Scorpion Winter s-2 Page 10

“And?”

  “Nothing.” Scorpion shook his head.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Hard to say, but I offered him enough money and came well-recommended enough, which means dangerous enough, that he had every reason to tell me.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “He believed my money,” he replied, not telling her how it had actually gone down.

  He had met Bohdan at the same table two hours earlier, and assumed the man was known here. Bohdan was short, with ferretlike features and dark little eyes that darted about constantly, never still. He had a nervous tic of rubbing his fingers together as if continually signaling money. Scorpion had used Mogilenko’s name, implying to Bohdan that he was an out-of-town hit man brought in by the Syndikat’s Mogilenko, and that Bohdan better tell him the truth or he would be the target instead of Pyatov.

  “They say Mogilenko looks for a foreigner, a Frenchie,” Bohdan had told Scorpion, counting the money he’d given him faster than a bank machine. “He’s ochen serdit.” Really angry. “Says he will chop pieces from this Frenchie and feed it to his cat every day for a year. They look everywhere.”

  “That so?”

  “Foreigner like you,” Bohdan said, counting the money a second time.

  “Good thing I’m not French,” Scorpion said, reaching for his pocketknife.

  “For you, very good,” Bohdan agreed, his fingers making the sign for money again, Scorpion putting another thousand hryvnia on the table. When Bohdan reached for it, Scorpion pierced the back of his hand with his pocketknife, trapping it on the table.

  “I’m a Kiwi,” Scorpion said.

  “What’s that?” Bohdan asked, wincing.

  “From New Zealand. Good to remember.”

  “Sure,” Bohdan said, wincing again. “Wherever the yob that is.”

  “Far away.”

  “I understand. Vy ne frantsuzy,” you are not French, Bohdan said in Russian.

  Scorpion pulled the knife out and put it away. He called one of the girls over and asked for a handkerchief. If Bohdan holding his hand bleeding was an unusual sight here, she didn’t say anything about it.

  “So did he tell you anything, this makler?” Iryna asked now, raising her voice. The music was blaring so loud it was hard for them to hear each other.

  “Not much,” Scorpion said. “No one’s bought a high-powered rifle or explosives in the past week. What about your mole?”

  “She saw Pyatov yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “Cherkesov’s hotel. The lobby.”

  “The one on Voroghilov Street?” Cherkesov’s Dnipropetrovsk headquarters; where Scorpion had met with Gorobets.

  “Mmm,” she nodded, lighting a cigarette, the match flaring in the darkness.

  “What else?”

  “She doesn’t know. If he’s not going to use a rifle or explosives, how’s he going to do it?”

  “With this,” Scorpion said, taking one of the black armbands with the yellow Ukrainian cross out of his pocket.

  Iryna looked at him, her eyes reflecting the light from the stage in the darkness.

  “Where’d you get that?” she asked.

  “From Oliynyk, one of their campaign leaders here. I’m their pal, their drooh.”

  “Are you?” she said, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  According to the TV and Internet, there had been street fighting all over Ukraine between supporters of Kozhanovskiy and the Black Armbands. In Kyiv and Dnipropetrovsk, Black Armbands had smashed Jewish shop windows. In Kharkov, three students and one Black Armband had been killed in a riot near the National University. Scorpion had seen it on TV that afternoon at the car rental shop where he’d rented a BMW 328i all-wheel-drive in case he needed a getaway through the snow from the stadium.

  “They should shoot them all,” the car rental manager had said, referring to the TV.

  “Who?” Scorpion had asked.

  “Those studentov,” meaning the students supporting Kozhanovskiy. “All they do is make trouble. They should get a job, have to work like every Vasja Pupkin, instead of all the time marching, making trouble. Am I right, bratan?” meaning bro, clapping Scorpion on the shoulder.

  Later, trying out the BMW’s AWD on the slushy streets on the way to his RDV at the Paradise Club, he had seen groups of Black Armbands brandishing clubs and spoiling for a fight heading toward Maidan Zhovtneva, October Square, the main square in Dnipropetrovsk.

  “We have to fight them,” Iryna said, sitting next to him in the club. “If we let the Chorni Povyazky go unopposed, people will be afraid to even show up to vote.”

  “I don’t think you should come to the stadium,” Scorpion said.

