Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2) Page 20

  “Where’s the dog?” I asked, and they both shrugged.

  I went back into the rubble. She was sitting beside the corpse of the old man, which had tumbled down as well, and would not leave its side. I stroked her and she came closer to me, whining. Abrasha came over as well and hesitantly petted her head. She pressed her head into my hand and nuzzled me, and I dug my fingers into the thick fur at the base of her neck, a tried and true favorite of all dogs. She made approving sounds and licked my nose. Weizmann cringed and looked away.

  I suddenly felt a tiny lump beneath the fur of her neck. It was instantly gone, but I felt around for it until I found it again.

  “Abrasha, do they implant dogs here with those RFID chips?”

  “Not really. Only rich people, maybe. I don’t think he would’ve – oh! Well, come on, let’s go then!”

  We went back down the road, and I cut the fuel line on the prisoner van and set it on fire while Weizmann walked further down to bring the Range Rover. When he got back, the dog hopped into the car and sat next to me. On our way to Larnaca I called Guy from the local branch, and when we got to Abrasha’s house, the local country doctor was already there waiting for us.

  “Putting her under, right?” said the doctor.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Don’t worry. I got instructions from my brother – he’s a serious guy, a veterinarian.”

  Abrasha volunteered one of his three bathrooms to serve as an impromptu surgical suite, and the doctor put the dog under anesthesia and quickly retrieved a tiny memory card from the folds of her neck.

  “Yes!” Abrasha put out his hand. I snatched it away first.

  “You don’t have the proper clearance,” I said.

  Abrasha stared at me, veins popping out of his neck.

  “And I suppose I had clearance for all that wujah ras29 at the village?!”

  “Temporary clearance, now sadly expired. But you get to keep her,” I said, pointing at the madam who was slowly waking up. Abrasha shook his head, but then walked over to her and stroked her gently. She groggily licked his nose.

  * * *

  28A “tin neighborhood” – a slum comprised of tin shacks, or colloquially any run-down or miserable place

  29A shitstorm (lit. “headache”)

  32.

  VALE TUDO, MOSCOW, 1992.

  The Cyrillic letters flickered on the screen for a moment and were gone. From the quality of the black-and-white video it was clear that it was a pirated copy someone had made of a screen it was being projected on.

  The literal translation of Vale Tudo is “Everything Goes.” Any and every kind of punching, kicking, biting is permitted; anything someone can do to someone else without weapons or props. It is originally a Brazilian full-contact combat sport in which fights, at least traditionally, are fought to the death. In Russia, the fight usually ends when the referee declares one of the fighters “Good and dead.”

  The video showed a young Rasputin dressed in a black ninjutsu uniform, first destroying an older competitor, then the reigning champion, Gregor the Grizzly. In the last round, after Gregor has proven his absolute superiority, Rasputin managed to poke a finger into Gregor’s eye. Seeing an opening, he then repeatedly stabbed Gregor in the eye, over and over again with a hidden blade – the metallic glint of which could just barely be noticed in the grainy footage, if you were looking for it, which we were. Gregor signaled his surrender but Rasputin kept going, kicking him in the temple again and again, like a man possessed, until the ref cried out “Good and dead!” and Rasputin was crowned the champion of free Russia, 1992.

  After the fight, Rasputin went into a vehicle, and as he took off his uniform, he also took off the icepick hidden in his sleeve.

  “Christ, what a piece of work,” said Nahum. “And what is it that he does today, exactly?”

  “Special Operations Advisor to President Putin, and his personal representative at RET,” said Nora.

  Nahum gave his customary low whistle.

  Froyke gave me a distant sort of look. I remembered the motherfucker waving smugly at me from the helicopter skid back in Phicardou.

  “What’s there to smile about, Ehrlich?” asked Moshe.

  “Nip and tuck and no holds barred,” I muttered, for a moment visualizing Daniel Webster fighting Mr. Scratch in the snowfields of New Hampshire.

  “What?”

  “I guarantee you that’s from a Tarantino film. His mentor,” Nora said.

  “Almost, but not quite,” I corrected. “The Devil and Daniel Webster is a famous American short story, a kind of modern Faust.”

