The Falstaff Enigma (28 page)

"Absolutely not," the colonel
retorted. "We have nothing except theories to back us up. Even if Sorovin gave a full confession, there is a chance that it would be viewed as a plot to discredit a few generals. We have to have more than just Sorovin."

"Then all we can do is g
rab him and force him to talk."

"Which would again be difficult. He would be hard to capture alive and harder to break, either chemically or through physical torture.
We don’t have that kind of time."

David shrugged his shoulders, signifying that he was out of suggestions. He looked at Austin, who had been silent all this time. The analyst had a look that betrayed the intricate thought process that made him an invaluable asset to whoever could tap his
capabilities. "What do you think, Robert?"

"I think Anatoly is right. Sorovin would not likely reveal anything of extreme value to us in time to use it." The analyst took a sip of cola. "However, he is the key to pursuing a strategy which you have both overlooked.

"Sorovin and his group have laid out a very precise timetable that culminates exactly on July Fourth. That is just short of three weeks from today. Now, so far we have been on a desperate search for any possible clues, which is not going to produce enough results in time. All of these clues become available only after our adversaries have already taken another step along their timetable, which means that they have been playing all the cards, so to speak. But there is a way to change this equation so that we gain the initiative. We have to disrupt their schedule completely; throw them off balance."

"Which would mean what?" Borskov
asked.

"We would force them to show their hand early, as we say in America. Only we would be waiting to expose that hand."

"How would you do this?" the colonel queried.

"The first thing would be to take Sorovin dead or alive, but preferably alive. That act alone would cut off the enforcement arm of this group and send it into shock.

"But the next action was made possible by the late Yuri Savitsky. We go to Washington and flush out their spy and try to make him run to Moscow. I am convinced  that this mole will run right to the headquarters of the conspiracy."

"That has a very low probability of success," the colonel
replied.

Austin was quick with an answer. "In the meantime, you would be working on Sorovin. But I still think that the mole would have to run back to Moscow. Once he knew he was exposed, he could not stay in the West and once he got to Moscow he would have to make contact with his people." Austin leaned back against his chair, inviting a response.

"You seem fairly sure about that," David commented.

“What else can we do?” the analyst
replied. “To sit around and wait is not a winning gambit.”

"I agree," broke in Borskov, "but first we have
to find where Sorovin's team is hiding out. We can follow him for a day, using the same radioactive trick we used before. Once we get that information then we take him. In the meantime, you and Nikolai will fly to Helsinki and await the final go-ahead for Washington." The colonel had been talking to Austin. "There is only one stipulation. If you cannot find this mole and make him run within 24 hours, then forget it and get back to Moscow. We will need you here."

Austin nodded in agreement. "David?"

"I think this is a crap shoot as best, but I can’t think of anything better right now. I wish you luck."

The capital of Finland emerges from the vast forests of the country in the ordered fashion dictated by the whims of decades of city planners. The old city is ringed by the production line efficiency of standardized housing projects. It is textbook socialism, yet it is also a country where capitalist and communist pass each other in a harmony built on mediocrity. It is a city where East and West melt into one; a neutral zone where both sides find little to fight over because everything exists on an even level. It is a place where attitudes are shaped by a relentless winter, where a reserved coolness is often mistaken for hostility and where anyone can easily blend in.

The sun's light was still effective when the Polish airliner taxied onto the tarmac at Helsinki's International Airport just after nine o'clock in the evening. The scheduled LOT flight from Moscow had taken only two hours and Austin nervously pulled out his Canadian passport
, manufactured only that afternoon. On this trip his name would be Robert Simms. He repeated the name over in his mind, along with his new occupation: an oil drilling supply salesman based in Calgary.

Eleven rows ahead sat Nikolai, now traveling under an Italian passport. He had spent the past two hours thumbing through an Italian/Russian dictionary frantically trying to regain a working vocabulary
from his grade-school memories. The pair would not speak to each other again until they were checked in at the Hesperia Hotel.

They had picked Helsinki quite intentionally. In its constant tightrope act to remain unaligned to the satisfaction of all, the Finnish government was openly hostile to the operations of any foreign intelligence service, especially the C
IA and the KGB. Embassy officials were routinely expelled when caught in any brazen act and the government was even known to have the police loudly arrest foreign agents engaged in surveillance. This meant that very few spies were available on either side to watch the airport.

The taxi ride to the hotel had been short and cost Austin only 30 Finnish
Markkas, tip included. He had checked in, washed his face and gone down to the lobby to wait for his secret companion.

Nikolai entered the lobby from the
elevator. He went directly to the desk to check for any messages. Both men went outside and Austin struck up a conversation, giving them the excuse to take a single taxi to dinner.

Nikolai was as excited as a schoolboy headed for his first prom. "I know a great place to get salted
herring and Koskenkorva vodka," whispered the KGB agent in Russian. "Driver, take us to the 'King Gustav' on Mannerheim Street," he said loudly in broken Finnish. He turned back to Austin, the yellowing rays of sunlight catching the gleam in his eye. "I was once stationed here for six months, you know. There's no place nicer than Helsinki when it's not snowing."

