State Sanctioned Page 3

  But his question was cut off as the man pumped two rounds into Boykov’s back.

  Morrison’s mouth was agape as the man turned back toward him, unscrewing his suppressor, Boykov’s final moments still playing out behind his savior.

  “You okay, kid?”

  Morrison said nothing, still in shock. The man grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a shake.

  “Kid, you okay?”

  Morrison nodded. “Wh-what just happened?”

  “Nothing. You’re going to go outside, find your partner, tell him you found nothing, and it must have all been a false alarm. If anyone asks you anything, you just heard your voice over the radio, and the frequencies were jammed when you tried to call in a concern. I was never here, and you were definitely never up here.”

  “But, I, umm.” Morrison stopped then stared at the man. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a ghost. Now get out of here, and forget everything you saw.”

  3 |

  Minkin Holdings Headquarters Moscow, Russia Present day, four weeks before the assault

  Natasha Ivashin stared at the man sitting behind the large antique desk, the hand-carved creation a masterpiece worth more than she could possibly imagine. She hadn’t exactly grown up poor, though she would have been unimaginably so if it weren’t for her Uncle Cheslav. Yet he wasn’t her uncle. Not really. He was a family friend, her father’s best friend apparently, who had taken care of her and her mother after her father’s death decades ago.

  Almost thirty years ago.

  She had few memories of her father, though the last was by far the worst. She had found his body, slumped behind a desk far humbler than this one. She had only been five. The memories of that day, and those that followed, were a jumble now, mostly created by her mind from stories she told herself.

  But the image of her father, the gun he had used to take his own life still gripped in his hand, would never leave her. It was an image that haunted her dreams, an image that would never allow her peace.

  An image that had ruined her life.

  She had few happy memories, despite making a success of herself. Uncle Cheslav had made sure they were fed and clothed, and had a roof over their heads. He had paid for her education, and had been the father figure she needed, even if his appearances were rare. He was now a senior minister in the Russian government, recently elected, and a staunch supporter of the President. He was a self-made man, worth millions if not tens of millions, and his time was precious.

  Far too precious for the likes of her.

  Yet he had made time for her after her mother’s death several weeks ago.

  Though it had seemed reluctantly.

  “I know why you’re here.”

  It had taken her aback. “So, you knew all this time?”

  Uncle Cheslav nodded. “I did. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I didn’t agree with your mother hiding the truth from you for so long. Obviously, you were too young to be told when it happened, but I felt after you turned eighteen, you should have been told. Your mother, God bless her, disagreed, and I respected her wishes.”

  Natasha dropped into a chair across from her uncle. “What can you tell me?”

  “What do you know?”

  She waved the letter that her father had left her thirty years ago, only now opened. “He said he was involved in something shameful, and took his life to protect us from what he feared might come.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Yes. On her death bed, mother gave me this, and told me you could answer any questions I might have.”

  Cheslav drew a breath, steeling himself for what was to come. “Ask me anything.”

  “What was he involved in?”

  Her uncle frowned, exhaling loudly. “Very well. I will tell you, but you must never repeat it to anyone, understood?”

  She leaned forward eagerly. “Yes.”

  “Your father was part of a plot to assassinate Mikhail Gorbachev.”

  Her jaw dropped as her eyes widened. She fell back in her chair, her head slowly shaking at the revelation. “It…it can’t be!”

  “I’m afraid it is, my dear.”

  “But why? I mean, is it true?”

  Cheslav’s frown deepened. “I’m afraid so. But don’t blame your father. Those were different times. Many of us feared what would happen should Gorbachev’s reforms be allowed to continue, and in some ways our concerns were borne out. The Soviet Union that we all loved and served collapsed, and near anarchy ensued. It’s taken almost thirty years for us to recover, and many feel we still have far to go.”

  She stared at him in silence before finally gathering the strength to continue. “Do you believe that?”

  He sighed. “I do, to a point. That’s why I ran for office. To try and help the country I love.”

  “And father? He obviously failed. What happened?”

  “I don’t know everything, as I wasn’t involved in the plot, but after the collapse, he told me as much as he dared, for he feared if anyone knew I had been told, my life would be at risk.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Your father was a good man, my dear, the best. He was my best friend from childhood, and we served together with honor in the KGB for decades. Yet all that loyalty and service was wiped from the record when your father failed in a mission that I’m convinced he hadn’t conceived, merely executed on orders from above.”

  “Who? Who gave him the orders?”

  Cheslav shook his head. “I have no idea, and your father never said. But when he failed, no one could obviously come out and say why he was disavowed, but he was. The Soviet Union collapsed three years later, the KGB was rebranded, and spies like your father and me were retired. I with honor, your father in disgrace. The worst part, though, was that he was to blame, and he feared that those who had given him the orders would seek their revenge. And in those days, it was family they took it out on first.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “Me and mother.”

  “Exactly. So, he took his own life to protect the two of you from what might come.”

