Disposable Asset Page 6

  She accepted the weapon, surprised.

  ‘Two: never point the gun at something you are not prepared to destroy. That means point it away from me, please.’

  After an infinitesimal hesitation, she did.

  ‘Three: always be aware of what’s behind your target. Bullets penetrate things. Walls are not bulletproof.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Four: keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target. Got it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Five: don’t draw unless you mean to shoot. Now as it happens, this gun is loaded. It’s a .22 pistol – originally a single-stack Springfield Armory .45 caliber, but I’ve replaced the top end with a Wilson Combat .22 conversion kit. You’re going to use a two-handed grip. Say you’re drawing, or picking up your weapon, with your right hand. The other hand should travel out and up from below to join the first. The right thumb flicks off the safety. The gun moves to eye level, and you focus on the target. Then refocus on the front sight, so it comes into sharp focus and the target goes blurry, keeping your forearms and the gun level …’

  She raised the gun and took aim at a distant can of Mountain Dew, which looked preternaturally distinct in the clean morning air.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of the recoil. Don’t close your eyes in the second before you fire.’

  Cassie focused on the can. Refocused on the sight. Put her finger on the trigger.

  ‘Go,’ he said.

  She fired.

  The gun bucked; pain flared in her wrist. A gout of wood leapt from the fence.

  ‘Try again.’

  She fired again and missed.

  ‘The key to shooting is coordination. If you want to hit someone with a baseball bat, go pump iron. If you want to hit a target with a bullet, jump rope. Starting tomorrow, you’ll put in one hour per day.’

  She raised the gun again, took aim.

  ‘Know your weapon,’ he said. ‘Power matters less than accuracy. Mossad agents will often reduce the load, as they say, meaning reduce the amount of explosive charge in a cartridge. What they lose in range, they make up in accuracy.’

  She fired.

  The Mountain Dew can spun end over end into the forest.

  ‘Good. But don’t get cocky. A motionless target on a clear day, no wind, at fifty paces … If there were wind, you’d have needed to compensate. First you’d have calculated your wind speed. Wind under three miles per hour creates no effect. Between three and five, you can just feel it on your face. Between five and eight, you’ll see foliage blowing, but the trees stay still. Eight to twelve, paper blows and dust swirls. Twelve to fifteen, you’ll actually see the trees swaying …’

  FOUR

  RED SQUARE, MOSCOW

  Perhaps it was his mood, but everything on which Aleksandr Marchenko’s gaze fell seemed weighted with significance.

  The gun slots of Arsenalnaya Tower, wide enough for heavy cannon, symbolized the endless metaphorical siege under which they found themselves. The prominent clock of Spasskaya represented the time always slipping, slipping away, never to be recaptured. Most symbolic of all, of course, was the deceptively modest structure of granite and labradorite just fifty yards from Spasskaya. Let the wags make their jokes, calling the preserved corpse inside kopchuska – ‘smoked fish’. To most of Mother Russia’s one hundred and fifty million loyal citizens, the tomb of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin served as a reminder of all Russia once had been and all it could be again. Inside, Premier Lenin – author, lawyer, revolutionary, philosopher, lover of children and cats, icon and idol and inspiration and legend – lay serenely on his back within a crystal casket, wearing a black suit and dark-blue polka-dotted tie, softly spotlit. At peace.

  They crossed through the restricted zone, passing the mustard-colored ionic columns of Building Fourteen, pulling into the inner courtyard of the Senate building. An aide opened the Mercedes’ rear door, escorting Marchenko to a brick portico which led directly into the president’s private office.

  Seated behind a wide maple desk, the President of Russia looked smaller than on TV – somehow deflated, like a failed attempt at a soufflé. His dull dark business suit seemed a clumsy fit, too snug in some places, particularly around the judo-thickened shoulders, and too generously cut in others. But of course, thought Marchenko, he was in essence a man of action. Put him shirtless on horseback or squatting with a rifle over the corpse of a tiger, and he would radiate command and easy authority.