  “And it ends,” Anne-Marie interjected, “just where we are now. Don’t let this country fall into the hands of the devil again.”

  An old photograph came up on the screen: a group of Spetsnaz fighters in combat gear. In the center were the three officers: on the right Lieutenant Sergei Naryshkin, our dear colleague from the FSB; in the middle, surrounded by the red halo of Anne-Marie’s laser pointer, was CO Yuri Rasputin, and to the left an unnamed officer who was very reminiscent of Vladimir Putin.

  “They took this photograph in Grozny, following what was basically a genocide – he received a special citation after that, and a promotion. Today he’s a colonel, and now that we’ve received the Stasi records, I can say with a high degree of certainty that his father’s murder in ’82 was the main defining event of his personality.”

  “Murder? Didn’t he commit suicide?”

  “…Assisted suicide,” said Nora. “General Yuri Rasputin returned to Russia in 1981 from a tour in East Germany, and was appointed commander of the USSR anti-air defenses. In 1982, during the First Lebanon War, after our Air Force destroyed thirteen Syrian MiG squadrons and every single anti-air battery they had, he was removed from his command and committed suicide shortly thereafter – though, as I said, there are indications that he received considerable help.”

  “What’s in the Stasi material?” I asked.

  “Wait, stop,” said Moshe. “I’m sorry, I have to leave in fifteen minutes. Meeting with the PM. I’ll make up the rest when I get back.”

  Nora put on her pair of red reading glasses – I guessed it was more for the dignified look than for any real reason.

  “Okay, boss,” she said, “So there’s just one final important matter I’d like you to hear in person. Apart from the intel Boris bought from his ex-Stazi pensioner, we found more material on the card Avner brought from Cyprus. Horrifying, incriminating stuff, which accounts for Rasputin’s efforts –”

  Moshe sat back down. “Incriminating?”

  Nora pursed her lips and, after several seconds which felt like an eternity, raised her head and said, “Yes. Specifically, there are two clips: one of a group of Chechen prisoners digging a large pit only to be shot and dropped into it. Just like…”

  “Is he clearly recognizable?”

  “Absolutely. Both him and Naryshkin. Not only are they in command, they’re the ones who shoot the hostages. There’s also the video from the school…” Nora removed her glasses. “Anne-Marie, could you take over?”

  Anne-Marie gently patted Nora’s back and turned to us. “Their battalion went into a Muslim high school, shooting everyone in sight. One of their soldiers made his way into the gym, where a group of young girls were cowering in the corner with their gym teacher. The soldier called Rasputin, who got there immediately, together with Naryshkin, and then proceeded to… grab three of the girls, tear off their clothes, tie them up against the wall and… rape them.”

  “Excuse me, please,” Nora said, and quickly left the room. Anne-Marie apologized as well and hurried after her.

  Moshe raised his hand, signaling the short break we all very much needed.

  A moment later Nora and Anne-Marie returned to the room, composed, and sat down.

>   “I apologize,” said Nora, her eyes still red. “Again, Rasputin and Naryshkin are both plainly and unmistakably recognizable in both the clips.”

  “I’d like to mention some points which are crucial to the understanding of this personality,” said Anne-Marie. “As a child, Rasputin was raised in East Germany by his father, who commanded the Russian anti-air defense systems they had placed there. We know nothing about his mother, or the reason she was not present during his childhood. As a pupil he excelled in math, but was wild and undisciplined, and according to the notes from the pedagogical consultant, also exhibited indications of the Macdonald triad.”

  “What’s that?”

  Nora stood up to answer. “Cruelty to animals, pyromania, and persistent bed-wetting. Three factors that, when exhibited at a young age, are often predictive of later sociopathic tendencies, specifically serial offences. After they were done with the girls, Rasputin… murdered all three… with his knife. Then the rest of the soldiers came into the gym – the other girls were still in there… you can imagine the rest.”

  Anne-Marie placed her hand on Nora’s shoulder to signal that she would take it from there. Nora sat down.

  “The important thing to realize here is how dangerous this man is,” Anne-Marie said. “He trusts no one, and will carry out any task that he deems meaningful by himself. According to the East German consultant, during his childhood there were many signs of abuse and severe beatings at home, probably performed by his father.”

