“Govno!” Now Anatoliy saw what had happened and took action. He kept moving right, accelerating hard and swerving back and forth as his eyes picked holes in the traffic. The majority of the vehicles in sight had stopped, and Golovko’s driver sought out the holes and darted through them, arriving at the vehicle entrance to Moscow Center in less than a minute. The armed guards there were already moving out into the square, along with the supplementary response force from its shack just inside and out of sight. The commander of the group, a senior lieutenant, saw Golovko’s car and recognized it, waved him inside and motioned to two of his men to accompany it to the drop-off point. The arrival time was now the only normal aspect of the young day. Golovko stepped out, and two young soldiers formed up in physical contact with his heavy topcoat. Anatoliy stepped out, too, his pistol in his hand and his coat open, looking back through the gate with suddenly anxious eyes. His head turned quickly.
“Get him inside!” And with that order, the two privates strong-armed Golovko through the double bronze doors, where more security troops were arriving.
“This way, Comrade Chairman,” a uniformed captain said, taking Sergey Nikolay’ch’s arm and heading off to the executive elevator. A minute later, he stumbled into his office, his brain only now catching up with what it had seen just three minutes before. Of course, he walked to the window to look down.
Moscow police— called militiamen— were racing to the scene, three of them on foot. Then a police car appeared, cutting through the stopped traffic. Three motorists had left their vehicles and approached the burning car, perhaps hoping to render assistance. Brave of them, Golovko thought, but an entirely useless effort. He could see better now, even at a distance of three hundred meters. The top had bulged up. The windshield was gone, and he looked into a smoking hole, which had minutes before been a hugely expensive vehicle, and which had been destroyed by one of the cheapest weapons the Red Army had ever mass-produced. Whoever had been inside had been shredded instantly by metal fragments traveling at nearly ten thousand meters per second. Had they even known what had happened? Probably not. Perhaps the driver had had time to look and wonder, but the owner of the car in the back had probably been reading his morning paper, before his life had ended without warning.
That was when Golovko’s knees went weak. That could have been him… suddenly learning if there were an afterlife after all, one of the great mysteries of life, but not one which had occupied his thoughts very often…
But whoever had done the killing, who had been his target? As Chairman of the SVR, Golovko was not a man to believe in coincidences, and there were not all that many white Benz S600s in Moscow, were there?
“Comrade Chairman?” It was Anatoliy at the office door.
“Yes, Anatoliy Ivan’ch?”
“Are you well?”
“Better than he,” Golovko replied, stepping away from the window. He needed to sit now. He tried to move to his swivel chair without staggering, for his legs were suddenly weak indeed. He sat and found the surface of his desk with both his hands, and looked down at the oaken surface with its piles of papers to be read— the routine sight of a day which was not now routine at all. He looked up.
Anatoliy Ivan’ch Shelepin was not a man to show fear. He’d served in Spetsnaz through his captaincy, before being spotted by a KGB talent scout for a place in the 8th “Guards” Directorate, which he’d accepted just in time for KGB to be broken apart. But Anatoliy had been Golovko’s driver and bodyguard for years now, part of his official family, like an elder son, and Shelepin was devoted to his boss. He was a tall, bright man of thirty-three years, with blond hair and blue eyes that were now far larger than usual, because though Anatoliy had trained for much of his life to deal with and in violence; this was the first time he’d actually been there to see it when it happened. Anatoliy had often wondered what it might be like to take a life, but never once in his career had he contemplated losing his own, certainly not to an ambush, and most certainly not to an ambush within shouting distance of his place of work. At his desk outside Golovko’s office, he acted like a personal secretary more than anything else. Like all such men, he’d grown casual in the routine of protecting someone whom no one would dare attack, but now his comfortable world had been sundered as completely and surely as that of his boss.
Oddly, but predictably, it was Golovko’s brain that made it back to reality first.
“Anatoliy?”
“Yes, Chairman?”
“We need to find out who died out there, and then find out if it was supposed to be us instead. Call militia headquarters, and see what they are doing.”
“At once.” The handsome young face disappeared from the doorway.
Golovko took a deep breath and rose, taking another look out the window as he did so. There was a fire engine there now, and firefighters were spraying the wrecked car to extinguish the lingering flames. An ambulance was standing by as well, but that was a waste of manpower and equipment, Sergey Nikolay’ch knew. The first order of business was toy get the license-plate number from the car and identify its owner, and from that knowledge determine if the unfortunate had died in Golovko’s place, or perhaps had possessed enemies of his own. Rage had not yet supplanted the shock of the event. Perhaps that would come later, Golovko thought, as he took a step toward his private washroom, for suddenly his bladder was weak. It seemed a horrid display of frailty, but Golovko had never known immediate fear in his life, and, like many, thought in terms of the movies. The actors there were bold and resolute, never mind that their words were scripted and their reactions rehearsed, and none of it was anything like what happened when explosives arrived in the air without warning.
Who wants me dead? he wondered, after flushing the toilet.
The American Embassy a few miles away had a flat roof on which stood all manner of radio antennas, most of them leading to radio receivers of varying levels of sophistication, which were in turn attached to tape recorders that turned slowly in order to more efficiently use their tapes. In the room with the recorders were a dozen people, both civilian and military, all Russian linguists who reported to the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, between Baltimore and Washington. It was early in the day, and these people were generally at work before the Russian officials whose communications they worked to monitor. One of the many radios in the room was a scanning monitor of the sort once used by American citizens to listen in on police calls. The local cops used the same bands and the exact same type of radios that their American counterparts had used in the 1970s, and monitoring them was child’s play— they were not encrypted yet. They listened in on them for the occasional traffic accident, perhaps involving a big shot, and mainly to keep a finger on the pulse of Moscow, whose crime situation was bad and getting worse. It was useful for embassy personnel to know what parts of town to avoid, and to be able to keep track of a crime to one of the thousands of American citizens.
“Explosion?” an Army sergeant asked the radio. His head turned. “Lieutenant Wilson, police report an explosion right in front of Moscow Center.”
“What kind?”
“Sounds like a car blew up. Fire department is on the scene now, ambulance…” He plugged in headphones to get a better cut on the voice traffic. “Okay, white Mercedes-Benz, tag number—” He pulled out a pad and wrote it down. “Three people dead, driver and two passengers and… oh, shit!”
“What is it, Reins?”
“Sergey Golovko…” Sergeant Reins’s eyes were shut, and he had one hand pressing the headphones to his ears. “Doesn’t he drive a white Benz?”
“Oh, shit!” Lieutenant Wilson observed for herself. Golovko was one of the people whom her people routinely tracked. “Is he one of the deaders?”
“Can’t tell yet, ell-tee. New voice… the captain at the station, just said he’s coming down. Looks like they’re excited about this one, ma’am. Lotsa chatter coming up.”
Lieutenant Susan Wilson rocked back and forth in her swivel chair. Make a call on this one or not? They couldn’t shoot you for notifying your superiors of something, could they…? “Where’s the station chief?”
“On his way to the airport, ell-tee, he’s flying off to St. Petersburg today, remember?”
“Okay.” She turned back to her panel and lifted the secure phone, a STU-6 (for “secure telephone unit”), to Fort Meade. Her plastic encryption key was in its proper slot, and the phone was already linked and synchronized with another such phone at NSA headquarters. She punched the # key to get a response.