I swung left to check out the other man, focussing on his face. Well, damn me. Wheels within wheels. I didn’t know Ukrainian criminal society was so small.
It was Voloshyn, the thug from the Tipol hotel. He was now holding a pistol and looked pissed, and I guessed it was because Ivkanoy had used all the ammunition for his rifle and had now screwed up the AK.
I swung further left and found Olena. She had hopped away from the car and was shaking her head. She knew I could see her and knew what I was holding. She didn’t want anything to do with the damage I could inflict with it. Sensible woman.
I put my hand over my head and flicked a finger sideways, motioning for her to get into the side of the road. She caught on immediately and dived left. I wasn’t being gallant; she was unarmed and I saw no reason to add a defenceless woman to my score sheet, even one whose trade was death.
I checked Ivkanoy again. He’d given up fighting with the AK and tossed it back to Voloshyn, who dropped the pistol and snatched the AK out of the air as if it were a twig. In a fluid movement he had the old magazine out and was snapping a fresh one in place and turning ready to fire.
My first shot sounded like a canon. The round whipped by his leg so close it must have burned. It hit the four-wheel drive, the impact blowing out the windshield and sending a shower of glass fragments, plastic and metal trim high in the air. The next one took out the front tyre, dropping the vehicle like a wounded buffalo. The third round drilled through the rear panel and whatever it hit caused the far side window to explode.
When I looked at Voloshyn through the scope, he was standing very still. Even from this distance I could see he looked sick. He turned his head and said something to Ivkanoy, whose voice came back sounding snappy.
They didn’t look a happy crew.
Ivkanoy walked across and picked up Voloshyn’s pistol. He said something and pointed down the track towards us. Voloshyn shook his head.
Ivkanoy repeated his instruction, louder and snappier. This time Voloshyn shook his head and walked away. He’d had enough. If Ivkanoy wanted to walk down here into the muzzle of a big gun, he could go ahead.
Ivkanoy lifted the gun and shot him in the back of the head.
Then he turned towards Olena, who was backing away with nowhere to go.
I put a round over his head as a warning. The crack must have made his ears buzz, but there was no reaction. He’d gone beyond reason, beyond instinct or sanity.
Olena stumbled and went down, and rolled on to her back, kicking with the heel of her good foot to get away. Ivkanoy walked over to her and pointed the gun at her head. It wasn’t a threat; I knew by his stance that he was going to pull the trigger.
He wouldn’t have heard my next shot; he was dead before he hit the ground.
I got back in the car and turned the key. In spite of the hits it had taken, the engine started first time. Some build. Go Toyota.
‘Let’s go home,’ I told Travis, and we rolled forward down the track.
Olena stood up as we reached the four-wheel drive, hopping to keep her balance and holding her hands out to the sides to show they were empty. The mess of her face wasn’t just because of the damage I’d done to it; she had splashes of blood and other stuff on her and looked about ready to throw up. Tough as she was, she avoided looking at the crumpled mess of her late boss. Some things I guess you never get used to close up.
She raised a hand in mute thanks. I didn’t stop, but gave her a nod. Once I was sure she wasn’t a threat I eased the safety back on the Grach and placed it on the floor. What she did now was up to her. If she had any sense, she’d get in what was left of the Mercedes and get the hell away from here and find a new profession.
As I drove round the other vehicle and on down the track, I saw in the distance ahead of us the dark silhouette of a helicopter curving towards us on the Moldova side of the border. It was black and carried no markings.
‘Watchman, we have you on screen, you have clear access and your lift is waiting. Have a safe journey home.’
FIFTY-NINE
Lindsay Citera had chosen a good place to meet. It was a small lunchtime café with a few outside tables just off Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia. The buzz of downtown Washington was just across the Potomac to the north-east, which made this area just far enough out to make our conversation a private affair.
As long as she hadn’t got some kind of tail on her, I didn’t mind where we met.
I watched her take a seat and pick up a menu, order water from the waitress and tap her watch to demonstrate that she was waiting for someone. It was easy, casual and entirely relaxed, and I figured Brian Callahan had made a wise choice; she was a natural, whether she realized it or not.
Quite what she was feeling right now, though, was another matter. It was probably her first assignment outside of Langley, and she’d be inhuman if she wasn’t feeling some kind of pressure. Covert work is not for the faint-hearted.
I gave it a couple of minutes, watching pedestrians and cars for signs of surveillance. But I was also watching Lindsay. She was using the menu to scope the men in the area, and I could almost sense her dismissing obvious types by age or appearance. Once or twice she tensed, but relaxed as they walked on by.
She didn’t know what I looked like.
I breathed a sigh of relief and walked across the boulevard. I didn’t need it, but seeing her reactions confirmed to me that it hadn’t been her responsible for releasing my photograph to the people employing Greb Voloshyn. If she had she’d have been watching for me.
She saw me coming and something must have clicked — an instinct. Suddenly she smiled and stood up, and we shook hands, business acquaintances on a lunchtime meeting. Her grip was firm and I saw that I’d been partially correct in my image of her: young, confident, honey-brown hair cut short. And an engaging smile.
‘You’ve come a long way,’ she said, and sat down. It was quite an opener, seeing what she knew of my journey here.
‘The directions were excellent,’ I replied. ‘And you’ve got a lifelong fan in Ed Travis. Not that he knows who you are.’
She nodded and flicked at her hair self-consciously. ‘Thank you. I’m glad it turned out the way it did for both of you.’
We ordered a light lunch and I gave her a potted de-briefing. She didn’t write anything down, so I figured she either had a great memory for detail or a recording device hidden inside her coat.
When I finished, she asked a couple of questions for clarification, the way good de-briefers should, then told me about Senator Howard Benson. She kept it short, sharp and matter-of-fact, and I admired her professionalism.
‘But you’re good and clear?’ I asked. I knew Callahan had said it, but I wanted to make sure she knew it, too.
She hesitated. ‘I am. I think.’
‘Tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Yesterday I found some money in my bank account. A lot of money. And I don’t know where it came from. I’ve reported it to Callahan but he hasn’t got back to me yet. It could be a genuine banking error, I guess.’ The look on her face told me she didn’t believe that, and I knew she was going to do well in this business. She had good instincts and a high moral code, which was more than could be said for guys like Benson.
‘Leave it to Callahan,’ I suggested. ‘You did the right thing.’ It didn’t take rocket science to see Benson having something to do with the money deposit; movers and shakers like him see opportunity way ahead of the need, whether attempting to suborn someone in Langley by making a deposit and counting on their silent acceptance of dumb luck, or by destroying their place in the organization out of sheer spite. It was the way they operated.