The 29-year-old KGB agent relaxed in his seat, the suggestion of a smile on his lips. It
was the first time Austin remembered seeing any happiness in the man. Nikolai turned his head to look at a pair of blonde teenage girls in very tight jeans. The light from a passing street lamp reflected off the spreading bald spot on his head. Austin thought about the life waiting for Nikolai, and wondered if he truly supported the system he helped to keep in power. The analyst knew that it was no time to talk politics. Anyway, the KGB agent could only respond like the automaton he was.

The prematurely balding man looked back at Austin, this time with a mischievous look on his face. "The women here are much better than in Moscow," he said. "After dinner we'll go to a sauna. I know one where the women will treat us well; very
well.” He was like a college freshman away from his parents' grasp for the first time.

Austin did not reply. He gazed out the window,
splashes of light penetrating his mind sporadically. He thought only of his wife and he wondered when he might see her again.

Low clouds hung over Moscow, obscuring the point in time when the sun crept above the horizon. Colonel Borskov had not gone home the night before, having preferred to stay with David at the safe house. He simply told his wife not to expect him back for a few days.

Borskov had not slept well. He was now depending on four young KGB agents to track Sorovin. They were all fresh from their respective universities, but they were the only men available that the
colonel could trust. He tried not to think about the fact that Sorovin could kill all four before they even realized what was happening.

The radio suddenly came alive with an excited young voice. "Volga
odin, Volga odin, the package is in the mail." Leonid Sorovin was on his way somewhere. Once again, radioactive paint applied the night before would allow tracking to be achieved at a safe distance.

"David, get up," said the
colonel as he shook the Mossad spy. "Our assassin is on the move."

"At this hour?" came the reply, in a voice that was slowed by the inefficiencies of a mind at rest. "I hope it's somewhere important."

"We will know very soon."

Sorovin
accelerated quickly away from his blockhouse retreat. The early hour meant that almost no other traffic impeded his path. Within seconds he was two blocks away and slowing to turn left.

Suddenly his eyes shifted involuntarily, reacting to movement the way they had become accustomed to doing after years of fighting for survival. It had been infinitesimal – but it was there, contained within the 54 square centimeters of his rear view mirror. His eyes riveted firmly on the small mirror. They had not failed him: two bodies got into a sedan parked on the side of the street in front of his apartment building.

He completed his turn and soon surpassed the speed limit. Possibilities entered his mind, all neatly analyzed with the resulting conclusion stored for final comparison.
How could they have found me? No, not ‘they’; it must be Anatoly Borskov.

But there were no cars behind him, so they couldn't be relying on a visual tail.
Radio!
They must have put a transmitter in his car.

Sorovin pulled over after travelling only a few blocks. He looked back and still the street was empty. He stepped out and walked to his trunk and opened it. Inside was a small radio scanner that covered the entire radio wavelength spectru
m in a continuous analog search. He adjusted its sensitivity to its lowest setting and turned it on. The entire scan took exactly forty seconds and produced no hint of a local transmission source. He returned to the driver's seat with the scanner in hand.

Helicopter surveillance
!
Sorovin stepped out once again to look up. He watched the sky and listened intently for a minute before rejecting the theory. Still there was no other cars on the street. He got in and drove off, making several evasive turns he would not have bothered with before sighting the two men in his rear-view mirror.

The killer was not satisfied. Those men had to be following him. How? It didn't matter; he thought of a way to find out whether or not someone was following him. It would be direct and simple.

Sorovin continued straight on the street for nine blocks, obeying the speed limit of 35 kilometers per hour. He checked his mirror. Nothing. In a fluid motion the killer's sedan slowed and turned around in a small intersection. Sorovin sped up quickly, soon topping 80 kilometers per hour. The killer had a feeling, and that was something he never ignored.

The two young KGB agents had not followed all of Sorovin's twists and turns exactly. They were far enough behind to make their path only a general outline of the killer's trail. They stopped at an intersection.

"Which way now?" the younger driver asked, his face glowing with the excitement of the chase.

"Turn to the left." The man in the passenger seat turned on his collar transmitter. "Volga tri, we are now heading east on … ah ...
Simonovskaya Ulitsa." The auto completed its turn. The passenger noticed it first. "Watch out, that guy looks drunk."

Sorovin recognized the sedan; it was
straight from the KGB motor pool. His course of action was predetermined, the result of reflex more than any thought process. He was perhaps 70 meters from his target and closing fast when he applied his brakes. He waited a moment or two and then locked them up, the sedan skidding appropriately. A slight leftward turn of the wheel and the auto responded by going into a sideways skid, thereby blocking both lanes.

The young KGB agent screeched to a stop, his heart accelerating to panic level. His hands tightened their grip on the wheel, his knuckles turning white.

