The Killer

FORTY-EIGHT

Moscow, Russia

Monday

23:05 MSK

“They’re sonar pictures,” Colonel Aniskovach answered.

He stood before Prudnikov’s ridiculously large and phallic-enhancing desk. It was big enough for several computer terminals, but aside from the photographs, a modest flat-panel monitor, keyboard, and mouse, the desk was empty. Prudnikov sat behind the desk in an ergonomic leather chair.

They were in Prudnikov’s office at the headquarters of the SVR. The building was the high-tech replacement to the KGB’s former Lubyanka headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square in central Moscow, now home to the FSB. The SVR headquarters was located in Yasenevo, on the outskirts of the city, and its passing resemblance to the CIA’s Langley headquarters was no mere coincidence.

Aniskovach disliked the tasteless CIA-cloned headquarters at Yasenevo and would have preferred to spend his time at Dzerzhinsky Square. The old building was a masterpiece of beautiful Russian architecture that before the revolution housed an insurance company of all things.

The head of the SVR studied the photographs for a moment. “And what are they showing me?” he asked.

The tone of his voice lacked in patience. It was late to be working, even for spies.

Aniskovach wore his best suit, his tie razor straight, shoes polished to a mirrored shine. Every hair on his head was faultlessly combed. The horrid wound on his face couldn’t be bettered, but at least the dressing covered it, and it showed his life had been endangered-even if now it meant he hated to look in the mirror when once he had reveled in it. He had made an appointment to see a cosmetic surgeon in Germany next week.

“The pictures show a sunken ship,” Aniskovach answered. “From what my people tell me it has the dimensions of a frigate, a missile destroyer to be more precise.”

Prudnikov shifted through the images and didn’t look up. “Why am I looking at it?”

“Because the frigate is one of ours.”

That made Prudnikov look up.

Aniskovach was a strong believer in the importance of the dramatic arts when delivering reports and especially when making requests. Simply telling and asking were usually enough to achieve the necessary goal of the discussion, but the outcome of almost any conversation could be improved with the proper implementation of timing and delivery. Aniskovach was very much aware he needed both working for him faultlessly if he was going to salvage his career.

The fiasco in St. Petersburg had made the headlines in the evening papers and was the biggest news story on Russian television, despite the SVR’s best attempts to limit the damage. Dead bodies and exploding vehicles in broad daylight tended to get noticed. In one day Aniskovach had been responsible for the loss of five lives and the hospitalization of another three. He felt it grossly unfair that he should receive any blame considering the circumstances. The operation wasn’t officially sanctioned, and it had been a personal favor for Prudnikov. Which was the only fact saving Aniskovach.

The head of the SVR had even more to lose if the true motive behind the operation became known, and as such Aniskovach knew Prudnikov would do everything in his power to keep Aniskovach’s head off the block.

How long that would last, Aniskovach didn’t like to think about, but he knew it wouldn’t be indefinite. Then the wolves baying for Aniskovach’s blood would circle around him with teeth bared. He had fantasized about heading the organization on a number of occasions. Once it had seemed that one day his dream could realistically become a reality, but that was before he had gotten men killed, so many so publically. If he didn’t fight for it, his reputation would be forever stained. He needed a victory and he needed one fast.

The only way he could hope to counteract the damage already done was with Prudnikov still on his side, but any alliance was tenuous at best and would quickly unravel the closer Prudnikov came to retiring. Unless he admitted his own role in the failed mission and exonerated Aniskovach in the process, Aniskovach knew his career was on borrowed time.

Once Prudnikov stopped protecting him and Aniskovach had to fend for himself, the best scenario he could hope for was to spend the rest of his SVR career sitting behind a desk doing mind-numbing analysis and pencil-pushing duties. He didn’t want to think about the worst scenario.

“The frigate,” Aniskovach began after an appropriate pause, “named Lev, was a missile destroyer built in 1984 that sank in the summer of 2008, not long after a joint naval demonstration with the Chinese. Her crew all lost their lives when she sunk.”

“And?”

“The Lev was carrying eight Oniks antiship missiles.”

There was a long wait before Prudnikov spoke again. “What happened to the ship?”

“A distress call was transmitted before she sank, wherein the captain stated there had been a catastrophic engine malfunction.”

“This was confirmed by a recovery team?”

“There never was a recovery team.”

“Why not?”

“A rescue team was sent, but it was reported that the destroyer had sunk in deep water, and recovery of the vessel and its armaments would not have been possible.”

Prudnikov took off his reading glasses and placed them carefully on the desk. “The tone of your voice suggests you are unconvinced by that analysis.”

