Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“I’ve been approached for a job,” he said, leaning forward. “Kyiv is Syndikat territoire. I figured I better check with you first.”

“What job?”

Scorpion took a deep breath. He was about to cross a red line.

“Maybe not everyone likes Cherkesov,” he said.

“Who sent you?” Mogilenko asked, looking at Scorpion as though he were an insect in a science experiment.

“Sorry. I don’t talk about clients.”

“I won’t ask twice.” Mogilenko looked at Andriy.

“You think I’m a mouchard?” Scorpion snapped, using the French slang for stool pigeon.

“I think, you miserable fils de pute, you made a big mistake. Sortez! ” Mogilenko snarled, gesturing for Scorpion to get out. To Andriy, he said in Russian, “Get rid of him.”

T hey went out the back door to an alley that led to the street. There were four of them: Scorpion, Andriy, and the two men in the bulky parkas who had brought Scorpion up to see Mogilenko. The wind had come up. It was very cold. As they walked to a black Mercedes sedan waiting down the block, its engine idling, Scorpion knew that he had made a terrible mistake. It was like that infinitesimal moment when you step on a land mine just before it explodes. If Mogilenko and the Syndikat were involved in the assassination plot, Mogilenko would have tried to get information out of him. If the assassination was news to Mogilenko, he would have tried to coopt him, or tried to use the information to his advantage. But he had done neither.

Mogilenko was going to get rid of him. Probably to score points with whichever side won, Scorpion thought as he got in the back of the Mercedes, sandwiched between Andriy and the big man. Andriy pressed the muzzle of his silencer against Scorpion’s side.

The small man got into the front passenger seat next to the driver. He turned around, a gun in his hand. Scorpion’s heart was pounding.

“What is your name?” the small man said in Russian.

“Briand. Lucien Briand. In Russian, Lukyan,” Scorpion said.

“You worried, Lukyan?” indicating the gun.

“I don’t know. Where are we going?”

“Make no difference to you pretty yob fucking soon,” the small man said, and the big man next to Scorpion snickered.

They drove up Khreshchatyk toward the Maidan. The street was lined with Soviet-style buildings, glossy billboards, and shops whose windows reflected the streetlights and the bare winter trees. It was getting late; there were only a few pedestrians. It started to snow.

“What you want from Mogilenko?” the small man asked.

“Maybe I wanted to fuck his girlfriend,” Scorpion said.

The small man grinned widely.

“You heard that story?”

“Seems everybody has.”

“That’s no story, upizdysh. Me and my drooh had to bury those govniuks,” he said, racking the slide on his gun. “You made a big mistake, Lukyan. He’s a crazy guy, that Mogilenko.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Scorpion said, measuring angles and distances with his eyes, barely able to breathe. “I’ll pay you a hundred thousand hryvnia. Each.”

“No good, Lukyan,” the small man said. “You know what Mogilenko would do to us?”

“You don’t want to do this. I know people. I’ve got blat,” Scorpion said, meaning influence. He suddenly had a terrible urge to urinate. He was running out of time.

“You don’t got blat, drooh. Mogilenko, he got the politsiy and half the Verkhovna Rada on his payroll. He got the real blat,” the small man said, rubbing his thumb on his fingers in the universal sign for money.

They drove onto the entryway to a bridge over the Dnieper River, ice floes floating on the dark water. The roadway was coated with snow, and at that late hour there was almost no traffic. The driver stopped the car midway on the bridge.

“Get out,” the small man said.

Pechersk

Kyiv, Ukraine

Koichi, his instructor at the Point in North Carolina, used to say there were two key elements to surviving deadly violence: surprise and distance. Scorpion knew he had a better chance inside the Mercedes than outside, where they could shoot him down at a distance of their choosing. The guns were the problem, the big man was just a brute. Makarov pistols had a clumsy grip that made the recoil sloppy. It wouldn’t take much to make the small man miss. The biggest danger was Andriy’s Gyurza pistol with the silencer pressed against his side. The fraction of a second would be critical, he thought as he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“ Pazhalusta! Don’t kill me! I don’t want to die!” he screamed, already moving his right palm as Andriy hesitated, the Krav Maga move causing him to reflexively fire. The bullet tore through the front seat, barely missing the driver. At the same time, Scorpion kicked the front seat hard where the small man was sitting facing to the rear. The shot from Andriy’s Makarov echoed loudly inside the car.

As Scorpion struggled to complete the Krav Maga sequence, Andriy managed to pull the trigger again. The bullet hit the small man in the shoulder, and he cried out in surprise and pain as Scorpion managed to twist the pistol away from Andriy, then turned the gun and fired. The bullet ripped through Andriy’s hand and into the bridge of his nose, blowing off the back of his head. Before the small man could move, Scorpion fired again, hitting him in the neck. The man stared at him wide-eyed, blood gurgling out of his throat.

The big man then grabbed Scorpion’s throat in a massive grip, choking him, while reaching with his other hand to grapple for the pistol. He was immensely strong. Scorpion couldn’t move his head. His arm felt like it was caught in a vise. He smashed upward at the man’s chin with his left elbow, and the man merely grunted. Scorpion hit him again, this time in the throat, loosening his grip for a fraction of a second, then he fired, almost blindly. The bullet hit the big man in the eye, killing him instantly. He slumped back, his hand still around Scorpion’s neck.

The driver had disappeared. The entire fight had taken perhaps five seconds.

Scorpion pried the big man’s fingers from his neck. The interior of the car smelled of blood and sweat. He shoved Andriy’s body aside and staggered out. He gulped the cold night air in great heaves, his breath coming out in plumes of clouds, staggering to the side of the car and leaning on it to remain standing. He could see the driver near the end of the bridge running back toward the Right Bank of the river, too far away to shoot even if he’d had strength enough to try.

Opening the driver’s door, he looked in. The small man was sprawled against the passenger door, bubbles forming in the blood from his neck. He was still alive, his eyes on Scorpion as he raised the gun. Scorpion saw the eyes go dead as he put a bullet into the center of the small man’s forehead.

The engine was still running. He got in, put the car in gear, made a slippery U-turn in the snow and drove back across the bridge. Coming off the roadway, he scanned the streets for the driver, but he had gotten away. He knew he should track him down, but there wasn’t time. He had to get rid of the Lucien Briand ID and the Mercedes with the bodies, and find a place to dump the car. He wiped prints off anything he had touched in the Mercedes and left it on a residential street off Moskovska Avenue, ripped up the Briand ID and dropped the car keys into a trashcan by an apartment building and the pieces of ID into a curb flood drain.

He’d screwed it up, he thought. Less than one day in the country and he’d made an enemy of the Syndikat. The only good thing was that they thought he was a Frenchman named Briand, who no longer existed. He considered aborting the mission and getting out while he still could. It was just Ukraine. Then he reminded himself that Rabinowich, whom he respected, had gone to a great deal of trouble to get him involved. There was a whole hell of a lot more to this.