  “Now who’s being stupid?” Iryna said. “All you’ve got is a photo and a hunch. I’ve seen Pyatov. Hell, I was the one who hired him! You need me. Anyway, it’s settled. I’m coming.”

  “You’re too well known. How long do you think it’ll be before someone in the crowd recognizes you?”

  “I brought these,” she said, taking black plastic-rimmed glasses out of her handbag and putting them on. “What do you think?”

  With her blond wig and bright red lipstick, he thought it made her look like a schoolteacher moonlighting as a hooker.

  “Perfect if you want to give blowjobs to professors,” he said. “Go back to the campaign, Iryna. Now, while you still can.”

  “No,” she said softly. He had to strain over the loudspeaker music to hear her. “This is my fight, my country. If you don’t let me come, I’ll take off the disguise and walk in there openly.”

  In spite of the glasses, Scorpion could see the bravery shining in her eyes. She’s bluffing, he thought. Or crazy. Either way, she was a hell of a woman. He couldn’t just leave her as a loose end. He waved at one of the dancers with a surgically enhanced chest, wearing nothing but a G-string the size of dental floss. When she came over, he ordered Nemiroff for both of them.

  “What’s this?” Iryna asked when the dancer brought the drinks.

  “Might as well, because the odds are we’re both going to die tonight. You, almost certainly.”

  “In that case, za zdorowya ta scasty vam!” she toasted. Health and good luck.

  “We’ll need it,” Scorpion said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stadion Dnipro

  Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine

  It was dark when they arrived at Dnipro Stadium. Scorpion parked the BMW on a side street. If they needed to get away, he didn’t want to be tied up in a parking lot. If anything went wrong, they’d meet at the car, he explained. They walked on icy sidewalks toward the stadium. Iryna was bundled up in a heavy outer coat and hood. Only a few yellow curls of her wig were visible under the hood, and with her glasses and lipstick, she’d be hard to recognize, Scorpion thought. But it was still iffy.

  The street became crowded as they approached the Khersonska Street entrance. They were joined by more and more people heading to the stadium. Militsiyu police outside the stadium entrance watched the crowd pouring in. Vendors sold handheld blue and yellow Ukrainian flags and small black flags with the yellow Ukrainian cross, while Black Armbands near the gate handed out signs for people to carry. The signs read: HET KOZHANOVSKIY, Down with Kozhanovskiy; CHERKESOV MAYBUTN OMU, Cherkesov is the future; and CHERKESOV DLYA PREZYDENTA, Cherkesov for President.

  Scorpion bought one of the Ukrainian flags and handed it to Iryna. A Black Armband tried to hand him a sign. Scorpion shook him off.

  “Zhurnalist,” he said, pointing to his Reuters badge that he wore on the lanyard outside his coat. They joined the crowd pressing through the gate.

  “Khay zhyve Cherkesov!” Long live Cherkesov! one of them shouted, and people around them cheered and clapped. Scorpion and Iryna made their way up a staircase and along a ramp. They came through an opening and into the oval stadium filling with people and more pouring in.

  The snow on the playing field h
ad been cleared away. Thousands of people were sitting on chairs on the field and microphones and lights had been set up on a stage in the middle. A giant TV screen showed patriotic images: the gold-domed churches of Kyiv, the Carpathian mountains in spring, peasant girls in costume, the Ukrainian flag, Ukrainian soldiers goose-stepping to the sounds of military music. Around the field, Black Armbands guided people to their seats or scanned the stands for trouble.

  “Not here,” Scorpion said to Iryna, pulling her toward an exit. Pyatov wasn’t going to take a potshot from the stands, and trying to pick him out of tens of thousands of people was next to impossible. Pyatov would try to get close to Cherkesov, Scorpion thought, but in a place where he had a chance to get away. He and Iryna made their way back down the stairs against the flow of people still coming in and toward one of the entrances to the field. A half-dozen Black Armbands blocked the way.

  “Ask him where Oleksandr Gorobets is,” he whispered to Iryna. “We’re supposed to be his guests. You’re my translator.” A Black Armband who was missing several teeth stood in front of them.

  She told the Black Armband. He peered at Scorpion.

  “Khto vy?” he asked. Who are you?

  “ Zhurnalist Reuters,” Scorpion said, holding up his ID and pointing to it.

