Black Rose

CHAPTER 33

Ilya Yezhov watched the black Mercedes bearing Konstantine Kamarov approach the private airport where Kamarov's Dassault Falcon waited. Yezhov had dressed like an aircraft maintenance worker, in baggy white overalls, jacket and cap. He stood under one of the wings, pretending to inspect something. A Bizon submachine gun was hidden under the jacket. The 9mm Bizon was light, reliable and lethal at close range. It was one of Ilya's favorite weapons,

A second member of his team stood on a step ladder at the rear of the plane, as if he were working on one of the engines. The pilot and crew were under guard in the wooden shack that passed for a terminal. Three men were inside the plane, out of sight. The cabin door was open and the stairs lowered to the tarmac. The rest of the strike team were concealed at strategic points on the perimeter of the runway. One of Yezhov's snipers was concealed behind a fuel truck. He carried a .308 Steyr-Mannlicher SSG-08. Ilya thought the Steyr was the best choice for medium distance targets. The sniper's job was to take down Kamarov's bodyguards. A second sniper was positioned with the heavier .50 caliber Steyr HS50. He would disable the Mercedes before moving to secondary targets.

All the others on the team carried the new AN-94s. Ilya didn't like them. They were over-engineered, fussy and unreliable in the field, not like the old Kalashnikovs. Great when they worked, junk when they didn't. They'd been forced upon him by the armorer back at the base. He decided to speak to General Vysotsky about it when he got back.

Yezhov dismissed his thoughts about the AN-94. He spoke into his headset.

"Target approaching."

Answering clicks told him everyone was ready. The Mercedes turned off the access road and onto the private airstrip toward the aircraft. It stopped twenty feet away from the foot of the stairway, not far from where Ilya stood. He couldn't see Kamarov through the smoked glass windows but he knew the man was inside. Doors opened on the car and three men got out. They were large men, dressed in dark suits and ties. Ilya knew one of them, a former Spetsnaz corporal who'd been trouble when he was under Ilya's command.

The man saw him. His eyes widened in recognition. Yezhov's cover was blown.

"Go," Yezhov said into his microphone.

The calm atmosphere of the afternoon vanished with the first shot from the Steyr .308. Ilya's former corporal was lifted off his feet and thrown backward as the massive bullet struck his chest. Another shot followed close on the first. The second bodyguard screamed and spun in a bizarre pirhouette before he fell to the pavement. The third man ducked behind the Mercedes but the car suddenly accelerated away from the plane, open doors swaying crazily in the air. It left him exposed. A third shot brought him down.

Yezhov ran after the car, his Bizon out and ready. He shouted into his microphone.

"Take the shot, damn it. Stop that son of a whore before he gets away."

The distinctive boom of the .50 caliber rifle cut through the air. The round tore into the engine compartment of the Mercedes. The car kept moving. A second shot blew through the window on the driver's side. The car slowed and turned left, out of control. Black smoke and oil streamed from underneath. Through the shattered window Yezhov saw the driver slumped to the side, covered with blood. The Mercedes circled back toward the plane and slammed into the nose wheel of the Dassault.

The front of the sleek jet dropped onto the hood, smashing the windshield and pinning the Mercedes underneath. A thin tongue of fire shot out from the engine compartment.

The rear door opened and a fat man wearing a mink coat stumbled out and fell on his knees. Yezhov was on him in an instant.

"Get up, you fat pig." He dragged the oligarch away from the burning car. The flames started to spread to the plane, buried with its nose in the windshield.

Kamarov looked at the muzzle of the Bizon. He licked his lips. "Who are you? Do you know who I am?"

Yezhov slapped him. It was like slapping a side of beef.

"Shut up."

Two Skorpion armored vehicles sped across the runway from their hiding spot behind the terminal building and screeched to a stop next to Yezhov and his captive.

"All units, in," Yezhov said into his microphone.

His men converged on the two trucks. As they moved away, Yezhov looked back and saw the plane beginning to burn. Thick smoke roiled out of the open door and flames lit the interior. The trucks had reached the access road when the gas tanks exploded. A tall column of orange fire erupted into the afternoon, scattering chunks of the expensive jet in every direction.

"My plane," Kamarov said. "You will be sorry for this."

"Let me give you a piece of advice," Yezhov said.

Kamarov looked at him with pure hatred. His eyes were piggy and red, set back in the folds and creases of his dissipated flesh. Ilya caught a glimpse of the ruthless man who was feared by everyone in Russia.

"You have nothing to say of value to me," Kamarov said. "I will have you fed to my dogs." He looked away, out the window

Yezhov took out his knife and drove it into the top of Kamarov's thigh, right to the bone, careful to miss the femoral artery. Kamarov screamed. Ilya withdrew the knife and wiped it on Kamarov's pants.

"Do I have your attention now?"

"Yes, yes." Kamarov clutched his leg. Dark blood welled up between his fingers.

"My advice to you is this," Ilya said. "You will be questioned. Tell the truth, and you may yet live to think about it. One way or another, we will find out what we want to know. The choice is yours about how painful that questioning may be. Have you heard the value in what I say?"

Yezhov held up the bloody knife. Kamarov looked at him and for the first time showed fear.

"Yes. I have heard you."

Yezhov nodded. "Good."

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, except for Kamarov's moans of pain when the truck hit a patch of rough road.