Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

The salesman laughed and winked. “In a hurry, huh? Listen, bud. I’d like to help you out there, but if I don’t do this proper, the owner of this joint, who happens to be my sister’s husband, is gonna be mighty pissed at me. Last time I did it we got into a world of hurt. DMV, insurance. Woulda been fired or worse if not for my sister.”

Bor stared at the salesman in silence. The salesman began to feel uncomfortable. Talib moved back a step.

“But just a couple doors down from here, Rob Brock’s got a couple of his old wrecks he’s been trying to sell for months. No takers, but they’re not in bad shape. Even tried to sell them to us, but my brother-in-law’s a cheap cuss and Rob’s stubborn and they couldn’t agree on a price.”

Bor continued staring. Then: “Where’s Brock’s place?”

Talib exhaled.

Bor found Brock neither stubborn nor unreasonable. He sold Bor a forest-green 1996 Ford Windstar minivan and a Chevy Caprice of indeterminate vintage for the five thousand dollars Bor had offered the salesman. Paperwork wasn’t necessary.

Minutes later, Bor and Talib arrived behind the diner driving the minivan and Caprice, respectively. The faces of several volunteers bore expressions of apprehension until Talib subtly shook his head, answering the question on everyone’s mind.

The volunteers transferred to the new vehicles. Bor didn’t bother to wipe down the old ones for fingerprints. By the time someone noticed the Econoline and LaCrosse and reported them to the authorities, the plates were run, and forensics were completed, the mission would be complete.

By that point fingerprints wouldn’t matter. Not much would.

MOSCOW,

AUGUST 16, 1:07 A.M. MSK

Egorshin hadn’t slept in nearly thirty hours before dozing for forty-five minutes in the recliner by the window of his girlfriend’s apartment. He knew it was unlikely he’d sleep anytime in the next seventy-two.

The view outside the window was magnificent. Popular media portrayed cities such as Paris, Vienna, and Saint Petersburg as some of the most beautiful on earth, at least parts of them. But to Egorshin, there were portions of Moscow unrivaled in magnificence and majesty.

Aside from high-level officials and oligarchs, few could boast of access to such views from their residences. Tatiana Palinieva could afford it. She had been one of the top models in Europe for nearly a decade and now cohosted one of the more popular news talk shows in Moscow. She and Egorshin had been seeing each other for nearly two years. In the last two months their conversations had sometimes flitted toward the possibility of marriage.

Marriage, let alone the magnificent view from the apartment, was in the back of his mind. At the forefront was what he had witnessed on the secure link Volkov had established for the special operations unit. It was horrific. It emphasized what men were capable of, especially Stetchkin.

Tatiana was in the bathroom and preparing to shower. That was an enterprise likely to take at least thirty minutes. Egorshin had arranged for his guest to arrive during that operation so they could speak in private. Sure enough, at the moment he heard the rush of water from the showerhead, there was a light rap at the apartment door.

Egorshin opened the door to find a short, balding, average-built man in his late sixties standing in the hallway. He wore a modest, finely tailored blue suit and black-framed glasses. It was Sergei Morosov of the SVR, Egorshin’s favorite uncle, his only uncle, who had entertained him as a child with magic tricks and tales of epic adventures.

“Thank you for coming,” Egorshin said, stepping aside and waving Morosov in.

“Of course.”

The two went into the dining room, where Egorshin sat on one side of the dining room table and Morosov on the other. Morosov had a look of concern on his face. He and his nephew rarely met in person these days and never at this apartment. He surmised his nephew must be in trouble. Instincts honed by thirty years in the KGB and SVR told him it was the type of trouble that could get one killed.

“Should we talk here, Piotr?”

“It is all right, Uncle. Do not be concerned.”

“You forget who I work for. I am always concerned. Someone could be watching. Listening.”

Egorshin smiled. “You forget who I work for. I am the watcher. I am the listener.”

“You are not the only one,” Morosov countered.

“But I am the best one,” Egorshin said. “This apartment is completely sterile. Redundant surveillance countermeasures are in place.”

“Installed by your unit?”

“Installed by me.”

Morosov smiled and nodded. His nephew had no peer when it came to such matters.

“I have not seen you in weeks. Neither has your mother.”

“I have a problem. I need your advice.”

“My personal advice or my professional advice?”

“This is personal, Uncle Sergei.”

“What kind of personal problem requires the assistance of an agent of the SVR?”

“Aleksandr Stetchkin.”

Morosov’s facial muscles tightened visibly and he drew back his head.

Egorshin continued. “I am telling you this because, to be honest, I am frightened. You may have heard Stetchkin had my former boss, Uganov, removed…”

“Yes.” Morosov nodded.

“And you know what he did to him?”

“I suspect I knew before you did.”

Egorshin’s shoulders drooped. “I think he plans to do something similar to me.”

“Even if he would like to, he cannot,” Morosov assured him. “You are too valuable to Mikhailov.”

“You know what I am doing?” Egorshin asked, surprised.

“No. I do not. Not specifically.” Morosov shrugged and held out his hands. “I am SVR. I know you are doing something of unique importance and that it is a special project of Yuri Mikhailov. Even Stetchkin would not dare touch you—at least until your project is complete.”

“That is precisely my concern. The ‘special project,’ as you called it, is ready to go. All that needs to be done, really, is press a button, figuratively speaking. Then I am no longer essential. He can dispose of me like Uganov.”

“Stetchkin and Uganov were rivals, Piotr. They had a long, unpleasant history, going back to before the collapse. You have no such history with him, and you are not a threat to his power or position.”

“He hates me. He hates weakness. He thinks I am soft,” Egorshin said.

Morosov smiled again. “But you are soft, Piotr. Most of you young people are. Not like the Americans or Western Europeans, perhaps. Their institutions are actually training them to be soft. And they will reap the consequences. But our young people are not far behind.”

“Why did he do that to Uganov? Why not simply remove him from his office?”

“Again, Piotr,” Morosov said patiently. “They had a history. If you are still concerned, however, I can have a word with Alexei Vasiliev.”

“The president’s chief of staff? You know him?”

“Our families, Piotr, go back together to before the revolution. I would wager we even share a relative or two. We were dvoryane; Stetchkin’s family were peasants.

“Is that why he hates me?”

“No,” Morosov said, shaking his head. “How should I put this?” He looked to the ceiling, searching for the right word. “Stetchkin is evil. ”

“You mean psychopathic.”

“No. That is merely a clinical term to deflect accountability,” Morosov said. “Understand, Stetchkin is evil. He and I served together thirty-five years ago in Afghanistan. We went in alongside the 103rd Guards Airborne Division. We were Zenith. Our job was to demoralize and suppress the resistance. Stetchkin excelled at it. He killed indiscriminately. Not just the mujahedin, but men, women, and children who were not involved in the fighting. If the mujahedin killed one of our soldiers, he would not simply kill one of theirs in retaliation. He would kill ten. To start. The mujahedin would torture our captured soldiers. But even they could not compete with Stetchkin in terms of sheer brutality. He would bring women and children to the center of the village, torture them for days, until they were dead. At night, the valleys rang with their screams. Stetchkin reveled in it. He invented new and extreme methods and trained others in the techniques he had perfected. When our group left Kunar Province, he left behind one of his pupils, called Lucifer. When we left Panjshir Valley, he left another disciple—the Butcher. But he was the master.”