Arbat, Moscow
Colonel Kolya Chernov tipped the bottle of vodka, draining the last few ounces into his glass, the fresh ice crackling in protest. It wasn’t tradition for a Russian to drink his vodka over ice, but he had acquired a taste for ice cold drinks while serving in too many hot and dusty shitholes where ice and refrigeration were rare commodities.
Even in the dead of a Russian winter, he preferred his drinks cold.
He loved the freezing, harsh wind on his face, the crisp air filling his lungs.
Embracing the winter—it was what made one Russian.
He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, his feet up on a ratty ottoman, and sighed. He loved his country, hated his government, and hoped he’d die before he saw it completely go to shit. And he had a sneaking suspicion that might be sooner rather than later.
He’d been benched.
Three weeks ago they had returned from the mission in Chechnya and the general had sent him home. “Take some time for yourself. Courtesy Moscow.” The last two words had been delivered with a look that implied it was a warning, the general’s embrace suggesting he didn’t expect to see him again.
If he was going to die, then so be it, but why the hell did it have to take so long? The waiting was worse than the deed. It left him thinking that perhaps they had changed their mind, that the phone might ring telling him to report to base.
Yet the fact it was just he and the others from that mission sent home told him this was SVR related, and they rarely changed their mind.
He sipped his now ice cold drink, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before tilting his head back and letting gravity do its job, the delicious concoction created from boring ingredients something he had been enjoying since he was a boy.
A knock at the door had him putting his glass down and frowning.
This is it.
Nobody visited him. Not without calling first or using a coded knock a few trusted souls knew. He glanced at his PSS Silent Pistol sitting on the table beside him then stood, leaving the weapon where it was.
Where’s the fun in that?
It would be a four man team, two below, two sent in to do the job, their arrogance at being the best—which they weren’t—enough to think they didn’t need greater numbers. In fact, they were probably foolish enough to think he’d just stand there and die honorably.
Sorry, comrades, you’ll have to work for it.
He opened the door and his eyebrows jumped.
It was the quintessential little old lady.
“What can I do—”
The back of a fist swung at him from just out of sight, cutting him off. Expecting it, both hands shot up, blocking the blow, as a second man came into sight, weapon drawn. He grabbed the forearm of the first man with his right hand, bracing it at the elbow with his left, then jerked back, the arm snapping, his still unseen assailant screaming in agony as Chernov pulled him inside by the now broken arm, using him as a human shield as the other man advanced, weapon aimed directly at him.
Chernov shoved the screaming man at his still advancing partner, the man tossing him aside with his gun hand. Chernov darted forward, smacking the man’s hand as it swung around, hitting him on the wrist and forearm, the gun clattering to the worn linoleum floor with a thud. His hand clamped around the man’s now tender wrist and twisted, hauling him forward while he stepped to the side, knocking the man off balance. Controlling his fall, he swung him around, his arm hooking under the man’s chin and pressing against his neck.
A moment later it snapped.
His partner was still on the floor, gripping his dangling forearm, pushing himself toward the door when the little old lady stepped inside, brandishing a gun. Chernov stepped forward, snapping a foot directly at her chest, her surprised expression almost comical if she didn’t remind him so much of his own grandmother as she sailed out of the apartment and crashed against the neighbor’s door, her head slamming against the cheap wood, leaving her dazed.
He picked up the now dead agent’s gun and placed two rounds into the back of the crawling man then two more into granny before stepping into the hallway and listening.
Nothing.
He pulled the old lady’s body inside, closing the door, then stepped over to the window and peered at the street below. There was a black Lada Priora below, idling, the exhaust from the tailpipe a dead giveaway, the make and model, and the fact it was illegally parked, almost acting like a large SVR sign on the roof.
He stuffed his feet into a pair of boots, grabbed his jacket, hat, and gloves, then the go bag sitting inside his closet, ready for just such an event. He had money, passports, weapons, ammo, and a couple of untraceable cellphones.
Just for the day his country might betray him.
He stepped out into the hall, closing the door as his neighbor stepped out, a bitter widow who had yet to say a kind word to him in the ten years he had lived there.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Somebody hit my door.” She spotted the dent the old lady’s head had made. “Oh my God, what’s this!”
“Probably some drunk.”
“Drink will be the death of this country!” cursed the woman, shaking her fist at the world. “The death of it! It took my husband, and it will take my country!”