  As Marchenko accepted a firm handshake, he absorbed the four other people seated in the dim office. They were the chief of staff, the secretary of the national security council, the Director of the FSB, and the chairwoman of the upper house of Parliament. Every person in the room, including the President, was an alumnus of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnost – the KGB.

  Marchenko took the sole free chair before the desk. From the blotter, the President lifted a folder: dull-blue cover, criss-crossing black stripes. As their Vozhd glanced through the file, Marchenko looked around circumspectly, pulling at his silver goatee. During his long career he had never before been inside this office, and he knew that he might never be again. Sconces on the walls illuminated a creamy ceiling. The window was heavily curtained. A golden Fabergé clock ticked on a small inlaid table. A porcelain tea service on a sideboard had collected a fine layer of dust.

  At last, the President closed the dossier. His eyelids flickered. ‘Your recommendation?’

  He was addressing Marchenko, who sat up straighter. ‘The net draws ever tighter. She cannot hope to remain free for long. The complication comes, of course, in the person of this man Ravensdale and his allies within the mafiya and Investigative Committee Headquarters.’

  ‘The solution,’ declared the Director, ‘is simple.’ He was a tall, dour man with a road map of bluish veins criss-crossing his temples, who had perfected the art of lecturing a room while speaking to nobody in particular. ‘Crush this corrupt Inspektor Vlasov like the scorpion fly he is, before he can get his stinger in. Then the American has nothing to work with.’

  ‘But then we risk some other rogue element making eleventh-hour trouble.’ Marchenko aimed his words toward a sconce on the wall behind the Director. ‘The vory Tsoi—’ Vory v zakone, literally ‘Thief In Law’, an elite member of the mafiya – ‘has powerful allies within the cesspool of the Prosecutor General’s Office. And they are vulnerable, over there, to the lure of deep pockets and numbered accounts. Better the enemy we know. Feed the good Inspektor enough rope; then Tsoi is not motivated to find another instrument within the PG.’

  ‘So arrest the vory himself,’ suggested the Director.

  ‘And then the American finds another instrument.’

  ‘So arrest the American.’

  ‘And then the CIA sends another in his place. If I may – I have a better idea.’

  A battle raged behind the President’s cold blue eyes. The man of action, thought Marchenko, would have neutralized the corrupt Inspektor Vlasov even for entertaining the thought of izmena, treason. But the intelligence professional, the lifelong veteran of the Game, recognized the value of leaving a compromised asset in play when said asset could still be of use.

  ‘There exists,’ said Marchenko, ‘a better option. Upon realizing who the American was, I made some inquiries. Evidently, his wife still lives. She is in a prison camp in Norilsk.’ He shrugged diffidently. ‘He has proven in the past his willingness to betray his own for this woman …’ Trailing off, he sneaked a glance at the President, to see how the man was reacting.

  The President looked intrigued. The ex-spy, of course, could not help but relish the elan of using an American traitor to execute the master stroke, putting a triple-spin on the treasonous Inspektor’s double-cross.

  The chief of staff and the secretary of the security council swapped a glance. ‘If I may,’ said the former: a lugubrious, slow-spoken septuagenarian, with thinning white hair combed sideways across a pink scalp.

  An impatient ges
ture from behind the desk: proceed.

  ‘With Blakely gone, continued analysis of his documents presents … challenges. If this traitor is really so eager to betray his own, we have a mountain of intelligence which might benefit from his attention.’

  The President thinned his lips. And suddenly Marchenko could see his operation – the first to allow him access to this inner sanctum – being wrested from him.

  ‘You make assumptions,’ Marchenko proclaimed crisply. ‘That the intelligence offers some profound value. That the fact of the assassin suggests they were determined to deny us continuing assistance in deciphering it. More likely, I submit, it was a ploy designed to create the illusion of value – to help us in swallowing the wrong lure. Either that or they are just petulant children, upset that their playmate has made new friends.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘And you assume that Ravensdale is equipped to offer insight. We have no guarantee of that.’

  ‘The fact remains,’ said the chairwoman. She was sixty-something, wearing bifocals, a single-breasted Chanel business suit, and gray hair pinned into a bun. ‘The cache offers an unprecedented opportunity. Yes, there are no guarantees. It might all be dezinformaciya. But it also might offer a chance to examine the internal workings of our enemy more clearly than ever before. It might be a coup to make Hanssen and Ames look like trifles.’

