He had to conceal it along his back because of its length. He’d gone into several shops yesterday looking for a double-edged blade at least sixteen centimeters long, his minimum. He’d finally found a nice one, almost as long as his hand and sharply pointed. He’d had others like it before, and experience told him what to look for. It was more properly a dagger, and so narrow it could almost be called a stiletto. It was perfect.
Churkin’s left hand was out in front, raised to catch Petrov behind the shoulder blades and propel him into the darkest part of the corner. His right hand, with the knife, was down near his waist. Experience had taught him how to come in low, just above the waist, and stab up. The long blade would pierce the heart.
A young couple stepped out of the store, just ahead of Churkin. He automatically angled a little left, and saw he would clear the two, but they both looked directly at him, and saw the knife in his hand.
He ignored the couple. They were no threat to him. But the man shouted, and used one arm to shove his wife or girlfriend back behind him. She was screaming, and Petrov started to turn toward the noise. Churkin angled more to the left, still trying to aim for his back, but Petrov was turning too quickly, so after half a step, Churkin changed his plans, raising the knife slightly. He’d catch Petrov in front, in the belly, still under the rib cage, and just as lethal.
Petrov not only saw the couple making so much noise, he spotted someone charging toward him at a full run. He didn’t see the knife at first, but automatically tried to move out of the way, backing up and moving sideways, away from the storefront. More confused and surprised than afraid, he raised his hands to fend off his — attacker?
Still two meters away, Churkin cursed his luck. Petrov was bringing his arms up. It was not a trained defensive move, but it meant there was almost no chance of a quick kill, not against someone who was aware of his assailant. He could see Petrov’s eyes widening; he’d finally seen Churkin’s knife. Petrov called out, “Knife!” but it was in Russian.
Then he surprised Churkin. Instead of bracing to meet the attack, he turned and fled down the street. Churkin, already at speed, tried to grab him by the shoulder, or just Petrov’s shirt collar, but missed by inches.
Spurred by fear, Petrov flew down the street, still shouting, first in Russian, then also in English, for help, not that his situation needed any explanation. Churkin kept pace with him for almost half a block, but both men were in good physical condition, and Petrov had a slight edge in height, and that longer stride helped him open the distance, first from inches to a foot, and then more.
Other passersby had seen the pair now, running full tilt down the sidewalk, and Churkin realized that even if he caught up with Petrov, his murder would be neither quick nor quiet. Keeping up speed, he turned right down a cross street with less traffic, and then left into an alley that he could see ran the length of the block. By the time he’d reached the other end and emerged, the neck scarf and gloves were off and the knife was back in its sheath. The loose-fitting shirt, bright-colored, was gone to reveal a similar, darker one underneath. He slowed his pace, and looked behind him for any sign of pursuit.
Then he tried to figure out what to do next. Kirichenko will not be happy.
Petrov ran for another half block before he realized that he was no longer being chased. Winded, he leaned against a storefront. His surprise at the sudden and completely unexpected attack magnified his fear. He reached up to brush his hair back and discovered his hand was shaking. If not for being braced against the building, his entire body might be doing the same thing.
A few pedestrians who had seen the chase approached him cautiously. He certainly didn’t think he looked very threatening, and a middle-aged man asked in English, “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” Petrov answered, but then stood up straighter and flexed his arms and legs. Nothing hurt. “I am fine.”
“Who was that?” a woman asked, but he just shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Another man said, “I saw him run down a side street,” and pointed.
The woman said authoritatively, “You should call the police.”
“I will,” Petrov replied, and reached for his cell phone.
No longer needed, the pedestrians dispersed, returning to their errands, but occasionally glancing back at the foreigner.
At the interview in Osinov’s office three days earlier, Ruchkin had given him a card. Petrov fished it out of his wallet and dialed the number. It rang three times before a recorded voice repeated the number and asked the caller to leave a message. Wonderful.
Should he call the local police? It seemed pointless to Petrov. If it was just a random robbery attempt, there was little the police could do. A mask had hidden most of his attacker’s face, but what little Petrov saw hinted that he might have been a foreigner — European or perhaps even Russian.
And why would a foreigner pick another foreigner to rob on a busy street in the early evening? He didn’t like the answer, and called another number.
They’d met on a busy street corner, and gone into a nearby bar, chosen because it was close and half-filled with customers. They both hoped a public place would be the safest choice. It catered to sports fans, and large-screen TVs at opposite ends of the room were showing cricket and football matches, with the attendant cheers and groans from the patrons. Samant ordered Kingfisher beers for both of them and they found an empty table.
Samant didn’t really say anything until Petrov had finished telling his story a second time. With repetition, his second account had less emotion, and a little more detail. Even so, there was little to work with.
“Now I understand how you feel,” Petrov remarked.
“If you mean that you are now as paranoid as I am, good.” Samant shivered. “I am very glad they missed their chance with you, but now we must both be on guard. I should have expected they would become violent. After all, what’s one life when you’re selling weapons that can kill tens of thousands?”
“I don’t think they know about you, yet. I was the one asking about Orlav, and then I was attacked,” Petrov explained.
“I’ll take precautions anyway,” Samant replied. “And so will you,” he insisted.
Petrov nodded. “I tried to call the SVR — that intelligence agent that questioned me the other day. I haven’t been able to reach him. I haven’t told the local police.”
“Good!” Samant replied. “Even if they believed your suspicions and were willing to investigate, Vice Admiral Dhankhar has enough political influence to deflect their questions completely. And it would confirm his suspicions.”
“I will e-mail Jerry, or perhaps you should.”
“I will,” Samant replied firmly. “We can’t know how closely they’re watching you.”
“I just hope the Americans can do something. I wasn’t expecting immediate results, but it would be good to know they are acting.”
“If they can, I believe they will,” Samant reassured him. “This is as much a threat to the USA as anyone.” He sighed. “And now, more than before, we have to make sure that someone besides us knows.”
9
FATAL ENCOUNTER
“E-mail will be the death of me yet,” muttered Joanna Patterson as she scrolled down the three screens of waiting correspondence. It had already been a very long Saturday, and she hadn’t had an opportunity to sneak away and thin out the herd. Fortunately, none appeared to be an April Fools’ joke — she’d already announced that she would personally have the first transgressor shipped to Siberia. Even the president didn’t want to challenge her on that one. Her husband, Lowell, proved himself even wiser by sending a dozen red roses instead. “Peace on Earth begins at home,” said the card.