Duel of Assassins (19 page)

This Azib was a disagreeable companion, with a furtive
manner, one wandering eye and the constant habit of giggling to himself. Worse
luck, considering Peshawar’s hundred-degree heat, his rust-mottled blue Datsun,
in which Marcus and Taras were to spend much of the next two days, lacked
air-conditioning. Still, it could be worse; they could be back in Afghanistan.

For Peshawar was an absorbing city, crawling with intrigue.
If Azib were to be believed, every second person on the swarming streets or
chatting over tea in the hotel dining room was some brand of spy. If they were
not colleagues—unbeknown to him—from Afghanistan’s twenty-thousand-strong
security service, then surely they were Pakistani Special Branch, KGB or CIA.

As for the rest? According to Azib, they were a mixed
lot—mercenaries, money-changers, “journalists” like themselves, smugglers, black
marketeers, buyers and sellers of weapons and narcotics. He giggled while
retailing this shoptalk, all the while engulfed in a vehicular melee that even
surpassed Kabul’s. He explained how big the heroin business had become in
Peshawar, and how in the weapons bazaars of Darra, forty kilometers away, one
could purchase anything from .25-caliber pen pistols to Soviet SA-7 Grail
surface-to-air missiles.

The neighboring war, of course, was the reason for most of
this feverish activity, and the millions of dollars of U.S. aid being funneled
through Pakistan—in the form of weapons for the
mujahideen
, and food,
clothing and medical supplies for the millions of Afghans in the refugee camps
ringing Peshawar.

“We owe much to the CIA, you see,” Azib added after a giggling
fit, “for at least seventy percent of these weapons never reach the end of this
pipeline, and much food also vanishes. This makes much business for everyone.”
To illustrate this, he took them to what he called the “U.S. Aid Bazaar” in the
Old City, where they browsed weapons shops offering Vietnam-issue U.S. Army
flak vests, jungle boots and camouflage pants. But other merchants specialized
in Soviet military gear, both new and used—and some patently phony, with
upside-down hammer-and-sickle shoulder patches.

Afterward they followed a road out to one of the refugee
camps, but continued well beyond it, turning onto an unpaved, tread-worn track
that wandered off into a void of parched waste and shimmering heatwaves. Twenty
minutes of horizon-bouncing, spine-pounding agitation over rocks and ruts
brought the groaning Datsun to a merciful halt by a stone-and-mud-brick
gatehouse and a rough-timbered barrier across the track. Two turbaned guards
emerged from the sentry post with slung binoculars and unslung Kalashnikovs, to
which bayonets were fixed. They were both quite young and not particularly
friendly-looking. One hung back with his mouth to a hand-held radio, while the
other slowly approached the driver’s window.

Taras figured these boys had been studying their dust cloud
for some time now. Beyond the gate lay what looked like the downsloping mouth
of an eroded canyon. Beyond that, presumably, lay Raza’s “Academy.” The
brigadier had sited his campus well. It was a hell of an exposed approach from
down here, and farther in was probably bristling with Dashikas and Zigroiat
heavy machine guns to discourage any predatory visitors from above. The only
sensible solution would be to shell the place from across the Afghan border.

Taras, in the taxi’s passenger seat, and Marcus in back,
remained passive, ostensibly leaving it up to Azib. The “journalists” were
festooned with cameras, notebooks and audiocassette recorders, but Taras had
his 9mm Makarov pistol hidden within reach, and Marcus, apparently sipping from
an aluminum canteen, was actually holding, behind the metallic false front, a
small, apple-green RGD-5 hand grenade with the pin out and fingers around the
safety lever.

The approaching guard beckoned, and Azib jumped out. There
was a quick flurry of Dari-Persian, then the guard thrust his bayonet past
Azib’s shoulder, pointing back the way they’d come.

Azib overdid the appreciative and explicatory gestures,
Taras thought, but at least he wasn’t acting furtive or, praise Allah,
giggling. The taxi driver
salaam aleikum
ed the guard a final time,
climbed back into the baking Datsun, backing and filling carefully on the
narrow track so as not to raise a particle of dust.

As they were pulling away, Azib kept his wandering eye on
the rearview mirror and explained: “I told them we were looking for the Munda
refugee camp. He said we had taken a wrong turn.”

