Sokolov held up the photograph of Asiyah.
“And what about her?”
The man was silent. Sokolov repeated his question, this time pressing the handgun against the assassin’s head, but his Oriental eyes showed no fear.
“I don’t understand,” the Asian answered.
Sokolov knew he would not extract any information. The man had stated the obvious, and nothing beyond. Sokolov would never resort to torture. Otherwise, all questioning would be a waste of time. He knew enough, anyway. The girl was marked for death. He was also willing to bet that these killers were Kazakh.
He had to move. Find a way out of here.
Somewhere outside the forest, sirens wailed. By some grim irony, they belonged to the firefighting brigades of EMERCOM. A tempting lure, illusory salvation that hindered immediate action. If the FSB, and someone comfortable with hiring assassins, were chasing Constantine and himself, he couldn’t use any official routes.
Sokolov picked up the automatic rifle and disappeared.
13
Sokolov waded through the the woods, his mind rebelling against the insanity.
Death all around him. The gunshots, the flames, the killings—it was Beslan all over again!
Sokolov suppressed the thoughts. Not now, for goodness sake! Act! Move! Asiyah may still be alive!
And his brother! Dear God, he was alive! He was near, perhaps agonizingly so. Nothing mattered more than this knowledge, no matter how crazy the circumstance. Now there was more than hope to hang on to — he had certainty.
Rescuing Asiyah or finding Constantine — a choice he would loathe to make, but there was none! He had no means of finding his brother, no direction, no starting point — except for her. Somehow, she was the connection, the other target of the hit team. Everything was combining into a bigger picture that he could not see — yet.
He cleared the forest where a rural road dissected it. There was a single car parked off a curb, fifty meters ahead. It was a 5-Series BMW sedan, white in colour but tinted gray by dust. Only the rear number plate stayed reasonably clean.
The plates. Instead of the ordinary white, they were blue, belonging to police vehicles.
What was this car doing here? He could hardly imagine a patrol car failing to react to gunshots within walking distance. There could be only a single explanation for any car to be found parked anywhere near the place.
It was the transport of the two assassins.
As he advanced toward the BMW, Sokolov discerned the shape of its single occupant, the driver, arm dangling out of the open window, cigarette wedged between fingers. When Sokolov was close enough to hear the soft idling of the engine and see the driver’s tense features reflecting in the side mirror, the man flicked away the cigarette, his eyes following its glowing trail. It was then that he noticed Sokolov looming in the mirror, and reached for his gun. Twisting in the seat, he arched his body through the empty window to get a point-blank shot as he raised the gun, which — with a shock to his wrist — dropped to the road. Sokolov had knocked the weapon from his hand, striking with the butt of the Kalashnikov before he slashed it at the man’s head.
As Sokolov opened the door, the driver’s senseless body fell on the asphalt.
Sokolov searched him, finding a pair of handcuffs. He dragged the body around the car. Opening the trunk, he saw an arsenal that could benefit a small army. Five handguns and assorted boxes of rounds, three Kalashnikovs with sawed-off stocks and plenty of banana clips. Hardly typical police inventory. Sokolov was becoming proficient with handcuffs. He stuffed the body into the trunk, and shackled a wrist to a leg, slamming the trunk door closed.
Back at the driver’s seat, he went through the contents of the glove box. Two fat billfolds of cash, another handgun, and — thankfully — a cell phone!
The phone was turned off. Sokolov took it apart to take out the SIM card. The model was a GSM device. He knew for granted that all mobile networks were monitored by the FSB, and a SIM card logging into the network would be traced.
Sokolov threw the SIM card away and switched the phone on. Without the card inserted, the handset operated in emergency mode, meaning that instead of the conventional GSM signal that became unavailable, it used any radio waves to make emergency calls, and nothing else.
But it was the only call he needed.
EMERCOM.
The phone software booted and Sokolov dialed 112, the international number of distress. It had to work even if the handset had been reported stolen, and the unit’s IMEI identification number was blocked.
He watched the icons appear on the phone’s screen when a message came up.
The call went through.
An operator replied. Identifying himself as per special procedure, Sokolov demanded an encrypted line with Klimov.
A few seconds later, Klimov’s voice boomed through the speaker.
“Gene! What happened? I have a firefighting crew chief on another line claiming he’s at your place, finding bodies!”
“My house burned down. In fact, I was inside when it happened.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right… fine,” Sokolov said between breaths. The effects of the clash were still catching up on him. “Where’s Asiyah?”
“What?”
“Asiah Kasymova. Where is she?”
“What’s going on, Gene?” Klimov’s voice was stern, but still full of concern.
“I’ve had an encounter with a team of professional assassins. One of their other targets was Asiyah. She may be in lethal danger as we speak, or she may already be dead. Is she still in FSB custody?”
“Yes, in the Central Clinical Hospital, as far as I know. Under the authority of their witness protection program. If she is in any danger, I’m sure they’ll take care of her.”
“The hell they will! They can’t even take care of themselves. Those dead bodies in my house are FSB officers.”
He could hear Klimov mutter a curse.
“The FSB attacked me. And someone else hired the men that burned my house. Now I’m wanted by both camps. I want you to contact Frolov and tell him to move Asiyah to a different location as soon as possible. I’ll call you again soon,” Sokolov lied.
“Gene, wait, hold on! I don’t like the sound of your voice — are you sure you’re okay? Can you reach the paramedics? Where are you?”
“Don’t worry about me, my friend. And don’t go searching for me — I’ll find you myself when the time comes. For now, I’m dead as far as you’re concerned. You don’t know any of what I’ve just told you. I’m missing and presumed dead should anyone inquire. It’s all connected with the mess in Sochi, so you and the guys should better watch your backs as well. Take care.”
Sokolov killed the connection.
The Central Clinical Hospital. It was all he’d wanted to hear.
He had utmost faith in Klimov, knowing he would do everything in his power to help. But even if the FSB followed up the warning, he could not rely on them acting efficiently. Regardless, there was only one thing he could do.
His mind was riveted on reaching the hospital, filled with desperate energy.
Fearful of electronic eavesdropping, Sokolov pried off the battery and hurled the disassembled phone through the window. From his anti-terrorist training, Sokolov knew that intelligence services could use any mobile handset to spy on its owner. Logging in a radio network, the IMEI identification also left a unique footprint, which could be used to hack the device and gain remote access to it. Although mobile carriers around the world did not advertise this Big Brother feature, a cell phone could be secretly used to feed audio and video streams through its microphone and camera to any computer — even if it was fully switched off. All that was required was the battery to be in its place.