted and toppled onto his back, a black

Rorschach blot against the white snow. His pistol fell. He stretched

for it. The Carnivore smashed a foot down onto the arm, scooped

up the gun, and pocketed it, watching as Olenkov struggled to free

himself, to sit up, to fight back. But his face drained of color. His

eyes closed. Finally, he lay motionless. Air gusted from his lungs.

Dmitri fought nausea and terror. He waited to be shot, too.

The Carnivore glanced at him, showing no emotion. “The

contract on you is canceled.” He opened the gate and was gone.

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* * *

For a long moment, Liz said nothing, suffocated by the past.

During the cold war, government officials and private individuals on both sides of the Iron Curtain had alternately used the Carnivore and tried to eliminate him. He was ruthless, a legend.

Allegedly, he had only one loyalty—to money. He always worked

in disguise, so no one knew what he really looked like, much less

his true identity. All of the protocols in the story were accurate.

Still, his appearance in it was too much of a coincidence. Ignoring Arkady’s gaze, she lifted the blue envelope, examining it

closely against the bright light of the floor lamp. There was no

hint of a covert French opening—slitting one end of the envelope then gluing it back together. No sign of a roll-out—Soviet

tradecraft using two knitting needles on the flap. And no indication of steam or one of the new chemical compounds.

Breathing shallowly, she lowered the letter. She remembered

Arkady’s strange smile before he told her the story. “You know

the Carnivore is my father, don’t you?” she asked.

“How did you figure that out?”

Liz did not respond. Instead, she peered pointedly across the

low table to the bulge in his jacket where his right hand remained near his heart. She had to know.

Acknowledging her unspoken question, he used the other

hand to push aside the lapel.

Shocked, she stared. As she feared, he held a pistol trained on

her. What she had not guessed was that it was hers—her Glock,

which had been locked in her bedroom safe. She looked up into

the face of the kindly man who was a close friend. A better father. His sweetness had vanished, a mask. Raw hatred burned

from his dark eyes.

A fundamental of survival was to adapt. Liz erased emotion

from her face. She had to find a way to take him or escape.

“It was the envelope,” she told him. “No one opened it before

you received it.”

He inclined his head once. “Where is the Carnivore?”

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“If you know he’s my father, then you know he’s dead.” That

was a lie. It was possible he was still alive. When she was CIA,

she had discovered his real work when she spotted him in the

middle of a wet job in Lisbon. She stopped it, and he promised

to let her take him in. But before that could happen, he was apparently killed—yet his body was never found. “Was there any

truth in your story?”

“There was a Dmitri and Nina Garnitsky, an Oleg Olenkov and

a Carnivore. Olenkov was shot, and Dmitri Garnitsky escaped.”

She thought swiftly, trying to understand. Then she remembered his words—
Oleg Olenkov…a master of impersonation and

recruiting the unsuspecting—
and everything made a crazed kind

of sense: last January, it had been no accident that “Arkady

Albam” sat beside her at the faculty meeting. That was the beginning of his campaign to cultivate her, make her vulnerable to

him. At some point, he wrote the “Nina” letter, and on Monday,

when he claimed to be sick, he drove down to Los Angeles to

mail it to himself. Tonight he set her up so she would worry and

come to check on him. That was why he had been waiting, with

her Glock hidden under his jacket, pointed at the chair where

she always sat.

“You’re Olenkov!”

His thin lips curved in a smile, pleased with his ruse. Chilled,

Liz listened as footsteps sounded faintly, climbing the outside

staircase. He had created the envelope and story to distract her,

keep her from causing trouble as long as possible because someone else really was coming—but not to terminate him.

She kept her voice calm. “Dmitri Garnitsky, I assume.”

Olenkov pulled a 9mm Smith & Wesson from between his

back and the chair. Neither it nor her Glock was equipped with

a sound suppressor, which told her he had no intention of trying to hide what he planned.

“You think you’ll walk away from this,” she realized. “I’ll bet

the sheriff’s department will find my place was tossed, too, so you

can tell them that I was carrying my Glock for protection. That

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I’d found out somehow that Oleg Olenkov was hunting me because he couldn’t get revenge on my father.” She was beginning

to have a sense the envelope and story were a test of her, too.

He chuckled, pleased with the results of his operation. “You

have given me my answer—the daughter is confirmed as a worthy substitute for the father. Naturally you must defend yourself.

In the end, sadly, you and Dmitri will have wiped each other. I’ll

be very convincing when I talk to the authorities.”

A trickle of sweat slid down her spine. “But what you’re angry

about happened long ago. No one cares anymore!”

“
I
care! I nearly
died
. I spent two years in hospital! Then when

I was finally able to go back to work, they demoted me because

of Garnitsky’s escape. My career was over. My life was ruined.

They
laughed
at me!”

