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“General Petrovsky?”

“You again.”

“You seem to have stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

“I don’t know where you get your information from, American, but it seems to be good.”

“Thank you. But Komarov and Grishin will not take this lying down.”

“What about the Dolgoruki?”

“Bit players. The key danger is Grishin and his Black Guards.”

“Was it you who put out the rumor that the source was a senior officer in the Black Guard?”

“Friends of mine.”

“Smart. But dangerous.”

“The weak point for Grishin lies in those papers you captured. I think they prove the mafia has been funding Komarov all along.”

“They are being worked on.”

“So are you, General.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are your wife and Tatiana still there?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you would get them out of town. Now, tonight. Somewhere far away and safe. Yourself too. Move out. Go and live in the SOBR barracks. Please.”

There was silence for a while.

“Do you know something, American?”

“Please, General. Get out of there. While there is time.”

He put the phone down, waited awhile, and dialed another number. The phone rang on Leonid Bernstein’s desk at the Moskovsky Federal Bank headquarters. It was late at night and only a tape machine answered. Without the banker’s private home phone number, Monk could only pray that Bernstein would access his messages within the next few hours.

“Mr. Bernstein, this is the man who reminded you of Babi Yar. Please don’t go to the office, however pressing the business. I am certain Komarov and Grishin now know who is behind the shutdown of their TV exposure. You keep your family out of the country; go and join them until it is safe to return.”

He put the phone down again. Though he did not know it, a light flashed on a console in a heavily guarded house miles away and Leonid Bernstein listened to the message in silence.

The third call was to the residence.

“Yes.”

“Your Holiness?”

“Yes.”

“You know my voice?”

“Of course.”

“You should go to the monastery at Zagorsk. Get inside and stay inside.”

“Why?”

“I fear for you. Last night proved that matters are becoming dangerous.”

“I have High Mass tomorrow at the Danilovsky.”

“The Metropolitan can take your place.”

“I will consider what you say.”

The phone went down. The fourth call was answered at the tenth ring and a gruff voice said, “Yes.”

“General Nikolayev?”

“Who is ... wait a minute, I know you. You’re that damned Yankee.”

“That’s me.”

“Well, no more interviews. Did what you wanted, said my piece. No more. That’s it. Hear me?”

“Let’s keep it short. You should get out and go to live with your nephew on the base.”

“Why?”

“Certain thugs did not appreciate what you said. I think they might pay you a visit.”

“Ruffians, eh? Well, bollocks. Stuff ‘em all. Never retreated in my life, boy. Too late to start now.”

The phone went dead. Monk sighed and replaced his own. He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes. Time to go. Back to the warren of rat runs in the Chechen underworld.

¯

THERE were four killer groups and they struck two nights later, on December 21.

The biggest and best-armed took the private dacha of Leonid Bernstein. There were a dozen guards on duty and four of them died in the firefight. Two Black Guards were also cut down. The main door was blown out with a shaped charge and the men in combat black, their faces hidden by ski masks of the same color, raced through the house.

The surviving guards and staff were rounded up and herded into the kitchen. The guard commander was badly beaten but kept repeating that his employer had flown to Paris two days earlier. The rest of the staff, above the screaming of the women, confirmed this. Finally the men in black retreated to their trucks, taking their two dead with them.

The second assault was on the apartment house in Kutuzovsky Prospekt. A single black Mercedes pulled under the arch and drew up at the barrier. One of the two OMON guards came out of his warm hut to examine papers. Two men crouching behind the car ran forward with silenced automatics and shot him through the base of the neck, just above the body-armor. The second guard was killed before he could emerge.

In the ground floor lobby the man at the reception desk suffered the same fate. Four Black Guards, running in from the street, secured the lobby while six went up in the elevator. This time there were no men in the corridor at all, though the attackers did not know why.

The door to the apartment, although steel-lined, was taken apart by half a pound of plastic explosive and the six rushed in. The white-jacketed steward winged one in the shoulder before he was cut down. A thorough search of the flat revealed there was no one else there and the squad retreated frustrated.

