He could not know that his cache of equipment in the boathouse had been discovered and had been tampered with. Yenikeev had filed down a crucial part within the rebreather’s regulator valve, making it very likely that it would fail, and McGarvey would drown. If, by some chance, the man survived that, and brought the AK74 ashore with him, he would be in for another surprise.
Yenikeev had removed the assault rifle’s firing pin, rendering it useless. In a very large way, Baranov fervently hoped that McGarvey would make it this far. He wanted to see the man’s face with his own eyes. He wanted to look at the devil at the moment of his death. For thirty years Baranov had made his plans, had bided his time when necessary, and leapt forward when it was possible. From Mexico to Cuba, from Czechoslovakia and Hungary to Laos and Vietnam, from Poland to Afghanistan, his touch had been felt. At home he had patiently consolidated his power, his cause getting an unexpected boost when that moderate fool, Gorbachev, had become party secretary with his prattle about perestroika and glasnost. There were still enough men in positions of power within the Rodina who distrusted that bastard. The shift of power would have happened this year. There would have been a bloodless coup. Would have been … except for one man; Depending upon what was waiting for him back in Moscow, the takeover could be delayed for years.
But McGarvey was coming here. This very night. It was going to give Baranov the greatest of pleasures to spit in his face when he was finally dead. A dark figure appeared out of the woods to his left.
Baranov flinched and started to step’back before he realized that it was Yevgeni Mikhailovich Kedrov, the chief of his six-man bodyguard contingent. “Comrade Chairman, you have a visitor at the house” Kedrov called softly.
“Who is it” Baranov demanded. He’d half expected some of those fools from the Horst Wessel to come out here. The conference had gone as he had expected it would, even though he had been preoccupied with his own thoughts. “A Militia captain” Baranov’s eyes narrowed. “From where”
The Militia were the Soviet Union’s civilian police. “Moscow. He says he’s come here on orders to arrest you, sir. For a moment Baranov could hardly believe his own ears. But then everything fell into place for him. Of course the American president would have called Gorbachev after the debacle in the Med. There had been no proof linking that operation to the KGB … no hard proof, that is. But Gorbachev would have instigated an investigation nonetheless. He glanced again toward the opposite shore. “Keep a sharp watch here, Yevgeni Mikhailovich. He’ll be coming across tonight”
“Yes, Comrade Chairman. But what about that Militia captain”
“Not to worry. I’ll take care of it. Who is up there with him” Sergei.
“Where are the others”
“Dmitri and Leonty are on the road by the gate. Gennadi and Rotislav are here in the woods with me” The house was Perched on the crest of the hill overlooking the lake. on the other side of the hill was a broad swampy area thick with underbrush and brambles. McGarvey was coming, and he was coming from across the lake. There was no doubt of it. “Keep your eyes open” Baranov said again and he started up the path to the house, its lights visible through the woods. On the way up he felt in his jacket pocket for the reassuring bulk of his pistol, and he smiled. The fools had sent a Militia captain out here to arrest him. it was ludicrous. He would return to Moscow, all right, but under his own power and in his own good time. Once there, they would never dare to arrest him. The Lubyanka was a fortress in more than one way, with its many dark secrets. Once home they would not touch him. They could not. A Mercedes 240D was parked on the driveway in front of the house. A man sat behind the wheel. Baranov angled over to the car. As he approached, the car door opened and the man got out. He looked young and very nervous. “You are Captain …” Baranov demanded. “No, Comrade. I am Lieutenant Lubyanov” the young man said. The irony of the man’s last name was rare just at this moment, but Baranov suppressed a smile. “Your captain is in the house”
“Yes, sir”
“What are your orders” The young man was embarrassed. “Ah … we were sent to … I I “Never mind” Baranov said, smiling warmly this time to put the man at ease. “I will speak with your captain. We’ll get this straightened out in no time at all” Baranov turned and walked up to the house. He could feel the young lieutenant’s eyes on his back, and it irked him. But his control was marvelous, as it had always been. He was met in the main stairhall by Sergei Sergeevich Nemchin, one of his bodyguards. “Where is he”
“In your study, Comrade Chairman” Nemchin said. “I didn’t know what to do with the stupid bastard”
“What’s his name”
“Rybalkin. Nikolai Petrovich. He’s a captain with the Moscow District Militia”
“Here to arrest me”
“Yes, sir” Nemchin said with a laugh, but he seemed just a little nervous about it. “Stay here, Sergei Sergeevich, I’ll handle the captain” Nemchin nodded. His jacket was off, and a big sweat stain had darkened his shirt beneath his shoulder holster. “Stay here”
Baranov repeated, and he went back to his study, hesitated for just a moment at the door, and then went in. Militia Captain Rybalkin was a moderately built man with thick black hair, which was combed straight back, and a broad honest face. Baranov thought the name might be familiar; perhaps his father or an uncle worked in Directorate One headquarters out on the circumferential highway. “Good evening, Captain”
Baranov said. Rybalkin had been standing at the window looking outside.