“And did you thank the man for that?” Marcus asked.

“Oh, my yes!” Azib giggled.

“Well, if it was an easy job, they wouldn’t be needing us,
would they, Cossack?”

Taras agreed. It would take time, and he was glad of it. He
had things to think about.

But the next day, the brigadier all but fell into their
laps.

The gardens and public rooms of the hotel served as a
clearinghouse for visiting journalists, a place to meet and compare notes. They
were either returning from, embarking on, or soliciting
mujahideen
-escorted
trips across the border into Afghanistan. To several “colleagues,” Marcus
complained of his own difficulties in securing contacts among the Afghan resistance
groups, let alone arranging a journey “inside,” because of his lesser status as
a freelancer without expense account or definite assignment.

An English documentary filmmaker spoke up. This man had just
returned from the Panjshir Valley under the auspices of the charismatic
Jamiat
guerrilla leader, Commander Ahmad Shah Massoud. For one wildly euphoric moment
Marcus had thought he was about to wangle an introduction to Massoud himself,
the “Lion of Panjshir”—whose head would be a trophy equaling or surpassing that
of Raza. But the documentarian wasn’t offering to help directly, only to
introduce him to someone else who might—an ex-mercenary, who also happened to
be a contributing editor of an American monthly called
Deadly Force.
This gung-ho character was supposedly very tight with a key resistance leader,
and had just arranged an interview for an Italian woman journalist. Although
Signorina DeLuca was admittedly attractive, her journalistic circumstances were
similar to Marcus’. She was a stringer for a couple of supplemental European
news services.

Perhaps, the English filmmaker went on, this American merc,
who was staying at Dean’s, might agree to set Marcus up with the same man,
perhaps right in Peshawar.

“And who might this leader be?” Marcus had asked.

“A tough old bird, ex-SAS. Used to run the king’s bodyguard,
but now runs a training camp out in the boondocks. Raza, General Jalil Muhammad
Raza.”

Marcus let his enthusiasm show. “Thanks for the tip. It’s
sure worth a shot.”

He and Taras discussed it later in their bungalow. There
were two ways to play it. Marcus could try for the meeting with Raza, kill the
old guy face-to-face, and then shoot his way out, with Taras’ attacking from
outside. Or they could use Azib’s taxi to track the Italian woman to her
meeting with Raza, which was to take place the next day somewhere in Peshawar,
and improvise an assault on the spot.

They decided against Plan A. Marcus’ phony journalistic
credentials and letters of reference from two Canadian magazine editors might not
pass scrutiny. Certainly not if either the ex-merc or Raza went to the trouble
of making some phone calls. And that would jeopardize not only the assignment,
but their lives.

Plan B would be easier to effect. They’d follow the Italian
woman to her rendezvous. The trunk of Azib’s Datsun would hold all their
equipment—stun and frag grenades, silenced pistols and submachine guns,
Dragunov sniper rifles, rappelling ropes and harnesses, bolt cutters,
sledgehammers, explosive charges. They were both skilled in urban assault, and
would be wearing soft body armor. If the location wasn’t a goddamned fortress,
they’d hit it. Azib would wait outside for the getaway.

That night Taras went for a walk. He returned a little
before midnight, found Marcus cleaning his disassembled Makarov pistol.

“Long walk, Cossack. Been thinking?”

“Quite a bit.”

“What about?”

“Migratory genocide. Scorched earth. Whatever you want to
call what we’ve been doing to the Afghans. Destroying their country. Driving
people out, fragging kids, burning crops, bulldozing villages.”

Marcus gave a puzzled smile. “What’s this all about? You
don’t want to do the old bastard, is that it? Getting cold feet?”

“That’s part of it, I guess. But it goes back aways, even
before what happened in the Kunar. I finally made up my mind in the hospital.
I’m all through here, Cowboy. I’m dead.”

“Oh, fuck, Cossack. What you need is some R & R. I told
Marchenko that, but he said the best thing was to send you right out again.
Listen, after we pull this job, we’ll take off someplace, you and me. Bangkok,
Amsterdam, Pago Pago. You name it, I’ll get Marchenko to pull the strings.”

“That’s a great offer, Marcus. Sorry. It’s too late.”

“I sense you making problems here, Cossack. What are you
saying exactly?”

