The Russian Deception (6 page)

CHAPTER 14

Morning sun streamed through the windows in the lobby of the hotel in Debar. The day was clear, the sky a pure blue that could have been painted by Michelangelo. The temperature had warmed to around fifty. Selena came away from the reception desk where she'd been talking with the day clerk. She held a tourist map in her hand.

"I told him we wanted to find a place where we could shoot some background information about the city and its people. There's an outdoor market that sells just about everything, not too far from here."

She pointed at a spot marked on the map.

"It's a park with a square. It's Saturday and the clerk says everybody goes there on a Saturday morning to trade or buy or sell. If there are any rumors about what happened in Skopje, it's a good bet we'll hear them there."

"Looks like it's a mile or so from here," Nick said. "We'll take the car."

Debar was located in a spectacular setting, surrounded by towering mountains covered with evergreens. The population of ten thousand made it a good-sized town. Snow was piled along the sides of the narrow streets. The pavement glistened with melting runoff.

Competing spires of mosques and churches dotted the roofline. The town was picturesque in an old Europe, postcard way. The photogenic buildings and people hid a dark reality of poverty and hardship that most tourists never thought about.

They drove up a hill past a mosque and reached the park with the market. Nick squeezed the VW into a spot and they got out. Ronnie and Lamont took a steady cam and a recorder out of the trunk, part of their cover.

Lamont held up the camera. "Lamont Cameron, ace reporter. This baby ought to take some great pictures."

"You actually know how to work it?" Ronnie asked.

"I know this high tech stuff is a little hard for you to grasp, my man, but don't worry. I've got it covered."

"Yeah, I can see that. It might help if you took the cap off the lens," Ronnie said.

"You guys want to focus on why we're here?" Nick said.

The market sprawled out over the park. People had placed tarps on the wet ground or brought folding tables to display their goods. It seemed as though there was a little bit of everything for sale. One corner was devoted to winter vegetables. They looked scrawny, unappetizing, a far cry from what you found in a Western supermarket. Women in shawls and long dresses huddled together around a fire burning in a barrel.

As they started to work their way through the market, Selena's use of the language brought smiles and an occasional correction. She asked people how they were doing, if they were selling well today, what did they think about what had happened in the capital. As soon as she mentioned the bombing the smiles disappeared. When she got to that point most had nothing more to say.

"They're worried," she said. "Nobody wants to talk about it. I think they're afraid."

Nick said, "Afraid of what?"

"I'm not sure. It hasn't been that long since this country was a dictatorship. They might be afraid of being reported to the police."

"For talking about what happened?"

"For talking to us about what happened," Selena said.

Word had spread throughout the market about the foreign news reporters. People began to turn away as they approached, pretending to be busy or simply turning their backs.

"I think we're about done here," Nick said.

"Maybe not."

Ronnie nodded at a dark-haired man walking toward them. He was about Ronnie's height and wore a quilted jacket against the cold. He had worn army boots, Ray-Ban sunglasses and baggy trousers. A wool watch cap completed his outfit. His ears stuck out under the edges. He came up to them and stopped.

"Hello. My name is Viktor."

He spoke to them in accented English and held out his hand. Nick hesitated for a split second and shook it.

"Nicholas," he said.

"A good name," Viktor said. "You are American reporters?"

"That's right. We're doing a special on Macedonia for public television back in the states. We thought Debar would give us some great pictures. More like the real Macedonia, not like the big cities."

"You have come to the right place. But if you really want to get the best pictures and, what is the word, location? Then you will need a guide."

With a flourish, Viktor produced a card offering his services as an experienced tour guide. Ronnie rolled his eyes.

"I don't think..." Nick began. Selena put her hand on his arm.

"Nick, I think it could be very useful to have a guide."

Viktor beamed. Selena continued.

"He could show us around. It could save us a lot of time. I'll bet he knows about everything going on here."

"That is so," Viktor said. "Simply tell me what interests you. I also know the best restaurants and cafés. This alone is worth hiring me."

Selena nudged him. "How much?" Nick asked.

Viktor gave him a calculating look. "Very cheap. Fifty dollars American a day."

"Thirty," Nick said.

Viktor sighed. "There is much to see. Forty."

"Done," Nick said.

"Good. Perhaps you would like coffee before we start?"

"I could use a coffee," Lamont said.

"You have a car?" Viktor asked.

"Over there." Nick gestured.

"There is a very good café on the edge of town. It is near the ruins of a church built during the Crusades. It would be a very good place for your pictures and the food is the best in Debar. It is owned by an uncle of mine."

"I don't know," Nick said.

"Oh come on, Nick, let's go. It's almost lunchtime anyway. Perhaps Viktor can tell us something about the history of the area while we eat."

As they left the market and walked back to the car, a man wearing a black leather jacket and standing near a vegetable stall took out his cell phone and dialed.

"They're leaving the market," he said. "They're with Viktor."

"He'll take them to the café," the man on the other end of the connection said. "Follow them there."

"On my way."

The man with the jacket put away his phone.