  Nora swiped at the screen and continued. “After he was discharged from the military he joined the KGB, where he worked with his good friend Sergey Naryshkin, at the same time as Putin was there. They’ve been inseparable ever since. This is important – Rasputin is officially a personal advisor of Putin’s, and his special ops executive. Among other things he was in charge of taking over the oligarchs’ assets, the oil companies and television station.

  “Over the last couple of years he’s been sitting on the RET board as the president’s representative, and he was also placed in charge of increasing the sales of Russian weapon systems across the globe.

  “What else…? The report from Sigma includes the financial analysis Nochimovsky prepared for us. In essence, all of RET’s stocks belong to the Russian government. But the director and advisor salaries include bonuses for every successful deal, for a total of over one hundred million dollars over the last three years, a sum which is suspiciously similar to the company’s net profits.

  “In other words, whatever the company makes is divided between a select few corporate executives.”

  Nora glanced at the material and added, “Their best selling products over the past three years are the S-300 and S-400 anti-air systems, which are considered impenetrable, including by the F-35 and F-22 stealth planes.”

  She continued elaborating on the technical specifications on Rasputin’s chosen product. Raising her voice slightly, she looked straight at me, like a scolding schoolteacher, and added, “The range of the system’s radar is just under 250 miles. In other words, any aircraft taking off anywhere in Israel will appear on their screen in Syria or Lebanon –”

  Moshe stood up suddenly, and Nora fell silent.

  “Excellent progress. I’m sorry, I have to run,” he said, and gestured to Froyke that they needed to talk later. Froyke nodded.

  “Hang on a minute, boss,” I said. “Now that we know Rasputin is Gigi’s killer, and is obviously very close to Putin…”

  Moshe cut me off, saying, “I’ll try, but I’m not at all sure we’ll get authorization. We’ll probably have to wait. I’ll let you know. I have to go.”

  After a brief silence, as Nora fiddled with her laptop and seemed unsure whether to continue, Froyke turned to me and asked, “Didn’t you have something to say?”

  “Yeah. When Nora showed us the footage from Ali Hamdani’s concert in Ansbach, we still didn’t know what Hamdani currently looks like, nor did we know Rasputin, or that they’re connected.”

  Froyke’s eyes glinted. He squeezed my shoulder and said, “There are days when you manage to actually justify the absurd amount of money we pay you. A shame they are so rare. Nora!” He raised his voice. “I’m glad to inform that the analytical mind is back in business. Could you play the footage from Ali’s concert in Germany, please?”

  “Sure. At least we’ll have a nice soundtrack. Which part?” She started typing quickly.

  “There… no, there!”

  She paused the film just after the camera made its slow pass across Yisrael Be’er, smiling and applauding. Right by his side sat the costumed Hamdani with his Scooby-do beard, and next to him none other than Yuri Rasputin. Nora and Anne-Marie cheered, and Nahum let out his usual juvenile whistle.

  Froyke looked less than happy. “Hamdani and Rasputin together, great, this we already know – but what the hell is Be’er doing there?” He spread out his arms. “I don’t understand this. Really, I don’t.”

  “Einstein said that coincidence is God’s way to remain anonymous,” Nahum said importantly.

  “I don’t believe in God,” said Froyke. “Or in coincidence. Nora, make sure Moshe get this, and please, until further notice, none of this just happened.”

  Nora nodded as Froyke scratched his chin and looked concerned.

  “All right, that’s all for now,” he said, getting up and heading for the door. Nahum and Nora stayed to talk for a moment, and I used the gap to catch up to him.

  “Froyke, I’m bringing this to Kahanov.”

  He looked at me for a moment, considering, then nodded and walked away, saying nothing.

  33.

  The lookout Boris had stationed at Vnukovo Airport reported that the executive Antonov carrying Hamdani and Rasputin had landed in the closed government terminal. The bodyguard and Grisha picked up Rasputin in his limo, and headed into town. Hamdani’s driver was right behind them. This slice of intel, according to Boris, cost about five thousand dollars.