“I’m saying I’m going to do what you did.”

“Which is—what?”

“Defect.”

Marcus stared at him unblinkingly for long seconds. When he
spoke, his voice was deeper, and softer. “When is this going to happen? Or has
it? Have you already been sending love notes to the CIA?”

“It hasn’t happened yet. I’m ready, though.”

Marcus had assembled the Makarov and dry fired it. Now he
screwed on the silencer and slapped an eight-round clip into the grip, then
chambered a cartridge, flicked the safety to cocked-and-locked. “And what am I
supposed to do? Give you my blessing?”

“Come with me, Cowboy. America will take you back. Finish
your trip around the world.”

“Some things are better unfinished. Like our little saber
duel. One defection was enough for me, Cossack. I can’t go back. Even if I could,
I happen to like it here. And I like what I’m doing.”

“Be straight with me, Marucs.”

“I am. And you can come down from your moral high ground.
Are you trying to tell me what we’re doing here is somehow worse than what
America did in Vietnam? Come on, Cossack, the only difference I can see is that
Afghanistan is actually on the Soviet border, not the other side of the world.
And we’ve got a good shot at beating these
muj
assholes—unless they come
up with a real unifying leader like the Viet Cong had in General Giap. Which is
why, Cossack, you should get over this idealistic crap about defecting to the
wonderful West and just do your fucking job. Help me take out this Raza
bastard.”

Taras had heard his friend often speak with equal vehemence,
but never with more conviction. There was only one thing left to say:

“I’m sorry, Marcus. You’ll have to call off the hit. Get out
tonight.”

“Now, why will I have to do that? Are you going to tell the
CIA everything?”

“An hour ago I passed Signorina DeLuca’s door. There was a
light under it. I heard her talking inside on the phone. I pushed an anonymous
note inside, warning her and Raza of unspecified danger tomorrow, or at any
time in the near future in Peshawar. And no, I didn’t leave my room number.”

Marcus’ face contorted. Before Taras could react, his friend
pointed the silenced Makarov at him and fired twice.

Taras felt the ballistic shockwaves, heard the suppressed
coughs of the pistol and a rending cry behind him. He whirled. A meter away,
just inside the French doors, Azib was gaping in surprise and letting fall a
thin-bladed boot knife in order to clutch his stomach. Marcus crossed the room
in a leap, put two more rounds into the bowing head. Azib—Captain Fareed Qadir
of the Afghan security service—completed his mortal obeisance and collapsed
face-down on the carpet.

“Little bastard was spying from the garden. Guess he didn’t
like your drift. Guess he thought I’d be happy to sit here and watch him slit
your traitorous throat. Maybe I should have let him. Better get the hell out of
here, Cossack.”

Instants before the shot Taras had caught a scent, failed to
identify it. He realized now it had been jasmine from the courtyard gardens
outside, which should have warned him the door was ajar. Now the fragrance was
annihilated by gunsmoke, blood, sphincteral discharge. He looked down at the
blood, spreading and sheening like strawberry syrup on the tile around Azib’s
body.

“Marcus, what will you do?”

“I appreciate the concern, Cossack, I really do. Hell of a
friendship we had there for a while.”

“Marcus, I’m sorry. You know how I feel.”

“I’m all choked up about it. Just don’t worry about me,
okay? I’ll think of something. Probably a couple ways I can sell this to
Marchenko, as long as I don’t know what you’re up to.” Marcus forced a grin.
“Hey, if I could survive a twenty-foot wipeout in Waimea Bay, I can hack this.
What are you waiting for? Like the man said, Go west, young man.”

Taras hesitated at the open French door. In his
self-absorption it had never occurred to him that Marcus would be hurt and
angry at his defection. Now it seemed obvious, but there was nothing he could
do about it.

“You saved my life again, Cowboy.”

“Guess I did. Makes a couple of ’em, doesn’t it? Let’s just
hope they don’t make me even the score by coming after you someday.”

Years later Taras was to recall those peculiar parting
words, and find them incredibly ironic. But at the moment he only nodded a last
time at his friend, then stepped out into the dark garden.