CHAPTER 15

Valentina's hotel room was across the street from where Todorovski was staying with his band of supporters. Since the bombing, the leader of the 11 October movement had surrounded himself with bodyguards. Four large men formed a living wall to protect him against any threat. Her assignment had become more difficult. She could no longer get close enough to inject the poison. She was considering the challenge when a call from Vysotsky changed everything.

"Valentina. There has been a change in plan."

Vysotsky's voice rasped in her ear.
He's been at the vodka again,
she thought,
smoking those peasant cigarettes.
He'll never change.

"Yes?"

"It has been decided a more obvious demonstration is called for concerning our troublemaking friend."

"What do you mean, obvious?"

"It is no longer necessary that his death appear natural. On the contrary, the more public and disturbing, the better."

"May I ask why?"

"It's not your concern. You have your orders."

"Our friend has scheduled another speech. He will be speaking from a balcony in front of his hotel tomorrow morning. It will provide an opportunity."

"Good."

"I need a weapon. A Dragunov SVD or something similar."

"I thought you might," Vysotsky said. "It is already taken care of. Go to this address." He rattled off the street and number. "Ask for Vlad. When you are finished, come home." He broke the connection.

Home.

Home was a small apartment off Leningradsky Prospeckt in downtown Moscow, convenient to the
Zamoskvoretskaya line
 of the
Moscow Metro
. Moscow in winter could be fun if you had the money for the clubs but Valentina preferred being in the field and away from the temptations of the city. It was dangerous for her to loosen the rigid control she kept on her inner demons. She had found that out the hard way.

There'd been a time when she'd explored the dark side of Moscow nights, careful to avoid notice by the watchdogs of her service. A memory flooded over her, unbidden.

She came awake naked and cold, in a strange hotel room, lying in a bed soaked with blood, next to a dead man. She couldn't remember anything except that she'd been drinking with him in one of the clubs earlier that evening.

The knife that had killed him was still in her hand. His blood was spattered over her, over the bed, on the walls.

She couldn't remember!

She got out of bed and made sure the door was locked. Her clothes were scattered on the floor. She went into the bathroom and rinsed off blood. She came out and dressed and went around the room, wiping down anything she might have touched. It took no more than a minute. Dawn was just cracking the Moscow skyline when she slipped out of the room. The door locked behind her.

She headed for the emergency staircase at the end of the hall. As the door to the stairs eased shut behind her, three large men came down the hotel corridor and stopped at the room she had just left. The leader raised his fist and pounded on the door.

She hadn't stayed to see what happened next. She'd left the hotel by a back entrance, unseen. For weeks she'd waited for the knock on the door in the middle of the night. It never came.

She'd struggled to remember anything about that night, without success. The only thing she knew for certain was that someone had set her up. It had been during a time when a power struggle was in full bloom between the Federation's internal security service, the FSB, and her own agency, SVR.

There was no way to know who was behind it. The experience frightened her and heightened her normal state of paranoia. Since then she'd avoided the clubs completely. Waiting in Moscow between assignments meant spending time in her apartment or in public places like the gym or library, where she could see everyone around her.

She shook off the unpleasant memories and walked to the address Vysotsky had given her. The apartment building was on Miroslav Krieza Street, blocks away from Alexander Square. She entered the building and found the apartment she was looking for on the third floor. She knocked on the door. Footsteps sounded on the other side.

"Yes."

"I am looking for Vlad."

"Who sent you?"

"A mutual friend in Moscow. You have something for me."

She heard a chain rattle on the other side. The door opened part way.

"What is your name?"

"Valentina."

The door opened all the way. "Come in."

The man was about fifty. He had a large mustache stained yellow with nicotine. She wrinkled her nose against the smell of stale garlic, body odor and tobacco that hung around him in a noxious cloud. He was shorter than Valentina and walked with a limp. He closed the door after her.

"Follow me."

He led her down a narrow hall that smelled of cabbage to the back of the apartment. A television played in one of the rooms to the side of the hall. A long box from a florist shop lay on the kitchen table, wrapped with a red ribbon and bow. Vlad slipped the ribbon off the box and opened the lid. Inside was a rifle in pieces, a short barreled Dragunov SVU. The specialized bull pup Spetsnaz variation was designed for quick takedown and concealment. Next to the barrel lay a
Pritsel Snaipersky Optichesky
, a
PSO-1 sniper scope. The pieces fitted nicely in gray foam lining within the innocent looking box.

Valentina gave a small sound of approval. She picked up the barrel and held it to the light and looked down the bore, at the shining steel and the rifling spiraling away to the muzzle. She set the barrel down and examined the receiver. The weapon was clean.

"It will do," she said.

Vlad snorted. "You know how to assemble it? It is very powerful. Have you fired one before?"

Vlad looked into Valentina's eyes and felt a sudden chill. He looked away.

"There is no need to return the weapon when you are finished with it. It cannot be traced."

"I don't intend to."

Valentina packed the pieces back into the box, closed the lid and replaced the ribbon. Except for the weight, it easily passed for a box of flowers.

"I was never here," she said. "You are clear about this?"

"Yes, of course. Never here."

Valentina nodded, once. She picked up the box.

"Thank you," she said.

Vlad looked surprised by the politeness. Valentina stifled an urge to laugh.

She was careful to close the door behind her as she left.