Knox asked, “Do you think Bor’s at the house?”
“The Zaslon guy called the house. Someone picked up.”
“Zaslon,” Knox said clinically. “The Russians deny their existence.”
“Rule of thumb: If the Russians deny the existence of something, it’s already in your basement.”
Garin pointed Knox toward the elementary school parking lot where the team leader would meet them. The lot was empty.
“Do you know Dave Crane?” Garin asked. “He’s who we’re meeting.”
“Haven’t had the pleasure. I’ve only been with DGT a few weeks.”
“Go to the back of the lot,” Garin instructed. “He’s about fifty feet into the woods, a hundred feet from the back door. I’ll try to call him.”
Garin’s call went to voice mail.
Knox parked and they got out and proceeded into the woods. Once there, Garin drew his SIG and Knox produced a Browning .45. Both crept slowly and silently through the woods. Within a few seconds they could see the back lawn of the house. The executor must have engaged a lawn service, because the grass looked recently mowed.
Garin and Knox advanced a few more feet and stopped, looking for Crane. Knox located him first. He lay on his stomach behind a rotted tree stump, watching the rear of the residence. Just as Dwyer had reported, the drapes were drawn and there was no sign of activity. No sounds were coming from the place. No other signs of life.
Garin advanced a few more feet and then called softly to Crane, not wanting to startle him. “Two coming up on your six, Dave.”
Crane remained still.
“Garin and Knox behind you, Dave.”
No reaction.
Knox looked at the team leader. “Dave,” he said simply, not expecting a response.
Garin and Knox trained their weapons on Crane. Knox circled in front of him and examined Crane’s lifeless face, eyes still staring at the back of the house.
Garin and Knox dropped deep in a crouch, weapons at eye level. Knox moved closer to the body and examined a small entrance wound in the rear of Crane’s head.
“Not a sniper,” Knox informed Garin quietly. “Looks like a .22. Good for close quarters.”
The two operators did a slow three-sixty, scanning the woods for human presence. They saw only trees. Garin pulled out his phone and examined the map for the locations of the other three watchers. Locating them, he motioned Knox toward the next closest.
They walked east—to Crane’s left—down a shallow dip and across a small creek. Garin pointed in the direction indicated on the map. Seconds later, they saw the body of the second watcher in a pose identical to Crane’s, a .22 wound in the back of the head.
Garin motioned in the direction of the third watcher, both Knox and Garin expecting to find a similar scene. Thirty seconds later they did, and a minute after that they found the last of the watchers lying dead on his right side. Four highly experienced men. Four men dead from a single shot to the head, killed by an assassin or assassins with unusual skill.
Garin and Knox stood over the body of the fourth watcher. Knox pointed to the dead man’s head. “Very close range,” he whispered. “Same with the others. Had to have used a suppressor. A ghost. Creeps up on four guys.”
“Impressive work.”
“Bor?” Knox asked.
“I’m not sure,” Garin replied with a shake of his head. “Bor prefers a larger caliber.”
“Could you do that?”
“I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.”
The two men did another three-sixty before retreating in the direction of the Explorer. They moved very slowly, once again scanning for any evidence of human presence, ready to fire at the slightest hint of it. To their relief, the two men, who between them had months of experience operating in some of the densest forests and jungles in the world, detected no sign of anyone in the vicinity.
Garin and Knox climbed into the Explorer and began pulling out of the lot. Less than one hundred feet away, shrouded by a canopy of oak leaves, a grotesque-looking man with a deep scar running from the corner of his mouth to his ear watched through rheumy, bloodshot eyes as the SUV turned right and headed toward I-95.
CHAPTER 47
NORTHERN VIRGINIA,
AUGUST 16, 4:09 P.M. EDT
It was the call he had dreaded and it came sooner than he’d expected.
The phone vibration sounded angry, as if somehow trying to convey the attitude of the caller. It seemed impatient, insistent.
Bulkvadze did not answer. He knew of no one who voluntarily answered a call from their executioner.
“Bring ten.”
What explanation would he give for failing to do so? He had been given sufficient funds to pay ten. He’d simply disregarded the command. Now, in the quiet of his Mercedes gliding along I-495, he wondered what in his makeup caused him to blithely disregard a command so easily fulfilled. He had the money. He had access to personnel. Why not simply follow the directive? Why did he have to second-guess it?
Bulkvadze suspected he’d never get an opportunity to provide an explanation. Bor wasn’t a man who listened patiently to explanations, to rationalizations, to excuses. Bulkvadze could only hope that Bor did listen to pleas and assurances. Pleas for another opportunity, assurances that it would be done right. Bulkvadze was doubtful that Bor would, but it was the Georgian’s only chance.
The phone stopped vibrating and he continued driving at the posted speed in the right lane. He didn’t have a destination. He just wanted time. Eventually he would have to answer the phone. Sooner rather than later. He didn’t want to make a plea to Bor after angering him still further by making him wait.
But he wanted a bit more time. Not to figure out how to craft his plea, but to procrastinate. Blessed procrastination. Procrastination, Bulkvadze thought, was an underrated exercise. Procrastination expanded the range of possibilities: A solution might present itself; maybe Garin would be struck by a bus; maybe Bor would have a heart attack; maybe Bulkvadze would wake up from a dream. Maybe.
Procrastination prolonged the opportunity for fantasy and delayed the prospect of reality. And the reality was Bor was going to kill him.
Bulkvadze had but two alternatives: disappear so completely that Bor couldn’t find him, or kill Garin as soon as possible. Both alternatives appeared impossible. There was no place on the planet Bulkvadze could go and not be found by Bor. Within the vory community rumors of Bor’s assassinations had circulated for some time. No one in the community wanted to get on his bad side. Not only was he indefatigable, but he had the resources of the entire Russian intelligence apparatus at his disposal.
As for killing Garin, that was similarly problematic. Bulkvadze had no idea where Garin might be. The Washington, D.C., metropolitan area had more than six million people. Bulkvadze wasn’t without resources, but finding one person among millions would take time, and Bor had made it clear Garin was to be eliminated immediately.
Even if Garin could be located right away, killing him was another matter entirely. Bulkvadze had had a front row seat for the last attempt. Garin had made short work of five assassins, and Bulkvadze didn’t have time to assemble a new team, assuming ten were even available.
The insistent vibrating resumed. Indulging in the vice of procrastination only prolonged the anxiety and aggravated Bor. Bulkvadze picked up and tried to make his voice sound calm.
“Yes.”
“You have been thinking about how and when I am going to fulfill my promise to you,” Bor said. “It will be a bullet to the back of the head. Imminently. If you prefer to avoid the suspense, you may present yourself at an agreed location.”