The most powerful psychological cause of violent behavior

was the feeling of being slighted, rejected, insulted, humiliated—

any of which could convey the ultimate provocation: the person

was inferior, insignificant, a nobody. Olenkov was a venomous

and volatile man, probably with an inferiority complex, who

could easily act irrationally and against his own interests—including relating tonight’s tale, in which he appeared to be both

arrogant and incompetent.

“You have no reason to feel ashamed,” Liz tried.

“
I did nothing wrong
. It was all your goddamn father’s—”

There was a knock on the door. It sounded like a jackhammer

in the small apartment.

Olenkov rose lithely and walked sideways away, never moving the aim of the Glock from her. He lowered the S&W and unlocked the door, then retraced his steps. He sat again, pointing

the S&W at her now, while he trained the Glock on the doorway.

“Come in!” he called.

The door opened, and fresh salt-tinged air gusted inside. A

man stood on the threshold, the drab night sky and distant stars

framing him.

“Liz Sansborough?” He had a Russian accent. “I got a note to

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come—” He saw the pistols. His soft blue eyes darkened with

fear. His boxy shoulders twitched as if he was preparing to bolt.

Liz recognized him. He was a historian from the University of

Iowa, not using the name Dmitri Garnitsky. He had a flat, tired

face and large hands. Dressed in chinos and a tan corduroy sports

jacket, he was probably in his late forties.

“Don’t try it,” Olenkov warned. “I’ll shoot before you finish

your first step away. Come in and close the door.”

Dmitri hesitated, then moved warily inside. Gazing at

Olenkov, he shoved the door shut with the heel of a tennis shoe.

For a moment, puzzlement replaced his fear.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Dmitri peered quickly

at Liz.

“You don’t recognize me?” Olenkov asked.

“Your voice maybe.”

Olenkov laughed loudly. “I didn’t recognize you either until I

saw you walk. It’s a rule—never forget how a person moves.” He

looked him over carefully. “The CIA has taken good care of you.

I had plastic surgery, too.”

Olenkov’s reaction was a classic example of the compelling nature of deep shame. It not only inflamed, it consumed. He was

engrossed in Dmitri, hanging on every word, milking pleasure

from every shock, every surprise—which was the distraction

she needed. She gazed swiftly around, searching for a weapon,

a way to disarm him. She checked the cast-iron floor lamp just

behind the little table between Olenkov and her.

Dmitri seemed to shrink. “Oleg Olenkov.” His voice rose. “You

bastard. Where’s Nina? You’ve done nothing to Nina!”

Olenkov laughed again. “I have something more important for

you—this is the Carnivore’s daughter, Liz Sansborough. You remember the Carnivore—your savior?”

Liz leaned toward the tall lamp, hoping Dmitri would recognize

what she had in mind. She rested her right elbow on the arm of her

chair. From here, she would be able to reach up and back with both

hands and pull the lamp’s heavy pole down onto Olenkov’s skull.

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But Dmitri gave no indication he understood. He returned his

focus to Olenkov and announced, “The Carnivore didn’t save me.

Your
stupidness
did!”

Everything happened in seconds. Olenkov jerked erect as if

someone had just stretched his spine. Without a word, he

glanced at each of them and leveled the guns.

As Liz’s hands shot up and yanked down the lamp, Olenkov

saw her. He ducked and squeezed the triggers. The noise was explosive, rocking the walls. The iron pole struck the left side of

his head hard. Blood streamed down his cheek as the lampshade

cartwheeled and the pole landed and bounced.

Liz’s side erupted in pain. She had been hit. As the assassin

shook his head once, clearing it, she snatched the closer gun. And

hesitated, dizzy. She collapsed back against the other arm of the

chair, taking deep breaths.

Across the room, Dmitri slumped against the wall. A red tide

spread across his tan jacket from a bloody shoulder wound. His

eyes were large and overbright, strangely excited, as if he had

awakened from a long nightmare. Swearing a long stream of

Russian oaths, he peeled away and hurled himself at Olenkov.

But Olenkov raised the Glock again. Liz kicked, ramming her

foot into his fingers. The pistol flew. His arm swung wide.

Dmitri slammed the heels of both hands into Olenkov’s shoulders. The chair crashed backward. As they fell with it, Dmitri

dropped his knees onto Olenkov’s chest, pinning him. Like a vise,

his big hands snapped shut around Olenkov’s neck.

Olenkov swung up a fist, but Dmitri dodged and squeezed

harder. Olenkov clawed at the hands that crushed his throat. He

gasped. He flushed pink, then red. Sweat popped out on his face.

Liz exhaled, fighting the pain in her side. With effort, she focused on Dmitri, a man fueled by years of rage and fear, by terror for Nina’s safety. His mouth twisting, he glared down into

Olenkov’s eyes, cursing him loudly again, his iron grip tightening. He shook the throat, and Olenkov’s head rocked. He laughed

as Olenkov’s eyes bulged.

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Liz forced herself up. Resting the pistol on her chair’s arm,