  ‘Eighteen months of analysis already,’ said Marchenko with a sniff. ‘And what do we have to show for it?’

  ‘But adopt the long view. An undertaking of this magnitude requires time. And attaining clarity in this sphere is worth more than the assassin … whose work is, after all, already done.’ She slipped off her bifocals, polished them briskly on one sleeve – unnecessarily, thought Marchenko, purely as a rhetorical flourish – and returned them to her nose. ‘Za dvumya zaitsami pogonish’sya, ne odnogo ne poimaesh.’ Run after two rabbits, and you’ll catch none. ‘We should concentrate on what we have and not get greedy for more. Curious Varvara’s nose, as we all recall, was cut off.’

  The President’s ice-blue eyes glittered inscrutably.

  Marchenko faced the man directly. As he did he tipped his ring, a symbol of Imperial Russia, to subtly catch the light tilting upward from the sconces. More than anything, he knew, their leader coveted a return to the glorious past, a resurgence of the noble Russian Empire. That meant, in part, snapping the West across their treacherous snout. No longer content just to kidnap Russian nationals from third countries, America had now extended herself to an armed assault within the Motherland – the latest and most blatant of a long string of insults, hypocrisies, and broken promises.

  ‘Should we sniff around the droppings of the Americans, trying to determine which might be a jewel and which might be just shit? Or should we boldly take the reins in hand? Think what we can accomplish, with this woman’s confession to wave in the hypocrites’ faces! God gave us balls not for beauty, but for use. We must avenge the insult to our sovereignty, capture their assassin, obtain her affirmation of guilt, and then hang her in Red Square beside Vlasov, within sight of Lenin’s tomb, for all to see.’

  Beneath his ill-fitting dark jacket, the President rolled his thick shoulders. ‘The assassin,’ he decided, ‘takes priority. Once we have her in hand, we can consider trying to extract further value from the American.’

  Sage nods all around. Everyone in the room knew better than to continue arguing and risk being branded a troublemaker. When there was a person, it was said inside the Kremlin, there was a problem; if there was no person, there was no problem.

  Marchenko tried not to look smug. The President checked his watch. ‘Keep me apprised,’ he said and reached for another file on his desk. Marchenko nodded, pushed back his chair. The meeting was over.

  NORTH OF TVER

  The brakes caught; the Samara hitched.

  Cassie woke with a start. Pretty streaks of red laced her glimpse of the sky through the rear windshield. Harris muttered something to his wife: part reassurance, part warning. The car slowed, then stopped. A window skimmed down. The sinking sun had lent the rear windshield the quality of a mirror, and Cassie could see the dim reflection of the man who wandered over to the driver’s side: a policeman, thickset, weaving slightly, possibly drunk. On the sleeve of his right arm she glimpsed the triple-banded insignia of a sergeant.

  ‘Litsenziya,’ the man demanded.

  ‘Er, I’m afraid I don’t—’

  ‘License,’ the man said in rough English.

  Harris found his wallet and passed something over.

  ‘Tourist?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘UK?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Coming from where?’

  ‘Sergiev Posad.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Saint Petersburg. But tonight I think we’ll stop at Novgorod. I’ve always wanted to see Lake Ilmen …’

  ‘Tariff. Eighty euros.’

  Crinkling bills.

  ‘Go,’ the policeman said, and the Samara jerked back into motion. As they pulled away, Cassie watched the roadblock – two green-and-white Zhiguli-8s parked in a V, surrounded by a dozen men bearing Kalashnikovs, smoking cigarettes and sipping from flasks – recede into twilight.

  ‘That was a shakedown,’ said Mrs Harris crisply after a moment.

  ‘Very perceptive, dear.’

  ‘You didn’t even argue.’

  ‘He had a machine gun, dear.’

  ‘Yes, but he had no right to extort money from you.’

  Cassie exhaled a measured breath. No guarantees, she thought. But she may just have survived the greatest challenge she would face until she reached a border. She may just make it, after all.