“The captain of the rescue vessel that responded to the Lev’s distress call was an officer by the name of Andris Ozols.”

“That name means nothing to me.”

“Ozols, who was retired, was murdered in Paris a week ago. He was carrying a portable hard drive that contained the pictures you’re now looking at.”

Prudnikov was looking at him attentively now, hanging off his every word nearly. “Go on,” he said.

Timing and delivery, Aniskovach told himself. “The killer who met with Norimov and whom we attempted to apprehend, was in possession of the drive. He has the original. Those pictures were taken from a copy that our people decrypted earlier.”

“What exactly are you telling me?”

“I would say that Ozols was planning to sell the information when he was killed.”

“But what value does this information have if the ship is unrecoverable?”

“None.”

“So why are we having this discussion?”

“Because Ozols lied in the original report. The destroyer sank on a continental shelf according to the coordinates shown in those sonar pictures. Off the coast of Tanzania in the Indian Ocean. It appears that Ozols fabricated the initial report so a recovery team would never be sent, allowing the missiles to remain on the seabed until he was ready to sell the ship’s location to the highest bidder. Most nations would pay a fortune for those missiles and the technology they contain.”

Prudnikov’s eyes were as big as Aniskovach had ever seen them.

Aniskovach continued. “On the day Ozols was killed a mass killing also took place. Some eight people killed in addition to Ozols. According to Norimov the assassin was himself attacked by a team of other killers.”

“What is the relevance of that?”

“I believe the killer was hired to retrieve the information but was targeted after completing the job by the same people who hired him. The motive for such an attack would likely be to keep the identities of those who employed him anonymous. This would be of particular benefit if those employers were, say, members of the CIA.” He paused for effect. “The Americans would then be able to recover the Oniks and add the technology to their own inferior missiles. At the same time they would be able to deny any part in Ozols’s death once we became aware of his identity and what he was up to. My sources in Paris inform me there has been much activity at the U.S. embassy this last week. Without the flash drive they won’t know where to look for the missiles, but if they find the assassin first…”

“I need to pass on this information to the GRU straightaway.” Prudnikov sat back in his chair. “I will make sure your name is mentioned when I do. You may leave now.”

Prudnikov reached for his phone. Aniskovach remained standing.

“Did you not hear me, Gennady?”

Aniskovach, ever the showman, stayed silent for a few moments. “There is another possible course of action.”

“Such as?”

“We recover the missiles ourselves.”

Prudnikov’s brow furrowed and he picked up the phone. “I have no need of the credit.”

“I do.”

The head of the SVR shook his head. “I gave you your moment to be a hero and you let the chance slip through your fingers. And got many good men killed in the process. What makes you think I would give you a second opportunity?”

“Those men were killed on a mission you personally requested.”

“Be careful of your tongue, Gennady.” Prudnikov’s eyes were dangerous. “Do I need to remind you of the stain to my reputation I’m taking in defending you?”

“I only remind you because I know you are risking a lot to help me survive the backlash.” Aniskovach missed out the important fact that Prudnikov had done so only to help himself in the process.

Prudnikov nodded. “I’m only doing what is right.”

Aniskovach wanted to smile. Appealing to Prudnikov’s deluded sense of duty and honor was a good tactic. “And I thank you for all you have done, sir.”

Prudnikov accepted the thanks without his expression changing. “What are you asking?”

“Let me recover the missiles myself.”

“For what purpose?”

Translated to, “what’s in it for me?” Aniskovach thought. “Exposing Ozols’s plans, recovering the missiles, and stopping the Americans from getting hold of them will help repair my reputation within our fine organization.”

Prudnikov, unconvinced, started punching numbers on the phone. “If I were you I should not be so concerned with what’s left of my reputation. I would be glad to have escaped incarceration and still have a career after such a disastrous mess.”

Aniskovach continued as if Prudnikov had never spoken. “And by recovering the missiles and keeping them from the hands of our enemies I will have done enough so that I no longer require your protection. You would be able to distance yourself from my failing without fearing I will betray your hand in what happened.”

Prudnikov stopped dialing. Aniskovach watched him reconsidering carefully. After a minute he put the phone down.

“Fine,” he said. “I will let you do this one thing, but this is where we part ways. Regardless of the outcome, I stop protecting you, and you keep your mouth permanently closed.”

Aniskovach had expected that at best he would receive such an offer. He just wished he could tell Prudnikov how he had managed to twist his own appeal completely around so that it was Prudnikov making the request to him. He stood in silence, pretending to weigh up the offer, and in doing so created a delicious measure of dramatic tension. Aniskovach nodded.

“We have a deal,” he said.

It was all timing and delivery.