Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (2 page)

Two Weeks Ago

Ognenny Ostrov Prison – 650 miles north of Moscow

Lake Novozero – Vologda Oblast, Russia

Deputy Director Antonin Turov waited impatiently as the small motorboat edged ashore, its outboard motor tilted up due to the shallow water at the edge of the island. The two Federal Penitentiary Service sergeants in the boat with him pushed hard against the stony lake floor with wooden oars, trying their best to ensure their superior would not get wet as he exited. The craft grounded and Turov stepped off without a word, leaving the two subordinates with the boat as he strutted up a gravel pathway with his hands behind his back. His breath evaporated in frozen puffs as a light snow fell, dusting the top of his fur hat.

Stopping in front of a twelve foot high chain-link gate topped with spiraled razor wire, he looked up at a thick waterproof canvas covering that concealed the clustered buildings beyond. Only a few tall spires could be seen above the fencing that surrounded the compound. A uniformed guard stood at either side of the gate, Kalashnikov rifles held at the ready across their chests.

Fire Island
, Turov thought with an amused smile as he waited for the guards to approach. The name was due to some religious fanatic who claimed to have seen a pillar of fire strike the island over five hundred years ago. At the hands of the sheep, who flocked anytime someone claimed to see an apparition or some other supposed sign from God, the island had quickly become home to a monastery. Monks had existed there for centuries until 1917 when the Bolsheviks had captured it and converted it to a prison to hold their enemies. It had remained a prison ever since and, in Turov's opinion, a prison was a much more fitting use of its nearly impenetrable medieval architecture.

"
Kto tam
?" one of the guards barked in Russian as the two approached.
Who's there?

"
Zam nachalnika
Antonin Turov," the director responded sharply, "
pozvol'te mne proiti
!"
Deputy Director Antonin Turov, let me through
!

The guards took in the uniformed man in front of them and snapped to attention before responding, "Yes, sir!"

"Open the gate," one of the guards yelled up to the watchtowers positioned on either side of the entrance.

A buzzing alarm filled the air as pneumatic gears ground and the gate began to separate in the middle. Turov stepped inside the compound and was met by two more guards who had been sitting inside a tiny shack beside one of the watchtowers. A thick plume of white smoke poured from the shack's tin chimney and the air smelled of burning wood.

"I am Lieutenant Rostislav Kutzow. How may we help you, comrade deputy director?" the commanding guard announced as he approached and stood at attention. Behind Turov, the gate screeched closed.

Turov drew his thick frame up and squared his shoulders. "Take me to the warden."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, saluting before he turned and marched toward the grouping of non-descript two story buildings, painted white to camouflage them against the surrounding area. All evidence of the facility's former pious use had been erased by nearly one hundred years spent housing the motherland's worst criminals. Traitors, defectors, spies and Nazis had all been imprisoned here and most had died within these walls, their remains buried in shallow graves on neighboring islands. Since the last years of the twentieth century the facility, referred to in Russian as
pyatak,
had housed only those prisoners whose crimes had earned them a death sentence
.

Once someone was committed to Fire Island they did not leave, not even after their sentence had been carried out. Instead of their remains being returned to relatives, their bodies were burned in an incinerator along with the facility's trash. But that would change tonight. For the price of one million euros, Antonin Turov, one of six Deputy Directors of Russia's Federal Penitentiary Service, had arranged for a prisoner to exit the facility and disappear into the wilderness beyond.

As the lieutenant ahead of him unhooked a set of keys from his belt and approached a heavy metal door, the sound of it being unlocked from within surprised him. Moments later a stern looking man in a neatly pressed uniform emerged. The lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted without a word, staying completely still as the man looked him up and down before moving his gaze to Turov. A knowing look crossed his face and he gave the director a curt nod. He was the prison's warden and his assistance had only cost twenty five thousand euros.

"Colonel Vitaly Kupchenko, I presume?" Turov asked.

"Get lost," the warden barked at the lieutenant, who was on the move before his superior's breath had evaporated in the frigid air. "Yes. I am he," he said to Turov, before he turned back towards the metal door and disappeared inside.

Turov decided to let the warden's lack of proper recognition of his superior slide for the moment and followed him into the prison.

Once he was inside the warden slammed the door shut and locked it. Water ran from Turov's eyes immediately as the smell overwhelmed him. A mixture of what he could only imagine was feces, urine and human decay assaulted his nostrils. He removed his fur hat and held it to his face to avoid being sick, the smell of his sweaty head preferable to the stench of the prison. The warden seemed unfazed. He walked ahead of Turov and led him deeper into the prison.

The floor was unfinished wood and creaked bitterly as the two heavy-set men passed over it. The walls were constructed of a rough plaster, painted green on the bottom half and white on the top, although it had obviously been many years since it had been properly maintained. In many places bare wood was visible, the plaster chipped away. Turov imagined the bare spots could easily have been caused by the heads of inmates being struck against the wall; brutality was commonplace throughout the Russian prison system, especially this far from Moscow's oversight.

"I must admit, comrade director, that I had second thoughts when you told me who it was that you wanted. I cannot imagine anyone having a use for this animal," the warden said, as they passed through another metal door, the slam as the warden closed it behind them echoing along the empty corridor.

"I have no use for him. Most likely he will be hunted like wild game, but that is not your concern."

"Yes, sir," the warden replied and handed Turov a thin olive green folder.

