Day of Wrath

“Gladly.” Peter ticked his reasons off one by one. “Okay.

Kandalaksha is at the center of everything we’ve investigated. First, the O.S.I.A inspection team plane takes off from there — and it crashes.

Second, one of the men killed aboard that plane is carrying two kilos of pure heroin — which he apparently picked up somewhere on the base.

Third, the man who sabotaged the plane was stationed at Kandalaksha.”

“But not as a regular maintenance officer,” Helen chimed in abruptly, remembering their interrogation of Lieutenant Chernavin.

“Grushtin was supposed to be working on some kind of secret project, right, Peter?”

He nodded, smiling crookedly at her. “Exactly. A special engine project. One Chernavin seemed to believe an American military officer should know about. But General Serov’s aide certainly seemed mighty pissed when the kid mentioned it to us.”

“You think there is a connection?” Koniev asked. “That this project is somehow tied in to Gasparov’s heroin smuggling?”

“I really don’t know, Major,” Peter admitted. “Not for sure.

What I do know for sure is that something big and nasty is going down at that air base. Something Grushtin was willing to kill to conceal …”

“Something that meant he had to die once we started zeroing in on him,” Helen finished for him.

“Yep.”

Koniev nodded slowly. “It makes sense.” He sighed. “I will file another request with the Ministry of Defense this evening. We will need its authorization to conduct an in-depth investigation on the air base.”

“I really wish you didn’t have to do that, Alexei,” Helen said slowly.

“Yes,” the MVD major agreed sadly. “It seems evident that the men we are hunting have allies somewhere inside my own government.

And that they will doubtless know of our decision to return to Kandalaksha within hours. But we must have permission to enter the base. How else can we proceed?”

Helen nodded her reluctant agreement and saw Peter doing the same thing. She had the uneasy feeling that following the proper channels was keeping them at least one step behind the bad guys, but what other options were open to them? Once you started cutting corners to obtain results, you were on a slippery slope — headed toward the dangerous paradox of breaking the law to uphold the law. No. She and Koniev were officers of the law — and that meant obeying the law, even if that put their investigation at risk.

Kalitnikovskoe Cemetery, Moscow (D MINUS 19)

Rolf Ulrich Reichardt leaned forward from the back seat to check the time on the dashboard clock of his Mercedesbenz sedan. It was nearly midnight. He sat back-staring out the window at the rows of tombstones crowding the cemetery to his right. During the 1930s, Kalitnikovskoe had been infamous as a dumping ground for the bodies of those murdered in the KGB’s Lubyanka Prison. Did the man he had come to meet remember that? The German rather suspected he did. Felix Larionov, “the Lariat,” was known for his heavy-handed sense of irony.

Johann Brandt, acting as his chauffeur and bodyguard for this covert meeting, stiffened suddenly. “They’re here.”

Reichardt peered through the windshield and saw two cars pull up and park just across the darkened street. Both were brandnew Mercedes.

Russia’s criminal classes had a well-developed appreciation for fine German automotive engineering.

Three hardfaced men in black leather jackets and slacks climbed out of the first car and fanned out — scanning the immediate area for any signs of trouble. They were heavily armed.

One carried a shotgun. The other two cradled Uzi submachine guns.

Satisfied, one turned and flashed a thumbs-up toward the second Mercedes. Its high-beams flashed once.

Responding to the prearranged signal, Reichardt and Brandt climbed out of their car and walked slowly toward the middle of the street. Except for a briefcase carried by Brandt, they were unencumbered, and they were careful to keep their own hands in plain view. The rear doors of the second Mercedes popped open.

Two men stepped out and came forward to meet them.

Both were well dressed and middleaged, but one, a wiry, white-haired man, bore jagged scars on his face that testified to a hard life. A brightly colored tattoo on the back of his left hand showed he had spent time in the Soviet prison system.

Reichardt recognized Felix Larionov from earlier business dealings.

The vory v zakone, the “thief professing the code,” controlled several of Moscow’s most powerful and active criminal gangs. The second man, fleshier and softer-looking, was Larionov’s sovetnik, his “adviser”—a term meaning everything from legal counselor to second-incommand.

Larionov stopped just out of arm’s reach. He nodded once.

“Herr Reichardt.”