Assassin km-6 Page 3

  They placed a small shaped charge on the switch, backed off ten or fifteen meters, and turned the firing plunger. The small explosion destroyed the switch making it impossible now for the tracks to be easily moved back, which could trap them on the spur.

  As soon as the men were back aboard the train, it gathered speed past an abandoned brick works and a tumbled down foundry, slowing again to a crawl five hundred meters farther just before a tall chain-link gate guarding entry to the station.

  The same two commandoes leaped off the train and placed charges on both sides of the gate. Moments later the much larger explosion ripped the gate off its hinges, sending metal parts and chain link fifty meters into the air, and just as effectively shattering the morning stillness.

  Riga Nuclear Power Station Number One, which had opened eight months ago despite massive protests, was an engineering marvel by any standard. Constructed as only Russians know how, the huge containment dome and twin cooling towers rose above the shabby suburb of factories, houses and apartment complexes that were little more than hovels. The enormous amounts of water needed to cool the two reactors was drawn from the Moscow River and piped underground in concrete races ten meters in diameter; large enough so that during construction the largest earth movers were dwarfed.

  By building the power station in Dzerzhinskiy the Kremlin sent three clear messages to the people and to the rest of the world. Russian engineering could solve any problem, even making it possible to build a nuclear power plant so far away from a water source. The Russian government was in charge of the nation and knew what was best for its people. And, since the facility was less than six kilometers as the crow flies from the Kremlin, the people were assured that Yeltsin believed the Riga station would not become another Chernobyl. Riga was safe.

  So far unpublicized, but generally known in the suburb, was that in the first eight months of operation the complex had suffered four major accidents including one that SCRAMed the system less than ninety seconds before a total meltdown occurred.

  The reactor was like a sword of Damocles hanging over the neighborhood.

  No one who lived in Dzerzhinskiyworked in the complex, but everyone in the suburb had to live with the threat.

  Because of the sensitive nature of the power station, and the demonstrations against it, the complex was heavily guarded by crack FSK troops, some of whom had served in Afghanistan, and others in the battle for Chechnya. It amused Tarankov, as the train again gathered speed for the last kilometer to the loading docks and Central Control, that although Chernov and the others did not want him wandering around alone in the dark countryside for fear of a sniper, they were willing to let him go with his troops into a hornet’s nest. He watched from his operations center on the observation deck in the rear car with Liesel, Chernov, a communications specialist and a weapons officer. His personal quarters on the lower deck were polished wood and brass, but up here the deck was equipped with state of the art communications and radar equipment, as well as firecontrol for 22mm automatic cannons fore and aft, and a smaller version of the navy’s close-in weapons system, capable of radar-tracking incoming targets, including incoming aircraft and missiles, and firing 12.5mm depicted-uranium slugs at a rate of six thousand rounds per minute. This one car presented a formidable force by itself.

  “They know we’re here,” com ms specialist Junior Lieutenant Yuri Ignatov said. He entered the information he was picking up by radio into his battle planning computer, which was similar to the BSY-1 used on nuclear submarines. In this case the computer would spit out weapons and tactical options based on real time information it was being fed, and relay it to Colonel Drankov and his unit commanders.

  Even as the information came up on the display screen, they could see the troops spilling out of the bunkers to the southeast of Central Control. A pair of rocket launchers came up from a tunnel and started to turn toward the train.

  “Take them out,” Chemov ordered.

  Their weapons officer, Lieutenant Nikolai Zabotin, entered the new targeting data into his console, and as they got within two hundred meters of the rocket launchers, cannons on the lead car ripped both trucks apart, shredding metal, rubber, plastic and human flesh indiscriminately. Both launchers went up in huge balls of flame, scattering burning debris and ordnance over the FSK ground troops pouring out of the bunkers.

  “We’re a hundred fifty meters out, prepare to dismount,” Chernov radioed Drankov. He reached up and braced himself against the overhead.

