Kill Switch (9780062135285) (11 page)

13

March 12, 8:55
A.M.

Perm, Russia

His visit to the safe house was thankfully anticlimactic. He left with four new passports—­two for him and two for Bukolov—­along with a roll of cash, a pair of credit cards, a second satellite phone, and the location of his meeting with Sigma's contact, the one who was supposed to lead Tucker to Bukolov.

This mysterious contact was also high on his list of suspects as the source of the intelligence leak that almost got him killed. The man's dossier rested on the seat next to him. He planned on studying it in great detail.

Next, Tucker took advantage of a list of local suppliers left at the safe house. He traveled to a bakery whose basement doubled as an armory. The baker asked no questions but simply waited for Tucker to make his weapon selections from a floor-­to-­ceiling pegboard. He then wrote down the price on a piece of paper, which he handed to Tucker with a gravelly, “No negotiate.”

The next supplier, the owner of a car lot, was equally taciturn and effective. Through Harper, Tucker had preordered a black Marussia F2 SUV. Of Russian manufacture, it had a front end that only a mother could love, but it was a brute of a vehicle, often modified for use by first responders or as a mobile command center.

After paying, Tucker told the owner where to leave the vehicle—­and when.

With six hours still to spare before he was supposed to meet with his contact, Tucker proceeded to the neighborhood in question: the Leninsky District on the northern side of the Kama River. Once there, he parked the Volvo and began walking. In between scouting locations and routes, he was able to relax and take in the sights.

Straddling the banks of the Kama and within the shadow of the snow-­topped Ural Mountains, Perm was home to a million ­people. While the city had its share of Soviet-­gray architecture, the older Le­ninsky District continued to maintain its original European charm. It was a cozy neighborhood of tree-­lined streets and secluded garden courtyards, spattered with small cafés, butchers, and bakeries. To top it off, the sun shone in a cloudless blue sky, a rare sight of late.

As he strolled, no one seemed to pay much attention to him: just a man walking his dog. He wasn't alone in that regard. Much of Perm was taking advantage of the handsome day. Kane took particular interest in a pair of leashed dachshunds that passed by on the sidewalk, all three dogs doing the customary greeting of sniffing and tail wagging. Tucker didn't mind, as attached to the other end of the leash was a buxom, young beauty in a tight sweater.

The day certainly had brightened.

Eventually, as they crossed the half-­mile-­long bridge spanning the Kama, he abruptly found himself in a different world. On this side of the river, it was distinctly seedier and less populated. The area was mostly forest, with roads that were either dirt or deeply potholed. The few inhabitants he encountered stared at the pair as though they were alien invaders.

Luckily, where he was supposed to meet his mysterious contact was only a quarter mile from the river. He studied it from a distance, getting the lay of the land. It was a bus stop shelter across from a sullen cluster of businesses: a grocery store, a strip club, and a body shop.

Tucker finished his reconnoiter, then gladly crossed back over the bridge.

He and Kane returned to the Volvo, found a nondescript hotel in the area, checked in, and took a fast nap. Tucker knew that once he had Bukolov in hand, he might not get a chance to sleep again until he delivered the man across the border.

That is, if he ever reached the border.

In the end, he didn't sleep well at all.

8:12
P.M.

By nightfall, Tucker found himself parked in an elementary-­school lot on the wrong side of the tracks—­or in this case, the wrong side of the
river
. The school had boarded-­up windows with a playground full of rusty, broken equipment that looked perfect for spreading tetanus.

He had picked this spot because it lay within a hundred yards of the bus stop where he was supposed to meet his contact. He shut off the engine and doused the lights and sat in the darkness for five minutes. He saw no other cars, and no one moving about. Again no one seemed to be following him. This made him feel more uneasy, not less.

It was what you
couldn't
see that usually got you killed.

He turned to Kane, motioning with a flat palm. “S
TAY
.”

He had debated the wisdom of leaving Kane behind, but if the meeting went awry, he wanted to make sure he had an escape vehicle. And considering the neighborhood, Kane's presence in the Volvo was better than any car alarm.

