‘I want you to finish what you started. I want this Banarov matter closed neatly and with the utmost discretion.’
‘Why do you want me to do it?’
‘Banarov may have had his fair share of enemies, but he was not entirely without friends. Some of those friends have become powerful in the time since his death and have influence in our government. His younger brother has risen highly within the GRU as well.’
‘I heard.’
Prudnikov continued. ‘Recently, and with increasing frequency, I find that this Banarov matter is brought up in my company. I consider answering the questions of imbeciles who only through accident of fortune have become my superiors tiresome to say the least. Since it was your original probing that gave them reason to ask such questions, these parties will take much interest in whatever you say on the subject. You were the one who first believed Banarov was murdered; you pushed the case when no one wanted to know. Your integrity in this matter is without question.’ Prudnikov took a sip from his drink. ‘If you say this incident has been resolved, it will, finally, be left alone.’
Aniskovach considered for a moment. The head of the SVR was asking him for a favour. If he completed this task with merit, he would find Prudnikov a most beneficial mentor for as long as his patronage had value. And when that value was spent, maybe these friends of Banarov or his brother would make better allies.
‘I’ll need resources,’ Aniskovach stated, careful to sound enthusiastic but not to sound too enthusiastic. ‘A team, agents with military backgrounds.’
‘You can have your pick of men and equipment.’
Aniskovach’s back straightened. ‘And authority.’
‘You shall receive any and all powers you might need. But there is a condition.’
‘Yes?’
‘You must be satisfied with apprehending Banarov’s killer. Question him, yes; kill him, of course. But your investigation ends there.’
‘But we can learn who sent him, who had Banarov murdered. Surely, that’s the point.’
Prudnikov shook his head. ‘I want this wound closed, not opened further. This is my condition. Accept, and you shall find your stock within the organization rapidly gains value. Decline, and wait for another opportunity of this magnitude to present itself.’
Aniskovach had only pursued the Banarov matter as a means to create a name for himself. So the condition was an easy one to accept. Nevertheless, he stood silently for a minute in a pretence of deliberation.
‘Then I accept the condition,’ Aniskovach said.
Prudnikov nodded. ‘Good.’
‘Tell me, though, why do you want this done so quietly?’
‘Because,’ the head of the SVR said a moment after it became obvious, ‘it was me who had Banarov killed.’
CHAPTER 41
Meridien Forest, Russia
Sunday
07:43 MSK
The earth squelched underneath Victor’s feet. The forest floor was soaked from the winter downpours. He was fifteen miles west of Moscow, just north of Krasnogorsk, in the sprawling Meridien forest. The temperature was in the mid-thirties, average for the time of year.
Victor was dressed for the outdoors in thick cotton pants, boots, and a heavy coat over several layers. He had a black wool hat over his head and ears, insulated leather gloves over his hands. In his left fist he carried a shovel, in the right a pickaxe.
A mile to the east was one of Russia’s most-famed country clubs, a carbon copy of those found in the West. It was complete with saunas, restaurants, golf courses, swimming pool and tennis courts, and offered cross-country skiing and Russian banya.
Victor had driven into the complex and set off on one of the many forest trails, usually busy in the summer, but in the winter gloom thankfully empty. At this time of year the club received few visitors, and he had seen no one else around.
He enjoyed being in the forest, alone, away from other people. The air was damp, clean, and the smell of trees, of nature, sweet. He savoured his time away from the stress of civilization. He was cold, but he didn’t care.
A quarter of a century before, he had been crouched down among trees not unlike those that surrounded him now, rifle butt pressing into his shoulder, its weight making his arms tremble. Numb hands clutched the weapon. His index finger just touched the trigger.
‘Don’t be scared,’ his uncle had said.
But he was scared, had never been more afraid. He didn’t want to shoot the fox.
‘Steady now.’
The fox appeared out of the bushes, nose sniffing the ground. His uncle was still talking to him, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying, the thundering of his heartbeat drowned out all other sounds. The animal moved slowly, nose testing the air. Victor wasn’t sure if it could smell them or not. He thought what his uncle might do to him if he let the fox escape.
He fired.
There was a brief flash of red, and the fox disappeared from sight.
The whole world seemed to stop. Victor stared into the trees where the fox had been. He didn’t know how long he had been staring before his uncle let out a roar that made him drop the rifle.
‘WHAT A SHOT.’
His uncle’s voice seemed louder than the gunshot had been. ‘I can’t believe you hit it. Why didn’t you wait until the fox was closer?’ His uncle was on his feet, trying to see the kill. He was laughing. ‘Did I teach you to shoot like that? I did, didn’t I?’ His voice was full of pride.
Victor didn’t answer, couldn’t. His heart was beating so fast he thought it was going to explode. He felt the flat of a hand slap him between the shoulder blades. It was the first time his uncle had ever touched him like that.
He squinted his eyes and forced the memory out of his mind. Already he couldn’t remember the make of the rifle or what colour his gloves had been. Over the years details had diminished, one after the other. One day he hoped he would forget that horrible flash of red as well.
After twenty minutes walking he crossed a narrow footbridge, and from the most northerly post he walked exactly fifty paces due north into the trees. He found the fallen trunk without any difficulty and headed east ten paces from its stump. Victor was up to his waist in bracken. It was dark under the canopy, the meagre morning sun barely finding its way between the birches and pines. He started digging.
It was difficult work, but he was thankful of the rain that turned the earth, usually frozen hard at this time of year, into a workable mud. He used the pickaxe to loosen the hardened soil under the mud before digging with the shovel. About two feet down he dug carefully until he hit metal. He scraped the soil away until he could see blue canvas.
He found the edges and scraped the soil away until he cleared a rectangular area, two feet by three. The canvas sheet was tied together in the centre with nylon rope. Victor undid the knot and opened up the sheet. The brushed aluminium briefcase was still shiny, if a little marked from the digging.
No matter. Victor cared nothing for the case itself, only what it protected. He pulled it out of the hole and placed it to one side. He took a pocketknife and lighter from his coat and used the disposable lighter to heat up the knife. He then cut through the watertight wax seal that filled the small gap where the two halves of the case met.
Victor opened the case, relieved to find that no moisture had reached inside. The weapon was cold to the touch but could be assembled and fired at that very moment and work.
Encased in sculpted foam rubber was a Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova. Known in the West as the Dragunov SVD. A sniper rifle. The first Dragunov was formally adopted into the Red Army in 1963, and rumour had it that the Soviet special forces, the Spetsnaz, had tested the weapon on American servicemen during the Vietnam War. Just an old soldier’s tale, Victor had been sure. That was until he had met one of the snipers.
The rifle was disassembled into its component parts, with its stock, barrel, grip, and scope separate to allow it to fit inside a standard-sized briefcase. There was also a long suppressor. Victor’s was the latest variant of the SVD, with stock and hand guards made from high-density polymer to lighten the weight, instead of the original wood furniture.