  The Black Armband said something.

  “He says Gorobets will be on the platform, but we are not allowed,” Iryna translated.

  “Ask him which entrance Cherkesov will be coming in,” Scorpion said.

  Iryna translated. The Black Armband responded and pointed to an entrance to the field to the right of where they were.

  “Spasiba,” Scorpion said and tugged Iryna away. They made their way around the ground level under the stands toward the tunnel entrance. As they walked, they heard an immense cheer from the crowd.

  “Cherkesov! Cherkesov! Cherkesov!” the crowd shouted. They began to stamp their feet in unison, shaking the stands like a storm. The roar continued for at least five minutes.

  Suddenly, a voice rang out over the loudspeaker: “Ukraintsi!”

  The crowd exploded in cheers and applause. Scorpion and Iryna approached the tunnel entrance. In a small parking area outside the entrance, he spotted a number of Mercedes sedans and Mercedes GL SUVs.

  “Why here?” Iryna asked. They could hear Cherkesov on the loudspeaker now.

  “Pyatov will have to get reasonably close to Cherkesov,” Scorpion explained. “He’s not going to do it from the stands. He might miss and anyone around him could mess it up. The stage is too well guarded, and even if he succeeded, he’d never get away. His best bet is an entryway or exit, like with the Bobby Kennedy assassination.”

  “So how does he get away?”

  “He’ll be a Black Armband. He’s banking on the confusion. Everyone’ll be shooting.”

  The gate was closed, and a dozen armed Black Armbands stood guard at the tunnel entrance. As they approached, they peered past the guards into the tunnel.

  “Oh my God,” Iryna gasped. “I see him.”

  Scorpion spotted Pyatov in the tunnel. He was wearing a hooded jacket with the hood up and a black armband. But it was Pyatov, all right.

  “Get out of here. Wait by the car,” Scorpion said, pushing her away.

  “I’m not going. If you make a scene, they’ll stop you,” meaning the Black Armbands.

  “Last chance,” Scorpion said as they approached the tunnel gate.

  “For you too,” she said, taking his arm.

  “Give them the same story. Reuters, we’re guests of Gorobets,” Scorpion said.

  As they approached the gate, one of the Black Armbands called out something.

  “He says this entrance is not for the public,” Iryna whispered, putting on a broad smile and answering in Ukrainian. A Black Armband the size of an offensive lineman stepped forward to stop them.

  “ Vy zhurnalist? ” he asked, peering at Scorpion.

  “Da, s Reuters v Anglii,” Scorpion said in Russian, holding out his press ID.

  “Khto vy?” a second Black Armband asked Iryna. Who are you? He peered at her oddly, and Scorpion got a queasy feeling. Clearly, he saw something familiar about her.

  Iryna rattled off something quickly. Probably the same story, that she was his translator. The second Black Armband checked his laptop and said something to the others.

  “You’re on the list,” she whispered to Scorpion as two of the Black Armbands opened the gate and let them enter the tunnel, where a dozen or so people, most with press credentials and cameras, waited.

  Scorpion moved ahead of Iryna. He didn’t want Pyatov, who wasn’t looking at them, to see her. Like the others, he was staring out to the brightly lit stage in the middle of the field and the giant TV screen. The crowd was cheering something Cherkesov had just said. Pyatov was bigger and blonder than Scorpion had imagined, his hand in his jacket pocket. It looked like he was holding a gun.

  Scorpion glanced around. The tunnel was no place for a conversation. He spotted a sign over a door that said: TUALETY. The WC. It would have to do, he thought. There wouldn’t be much time. Pyatov started to turn just as Scorpion followed by Iryna came up. At first Pyatov looked confused, then his eyes widened as he recognized Iryna. Before he could move, Scorpion grabbed his wrist in a one-handed ikkyo wristlock. With his other hand, he jammed the muzzle of the Glock hard into Pyatov’s ribs.

  “Tell him we’re going to the tualet to talk.”

  “Vali otsjuda!” Pyatov cursed, telling Scorpion to piss off.

  “Tell him I’ll kill him right here. They’ll think I’m a hero,” Scorpion said.

  Iryna told him.