He often wrestled with this exact quandary. With the memory of Abel's death never far, he had to fight the temptation to keep Kane out of harm's way. But the shepherd loved Tucker, loved to work, and he hated to be separated for long.

They were a pack of two.

Even now, Kane displayed his displeasure at Tucker's order, cocking his head quizzically and furrowing his brow.

“I know,” he replied. “Just mind the fort.”

He took a moment to check his equipment: a Smith & Wesson .44-­caliber snubnose in his belt, a hammerless Magnum revolver in his coat pocket, and a similar .38-­caliber model in a calf holster. Additionally, he kept a pair of quick-­loaders for each in his pockets.

This was as close to
armed to the teeth
as he could manage.

Satisfied, he got out, locked the car, and started walking.

He hopped a chest-­high fence and crossed the school's playground to the north side. He followed a line of thick Russian larch trees, bare and skeletal, around a vacant lot that was dominated by mounds of garbage.

On the other side, fifty yards away, stood the bus stop. The curbside shelter was little more than a lean-­to over a graffiti-­scarred bench.

Across the street, under the strip club's neon sign—­a silhouette of a naked lady—­four thugs lounged, laughing, smoking, and chugging bottles of beer. Their heads were shaved, and they all wore jeans tucked into black, steel-­toed boots.

Staying out of their sight line, Tucker checked his watch. He still had twenty minutes.

Now came the waiting.

Back at the hotel, he had read the dossier on his contact, a man named Stanimir Utkin. He was Bukolov's former student and now chief lab assistant. Tucker had memorized his face, not that it took much effort. The man stood six and a half feet tall but weighed only one hundred fifty pounds. Topped by a shock of fiery-­red hair, such a scarecrow would be hard to miss in a crowd.

Right on time, a cab pulled to a stop before the bus shelter.

The door opened and out climbed Stanimir Utkin.

“Come on,” Tucker mumbled. “Don't do this to me.”

Not only had Utkin arrived by cab to the exact spot of their meeting—­displaying a reckless lack of caution—­he had come wearing what appeared to be an expensive business suit. His red hair glowed in the pool cast by the streetlamp like a beacon.

The cab pulled away and sped off.

The driver was no fool.

Like sharks smelling chum, the four thugs across the street took immediate notice of Utkin. They pointed fingers and laughed, but Tucker knew this phase wouldn't last long. Utkin was too tempting of a target, either for a mugging or a beating—­or more likely, 
both
.

Tucker jammed his hands into his pockets and tightened one fist around the Magnum. Taking a deep breath, he started walking fast across the open lot, keeping out of sight as he headed toward the back of the bench. He covered the distance to the bus shelter in thirty seconds, by which time Utkin had begun glancing left and right like a rat who had spotted a snake.

One of the thugs threw a bottle across the street. It shattered on the curb near Utkin's toes.

The skinny man stumbled backward, falling to his seat on the bus bench.

Oh
,
dear God . . .

Ten feet behind the shelter, Tucker stopped in the shadows and called out, keeping his voice low enough so only Utkin could hear him. According to the dossier, the man spoke fluent English.

“Utkin, don't turn around. I'm here to meet you.”

Another beer bottle sailed across the street and shattered in the street. Harsh laughter followed.

“My name is Tucker. Listen carefully. Don't think, just turn around and walk toward me, then keep going. Do it now.”

Utkin stood, stepped out from under the shelter, and headed into the abandoned lot.

One of the thugs called out, and the group started across the street, likely drawn as much out of boredom as larceny.

Utkin drew even with Tucker, who hid behind a stack of tires and trash.

He waved him on. “Keep going. I'll catch up.”

Utkin obeyed, glancing frequently over his shoulder.

By now, the thugs had reached the bus stop and entered the lot.

Tucker stood up, drawing out his Magnum. He took three paces into the light, showing himself. He raised the pistol and drew a bead on the lead thug's chest.

The group came to a fast stop.

Tucker summoned one of the Russian phrases he'd been practicing. “Go away, or I will kill you.”

He raised the Magnum, a mean-­looking weapon. His Russian language skills might be lacking, but some communication was universal.