From there they walked in silence, twisting and turning through the prison corridors. On either side of them were white metal doors that marked the entrances to cells. Each door had a three inch by six inch slot through which prisoners would put their hands to be handcuffed, all now closed for the night. Occasionally they passed a larger open room where bored guards sat watching fuzzy television sets no bigger than Turov's open palm. The guards all stood suddenly and saluted as they passed.

After descending a switchback of a staircase that led into the facility's basement and walking another one hundred yards Turov could feel the heat from the incinerator, hear the constant roar coming from the end of the corridor. The warden approached a white door, unlocked the hand slide and barked an order. "Get up, filth! You have an appointment!"

Seconds later a pair of hands appeared through the slide and the warden removed a set of handcuffs from his belt, ratcheting them around the man's wrists before unlocking the heavy door and pulling it open. From the darkness within the cell a skinny man with a dark complexion emerged. He appeared to be hairless and was wearing a black and gray striped jumpsuit and matching hat that sat atop his bald head. Looking him up and down, Turov was surprised that someone would pay so much for his freedom, but his instructions had been clear. The mysterious, disembodied voice he had come to know as Levent Kahraman wanted the Chechen child killer, Ruslan Baktayev.

Turov couldn't imagine why anyone would want such a man. The only assurance he had asked for was that whatever Kahraman's purpose was, it would be fulfilled far from the borders of Mother Russia. Kahraman had agreed, the money had been real and the deposit untraceable, so it was Baktayev that Kahraman would get.

Unwinding the string that bound the olive green folder, Turov opened it. Inside was a dossier and a mug shot. He ignored the dossier and looked closely at the photo and then at Baktayev. It was hard to believe he was looking at the same man. Eight years inside the living hell that was Fire Island had a tendency to change a man. Although Baktayev did not appear to have ever been a heavy man, there were marked differences in his face; his skin was sallow and his eyes sunken, obvious signs of malnourishment. His clothes hung from his body like rags from a scarecrow. The warden pushed the man's chin up revealing the words
Cut Here
tattooed across his throat in Russian. This was the man Turov was looking for. He gave the warden a curt nod signifying his approval.

"Assume the position," the warden ordered.

Baktayev turned his back and bent over in silence.

The warden grabbed his handcuffed wrists and pushed them upwards into the air, holding him in a stress position. Pushing the prisoner forward in the same position all the way up the stairs, the warden made his way back to the door they had first entered, Turov following closely behind. Just before reaching the exit, the warden pushed Baktayev into a side room containing only a plain government issue desk, a telephone and two metal folding chairs. The warden shoved Baktayev into one of the chairs where he sat looking up at the two Russian officers, his eyes burning with hatred.

"So tonight I meet Allah?" he asked, his voice almost joyful.

The warden spat at the prisoner. "The only afterlife you will meet, you filth, is the angry souls of the fathers whose children you murdered."

Baktayev smiled as the spittle ran down his face, the toothy grin revealing a set of black teeth.

Turov walked behind the desk and picked up the telephone. Pressing several numbers, he waited for an answer. Baktayev and the warden listened as someone picked up on the other end and a voice gave instructions. After a few brief exchanges, Turov hung up and nodded at the warden who walked over to a tiny closet door, opened it and removed a small black package. "Get in," he said to Baktayev as he unrolled the package on the floor, revealing it to be a body bag. He pulled a knife from his uniform and made three small cuts near the head of the bag. "Get in, now."

Minutes later Turov and the warden emerged from the prison with two guards following them, the body bag being carried between them. They walked through the deepening snow to the front gates, which the warden ordered them to open. None of the guards even looked up as they passed; their orders were obvious. At Turov's boat, the body bag was carried aboard by the two sergeants who'd arrived with him and placed at the very front, where all three pairs of eyes could be on it as they made their way back across the lake.

Lastly, Turov withdrew a white envelope from the breast pocket of his crisp uniform and handed it to the warden, who opened it, peered inside and nodded before turning to walk back to the prison without a word. "
Soblyudaite subordinatsiyu
!"
Follow the chain of command!
Turov ordered, not letting the warden's disrespect slide this time. The warden froze in place, turned on his heel and saluted, a terrified look on his face. Turov flashed a sideways smile and scoffed as he boarded the vessel. Had the warden really thought their business arrangement made them equals? He'd find out soon just how wrong he was.

Present Day

9:28 p.m. Eastern Time – Thursday

Verndale Drive

Roanoke, Virginia

The sound of his own footfalls and the occasional whish of a vehicle passing over the wet pavement were the only sounds Declan McIver heard as he jogged through the old neighborhoods of Northeast Roanoke. Constructed in the 1960s and 70s, the streets were lined with one story brick ranches and split foyer homes on postage stamp lots, most featuring well-manicured lawns. The occasional work truck sat dormant along the curb in front of its owner's house and once in a while a dog barked from behind a fence as he passed by. The dense clouds threatened rain and the crescent moon was visible only with the occasional break in the gloom. Silver birch trees lining the main road rustled slightly in the early spring breeze and the air smelled of damp hydrocarbons from the well-traveled asphalt.

At just shy of six feet tall, with dirty blonde hair, icy blue eyes and a closely trimmed beard sporting flecks of grey, Declan was a common sight to anyone who lived nearby. Although he purposely varied his routine, anyone who paid attention would recognize him as a regular that jogged through the flower-named streets, whether he chose to do it in the pre-dawn hours or shortly after nightfall, as he had tonight. He was in top physical shape for a man of forty-one years and his rugged but handsome looks fit in nicely in the working middle class area.