  The others did the same, as the train’s coordinated braking system, which operated much like anti lock brakes on a luxury car, slowed them almost as quickly as a truck could be slowed in an emergency, and ten times faster than any ordinary train could slow down.

  As soon as their speed dropped below twenty kilometers per hour, the battle doors on each car slid open, hinged ramps dropped down, and Drankov’s commandoes aboard their armored assault vehicles shot from the train like wild dogs suddenly released from confinement, firing as they made sharp turns into what remained of the FSK’s first response force.

  Tarankov keyed his microphone. “This is Tarankov. Send Units Three and Four to blow the main gates.”

  “The alert has been called to the main Militia barracks,” Ignatov said.

  “The people will fill the streets before they can get here.”

  “The Militia might run them over,” Ignatov said.

  “Three and Four en route,” Drankov cut in.

  They could see the two units peel off toward the west, while One and Two headed toward the main electrical distribution yard on the opposite side of the complex.

  By the time the train came to a complete halt across from the Central Control building, Drankov’s main force had taken out the last of the FSK troops, and his men were racing through the building, blasting their way through doors leading into each level, then leapfrogging ahead. Within eight minutes from the start of the assault the main gates were down, and the first of thousands of people from the suburb were pouring into the compound, the main electrical distribution yards which covered more than fifty hectares were destroyed, the two reactors were shut down, the four water races were collapsed with heavy explosives, the control room with its complex control panel and its computer equipment was completely demolished, and every on duty guard, engineer or staff member was dead or dying.

  “Five minutes and we’ve got to be out of here,” Chernov said. He’d donned a headset and was listening to the military radio traffic between the Dzerzhinskiy Militia and the main barracks downtown.

  “Sound the recall,” Tarankov said.

  Liesel was beside herself with excitement. “This’ll teach the bastards a lesson,” she said.

  “One they won’t soon forget,” Chernov shot back.

  Tarankov opened the hatch and climbed out onto the catwalk as the crowds swarmed across the vast parking lot toward the train.

  “Five minutes,” Chernov shouted.

  “COMRADES, MY NAME IS YEVGENNI TARANKOV, AND I HAVE COME TODAY TO OFFER YOU MY HAND IN FRIENDSHIP AND HELP.”

  THREE

  Tarankov’s Train

  Have you had any sleep?” Tarankov asked. Chernov shook his head as he placed the last of three cases of Marlboros into the trunk of the Mercedes 520S parked beside the tracks. The top two layers of cartons actually contained cigarettes. He closed the trunk, leaned back against the car and accepted a cigarette from Tarankov, though he hated the things.

  “It went well this morning,” Tarankov said. “Moscow is going to have to deal with power outages for a long time. It’ll make things worse for them.”

  “Yeltsin and his cronies have access to emergency generators. And if things get too bad they can always escape to the dachas.”

  “You don’t approve,” Tarankov said crossly. He was tired too.

  “On the contrary, Comrade. I neither approve nor disapprove. But I’m a realist enough to understand that it’s the ordinary people on the street who make revolu
tions possible. Once the leader is in power, he can do anything he wants, because he’ll control the guns, and the butter. But if he loses the people in the beginning he will have lost the revolution.”

  “A good speech, Leonid. But you failed to take into account the fact I was cheered.”

  “By the people of Dzerzhinskiy who were afraid of the power station. By next winter when the snow flies again, and still there is not enough power in Moscow, the rest of the city will remember who to blame.”

  Tarankov smiled family. “By then the power will be restored.” An event, he thought, that Chernov would not be alive to witness.

  “That’s as optimistic as it is naive, I think,” Chernov said.

  They were parked in a birch woods two hundred fifty kilometers north of Moscow. Tarankov gazed across a big lake, still frozen, his eyes narrowing against the glare from the setting sun, as he tried to keep his temper in check.

  “Throughout the summer I will divert military construction battalions from as many divisions as it will take to get the job done in ninety days,” he said.