Back on the ground floor they exchanged fire with two more OMON guards who had appeared from the rest area at the back of the building, killed one, and lost one of their own. Empty-handed, they retreated under fire into the avenue and took off in three waiting GAZ jeeps.

At the Patriarchal Residence the approach was more subtle. A single man knocked at the street door while six more crouched on either side of him out of the line of sight of the peephole.

The Cossack inside peered through the hole and used the street intercom to ask who was there. The man at the door held up a valid militia identification and said: “Police.”

Duped by the ID, the Cossack opened the door. He was shot immediately and his body carried upstairs.

The plan had been to shoot the private secretary with the Cossack’s gun, and kill the primate with the same piece that had been used on the Cossack. This gun would then be placed in the hand of the dead secretary, to be found behind the desk.

Father Maxim would then be forced to swear both Cossack and primate had disturbed the secretary rifling the drawers and in the ensuing interchange of fire all three had died. Apart from a huge ecclesiastical scandal, the militia would close the case.

Instead the killers found a fat priest in a soiled dressing gown at the top of the stairs screaming, “What are you doing?”

“Where’s Alexei?” snarled one of the men in black.

“He left,” babbled the priest. “He’s gone to Zagorsk.”

A search of the private apartments revealed that the Patriarch and the two nuns were not there. Leaving the body of the Cossack, the killer team withdrew.

There were only four men sent to the lonely cottage out along the Minsk Highway. They came out of their car and while one approached the door the other three waited in the darkness of the trees.

It was old Valodya who answered. He was shot in the chest and the four men poured into the house. The wolfhound came at them across the floor of the sitting room and went for the throat of the leading Black Guard. He threw up an arm and the hound’s teeth went deeply into it. A companion blew its head off.

By the embers of the log fire an old man with bristling white whiskers pointed a Makarov at the group in the doorway and fired twice. One bullet lodged in the door-jamb and the other hit the man who had just killed his dog.

Then three bullets in quick succession struck the old general in the chest.

¯

UMAR Gunayev called shortly after ten in the morning.

“I just drove to my office. There’s all hell going on.”

“In what way?”

“Kutuzovsky Prospekt is blocked off. Militia all over the place.”

“Why?”

“Some kind of attack last night on a building inhabited by senior militia officers.”

“That was quick. I’m going to need a safe phone.”

“What about the one where you are?”

“Traceable.”

“Give me half an hour. I’ll send some men for you.”

By eleven Monk was installed in a small office in a warehouse full of contraband liquor. A telephone engineer was just finishing.

“It’s linked to two cutouts,” he said to Monk, gesturing at the phone. “If anyone tries to trace a call on it, they’ll end up in a café two miles away. It’s one of our joints. If they get past that, they’ll be led to a phone booth down the street. By then we’ll know.”

Monk started with the private number of General Nikolayev. A male voice answered.

“Give me General Nikolayev,” said Monk.

“Who is that?” asked the voice.

“I could ask the same thing.”

“The general is not available. Who are you?”

“General Malenkov, Defense Ministry. What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, General. This is Inspector Novikov, Homicide Division, Moscow militia. I’m afraid General Nikolayev is dead.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“There was an attack. Last night. Burglars, it seems. Killed the general and his valet. Plus the dog. The cleaning woman found them just after eight.”

“I don’t know what to say. He was a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry, General Malenkov. The times we live in …”

“Get on with your job, Inspector. I’ll tell the Minister.”

Monk put the phone down. So, Grishin had finally lost his head. It was what Monk had been working toward, but he cursed the obstinacy of the old general. Then he rang the headquarters of the GUVD in Shabolovka Street.

“Put me through to Major General Petrovsky.”

“He is busy. Who is that?” said the telephone operator.

“Interrupt him. Tell him it is about Tatiana.”

Petrovsky came on the phone ten seconds later. There was an edge of fear in his voice.