  Her voice cracked. “Would they have come for him?”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid so. Many died in those days, silently, off the radar. Much of it was made to look like gang violence, but we knew what was really going on. It was payback time, and your father was most likely on someone’s list. As were you and your mother. The fact you were both allowed to live, with nothing interfering in your success, shows your father’s sacrifice was worth it, don’t you think?”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pictured him dead in his chair, a gaping hole in his head. “Never,” she whispered. She looked up at her uncle, her eyes blurred with tears. “I would give my life this instant if it meant just another day with him.”

  Cheslav closed his eyes for a moment, his shoulders shaking as he struggled for control. He finally opened them, revealing his own pain. “As would I, my dear, as would I. But there is nothing we can do to change the past.”

  Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, squeezing tighter and tighter as her heart hammered with a rage that shocked even her. She had always been prone to fits of anger, of tantrums so violent she had terrorized her mother when she was younger. It was kickboxing, a sport her uncle had suggested, that had allowed her to control her untamed aggression. Yet beating the living shit out of inanimate objects, or sparring with rules that protected the safety of her opponent, hadn’t been enough.

  Enter mixed martial arts.

  She had embraced it, and become quite good, though those years were behind her. She was a respected educator now, teaching mathematics at a local high school, where kicking ass in public was frowned upon.

  Yet she didn’t need the outlet anymore. She had grown out of it, the fits of rage a thing of the past.

  Until now.

  She sprung from her chair. “I need to know who is responsible.”

  Cheslav shook his head, but not before recoiling from the rage. “I-I told you, I don’t know.”
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  “Was my father the one who was supposed to pull the trigger?”

  Cheslav shook his head. “No.”

  “Then who was?”

  “There was one trigger man, though there were several others involved in the mission, according to your father.”

  “So, they’re the ones who failed.”

  Cheslav composed himself and pointed at the chair. She sat. “Yes, they were the ones that failed, but your father was in charge, so bore the blame.”

  “But if they had succeeded, then there’d be nothing to blame my father for, and he’d be alive today.”

  Cheslav shook his head. “No, we don’t know that. There could have been a world war if he had succeeded. There were Americans involved as well. They were going to make it look like the Americans did it, to prolong the Cold War. Countless millions could have died if that conflict had continued, and tens of millions if not billions could have died if there had been war.” He leaned forward. “No, my dear, I thank God every day that he failed. Anything is better than war.”

  “That may be true, but I want names. I want them to pay like my father did.”

  Cheslav sighed heavily. “And how are you going to make them pay?”

  “I’m going to kill every last one of them. And you’re going to help me.”

  She had left the room, returning to her empty home she had shared with her mother. She had hoped her rage would subside, as she was certain her uncle had hoped as well, but it had grown into a white-hot inferno only blood could quench.

  And her uncle had come through, as he always did.

  “If we are to do this, then it must be done properly, and swiftly.”

  She had embraced him the moment the words were delivered in her doorway, then the shocking revelation that he had lied to her was revealed the moment they sat—her father had given her uncle the names of several involved, and a copy of the report naming the two responsible for foiling the attack.

  Her rage grew.

  And the plotting began.

  Her uncle provided files on the targets, and devised their methods of execution, all with the aim of drawing out into the open those who might ultimately be responsible.

  For Cheslav feared it went to the core leadership of the country, and they’d be nearly impossible to reach.

  But the plan was solid, though more complicated than she had hoped.

  Yet its complexity did make sense when explained to her by her uncle, who had far more experience in these things than she did.

  And that was why she was sitting here today, meeting with a man involved in the plot that had ultimately taken her father’s life, resisting the urge to kill him where he sat.

  For he had something she needed.

  He pushed a small box across his desk. “I’ve been instructed to give you this.”

  She glanced at it, but didn’t touch it. “You must owe my uncle a great deal to heed his request.”

  The man frowned. “Let’s just say your uncle is a very powerful man, and men like me aren’t in any position to deny men like that anything.”

  She grunted. “You’re one of the richest men in Russia. I doubt there’s much he can do to touch you.”

  The man chuckled. “How naïve you are, little one.” Rage flared in her gut at the disrespect. “Men like me are nothing without men like your uncle behind us. Yes, we have more money than we know what to do with, but with the snap of our President’s fingers, we can be tossed in prison on falsified charges, everything taken from us.” He shook his head. “No, little one, I had no choice but to heed your uncle’s demands.” He pointed at the case. “I don’t know what you’re going to do with that, but I’ll warn you, it is extremely dangerous. If you’re not careful, you will die.” He leaned closer. “And if you’re caught, you will absolutely die.” He indicated the case again. “Treachery like this never goes unpunished.”

  She rose, taking the case. “When my job is finished, I don’t care if I live or die.” She tucked it into an inner pocket of her jacket, wishing she had a gun. She eyed a letter opener sitting on the desk.

  That will do.

  “And what exactly is this job?”