Taras laced together the pasteboard covers of Marcus’
dossier, replaced it on the trolley beside the desk. Across the room, droplets
chased each other down the window glass in spermatic, quicksilver trails.
Outside in Dzerzhinsky Square a slanting drizzle halated the headlights orbiting
Iron Feliks’ bronze statue. But here and there through the shredding battle
smoke of nimbostratus, Taras could see vivid patches of cerulean. At Moscow’s
northern latitude—nearly the same as Copenhagen’s—the early summer twilight had
a while yet to linger, though Arensky’s watch showed eight-forty. He had worked
through dinner. Scattered around him on the baize blotter were the remains of
his lunch—a rind of black bread on a plate, an empty bowl slivered with
cucumber from the cold
okroshka
, a well-crumpled Pepsi can—victim of a
visceral spasm during the Afghan section of his reading.

He leaned back in the chair, rubbed his eyes, let out a deep
sigh of deskbound weariness. What had he gleaned? Probably nothing affecting
this assignment. But in the past hours of page-turning it seemed his entire
adult existence as well as Marcus’ had trooped before the reviewing stand of
his mind’s eye, in all its disarray. It was a disquieting experience,
witnessing—and judging—one’s life as parade rather than as cross-sectional
experience, as lived. There was the added dimension of direction. Where the
hell was he going? Or Marcus?

One thing at least was clear. Marcus Jolly’s erratic course
was intricately interwoven with his own, crossing it again and again, always fatefully.
Even eight years after their farewell in Peshawar, the mere linking of their
names on a transatlantic call from the Kremlin to the White House had been
sufficient to wrench Taras out of his new American life and catapult him back
to Moscow.

What would it take to finally slam the door on Marcus, as he
thought he had done that last night in their bungalow at Dean’s?

After slipping out through the garden, Taras had flagged a
cab to the USIA office in Peshawar’s University Town district, where his new
CIA contact had been pacing the vestibule. He had been asked questions all that
night and far into the next day, the first of countless interrogations. They
uncoiled in his recollection as an endless series of monotonous rooms,
inscrutable inquisitors and unspooling cassette machines—his tunnelway to
freedom. There had been more debriefings the following week at the U.S. Embassy
in Islamabad. And they came, one after another, week after stupefying week,
when he was flown to Washington. Nor had they altogether ceased even after he’d
gone to work at Langley. But he’d accepted the bargain for asylum, and gave
full measure.

In all those years Taras had heard nothing from Marcus. And
the KGB dossier had offered few revelations. It mentioned that     Marcus had been
commissioned a captain in July 1985, and returned forthwith to Moscow. What the
dossier did not say, but which Taras knew, was that Rodion Marchenko had also
left Afghanistan around July of 1985, removed as deputy commander by the new
general secretary; while the top Afghan spot had been given to General Mikhail
Mitrofanovich Zaitsev, transferred to Kabul from a key command in East Germany
with an ultimatum to crush the
mujahideen
rebellion within two years.
Zaitsev, needless to say, had failed, as had his successor, Gromov.

But there was to be an intriguing postscript to Afghanistan,
both for Marchenko and Marcus—an event not to be found in the dossier, yet
oddly confirmed by it when overlaid with the rough chronology in Arensky’s
memory. In February of 1986 Brigadier General Jalil Muhammad Raza had gone to
Geneva to address an international conference on the plight of the Afghan
refugees. But Raza never gave his speech. He was shot walking toward a taxi at
Cointrin Airport in broad daylight. He died two hours later at L’Hôpital
Cantonal without regaining consciousness. Two bodyguards were badly wounded.
All five recovered bullets were rimmed 7.62mms fired from a single Dragunov
sniper rifle.

The omission of this affair from Marcus’ dossier, and the
absence of any notated visits to Switzerland, could not be taken as evidence
either way. Documentation concerning a
mokroye dyelo
, a wet affair, was
often mislaid. But the official record revealed another, more suspicious
omission. In its blizzard of pages Arensky could find no explanation for that
fact that—in March of 1986, only a month after the assassination—Captain Marcus
Jolly, while ostensibly holding a GRU staff job, had been promoted to major.
And it had been around the same time, Arensky thought, that Marchenko had made
colonel general.

These coincidences were more than remarkable; to Arensky
they were conclusive. If Marcus had not done the Geneva hit on Raza, why would
the KGB claim he had never failed a wet operation? No, it had to be Marcus. It
was like him, and Marchenko, to finally get their man.

