CHAPTER 8

Moscow, a few days before the incident in Pardubice, eight a.m.

The thick crowd slithered like a giant snake through the poorly lit tunnels, as if pulled by some gravitational force. Commuters lost their individual identities as soon as they entered the underground metro. They merged into one form, one faceless creature.

Oleg Kerzhakov observed this rush-hour performance at the Lubyanka station every day. It was hard to believe that not so long ago, more than three dozen people had lost their lives here in the 2010 Moscow Metro suicide bombing. How many of these expressionless commuters were masking gut-wrenching fear as they jammed themselves into the cars of the red line?

The member of Russia’s intelligence agency, who was in his mid-thirties and had the buff physique of a boxer, had been among the first at the scene. He was a ten-year veteran of the service, and his experience with terrorist violence had protected him somewhat from the trauma caused by the horrific sight of shredded bodies and distraught survivors.

Every day that passes erases a bit more blood off the walls, he told himself as he made his way to his job with the FSB, the KGB’s successor. After suffering a knee injury in a bad parachute landing, he had been disqualified from work in the field and was now overseeing security at the FSB headquarters near the station. It was a big change from his previous assignment, but at least he still got to carry a gun.

Oleg walked through the long subway tunnels, scanning each face and examining every movement made by the passersby. When he happened upon a pretty girl—and Moscow had plenty—he’d crack a flirty smile, and that usually did the trick. He had once been insecure about his nose, broken in more than one boxing match, but he quickly discovered that women in the capital found it fetching. His bad-boy image, accentuated by his unruly hair, definitely played in his favor.

Oleg was heading toward the metro exit with a little extra pep in his step, when a cute businesswoman, who appeared to be in her forties, caught his attention. Just as he was switching into seduction mode, he put on the brakes. A few steps away from the woman, two twentyish-looking men in hooded sweatshirts were walking briskly. Oleg froze in his tracks, causing those behind him to step on his heels. He crouched and pretended to tie his shoes. From this position, he spotted one guy’s hand on the butt end of a gun sticking out of his pocket.

Before the pair could get lost in the crowd, he started shadowing them.

The police presence in the underground had been reinforced after the bombings of March 2010. Oleg thought it would be wise to hand the matter over to the first officer he could find. But why was it that there were never any cops around when they were needed? Oleg couldn’t find even one. So he followed the two guys all the way to the platform and stationed himself behind them. The men were nervously rocking from one foot to the other like two junkies. A train pulled up, and as the hoard started piling into the cars, the two men shoved their way through, rudely elbowing the other commuters. An elderly man lost his balance, and if it weren’t for Oleg, who just barely caught him by the raincoat, he would have fallen on his face.

Gramps leaned against him and struggled to stand up straight.

“Thank you, young man,” he said, smoothing his coat and catching his breath.

“No problem,” Oleg replied, anxious to catch up with the two thugs. Before he could move, the doors closed, and the train sped away.

“I’m so sorry. You’ve missed the train because of me.”

“No worries,” Oleg said. He had just spotted two police officers loafing on the other side of the platform. Their nonchalance bothered him only slightly more than the annoying old-timer.

“I’m going to leave you now. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, yes. Go on, my friend.”

Oleg hurried toward the officers. When he reached them, he whipped out his badge and explained the situation. One of the men relayed the information via radio to a colleague in the next station. All around them, the commuters went about their business without paying any attention. A kid bumped into one of the officers and coughed.

“Cover your mouth when you cough,” he reprimanded.

As the boy turned to the officer, Oleg took in his face. He was sickly pale. His eyes were red. He started coughing convulsively, and blood spurted out of his mouth. The boy tried to grab the police officer’s sleeve before falling to the ground.

Following protocol, Oleg stepped back and surveyed the platform. Everywhere he looked, people were throwing up, stumbling, and rubbing their eyes. Some were writhing on the ground, bathed in their own vomit. Blood was smeared across the walls and floor. Dozens of people, maybe a hundred, were dying before his eyes.

“Quick, tell them to shut down the metro!” he yelled at the two officers, who seemed to be too stunned to move. “And demand backup!” He didn’t have to say it twice. The men shot off.

Oleg spotted the old guy in the raincoat. With his back turned to Oleg, the man was walking slowly toward the other end of the platform. Something wasn’t right about him. Oleg could feel it in his gut.

“Sir!” he yelled. No response. He called again.

This time, the man stopped. He and Oleg were separated by about a hundred feet and a pile of bloody bodies. The sound of an arriving train thundered through the tunnel.

The old man turned to face Oleg, and he couldn’t believe what he saw. The man was holding an ordinary-looking metal spray can and wearing a gas mask. The train slowed and stopped. The man raised his free hand and started waving good-bye to Oleg.

The agent opened his blazer and drew his weapon. He took aim as the doors were about to open and pulled the trigger. Three times. Three shots to the target. Straight to the chest. Gramps swung to the side before thudding to the ground. The train resumed its course without letting its passengers off, meaning the two officers had sounded the alert just in time.

Searching for survivors, Oleg moved from one body to the next. With one hand, he shielded his eyes from the glare of the overhead lights. His steps were becoming more labored. Just after his throat began to itch, an intense burning sensation ripped through his chest. Oleg propped himself against a pillar to catch his breath.

A coughing fit rose in his throat and shook his body with such force, he lost his balance and fell to the ground. The forensics team would determine the time of death: eight ten a.m.