  “You do have a timetable,” Chernov said, flipping the cigarette away. “If you’re right, Dzerzhinskiy can be turned into an advantage. And Nizhny Novgorod can be important if the situation doesn’t become untenable after tomorrow. But you still need Moscow and St. Petersburg. We can’t kill them all.”

  “Only those necessary.”

  “They’re not stupid. They’ll figure out your plans, and try to block you somehow.”

  “It’s already too late for them,” Tarankov said. “You’re close to me, have you figured it out?”

  Chernov smiled. “It’s not my job. I’m nothing more than a means to your end.”

  “What about when we come into power?”

  “I’ll leave, Comrade Tarantula, because I will no longer be needed. And we know what happens to people in Russia who are not needed.”

  “Maybe I’ll kill you now,” Tarankov said with a dangerous edge in his voice.

  Chernov’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t think that would be quite as easy as you might think,” he said in a reasonable tone. He pushed away from the car, and Tarankov backed up a half-pace despite himself. “I have work to do, unless you have second thoughts.”

  “You’re confident you can do it?” Chernov nodded seriously. “Yeltsin could have been eliminated anytime over the past couple of years, but nobody wanted to take responsibility for it. He’s not been worth killing until now.” “Am I worth killing, Leonid?” Tarankov asked.

  “Oh, yes. Especially after tomorrow,” Chernov replied. “And believe me they will try. Someone will almost certainly try.”

  “You will see that they fail.”

  “That, Comrade Tarankov, is my job.” Chernov pointed to the cigarette in Tarankov’s meaty paw. “But they won’t have to send an assassin if you keep that up.”

  Tarankov grunted. “You sound like Liesel.” He smiled. “One nag is enough.”

  “She’s right.”

  “Good of you to say so,” Tarankov said. “We’ll wait for you at Kostroma. But if you get into trouble you will have to rely on the usual contacts in Moscow, we won’t be able to come for you. Not until after Nizhny Novgorod.”

  “I’ll be there,” Chernov said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get a few things before I leave. I want to be in Moscow before midnight.” He abruptly went back to the train and boarded the second car from the rear, not seeing the intense look of anger and hatred that flashed across Tarankov’s heavy features.

  Chernov’s car contained the officers’ wardroom and kitchen, as well as quarters for him, Colonel Drankov and the four unit commanders. The colonel and two of his officers were smoking and drinking tea in the wardroom when Chernov passed. They did not look up, nor did he acknowledge them. Their relationship was exactly as he wished it to be: one of business, not friendship.

  In his compartment, which consisted of a wide bunk, a built-in desk and two chairs, a closet and a well equipped bathroom, Chernov laid out the uniform of a lieutenant colonel in the Kremlin Presidential Security Service, then pulled off his boots and combat fatigues.

  Someone knocked at his door. He quickly looked around to make sure nothing of importance was lying in plain view, then flipped a blanket over the uniform. “Come,” he said.

  Liesel Tarankov, wearing a UCLA Sailing Squadron warmup suit, came in. She looked Chernov up and down, then glanced at the turned down blanket. “I thought you were getting ready to leave us, not go to bed.” “I was changing clothes. Is there something I can do for you, Madam?”

  “I want to discuss your assignment.”

  “Very well. If you’ll allow me to finish dressing, I’ll join you and your husband in the Operations Center and we can go over the detail.”

  “No. I want to talk about it here and now.” A little color had come to Liesel’s cheeks, and a strand of blonde hair was loose over her left temple. She was fifteen years younger than Tarankov and not unattractive.

  “Then I’ll call him, he can join us here.” Chernov stepped over to the desk and reached for the telephone, but Liesel intercepted him, pushing him away.

  “Just you and me.”

  Chernov smiled. “Did you come here expecting me to make love to you, madam?” he asked in a reasonable tone. “Is that how you meant to control me?”

  “I’m not ugly. I have a nice body, and I know things.”

  “What if I told you that I’m a homosexual.”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t believe it.” “I think you’d rather believe that than the truth,” he said.