But there had been no further career climbing for either. As
a minor offshoot of the Kremlin cataclysms of the early ’90s, both patron and
protege had been sent to Siberia by Alois Rybkin—officially, according to an
article Taras had read at Langley in the military newspaper
Krasnaya Zvezda
—to
“shore up” the Siberian Military District. The old rocket general had gone
obediently enough, eager, no doubt, to lay the groundwork for his
Spetsnaz
mutiny at safe remove from Moscow. But, as Biryukov had mentioned at this
morning’s briefing, Major Marcus Jolly had never arrived in Novosibirsk.
Instead, obviously at Marchenko’s behest, he had vanished from Soviet soil on a
GRU deep-cover assignment.

Which closed the file on the Question of the Hour:

Where was Marcus now?

Taras shuffled up his notes—mainly concerning the surprising
discrepancies in Marcus’ U.S. background—and dialed Hank Kelleher, who had
returned to the Embassy.

“Hank, come and get me out of the Lubyanka—now!”

*

But the next afternoon he and Kelleher were back in
Biryukov’s office. The KGB chairman wanted to show them something. It was
centered on his desk blotter as Starkov ushered them into the office, a small
pen case covered in burgundy velour.

Not touching it, Biryukov framed the object with his plump,
splayed palms, like a TV pitchman reverently displaying The Product. “It
arrived this morning from Munich by your Federal Express, addressed to me. Most
reliable service. Better than diplomatic courier.”

“What is it?”

“I will let Lieutenant Colonel Starkov show you. It is best
not to handle it. There are still some tests to be made.”

They came close. Starkov, wearing white cotton gloves,
prised open the case’s hinged top. Inside, a plastic liner was grooved to fit a
fancy calligraphy pen, which was pictured on the satin lid lining. At the
moment, however, the groove was occupied by a human finger, its severed base
congealed with dark, dried blood. Taras now caught the faint sweet smell of
decaying flesh. Under matted black hairs atop the finger, the skin was white
and waxen, was deep bluish. Below the large joint was a paler, indented band of
skin, such as a ring would leave.

“Oh, Christ Jesus!” Kelleher’s oath was one of distaste.

“Not a pretty sight so early in the morning, I apologize,”
Biryukov said. “It was formerly attached to one of our agents. We just got
confirmation on the print. You are looking at the index finger of Captain
Walter Bauer of the
Bundeswehr
, the GRU and, quite recently, the KGB. Coincidentally,
we have just received word that the
Herr Kapitän
’s corpse was also
discovered this morning, minus this finger. It all fits together, you see?”
Biryukov smiled at his own small witticism.

“Where was it found?”

“In Bavaria. We’ll address that in a moment.”

“And Marcus, you think he was involved?”

“We know he was. Bauer phoned his handler in Directorate S
late last night. Told him that he had been contacted by Jolly, spent much of
the day with him, in fact. Bauer was one of several GRU agents who were led
astray by Marchenko’s cabal, but who fortunately realized the error of their
ways and began cooperating with us. The idiot should have informed us
immediately, and let us take care of Marcus. Instead, he tried to be a hero and
assassinate the assassin. Not a good idea for amateurs, you will agree, Major
Arensky.”

Taras nodded. “How do you know it was Marcus?”

The KGB chairman opened his other hand like a magician,
revealing a wadded handkerchief. He proceeded carefully to unwrap this and
withdrew a bulky finger ring of steel, set with a round black stone that looked
like onyx. Taras observed the width of the band matched the marks on the
severed finger.

“That was on the finger when you opened the box?”

Biryukov nodded. “But the ring was not Captain Bauer’s. It
belongs to Marcus Jolly.”

“How can you be sure of that?” asked Kelleher.

“The Roman initials ‘MJ’ are engraved inside the band. Also,
there was a note enclosed. It’s being analyzed, but I have a copy.” Biryukov
put on half-glasses and read from a scrap of paper: “‘Comrade Biryukov, I’m
returning your ring as it is now out of ammunition. —
Do svidanya
, Major
Marcus Jolly. P.S. You will have noticed another gift enclosed. Perhaps you can
get somebody to explain its significance in American slang.’”

Biryukov glanced up. “I see that you are both chuckling.
Perhaps one of you will be so kind as to explain the last part. A little joke,
I think.”

