The old woman who rented McGarvey the efficiency apartment three blocks from the train station didn’t even ask to see his passport once she was satisfied that he wasn’t a Russian. The rent was 125 la tis or $250, a week. He paid for a month in cash, which included an old plastic radio, a small black and white television, and postage- stamp-sized private bathroom. A pay phone was located in the downstairs hall. The apartment was surprisingly clean, and looked down on Gogala Street, busy with truck traffic.
By the same process, but asking at a different set of cafe’s and markets, McGarvey found a secured parking stall in what once had been a warehouse near the train station, and only three blocks from the apartment, paying the rental fee of fifty la tis per week a month in advance.
On the way back to the hotel he bought a heavy duty combination lock from a variety store, then parked the Jetta in the lot near the hotel, and was back for a late lunch a little before two o’clock.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon touring the old city on foot, partially to kill some time, but mostly because he’d been cooped up, for so long that he needed fresh air and exercise.
There was a subtle air of sullenness among the Latvians he saw. Although the cafes and shops were filled, the streets were busy with traffic, the beer gardens humming, and every third person seemed to be speaking on a cellular phone, a sharpness of attitude was prevalent. All of Riga seemed to be pissed off. In part, McGarvey supposed, because they were finding that independence and freedom were not easy. Latvia and the other Baltic republics were still dependent on Russia for their day-to-day financial stability. The Russian economy was coming apart at the seams, yet Latvia’s future remained wedded to Russia’s, and nobody liked it.
Back at the hotel by six, he stopped at the front desk and told them that he would be checking out in the morning after breakfast, and would need his car out front by 8:00 a.m.
He had room service send dinner up to his room, and watched CNN with a detached interest. The real world didn’t seem to exist other than as a fantasy on television. It was a strange feeling, one that always came over him at this point in a mission. It was as if he had removed himself from the human race for the duration.
In the morning he would park the Mercedes in the garage he’d rented, come back for the Volkswagen, pick up a few groceries at the market, and settle in the apartment to wait for the other Mercedes to arrive from Leipzig. He was being hunted for. It was time to lay low to see if anyone was coming after him before he made the next move.
By 10:00 p.m.” Chernov was on the M1 motorway out of Moscow heading toward Smolensk a little more than three hundred kilometers to the southwest. The BMW seven hundred series was in excellent condition, and the evening sky, though moonless, was clear and star studded. The highway which ran nearly straight through the lake country was all but deserted, and he was able to push the car well over 130 kilometers per hour. The windows were up, and the tape deck played Mozart, so that he felt very little sensation of hurtling through the night.
He’d called a blind number in Moscow, identified himself by the code name Standard Bearer, and received the cryptic message Alpha-one-three-one-stop. It was a grid reference for Tarankov’s train stopped on a siding fifty kilometers east of Smolensk.
“I’ll arrive before midnight,” Chernov said.
There’d been-no answer, nor had he expected any. But his message would have gotten through to Tarankov that his chief of staff was on the way.
Since Chernov had been dispatched to Moscow, Tarankov had conducted no further raids. The first was scheduled for the day after tomorrow on the former Lithuanian trade capital on the Dnieper River, which was why the train had been moved to within fifty kilometers of the city.
The highway was totally deserted when he stopped a few kilometers west of the small city of Safonovo around 11:45 p.m. He entered Tarankov’s coordinates into a handheld GPS satellite navigator, which showed that the train was another five kilometers due west.
A couple of kilometers farther, a narrow dirt road led west away from the M1, and Chernov followed it, turning off his headlights as he came over the crest of a hill. Below, nearly invisible in the dark night, the train was parked on a siding, camouflage netting completely covering it from satellite or air reconnaissance.
Chernov waited patiently for a full five minutes until he was certain that he’d spotted the six commandoes who’d established a perimeter a hundred meters out.
They would know that he was up here because he’d made no effort to mask his approach. Standard operating procedure was for him to remain here until Tarankov was informed, and someone was sent up to escort him down. The delay was only slightly irritating, but Chernov approved of the routine.
He got out of the car, and leaned against the fender when headlights flashed in the trees from the direction he’d come. He pulled out the bulky Glock-17 automatic from his shoulder holster, glanced down toward the train to make sure no one was coming up toward him, then got off the road and sprinted through the trees to the crest of the hill, keeping low so that he was not silhouetted against the starry sky.
A car, its headlights off now, bumped slowly along the dirt track. When it topped the crest, it suddenly stopped and backed down. Chernov could see that it was a dark blue Mercedes. Paporov’s car from Lefortovo. The bastard had followed him.
Paporov turned the car around, then, leaving the engine running, got out, entered the woods and noiselessly hurried back to the top of the rise, passing within a few meters of where Chernov stood behind the hole of a tree.
At the top he dropped to one knee and studied the train through a pair of binoculars. Chernov, careful to make no noise himself, came up behind him.
“What are you doing here, Aleksi?”
Paporov, startled, looked up over his shoulder, his eyes wide, his face white in the starlight. “That’s Tarankov’s train.” “Yes it is, but what are you doing here?”
Paporov’s eyes went to the gun in Chernov’s hand. “You’re working for him, aren’t you?”
A pair of Tarankov’s commandoes wearing night vision goggles appeared out of the darkness to the left.
“Who is this, Colonel Chernov?” one of them asked.
“An unfortunate mistake on my part,” Chernov said, not taking his eyes off Paporov, who’d lowered his binoculars and let them hang by their strap from his neck. “I didn’t see anyone on the highway. How’d you follow me?”
Paporov glanced at the commandoes. “So it’s Chernov, not Bykov. Is General Yuryn in on this operation?”
“How did you follow me?”
Paporov shrugged. “I wondered about you from the start. You know too much for an ex-KGB officer living in Siberia. There’s a beacon transmitter in the trunk of your car.”
“We picked up the signal while you were a couple of kilometers out,” one of the commandoes said.
“So now what?!” Paporov asked. He was resigned. “I don’t suppose it would help if I said I’d be willing to keep my mouth shut and continue helping you find McGarvey?”
“No,” Chernov said. “The pity of it is that I was beginning to like you.”
“What can I say to make a difference?”-‘
“Nothing,” Chernov said. He raised the pistol and shot Paporov in the head.
The captain’s body flopped on its side.
“Take the car and the body back to Moscow tonight, and leave it a few blocks from Lefortovo. Take his watch, academy ring, wallet, money and anything else of value.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the commandoes said.
Chernov bolstered his gun, and drove his car down to the train. Tarankov and Liesel were drinking champagne and watching CNN in their private car.
“We heard a shot,” Tarankov said. “It was Captain Paporov,” Chernov said, helping himself to a glass of champagne. “His body will be returned to Moscow tonight, and made to look like a robbery.”
“Will this cause you any trouble?” Liesel asked.
“No,” Chernov replied indifferently. “You don’t mean to wait until the elections, do you,” he told Tarankov.
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you won’t pass up the opportunity of the May Day celebration in Red Square. If you get that far,