The assassin's sedan finally came to a rest three meters from his stationary target. He reached to his right for the AKMS rifle that had been resting on the passenger seat. It was gone.

"You bastard! Son-of-a-whore," shouted the young KGB driver. Anger was quickly replacing his fear, but the adrenalin still pumping through his body made his arms shake violently.

His partner was not so jumpy. His mind was foggy but remained cognizant of the stimuli now flooding into it.

"Damn," muttered the passenger. He began to reach around his chest, searching for the pistol strapped into its shoulder harness.

It was there. The rifle, with its wire frame butt stock folded forward, had fallen to the floor of the sedan. Sorovin reached down and found the pistol grip of the weapon that extended downward from the bolt carrier, his index finger resting naturally on the trigger as his right hand wrapped around the handle. He allowed himself a smile. His target had his opportunity to live – to prevail – but had failed to seize that chance. This would be easy. The killer threw his door open and stepped out, dragging the automatic rifle with him. He swung the long barrel around the outside of the car, up the side, and brought it to rest on the roof, his left hand now holding the forward wooden grip of the automatic weapon.

"Cover,” shouted the passenger, unaware that h
e had produced any sound at all. He dropped his upper body to the right as his hand gripped the pistol and pulled it from its holster. The young driver exhaled sharply. A lump welled in his throat. His reactions were slow.

The killer squeezed the trigger of his weapon. Six rounds fired in less than two brief seconds. The first three rounds hit home, ripping through the fragile windshield of the KGB issue sedan and into the chest of its young driver.

The driver's body convulsed in its dance of death. His right leg jumped forward, flooring the gas pedal. The car lurched forward and smashed into Sorovin's stalled sedan, knocking the assassin off his feet and wrenching the AKM rifle out of his hands. The weapon slid across the roof of Sorovin's sedan and came to rest on the hood of the KGB car.

The passenger groped with his uncoordinated left hand and found the lever that opened his door. He pushed it open and crawled out of the car, not sure what to do next. He looked around and saw no one. Then he got to h
is feet, remaining in a crouch.

Sorovin regained his feet, pulling out a pistol. He knew that there was still another victim waiting to be taken. He moved to the edge of his sedan and pointed his pistol across the top of his hood at the passenger side of the KGB sedan. He fired once through the windshield, hoping to get the man to react.

The passenger did. He raised his weapon and began running forward, firing wildly at the small target presented.

Sorovin smiled inside. The young man had committed suicide. The killer took careful aim and squeezed off two rounds. Both were true. The young KGB agent fell face first to the hard pavement. His body was limp. One bullet had blown away half of his skull.

Sorovin stood straight up, not sure of the feeling running through his body. He looked down at his shirt: a river of blood was cascading downward.

The killer fell forward onto his hood, with two holes on opposite sides of his neck.

Leonid Sorovin was dead.

"Sir, what do I do?" The second chase car had arrived only moments after death had played its hand. The driver had served in Afghanistan and
, after surveying the carnage, was now talking with Borskov. His partner was hiding behind the chase car, vomiting.

"Are you sure the assassin is dead?” the colonel
asked as David returned from using the toilet down the hall.

"I have no doubt."

"Then put his body in your car and take it to the morgue after you remove all identification. Be sure he is handled by Doctor Chekov. Afterwards, pick up your partner and meet me at the assassin's den. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. What about our men?"

"Damn, them. I will handle them. The body of the assassin is what matters. Now move quickly before the militia arrive." Borskov turned off his transmitter.

David sat down and exhaled slowly. “Sorovin is dead?” he asked – already knowing the answer.

“He picked up on the tail and had a shootout with the lead car. Our two men are dead as well. The other two men came along the scene moments after the shootout.”

"You trust the one being left behind to say the right things to the militia?" David
asked.

"No, I don't.
But I've already contacted Peter Gushkin in the militia. He will handle the investigation. It will be recorded as another drunk driving accident. It is quite a problem, you know."

"Who is Doctor Chekov?"

"He works for the KGB." The colonel looked coolly at David; nothing more needed to be said.

David finished a piece of stale bread and put his plate into the sink. "It's unbelievable what you can get away with, Colonel. This would all be impossible in the West, all these cover-ups. Powerful people are being killed in street battles and it's all swept under the rug.
Just like that." Margolis snapped his finger.

Borskov walked to the closet that concealed the ladder down to the garage. He stopped and turned back toward the Mossad spy. “I recall reading recently about a drug deal gone bad in a motel in Washington DC. Now who is being naïve?” He turned to step onto the ladder’s next to top rung. "Let's get going. I have to stop by my office and place a call to Helsinki."

"Are you telling them to come back?” asked David as he followed Borskov to the down the ladder.

"Absolutely not.
Now that mole is more important than ever.”

"I thought you wanted to know where Sorovin's men were befo
re you gave Robert the go-ahead?"

"I have a plan, David. If it doesn't work then the mole will be our only backup." Borskov abruptly climbed down the ladder.