  “Payuhali!” Let’s go, Scorpion said in Russian, tightening his grip on Pyatov’s wrist and shoving him toward the toilet door. Pyatov started to make a move, and Scorpion said, “Ya strelyat!” I’ll shoot. “Stay outside. Don’t let anyone in,” he told Iryna, and shoved Pyatov inside.

  The WC wasn’t much bigger than a stall, with a single lidless toilet. The walls were covered with dirty tiles that looked like they’d never been washed, and the smell was appalling. Scorpion shoved Pyatov forward and smashed his head against the wall, cracking the tiles. Pyatov bounced back from the wall, his head bleeding, and pulled his gun from his pocket. Scorpion grappled with him for the gun with one hand as he kicked at the inside of Pyatov’s knee. Pyatov tried to smash his face with his elbow as Scorpion blocked with his forearm, still holding the Glock that he now smashed into Pyatov’s nose, breaking it. Dropping the Glock, he used both hands to take the gun away from Pyatov, who put him into a bear hug. Pyatov was immensely strong. He tried to lift Scorpion up and smash him to the floor. Scorpion kneed him in the groin and jammed the gun into his bleeding mouth.

  “Ya strelyat!” he shouted.

  Pyatov stopped. Scorpion stepped back, picked up the Glock and put Pyatov’s Makarov pistol in his pocket.

  “Who paid you?” Scorpion said in Russian, pressing the Glock against Pyatov’s face.

  “Yob tvoiyu mat,” Pyatov said, blood spraying from his mouth as he snarled the usual obscenity about Scorpion’s mother.

  “I pay you more than they do,” Scorpion said. “You do not have to die.”

  “If I tell you, they’ll kill me anyway.”

  “Why did you kill Alyona?”

  “What are you talking about? Ya- ” Pyatov started.

  The door smashed open. Two men in militsiyu uniforms filled the doorway firing AK-47s. Scorpion dived to the floor. They riddled Pyatov with dozens of bullets, killing him instantly, the bullets ripping apart the water tank and sending chips of tiles flying like shrapnel. Water poured down from the shattered tank, mingling with Pyatov’s blood on the floor. Scorpion fired the Glock twice, killing both militsiyu with shots to the head before they could turn their guns on him. Wet and dripping red-stained water, he jumped over their bodies and raced out the door, thinking what an idiot he’d been. It was a setup! He was the fall guy! And what had they done to Iryna?<
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  Everyone had heard the shooting. People on the field and in the stands were screaming and rushing for the exits. The speeches had stopped. Men were running in the tunnel. Iryna was struggling with the two Black Armbands who had stopped them at the gate. For a fraction of a second Scorpion hesitated. To take Iryna with him would be like walking around with a big neon sign. It would make escape impossible. CIA protocol was to limit the damage by leaving her behind. The rule was that it was better to lose the Joe than have the operations officer fall into enemy hands. Especially in this case, where there was a good chance they were setting him up.

  One of the Black Armbands had lifted Iryna off the ground, a meaty hand around her throat. The second Armband had grabbed her kicking legs and was spreading them apart. Her hat, wig, and glasses had fallen off in the struggle and it was glaringly obvious who she was. Her head was twisted as she fought to breathe. Four or five more Black Armbands were running toward them from the outside gate, automatic weapons ready to fire.

  Scorpion fired once, hitting the Black Armband holding Iryna’s legs in the back of the head, dropping him. He charged the bigger man, who let go of Iryna’s throat to swing an elbow at Scorpion, who blocked with his forearm, then fired the Glock almost point-blank into the man’s face.

  The Black Armband clutched his face, letting Iryna go. Scorpion fired again, shooting him through the hand, killing him. Then he whirled and fired at the Black Armbands running toward them from the gate, bringing two of them down. As the others stopped to take firing positions, he fired again and again, glad he had used the extended clip, remembering Delta training-that in the middle of a firefight, you don’t just shoot, but take the extra fraction of a second to be deliberate. He hit three of them, one after the other, grabbing Iryna’s hand as they went down. Together, they raced out into the turmoil on the field. Three more Black Armbands ran after them.

  People in the stands were screaming and trying to get out. On the field, they were crashing into chairs and each other as they swarmed toward the exits. Someone was shouting something on the loudspeaker, saying that everyone had to leave.

  “Pyatov?” Iryna asked as they ran. Scorpion shook his head.