from the sketch pad that fifteen minutes later was the face of the soldier Chernov had seen in Nizhny Novgorod.
“Is this him?” Dr. Denisov asked, looking up.
Chernov was mesmerized by the sketch. Especially the eyes. The professor had gotten the face exactly right. Even down to the nuAnces of the expression Chernov had witnessed on the soldier’s face.
“Major, show the good doctor the latest photograph we have,” Chernov said.
Paporov went back-to the desk Chernov had used, broke the seal on McGarvey’s photo file, and brought one of the 20X25 em color glossies over to Dr. Denisov.
“This was taken three years ago,” Paporov said.
“Is that the same man?” Chernov asked.
“Of course. There’s absolutely no question about it. He’s aged some, though not badly. And the man you described for me was obviously trying to disguise his features by not shaving, by changing the expression on his mouth, and to some extent in his eyes. But there’s no doubt.” Dr. Denisov looked up at Chernov. “But this is no mass murderer.”
“Oh, but he is, Professor,” Chernov said. “You cannot imagine the blood he’s spilled, and the blood he will continue to spill if he’s not stopped.”
Dr. Denisov looked again at the sketch. “Then he is a very dangerous man, perhaps even more dangerous than you suspect.”
“What makes you say that?” Paporov asked.
“Because the man in the photograph and in my drawing must be a master of deception. The man I’m seeing is determined, and probably hard, but he gives the appearance of a kind person. With perhaps a sense of humor.”
“He’s probably schizophrenic in that case, Doctor, because he is a killer.”
“Then I wish you luck in catching him,” Dr. Denisov said.
Chernov tore off the sketch and the next four blank pages. “Don’t speak to anyone about this.”
“Believe me, I won’t.”
While Paporov was taking the professor back to the university, Chernov compared the sketch to the dozen photographs in McGarvey’s file. Whatever lingering doubts he might have had about the validity of Yuryn’s report were dispelled. McGarvey had come to Russia to stalk his prey. There was no doubt that he meant to kill Tarankov. The only questions now were the where and the when. With a man such as McGarvey the assassination could come at any time and at any place, especially when it was least expected. But he wasn’t a martyr, which meant he not only knew how and where he was going to kill Tarankov, but he also knew how he was going to escape afterward.
It was nearly 11:30 by the time Paporov returned. He tossed his coat aside and went to the desk where the sketch and McGarvey’s photographs were laid out.
“Where did you see him?” he asked.
Chernov sat perched on the edge of one of the desks smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of tea. He looked languidly at his aide. “What makes you think I did?”
“McGarvey’s photo file was sealed. You never looked at his pictures before you described him to Dr. Denisov.”
“I remembered his file from the old days. He has a face that’s not easily forgotten.”
“But this doesn’t look like any of the photographs,” Paporov said, glancing at the sketch. “I was told that he was here in Moscow, and I thought how he must have aged, and the probability that he was here in disguise.” Chernov shrugged.
Paporov gave him an odd look, then chuckled. “You’re even better than I thought you were, Yuri.”
Chernov forced a smile. “If you’re going to run around masquerading as a major, I’d better become a general.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Chernov glanced at his watch. “I want you to make several copies of the sketch, and one of the photographs. We’ll give them to the Militia and FSK and let them hunt for the mass murderer.”
“That’ll get it out in public okay without tipping our hand. But where do we look besides here in Moscow?”
“Wherever Tarankov is expected to show up.”
“How do we find that out?”
“Leave that to me, Major. I have a few sources of my own.”
“I’ll bet you do, General,” Paporov said.
It was precisely noon when FSK Major Porfiri Gresko and Militia Captain Illen Petrovsky showed up at Lefortovo Prison and were directed back to the special operations office, where Chernov let them read the letter that President Kabatov had sent over this morning.
“I wondered what this was all about,” Major Gresko said, impressed. He was division chief of the intelligence service’s Special Investigations Unit, the same position Captain Petrovsky held in the Militia.
When Petrovsky looked up, his dark eyes narrowed. “If you ask me we ought to let the American kill him. Save us all a pain in the ass.”
“You’re not being asked,” Chernov said coldly. “You can refuse this assignment if you wish, in which case a replacement will be found.”
“Right,” the Militia captain said. “How can we help?”
Paporov handed them copies of McGarvey’s photograph and the sketch.
“His name is Kirk McGarvey. He’s a former CIA field officer, who for a number of years has worked freelance,” Chernov said. “Believe me, gentlemen, when I tell you that he is very good at what he does.”
“Was he a shooter?” Gresko asked.
“One of the best.” “I think I heard of him. Something or other with General Baranov and that crowd a while back,” Gresko said. “Who’s hired him to kill the Tarantula? The CIA?”
“No, it’s our own people,” Paporov said. He gave them copies of Yuryn’s report. “Needless to say this entire affair is to be considered most secret.”
“You’ll have no problem from me,” Petrovsky said. “I’m just a cop, and I’d rather Tarankov never know my name.”
Both men read the report, which with transcripts ran to about forty pages. When they were finished they sat in silence for a few moments.
“I was told that I would receive special instructions from General Yuryn when I got back from this meeting,” Gresko said. “I didn’t know about this operation, except that Colonel Yemlin has been under investigation for something. Those pricks out on the ring highway think they’re almighty gods.” He laughed and shook his head. “And here all the time they were nothing but a bunch of cocksuckers and traitors.”
“From this point both your services are to conduct the surveillance operation on Yemlin and on all of his contacts. Wherever the man goes, whatever he does, I want to know about it. But he mustn’t suspect anything. Nothing is to get back to the SVR. Not even a hint.”
“Why not just arrest the bastard?” Gresko asked. “Because there’s a possibility that he’ll make contact with McGarvey at some point,” Chernov said.
“How about McGarvey?” Petrovsky said. “How far can we take this?”
“For the moment he’s to be considered a mass murder suspect. Initially you’ll start your investigation here in Moscow. Hotels, the railway stations, airports, restaurants.”
“The Mafia?”
“If you have the solid contacts,” Chernov said. “I don’t want some Mafia boss finding McGarvey first, and then selling us out. He’s a wealthy man. If he offered enough money to the right people we’d lose him-“
“Is he still here in Moscow?” Petrovsky asked.
“I don’t know, but I suspect not. He probably came here for information, and he may have gone back to France where he’s making his preparations. But we’ll have help. The CIA and French SDECE have agreed to find and detain McGarvey for us.”
“On what charge?” the Militia cop asked. “The Americans are especially touchy on that issue. So long as McGarvey breaks no laws in his own country, or in France, there’s not much they could do.”