  Each of the lookout posts was manned 24 hours a day: one in front of Vnukovo Airport, another in front of the entrance to RET, another in front of Hamdani’s building. There were three lookouts taking shifts at the airport, and two at each of the others. That’s five people for forty-eight hours – 240 man hours. Waste of resources, thought Boris, frustrated; two 9 mm bullets and all our problems are solved.

  Rasputin’s limo pulled up by Sytinskiy, in front of Hamdani’s building. They shook hands, smiling, and parted amicably. The driver came around and opened the door, and Hamdani came out in a blue baseball hat with the symbol of the Russian submarine flotilla.

  “Motherfucker got himself a tan,” the lookout reported, cueing Ismailov, who was waiting at the widow’s apartment. The driver opened the truck and handed the professor a big, elongated package, tube-shaped, wrapped in bubble-wrap.

  “Try to find out what’s in that package,” Boris said to Ismailov, who heard the elevator approaching and hurried to spill a bucket full of water and soap on the floor in front of it. The door opened, the professor raised a hand in greeting and immediately slipped on the soapy water, but managed to grab the rail and steady himself. Ismailov ran over to him, begging forgiveness, and slipped as well, bumping into Hamdani who quickly tried to catch him, dropping the package. It fell to the floor and rolled around a bit.

  “Don’t worry, it’s fine,” Hamdani said immediately, trying to calm Ismailov down. “Really, it’s nothing fragile, just a toy for my son.” Ismailov picked up the package, and looked at it innocently, trying to guess what was inside, then gave it back to Hamdani. He again said everything was fine, even pulling open the small tear in the bubble wrap to show Ismailov a large model of an Akula submarine, and straightening the little periscope which was bent during the fall.

  “It’s okay, really,” said Hamdani again.

  “Thank you, and sorry,” said Ismailov.

 
A moment later he went back in and reported to Boris that it was indeed a toy.

  “What a waste,” Boris said angrily and cursed in Russian. Two 9 mm bullets and all our problems are solved.

  ***

  The analysis of the satellite footage left no room for doubt: Hamdani and Rasputin had visited the submarine base at Novorossiysk, on the shore of the Black Sea, the home port of the flotilla nicknamed the “Mediterranean Fleet,” which is serviced at the ports of Latakia and the 720 Logistical Facility in Tartus, Syria.

  What is it about the “Mediterranean Fleet” at Novorossiysk that merits a personal visit by Hamdani and Rasputin? I wondered.

  Working premise number one: What’s good for them is bad for us.

  Working premise number two: Hamdani is looking for nuclear warheads he can stick on his missiles.

  Working premise number three: The Russians have a bunch of bombs and warheads which Rasputin is highly motivated to sell to the highest bidder.

  Together, these premises painted a threatening enough picture to pull Moshe out of his tranquil stoicism, assume a borrowed identity and take his “daughter” Nora and a large basket of intel brownies, as gestures of good will, on an expedited series of visits with the heads of corresponding intelligence agencies in the Ukraine, Norway, Germany and England – all of which had already encountered the Russian subs – as well as the CIA, the goal being to establish an immediate combined effort to locate and identify any looming threats. This series of meetings didn’t yield the results we’d hoped for, but it did deepen and broaden our knowledge of the new and highly unsettling Russian arsenal. Sooner or later this arsenal would be sold and reach the hands of the Iranians, the Syrians, the Iraqis, the Libyans, the Houthis, Hezbollah, and possibly from there the Gaza Hamas. Anyone with money in their pocket and God’s name in their mouth can have a slice.

  We also learned that the Rostov-on-Don, the stealthiest submarine in the world, the one the Americans call the “Silent Killer,” has an older, somewhat antiquated sister – built as a prototype of stealth submarines. And finally, the true surprises Putin was preparing for the world: a nuclear torpedo named Status-6, and an unmanned submarine. Both of which had an effective range of over 6000 miles and the ability to carry a 100-megaton nuclear bomb – in other words, to entirely destroy, say, New York, killing about eight million people and wounding another six, and creating a tsunami that’d make Hiroshima, Nagasaki and Chernobyl combined look like a walk in the park.