  She stepped closer, leaning forward, her balled fists pressed against the top of the antique masterpiece. “To kill everyone involved in the assassination attempt on Gorbachev in 1988.”

  The man’s eyes flared and his jaw dropped as she grabbed the letter opener, tossing the sheath aside. “Starting with you, Yury Minkin, the man who gave the briefing.”

  An alarm sounded and she glanced over her shoulder as the door to the office opened. The busty blond secretary that had shown her in earlier rushed through the door, about to say something, when she gasped.

  And it was all the distraction Minkin had needed.

  Natasha felt an iron grip on her hand, her wrist bent at an ungodly angle, the letter opener clattering onto the desktop as she dropped to her knees.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Yury, we’re being raided!”

  The grip on her hand was broken instantly and she cradled it against her chest as she was forgotten.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s the police! They’re in the lobby and on their way up!”

  Footsteps pounding in the hallway neared and Minkin paled. He pointed at Natasha’s pocket containing the case. “If they catch you here with that, we’re both dead.”

  He turned to his secretary. “Lock the outer doors and go to lunch. Don’t come back until you hear from me.”

  She just stood there, frozen.

  “Do it! Now!”

  She yelped and jumped, then disappeared, closing the door behind her. Minkin locked it then beckoned Natasha over to the wall, left of his desk. He pressed on the corner of a panel and there was a click, the panel sliding aside a moment later. He pressed a button on a keypad, doors parting to reveal a private elevator. He shoved her inside. “This will take you to the basement. Follow the hallway to the end. There’s a door that leads to the street on the next block.”

  She stared at him. “Why are you helping me? I just tried to kill you.”

  “Because what I procured for you and your uncle means treason, and they’ll hang me for sure. Your personal business with me is something entirely different, and one day we’ll discuss it like civilized individuals, and perhaps you’ll let me live.” He reached inside and pressed a button then stepped back. “Good luck, little one. I hope we meet again so I can explain why you’re so wrong.”

  4 |

  Zizzi Restaurant Salisbury, United Kingdom Three weeks later

  “It’s a beautiful day.”

  Igor Kulick smiled at his daughter, Anna, visiting for the first time in two months, despite only living on the other side of the city. Yet notwithstanding her infrequent visits, he was still thankful. His wife had long passed, and Anna was all he now had.

  And who’s to blame for that?

  It was his own fault, his loneliness. He had made the choices he had, and because of it, had fled his homeland. Though was it his fault? What had happened in Red Square all those decades ago hadn’t been his fault, though his attempt to report what he knew had killed his career. He had never seen the American he had been partnered with again, though assumed he had succeeded in foiling Boykov’s assassination attempt, as both leaders had survived their staged stroll unscathed.

  Though as his supervisors had insisted, there had been no assassination attempt. It was all in his head. He had never seen Boykov, and he had abandoned his post, leaving an American spy unescorted, a spy who had spent perhaps hours stealing state secrets.

  Despite all their assurances to the contrary, something had happened, he was certain. While the official story had been that nothing untoward had occurred, the rumor mill was rife with reports of several shots being heard, and activity at one of the buildings lining Red Square.

  And then there was Dimitri Golov.

  He wasn’t seen again, and Kulick knew h
e had been assigned to one of the two buildings Boykov had disappeared between. His disappearance could mean only one of two things. That he had been killed, perhaps by Boykov, or he had been “disappeared” for failing in his duty, or for interfering in whatever Boykov had been up to.

  If Boykov had indeed been there, which he had never doubted despite his contrarian statements expressed to the American, then he shouldn’t have been. The fact he was, told him more than one was involved, and that likely meant someone on the Russian side. And he had had over thirty years to think about that day.

  How had he known about Boykov? Boykov was a senior agent, Kulick only a junior. How did they all know about him? How did they know why he had been terminated? And if he had been, why hadn’t he been executed or sent to Siberia? Things back then worked differently, though not as differently as many in the West liked to think. The apologists on the left and in the media when it came to the current Russian leadership were delusional if they thought Russia was a democracy. Yes, it had flirted with the notion for several years, but now the elections were merely for show so that the great leader could claim legitimacy on the world stage. If the man had his way, he’d name himself supreme leader, abolish elections, and rid himself of the Duma and the Federation Council.

  Welcome to the new Russia, same as the old.

  Just with an opponent more naïve than the previous.

  “You’re somewhere else again.”

  He flinched at his daughter’s voice, then smiled. “I’m sorry, Anna, what did you say?”

  “I said it was a beautiful day.”

  He sighed, staring out the window of the restaurant, their late lunch cleared away only moments before. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “You’re thinking of home again, aren’t you?”

  He chuckled. “You know me so well.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what has you so troubled?”

  He frowned. He had kept his secret, kept it for over thirty years. His career had been ruined, and when the Soviet Union collapsed shortly after, he had resigned and become a police officer, only later joining the FSB, the replacement to the KGB, hoping things had changed and he might help his new country prosper.