Banich came out of the trees to join Soloviev by the second smashed limousine. He grimaced, trying to control his nausea as he surveyed the carnage. “Why waste time planting Duroc and his men, Colonel? No investigator in his right mind would tie them into this!”
The Russian looked up at the smoke billowing above the trees before glancing down at him. “We still have ten minutes or so before the first patrols will arrive here, Mr. Banich. As far as any investigation is concerned…” He shrugged. “In America, the truth may be of paramount importance, but in Russia, the truth is always what is convenient for those in power. And once the dust settles from this day, it will be very convenient to blame the French for this butchery.”
He shrugged again. “It makes a compelling story, you understand. Outraged by the heroic Marshal Kaminov’s refusal to stab Poland in the back, renegade French security agents took their revenge here and then fled in panic — leaving a few of their fallen comrades behind.” Soloviev nodded toward one of the corpses lying at Banich’s feet. “An old and tired story of foreign treachery, I agree — but one familiar to many of my older countrymen. It will make that man’s death easier for them to understand and accept.”
“I see.” Banich stared down at the corpse in front of him. The bulletproof vest the old man had been wearing hadn’t been good enough to stop high-velocity rounds fired at point-blank range. A faint breeze eddied across the road, stirring the thin wisps of white hair above a strong, square-jawed face now smeared with blood. He looked up. “So that’s Kaminov?”
The Russian nodded grimly. “Yes. That was Marshal Yuri Kaminov.” He turned away from the body of his former leader. “You and your men had better head back to the city now, Banich. Take one of the trucks, but leave the other for us. Those identity cards and uniforms should serve you long enough to find shelter or make your own way back to your embassy.”
“What about you, Colonel? What will you do now?”
Soloviev glanced dispassionately at the mass of burning wreckage and tangled corpses. Then he looked back at the American. “I have more work ahead, Mr. Banich. This was only a beginning.”
CHAPTER 34
Razor’s Edge
“Major!”
Irritated by the shouted summons, Major Pavel Zubchenko of the FIS tossed his newspaper aside. He fastened his tunic collar and stepped out onto the dacha’s front porch. “Yes, Sergeant? What the devil is it now?”
The hatchet-faced noncom who had yelled for him pointed toward the forest. “That smoke’s still rising, sir. And they’ve got helicopters out now.”
“What?” Zubchenko came to the railing and squinted into the distance, shading his eyes against the bright noontime sun. He frowned. The man was right. There, ten or fifteen kilometers to the west, several plumes of dark black smoke were still visible, climbing into a cloudless blue sky. And those small specks orbiting slowly around the rising smoke were definitely helicopters.
He chewed his lower lip, suddenly worried. The first time the sergeant had called his attention to the smoke curling up from an area near Kaminov’s country house, he’d dismissed it as unimportant. Foresters burning deadwood. Or maybe the old marshal’s overzealous security detail conducting yet another exercise or realistic drill. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Zubchenko turned on his heel and went back inside. Russia’s civilian President, kept isolated and under virtual house arrest with his family, had the run of the dacha’s second floor, but his FIS “protectors” had commandeered the whole first floor for their own offices and living quarters.
Moving faster now that his men couldn’t see him, the major went straight to his desk and picked up the direct phone line to Moscow. Nothing. He jiggled the receiver hook impatiently. Still nothing.
Zubchenko turned pale. The line was dead.
“Sir!” Another shout from the front porch brought him outside in a hurry.
He was just in time to see a column of armored vehicles — eleven wheeled BTR-80s — turning onto the long gravel drive leading to the dacha. He could see helmeted soldiers riding with the hatches open. There were regular army troops aboard those APCs, a full-strength motor rifle company at least. The major swallowed hard. “Call out the guard, Sergeant. But no one opens fire without my direct order, understand? These men may be reinforcements for us.”
“Yes, Major.” The noncom sounded unconvinced. He turned and began bellowing orders that brought the thirty-man security detachment onto the porch or into position at the dacha’s doors and windows. Most of them were only half-dressed, roused from their off-shift slumber by the surprise alert.
By the time the last yawning FIS trooper stumbled outside, the BTRs were practically right on top of the building.
A tall, fair-haired colonel jumped down out of the lead vehicle and strode arrogantly toward the porch. To his astonishment, Zubchenko recognized the man. He was Kaminov’s personal aide. Colonel… Soloviev. Yes, that was it.
Zubchenko came down the front steps to meet him halfway. “What the bloody hell is going on, Colonel?”
Soloviev’s pale blue eyes stared right through him. “I’m afraid I have terrible news, Major. Marshal Kaminov and all the senior members of the Military Council are dead.”
Stunned by what he’d just heard, the FIS man felt his mouth fall open. “What? How?”
“They were ambushed. Shot to pieces on the compound road. No one survived.” Soloviev grimaced. “I’ve just come from there.”
Zubchenko believed that. He could smell the smoke and sweat on the man. “Ambushed?” he repeated. “By who?”
The colonel shrugged. “We don’t know… yet. But we found several dead men near the scene — apparently killed by the marshal’s bodyguards. One of them was the head of the French security force.”
“Mother of God!” After that first shocked outburst, the FIS man stammered, “But I thought the French…” His voice trailed off. “Then why are you here, Colonel?”
Soloviev arched an eyebrow in mock surprise. “I would have thought that was obvious, Major. I’ve come to escort the President back to Moscow.”
Although he’d been half expecting that, the announcement still rocked Zubchenko back on his heels. He cleared his throat, unsure of what he should do next. He desperately wished he could contact someone at his own agency’s headquarters. “By whose authority?”
“Authority? With Marshal Kaminov dead, our nation is leaderless and on the brink of war. Just whose authority do you think I need?” Soloviev asked flatly. He stared down at the FIS man in contempt. “Which are you, Major? A lawyer? Or a patriot?”
Zubchenko stiffened. “I know my duty, Colonel. I cannot allow the President to leave this compound without written orders from someone in legitimate authority!”
“The President himself is the only legitimate authority we have left!” Soloviev growled. He stepped closer, speaking lower so that only the FIS man could hear him. “Think carefully, Major. Are you really prepared to fight the first battle of a new civil war right here and now? A battle you will lose?”
Zubchenko felt cold. By training and temperament, he was more a policeman than a professional military officer, but he knew how to count rifles. More important, he could read the iron determination in Soloviev’s voice and eyes. If he tried to resist this man and his soldiers, he would only be signing his own death warrant. He looked away from the colonel’s steady, unnerving gaze, turned to his sergeant, and said through gritted teeth, “Let them through.”