Still, the leader looked ready to test him, until they locked gazes. Whatever he saw in Tucker's eyes made him change his mind.

The leader waved the others off, and they wisely retreated.

Tucker turned and hurried after Utkin, who had stopped at the fence that bordered the schoolyard. He was bent double, his hands on his knees, hyperventilating.

Tucker didn't slow. He couldn't trust the thugs wouldn't rally up more guys, additional firepower, and come after them. He grabbed Utkin's arm, pulled him upright, and shoved him toward a neighboring gate.

“Walk.”

Coaxed and guided by Tucker, they reached the car quickly. He opened the front passenger door and herded Utkin inside. The man balked when he spotted Kane in the back. The shepherd leaned over the seat to sniff at the stranger.

Tucker placed a palm atop Utkin's head and pushed him inside. Still panicked, the man balled up in the passenger seat, twisted to the side, his eyes never leaving Kane.

Not the most auspicious introduction, but the man had left him little choice.

Tucker started the engine and drove off.

Only once back over the bridge and in more genial surroundings did Tucker relax. He found a well-­lit parking lot beside a skating rink and pulled in.

“The dog won't hurt you,” Tucker told Utkin.

“Does
he
know that?”

Tucker sighed and turned to face Utkin fully. “What were you thinking?”

“What?”

“The taxi, the business suit, the bad part of town . . .”

“What should I have done differently?”

“All of it,” Tucker replied.

In truth, Tucker was partly to blame. From the dossier, he had known Utkin was a lab geek. He knew the meeting site was dicey. He should have changed it.

Utkin struggled to compose himself and did a surprisingly admirable job, considering the circumstances. “I believe I owe you my life. Thank you. I was very frightened.”

Tucker shrugged. “Nothing wrong with being frightened. That just means you're smart, not stupid. So before we get into any more trouble, let's go get Bukolov. Where is your boss?”

Utkin checked his watch. “He should still be at the opera.”

“The opera?”

Utkin glanced up, seemingly not bothered that someone seeking to escape the country, someone being hunted by Russian elite forces, should choose such a public outing.

Tucker shook his head. “You remember when I said don't be
stupid
 . . .”

Over the next few minutes, he got the story out of Utkin. It seemed—­faced with the possibility of never seeing the Motherland again—­Abram Bukolov had decided to indulge his greatest passion:
opera
.

“They were doing one of Abram's favorites,” Utkin explained. “
Faust
. It's quite—­”

“I'm sure it is. Does he have a cell phone?”

“Yes, but he will have it turned off.”

Tucker sighed. “Where is the opera house and when does it end?”

“In about an hour. It's being held at the Tchaikovsky's House. It's less than a mile from here.”

Great . . . just great. . .

He put the Volvo in gear. “Show me.”

10:04
P.M.

Ten minutes before the opera ended, Tucker found a parking spot a few blocks from the Tchaikovsky's House. As angry as he was at Bukolov for choosing to preface his defection by dressing up in a tuxedo and attending a public extravaganza, the deed was done. Still, this stunt told him something: Bukolov was either unstable, stupid, or arrogant—­any of which did not bode well for the remainder of their journey.

Tucker left Kane in the car and accompanied Utkin down the street. He stopped across from the opera's brightly lit main entrance and pointed toward its massive white stone façade.

“I'll wait here,” he said. “You go fetch the good doctor and walk to the car. Don't hurry and don't look at me. I'll meet you at the Volvo. Got it?”

“I understand.”

“Go.”

Utkin crossed the street and headed toward the main entrance.

As he waited, Tucker studied the crimson banner draped down the front of the theater. The fiery sign depicted a demonic figure in flames, appropriate for
Faust,
an opera about a scholar who makes a pact with the devil.

I hope that's not the case here.

A few minutes later, Utkin emerged with Abram Bukolov in tow. The billionaire leader of Russia's burgeoning pharmaceutical industry stood a foot shorter and forty pounds heavier than his lab assistant. He was bald, except for a monk's fringe of salt-­and-­pepper hair.