  It took a moment for the meaning of what she’d just heard to penetrate, and when it did a flush came to her face. “Schweinhund!” She lunged at him, her long fingernails up like claws.

  Chernov easily sidestepped her. He grabbed her arms, pinned them behind her back, and shoved her up against the bulkhead, his body against hers.

  She struggled for a moment, but then looked up into his eyes and parted her lips.

  He stepped back, opened the door, and spun her out into the passageway. “Go away before I tell your husband that you tried to seduce me.”

  “He wouldn’t believe you,” she shot back, a catch in her voice.

  “I think he would,” Chernov said disparagingly, and he closed and locked the door.

  For a few moments he thought the woman was going to make a scene, but when nothing happened he got dressed. Before it was all over, he thought, he would fuck her, and then kill her. It would be the best thing he’d ever done for Tarankov.

  The Kremlin

  Chernov arrived at the Borovitsky Tower Gate, on the opposite side of the Kremlin from Red Square, at 11:45 p.m. One guard examined his papers, which identified him as Lieutenant Colonel Boris Sazanov, while the other stoned a light in the back seat, and then requested that the trunk be opened.

  He popped the lid then stuck his head out the window as the guard spotted the cases of cigarettes. “Take a couple of cartons. They won’t be missed.” His hat was pulled low, most of his features in shadow.

  “Who are they for?” the guard asked.

  “Korzhakov,” Chernov said. Lieutenant-General Alexander Korzhakov was chief of presidential security, a drinking buddy of Yeltsin’s and the number two most powerful man in the Kremlin.

  “I don’t think so,” the guard said respectfully. “I think I’ll call operations.”

  “This car was left unlocked for an hour on Arbat Street. The cigarettes will not be missed if you’re not greedy, and you keep your mouth shut.”

  The first guard handed Chernov’s papers back. “What are you doing here this evening, Colonel?” “Delivering cigarettes.”

  The second guard pulled two cartons of cigarettes out of one of the boxes and stuffed them inside his greatcoat. He slammed the trunk lid, and went back into the guardhouse.

  “I don’t smoke,” the first guard said.

  “Neither do I, but they’re sometimes better than
gold, if you know what I mean.”

  The guard stepped back, saluted and waved Chernov through.

  Chernov returned the salute and drove up the hill past the Poteshny Palace and around the corner to the modernistic glass and aluminum Palace of Congresses. It was a Wednesday night, the Duma was not in session, nor was any state function or dinner being held, so the Kremlin was all but deserted.

  The guard at the entrance, to the underground parking garage checked his papers, and waved him through.

  Chernov took the ramp four levels to the most secured floor where Yeltsin’s limousines were kept and serviced. He parked in the shadows at the end of a long row of Mercedes, Cadillacs and Zil limousines. The entrance to Yeltsin’s parking area and private elevators fifty meters away was guarded by a lone man seated in a glass enclosure. Chernov checked his watch. He was exactly on time.

  Two minutes later, the guard got up, stretched his back, left the guard box and took the service elevator up one level.

  Chernov took a block of eight cigarette cartons from the bottom of one of the cases, and walked to the end of the parking row, ducked under the steel barrier and went back to the Zil limousine with the SSP 7 license plate. It was the car that would be used to pick up Yeltsin in the morning and bring him here to his office.

  It was a piece of information that Tarankov got. Chernov trusted its reliability.

  The freight elevator was still on sub level three, and would remain there for three minutes. No more.

  Chernov climbed into the back compartment of the limo and popped the two orange tabs dial released the seat bottom. Next he peeled the back from a corner of the bottom of the brick of cigarettes and stuck a radio controlled detonator into the soft gray mass of Semtex plastic explosive. This he stuffed under the seat, molding it against a box beam member. The bottom of the car was armored to protect from explosions from outside. The steel plates would focus most of the force of the blast upward through the leather upholstered seat. No one in the rear compartment could possibly survive, nor was it likely that anyone in the car would escape critical burns and injuries. The amount of Semtex was five times more than necessary for the job.