Chernov took the stairs two at a time, leaving the still ranting woman alone, her shouts good cover for his footfalls, though they were light, he putting as much weight as he could on the handrail in anticipation of a third SVR operative at the ground level.
Second floor.
He paused, peering down, and smiled. It was the third man, standing at the mailboxes, checking his watch, probably wondering what was taking so long.
Chernov began to whistle, taking the remaining steps at a leisurely, calm pace, his hands in his pockets, one gripping his gun, the other balled into a fist. He stepped onto the marble floor, it cheap and cracked from years of neglect—as was most of Russia—and nodded at the man. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The man avoided eye contact, instead grunting, SVR notorious for not wanting to be looked at.
It would be his downfall.
The man glanced up as Chernov approached and his jaw dropped as he recognized the man his partners had failed to terminate.
He reached for his gun.
But Chernov had his out and pressed against the man’s chest before he could get a grip on it.
“ID.”
The man glared at him then reached inside his jacket.
“Slowly.”
A wallet inched into view.
Chernov took it, flipping it open and chuckled. “SVR. What a surprise.”
“You’re a dead man.”
Chernov smiled. “You first.” He put two rounds into the man’s chest, pocketed his ID, then exited out the rear door, leaving the fourth agent to wait in his warm car to finally get concerned enough to check on his tardy comrades.
As he headed out into the brisk fall day, he dialed Yenin, a trusted comrade and friend, and his second-in-command on the mission.
It went to voicemail.
He frowned.
“It’s me. If you hear this get to safety, immediately.”
He dialed the other two members of his team and both went to voicemail.
He left similar messages.
But it was too late.
This would have been a coordinated op, all four hit at once. Either his men were still alive, going into hiding just as he was, or they were dead, not so lucky as to have as suspicious a nature as he had, a little old lady known immediately to simply be a diversion.
Yenin didn’t live far, only a few blocks away, and he kept a swift though not too attention drawing pace, cursing as he rounded the corner, the distinctive flash of emergency lights greeting him along with a throng of onlookers, all staring up.
He looked.
And his chest tightened.
He couldn’t tell from the distance and the rapidly failing light who it was that hung by his neck from a balcony three stories up, yet he knew exactly who it was.
Yenin.
I’m sorry my friend.
He wanted to defend the man’s honor and shout down those gathered who disparaged the man’s memory by criticizing his committing suicide. It wasn’t suicide; there was no way. Yenin was one of the happiest men he knew, and this was a cover up. Suicides were far too frequent in Russia, especially among men, and this wouldn’t even be investigated.
The SVR would see to that.
I wonder what they had planned for me.
A quick cab ride had him at Lieutenant Vasnev’s apartment, there no commotion outside, no obvious SVR presence.
He decided to risk it. If there was even the slimmest chance of saving one of his men, he had to take it.
What he found had him cursing.
Vasnev, dead in his bed, an empty bottle of pills at his side, a note resting on his chest.
I’m sorry for what I did.
Vague, meaningless. Enough to know he had committed suicide, not enough to know what he was talking about.
Unchallengeable.
Vasnev’s cellphone vibrated on his nightstand.
He ignored it.
It stopped, then a text appeared. He looked.
And frowned.
Answer the phone, Colonel.
He cursed.
Another text.
Or Lieutenant Ishutin dies.
He grabbed the phone and hurried from the apartment, it clear he was under surveillance.
The phone vibrated in his hand and he took the call.
“Surrender yourself, Colonel, or he dies.”
“Go to hell, we’re dead already.”
“You still have one way out of this, Colonel.”
He stepped out into the street, checking both ways, seeing no one obvious that might be tracking him. He returned to his brisk pace, dodging into an alleyway and sprinting. “Put him on.”
“Very well.”
There were some shuffling sounds then the young lieutenant’s voice.
“Colonel?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t do anything these bastards say! Save yourself, I’m already dead!”
A gunshot rang out and he ended the call, grabbing a young boy by the back of his jacket as he rode by on a bicycle.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Want an iPhone?”
The boy eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
Chernov handed over the phone. “It’s yours. Just pedal as fast as you can to Gorky Park then back. Got it?”
The boy grabbed the phone, his eyes wide, a greedy grin on his face.
And he was around the corner in seconds.
Chernov tucked himself between a couple of garbage bins and waited, the cold slowly eating into him as he plotted his revenge.