“Marcus is ‘giving you the finger.’” Kelleher demonstrated
the gesture. “It’s like an Italian flicking his thumbnail at you or pumping his
forearm. It means—”

“Fuck you?”

“Precisely.”

“Of course, I’ve seen the gesture many times in American
films. I just didn’t know the vulgar idiom. I suppose he thinks it quite
subtle. He might have sent me the captain’s genitalia, but then, that would
have been crude, wouldn’t it?”

“If it’s got Marcus’ initials on it, why does he call it
‘your ring’ in the note?” Taras wanted to know. “And what did he mean about
ammunition?”

“Because he either got the ring here in this building, or
was given it by someone else who got it here. It is one of the amusing little
items from our Technical Research Directorate.”

“Of course!” Kelleher said. “A flamethrower, right?  I’ve
seen pictures at Langley. Don’t look surprised, Volya. I know damn well you’re
up on most of the stuff from our spy-tech shop.”

“I try.” Biryukov smiled.

Taras was staring down at the bulky steel ring. He’d seen
switchblade rings, rings with hidden cavities for microfilm or cyanide
capsules, cufflinks that fired birdshot, hairspray-and-Zippo flamethrowers, but
this was a novelty. “Well, I can tell you one thing. Marcus didn’t wear this in
Afghanistan. We didn’t have time to fool around with black-bag tricks over
there. Can you show me how it works?”

“Pavel?” Biryukov gestured.

Lieutenant Colonel Starkov stepped forward, took the ring
and moved to the conference table.

“There are two tiny buttons, here and here. This one opens
the chamber.” The top of the ring mounting flipped open. “It fires one shot,
manual reload.” Starkov held up what looked like an ordinary gelatin capsule,
then inserted it into the small chamber. “This is a kerosene-based,
gelled-flame capsule. Another version of the ring fires a .22-caliber
long-rifle bullet, and there’s another that uses, um, chemicals. They’re not
interchangeable.”

Starkov closed the chamber. “The other button cocks the
weapon.” From one side of the bulky steel mounting a tiny barrel suddenly
protruded. “You aim by merely turning your finger. We recommend the index
finger, because to fire, you depress this same button with the thumb, which
retracts the barrel and projects the capsule with a tiny powder charge. It
bursts into flame only when it strikes the target. The gel tends to be very
sticky, much like napalm, and burns at a high intensity. The range is from
three to ten meters. I will demonstrate.”

Starkov slipped the ring over his forefinger and fired a
capsule into a nest of papers wadded in Biryukov’s wastebasket, which he had
placed in the center of the office. The resulting whoosh of flame triggered the
chairman’s smoke alarms, singed his ceiling plaster and was only extinguished
only when a uniformed guard burst in from the corridor with a CO
₂
canister.

When the guard exited, taking the blackened, smoking
container with him, Biryukov chuckled. “You know, Pavel, we might bring this up
at our next budget meeting. Think how much money we could save by doing away
with burn bags.”

The rest of the briefing was less flamboyant. Biryukov
passed along what other little information he had. The German officer’s body
had been discovered early that morning by children in a caravan camp along the
Isar River outside Bad Tölz, Bavaria. The sender’s address on the Federal
Express airbill turned out to be a seedy hotel in Munich; none of its employees
recognized photos of Marcus. The assassin had sprung the KGB’s trap and
escaped. Worse, he would be even warier next time.

“Nevertheless,” Biryukov summed up, “if he pursues
Marchenko’s mad vendetta, he will inevitably fall into our hands. We have only
to wait. In the meantime, I leave it up to you, Major Arensky. Is there,
perhaps, some line of investigation you wish to pursue?”

Taras wanted to leave Moscow, but he phrased it more
diplomatically: “I’d like to go to Bad Tölz, I guess. That’s still the
headquarters for our 10th Special Forces Group, isn’t it, Hank?”

“There’s a detachment there, yeah.”

“I can’t imagine what connection there might be with Marcus,
but I’d like to poke around. Maybe talk to your KGB people there, and the
federal police, try and reconstruct Marcus’ movements, figure out what he might
have been doing. I just can’t see hanging around here. As long as President
Rybkin stays in the Kremlin, or just goes back and forth in his motorcade to
Kuntsevo, I think he’s safe.”