He nodded grimly. “Comrade Valentin Illen Baranov, I have come to place you under arrest and return you immediately to Moscow for prosecution” “I see” Baranov said. “On what charges”
“Treason. I I Baranov’s breath caught in his throat. “I am under orders from Special Moscow District Prosecutor Kuryanov. Sir, I wish no trouble from you or your men”
“Nor shall you have any, Comrade Captain, if indeed you are who you claim to be, and you do have the orders and proper authority” Rybalkin pulled out his Militia identification and held it up for Baranov to see.
Then he handed over a sheaf of papers which was the Bill of Arrest.
Baranov took it to his desk, where he put on his glasses and quickly read through the legal document that named him and Arkady Kurshin as co-conspirators in three indictments: adventurism, engaging in acts contrary to Soviet law, and engaging in activities likely to bring harm to the Soviet Union. It was Gorbachev, of course. But he had had no direct hand in this. He had simply pointed a special prosecutor in the right direction and allowed his much-vaunted “rights of Soviet law” to go into action. Baranov looked up. The Militia captain was watching him closely. “Call Sergei in here, would you please, Captain” Rybalkin’s eyes narrowed and he stiffened, his hand going instinctively to the gun at his side.
“I promised you no trouble, Captain, and I meant it. But if I am to leave with you, I will have to instruct my people what to do here”
“Very well” Rybawin said. “We will also require Comrade Kurshin to accompany us back to Moscow”
“That, I’m afraid, will be impossible. Major Kurshin is dead”
“Who killed him”
“The Americans, I think”
“Where is his body”
“That I couldn’t say, Captain. But it is not here” Again Rybalkin hesitated. It was clear that he understood something was not quite right here, and that he was probably in some sort of danger. But his orders were official. They were his protection. He turned and had started to open the door into the corridor when Baranov withdrew his pistol from his pocket, switched the safety off, cocked the hammer, and fired two shots. The first bullet smashed into Rybalkin’s left lung a couple of inches from his spine, and the second entered his head just below his left ear, slamming him against the door, where his legs collapsed and he fell dead. The door was shoved open seconds later by a white-faced Nemchin, his pistol in hand. “It was a mistake, Sergei Sergeevich” Baranov said. “He hadn’t come here to arrest me at all. I think he was here to assassinate me”
Nemchin’s eyes went from Rybalkin’s body to the gun in Baranov’s hand.
“Yes, Sir” he said. “He probably works for the Americans. His lieutenant is out in the car. Kill him” Nemchin hesitated for only an instant, but then turned on his heel and raced down the corridor.
Baranov could hear his steps in the stairhall and the front door being flung open. He folded the Bill of Arrest and put it in his pocket as he came around the’desk. It would turn out, he supposed, that these two had been gunned down by McGarvey. Unfortunate.
Nemchin was back moments later. Baranov met him out in the corridor.
“The car is gone”