  She woke again to the rattle of the Samara leaving the paved road.

  They bounced over loose gravel, pulling into a parking lot. Tires settled with a sigh. The engine died. She steeled herself. When the hatchback opened, she would lead with a kick. You hit first, and you hit hard …

  ‘Stay here,’ said Harris curtly.

  A door opened and then closed. Footsteps crunched away. Cassie carefully shifted position, moving one slow centimeter at a time, to look through the rear windshield. A parking lot, a flickering street lamp, a few skinny kids sitting on a low concrete wall, sharing some kind of cigarette. Moments later, Harris was back. ‘We’re in luck. But it won’t be the Savoy.’

  Again doors opened and closed; the Samara’s suspension breathed relief. Cassie heard the sound of footsteps gritting away. For the moment, they seemed to be leaving their luggage untouched.

  She moved swiftly: slipping from beneath the suitcases and into the back seat, taking care to remain low in case anyone glanced toward the car. Before reaching for a latch, she peeked again through the rear windshield. The Harris family stood clustered around a ramshackle door, struggling to work a key in a lock. The kids sitting on the concrete wall watched the family’s efforts with stoned indifference.

  She stepped out into the night, gentling the door shut behind herself. Beside the parking lot, a cracked sidewalk paced a narrow road. The next storefront down was occupied by a dodgy-looking tavern, its own lot half-filled with an odd assortment of trucks, cars, and cycles.

  Avoiding pools of light cast by street lamps, keeping away from the tavern’s single large window, she found a battered red Minsk motorbike. Beneath moonlight she worked quickly and surely: locating the Minsk’s three ignition wires, following them back to the engine, skinning the insulation with one ragged thumbnail, bridging the slots. The engine coughed to life.

  The town consisted of one dirt road, several squat crumbling apartment buildings – five-story Khrushchyovkas, built under Khrushchev as a temporary solution to a housing shortage, never intended to remain standing for more than a few years – and countless taverns. Neon signs in dirty windows advertised Baltika beer and Lvivske Porter, and Heineken for the tourists.

  Soon the town ceded to rolling hills, the unpaved road to a wid
e rutted track. She passed a broken-down tractor, a low crumbling fence, a half-dozen penned goats with ribs standing out. A coverlet of snow glimmered on a frozen lake. Railroad tracks came and went in moonlit glimpses. The wind was freezing; despite her gloves, her hands quickly turned so cold that they burned.

  With one eye always on Polaris, she continued north. In Saint Petersburg she would find crowds, warm rooms, hot food, plentiful tourists with documents to pilfer. Then she could slip through to Finland, or Sweden: neutral territory, from which she could plot her next move in relative peace. And then back to America. Back to Quinn. And he would answer for his crimes. He would answer for the blood all over her hands – the blood of a defector, a good man who had tried to expose people like Quinn. The blood of others: bodyguards, rooftop sentries. (See PROFILES OF VICTIMS, page 8.) Innocents just doing their jobs. All Quinn’s fault. Had there been any truth at all to what he had told her?

  He would answer. Oh, would he answer. He would answer for everything.

  Her hands had gone numb. Pulling over, she removed her gloves and spent a few fruitless minutes blowing on her fingers, trying to regain feeling. She remembered a Jack London story in which the protagonist froze to death and experienced his encroaching demise, paradoxically, as comforting and warm. At the moment, that didn’t sound so bad.

  As long as she could still steer, she guessed she would drive on.

  She clumsily ate one packet of peanuts, told herself to save the other for later, and then gobbled down that one too. After chugging half the bottle of water, she donned gloves again and kicked the bike back on to the road.

  Twenty minutes later, a warm glow broke the darkness ahead. Pulling over again, she killed the Minsk’s headlight. The safest course of action would be to hide until the vehicle had passed. A low snowy rise to her right would do the trick nicely. Except something suggested that the light did not belong to an approaching vehicle. For one thing, it didn’t seem to be getting closer. Nor did it spread out the way headlights should …

  She kept studying it: a faint aureole of luminosity, not quite at the horizon, but close. After a few moments, she decided that she was probably looking at another roadblock.