Cate regarded the fax, and her sentiment fled. "Too bad," she whispered, hardening herself to the task. Jett was a big boy. He'd been warned. From here on out he would have to take care of himself. She'd done enough already, even if he didn't know it.
Straightening her back, she accessed her E-mail program and uploaded the fax. After addressing it to her friend in Florida, she hit the send key, confident that he would know how to make proper use of it.
24
The raiding party assembled quietly and with precision. In all they were twenty-two men, divided among three vans and two BMWs from the prosecutor general's office. Crack troops from OMON- the special militia created by Mikhail Gorbachev and now attached to the Ministry of the Interior- the men were dressed in black utilities with matching bullet-proof vests and Kevlar helmets. Nazis for the new millennium. Flash grenades were pinned to their waists and machine pistols dangled from their hands.
The assembly point was Mayakovskya Square, a kilometer from Mercury Broadband's offices. Yuri Baranov moved among the militiamen, offering grunts of encouragement, pats on the back, the occasional grim smile.
"On no account are you to fire a shot," he repeated time and again, until his gruff, tobacco-wearied voice grew sore. "We are all sons of the Rodina, the motherland, even if some of us have lost our way."
He felt old and stiff and spent among such young men. He knew their simmering blood lust, their jacked-up bravado, and it left him uneasy and sad. He'd seen enough suffering in his lifetime to know what those emotions inevitably wrought.
"Move quickly. We must rush the entrance and force the door. We've come to gather evidence- nothing more. Treat the civilians with respect."
On Baranov's signal, the convoy moved out, advancing in tight formation through the serpentine alleys that combed the Moscow cityscape like fissures in a crumbling wall. The prosecutor general rode in the front seat of the lead BMW. His posture was forced, his back barely touching the leather bucket seats. Opulence, even in an automobile, made him uncomfortable. Checking his watch, he leaned forward further, so that his hands clutched the dashboard. The informant had alerted them that Kirov made his banking transfers each day between eleven and twelve o'clock- nine and ten in Switzerland, where the banks had just opened. It was Baranov's goal that warm afternoon to obtain hard-copy proof of Kirov's theft from Novastar Airlines.
One hundred meters from their destination, Baranov turned on the siren. A few seconds later, the sedan screeched to a halt. He jumped out. "Police," he shouted, storming the building's front stairs. "I possess a warrant to search the premises. You are to provide every cooperation."
Jump boots slapped the ground as the troops rushed to his side. Baranov had pulled open the door and taken a step into the building when three hulking men picked him up and carried him back into the street. At once, the thugs were overwhelmed by the onrush of OMON troops and thrown spread-eagle onto the pavement.
Squirming free, Baranov saw a blue metal curtain falling in front of the door. "Quick!" he yelled. "Someone. Inside."
Several of his men struggled to hold down Kirov's security guards, searching them for weapons and giving them a few sharp kicks. The rest were blocked by the confusion at the door. No one could enter the building.
Without making a conscious decision to do so, Baranov charged up the stairs a second time. A single thought galvanized him. He had come for Kirov's banking records, and God help him, he would get them. The barricade was three feet from the ground and falling quickly. Crouching to one knee, then to his hands, he threw himself beneath the metal curtain and tried to crawl inside. The steel curtain struck his back, driving him to the ground.
"Ah," he cried out, feeling old and brittle, hating himself for his weakness. He was half inside, half outside the building, his cheek pressed to a white marble floor. "You will raise the barricade and open the door at once," he called to a team of black-suited bodyguards running at him from across the reception area. "I have a warrant to search the premises."
They were on him in a flash, hands grasping his shoulders, his head, shoving and pushing him back under the curtain. "Out, old man. You have no business here."
"In!" yelled Baranov over his shoulder. "Push me in!"
From beyond the steel curtain, friendly but no less forceful hands took hold of his legs and waist and muscled him forward. He moved an inch one way, then two inches the other. Ferociously angered by such disrespect- for his age, his circumstance, and his office- Baranov gave a mighty grunt and pulled himself forward. The barricade crashed down behind him. He was inside.
"Bring me Kirov," he shouted, climbing to his feet and setting off across the wide reception area. "Tell him he has a visitor!"
Seated in his customary chair in the far corner of Konstantin Kirov's second-floor office, wearing his favorite houndstooth jacket, was a wiry, olive-skinned man with close-cropped black hair, a long, crooked nose, and a black mustache thick enough to sweep the floor. But one did not dwell long on the man's features or his dress. What captured one's attention were the eyes. They were dark and deep-set, twin orbs of unblinking obsidian framed by unusually long, luxuriant lashes. They were the eyes of a zealot.
To meet Aslan Dashamirov's stare was to look into the abyss, to see death and life and know that they were separated only by the razor's edge of his will.
"I understand we have a problem," Dashamirov was saying. "Someone in our organization talking more than he should, being a bit too free with his opinions, taking papers from the workplace that are better left at his desk."
Kirov did not know how Dashamirov had discovered the details of his sit-down with Yuri Baranov the day before, but he knew better than to be surprised. "Yes," he replied. "Some confidential papers have found their way into the prosecutor general's hands. Nothing to worry about in and of itself. What concerns me is how the papers slipped out of the office."
"Any idea who the culprit is?"
"We've narrowed it down to someone in legal or administration. Unfortunately, our staff has doubled in the past year. Don't worry- we'll put our finger on him."
"And is it the same one who has leaked the information regarding Mercury?"
"I certainly hope so."
"And the American?"
"At the dacha. You may have him when he's no longer needed."
Dashamirov bowed his eyes, which was as close as he ever came to saying thank you.
Chechen by birth, a Muscovite by upbringing, Aslan Dashamirov was fifty-two years old, the same age as Konstantin Kirov, and the two had been in business since Kirov had first moved to Moscow- or "the Center," as it was called- from Petersburg. Dashamirov had no pretensions of civility. He was a criminal born and bred, a Vory v zakone- a thief of thieves- a man sworn to conduct his life outside the pale of law and order. Still, he carried a title in the contemporary Russian business world, a position that was acknowledged by none, yet respected by all. Aslan Dashamirov was a krysha- or "roof"- and every businessman engaged in the pursuit of profit somewhere in the Republic kept a man like him on his payroll, whether by choice or not.
A krysha performed a variety of functions. He obtained permits, persuaded politicians, sweet-talked creditors, and harried debtors. He offered protection against racketeers, bargained with corrupt law enforcement officials, secured banking privileges at friendly financial institutions, and helped negotiate the treacherous corridors of the judicial system. His methods were crude but effective, and ranged from bribery and extortion to torture, kidnapping, and murder.