“Petrovsky.”

“It’s me, the late-night visitor.”

“Damn you, I thought something had happened to my child.”

“Are they both out of town, she and your wife?”

“Yes, miles away.”

“I believe there was an attack.”

“Ten of them, all masked and armed to the teeth. They killed four OMON guards and my own steward.”

“They were looking for you.”

“Of course. I took your advice. I’m living inside the barracks. Who the hell were they? Bloody gangsters.”

“They weren’t gangsters. They were Black Guard.”

“Grishin’s thugs. Why?”

“I think because of those papers you confiscated. They are probably afraid you’ll prove there’s a link between the Dolgoruki mafia and the UPF.”

“Well, they don’t. They’re trash, mostly casino receipts.”

“Grishin doesn’t know that, General. He fears the worst. Have you heard about Uncle Kolya?”

“The tank general. What about him?”

“They got him. A similar killer squad. Last night.”

“Shit. Why?”

“He denounced Komarov. Remember?”

“Of course. But I never thought they’d go that far. Bastards. Thank God politicals aren’t my territory. I do gangsters.”

“I know. You have contacts in the Militia Collegium?”

“Of course.”

“Why not tell them? You got it from an underworld contact.”

Monk replaced the receiver and rang the Moskovsky Federal.

“Ilya. Mr. Bernstein’s personal assistant. Is he there?”

“One moment, caller.”

Ilya came on the line.

“Who’s that?”

“Let’s say you nearly put a bullet in my back the other day,” said Monk in English.

There was a low laugh.

‘‘Yes, I did.”

“Is the boss safe?”

“Miles away.”

“Advise him to stay there.”

“No problem. His private house was attacked last night.”

“Casualties?”

“Four of our people dead, two of theirs, we think. They ransacked the place.”

“You know who they were?”

“We think so.”

“Grishin’s Black Guard. And the reason was clearly retribution. The shutdown of Komarov’s propaganda broadcasts.”

“They may pay for that. The boss has a lot of clout.”

“The key lies in the commercial TV companies. Their reporters should have a word with a couple of senior generals of the militia. Ask if they have any intention of interviewing Colonel Grishin concerning widespread rumors, etc., etc.”

“They’d better have some proof.”

“That’s what newshounds are for. They sniff, they dig. Can you get in touch with the boss?”

“If I have to.”

“Why not put it to him?”

His next call was to the national newspaper
Izvestia.

“Newsroom.”

Monk affected a gruff accent.

“Get me senior reporter Repin.”

“Who is this?”

“Tell him General of the Army Nikolai Nikolayev needs to speak to him urgently. He will remember.”

Repin was the one who had done the interview in the Frunze Officers’ Club. He came on the line.

“Yes, General. Repin here.”

“This is not General Nikolayev,” said Monk. “The general is dead. He was murdered last night.”

“What? Who are you?”

“Just a former tank man.”

“How do you know?”

“Never mind. Do you know where he lived?”

“No.”

“He had a house just off the Minsk Highway. Near the village of Kobyakovo. Why not take a photographer and get the hell out there? Ask for Inspector Novikov.”

He put the phone down. The other major newspaper was
Pravda,
the former organ of the Communist Party, which politically supported the renascent neo-Communist Socialist Union Party. But to prove its new non-Communist credentials the party had been trying to woo the Orthodox Church. Monk had studied the paper enough to have memorized the name of the chief crime reporter.

“Put me through to Mr. Pamfilov, please.”

“He’s out of the office right now.”

Reasonable. He was almost certainly up at Kutuzovsky Prospekt with the rest of the press pack clamoring for details of the attack on Petrovsky’s flat.

“He has a mobile?”

“Of course. But I can’t give you the number. Can he call you back?”

“No. Contact him and say one of his sources in the militia needs to speak to him urgently. A major tip-off. I need his mobile number. I’ll call you back in five.”

On the second call he obtained the number of Pamfilov’s mobile phone and reached him in his car outside the senior police officers’ apartment building.