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A Debt of Honor, a mystery, suspense thriller novel by Robert A. Gallinger.
CHAPTER
ONE
While
he waited, Colonel Vladimir Antonovich, a SID investigator
from the Moscow prosecutor's office, roughly fondled a
23-inch bronze statue of a paratrooper that sat proudly on
his desk.
For a
moment, he ignored the early morning April sun blinking in
the windows, and the samovar's noisy steam.
He was
obsessed with the statue and the memories it brought to mind,
although he rarely admitted that he was even interested in
“the damn fool thing,” as he sometimes liked to
call it.
The
statue was clothed in battle dress, including a rounded jump
helmet made of heavy bronze. An extended D-6 parachute hung
from its back, and was draped partially around its
legs.
An AKMS
assault rifle with folding stock was slung loosely across its
chest, and several tiny grenades dangled from a web belt at
its waist.
It reminded Vladimir of the combat
gear that he used to haul himself, back when he'd been a
gruppa commander, back when he'd been a bit younger, much
more bold, perhaps a little less wise than now.
Afghanistan was still fresh in his mind,
even though it had been in 1980 when he'd gone there on that
one-of-a-kind-assassination mission six years ago.
It turned out to be a special
assignment filled with death and sorrow.
Frowning, he stared harder at the
statute and its unique load. There was a naked baby in the
crook of its right arm. The left arm was wrapped around a
thin, hooded reaper clothed in dark robes.
The
reaper reached almost to the paratrooper's shoulder, and
clutched a sickle in a wrinkled hand. The reaper glared at
the soldier like he wanted to take him to his grave this very
instant, with or without his combat gear on.
Smiling, Vladimir tipped the statue up
slightly, so he could better read the inscription on the
shiny metal plate screwed to its wooden base. He breathed
deeply as he read.
The
deceits of man are seemingly endless, but there are really only two.
The one is his birth, the other is his death, the rest are only
history.
Carefully, Vladimir sat the statue down and
slid it to the edge of the desk. He twisted it so it would
face the thickly padded door at the far wall.
He
wanted everyone that entered to get a grand view of the
monster that had been created especially for him, and wanted
to see their initial facial reactions as they moved quickly
into the room toward his desk and biting stare.
He
recalled that his wife, Aleksandra, had given it to him six
years ago during his early combat years when he'd been
serving as an intelligence officer with the GRU, a long time
before he'd been temporarily attached to the SID for his
current civilian duty.
She'd
told him at the time that the statute and its images were
supposed to remind him of two fundamental things that might
one day overshadow his life.
One was
the hazard of serious combat duty, and the other was the
limitation of his frail mortality, whatever that was supposed
to be, he often wondered.
He
patted the statue gently on the head, and then adjusted its
position to aim it better at the door, and then he sat
straighter in his seat.
There
was little time left to worry about the hazards of battle or
about his fragile mortality, or about the alignment of the
stupid statue on his desk today.
He had
too much work to do to think about such nonsense now;
especially since he'd never really understood what the hell
it was that Aleksandra was trying to prove to him with the
stupid statue in the first place.
Firming
his jaw, Vladimir impatiently pushed a blue button on the
newly installed intercom-telephone machine that was on the
desk near his fist.
It was
almost as though he'd wanted his stiffened first finger to
drive the button straight through the instrument, on into the
hard oak desk, down to the floor.
Shoving
back from his immaculately organized desk, he clutched his
right wrist with his left hand as he held the receiver to his
ear, waiting for a response. The way his face was twisted, he
was obviously upset about something, and impatient.
He
leaned forward when he heard the familiar voice in the
receiver, and rested his elbows on the desk.
“Yes, sir?” a female
voice asked through the machine.
“Get Major Frunze over here for me
please, Alena. Right away.”
His
voice was not exactly unfriendly; it was simply deep, firm,
direct and demanding like always, much like a military
officer's voice on line in command.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get Kulick, too.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Not at the moment. Just tell
them that it's urgent. I want a briefing concerning the
charred bodies that were found out near Gorky Park last
night.
"That
little event might have had something to do with the
kidnapping cases they're currently working for me. Did you
get all of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Have a nice Monday,
Alena.” He hung up the phone, sat back in his
high-backed leather chair, and then reached for his
throat.
Using
both hands to make sure he did it right, he carefully
straightened a brown uniform tie that was slightly off center
at his neck.
At a
glance, the tie appeared to be too tightly knotted, but it
didn't seem to bother him in the least.
It was
simply another accessory to the uniform he wore with pride
and dignity, and strictly in accordance with the Soviet Army
Manual then in force.
From
his controlled movements and even speech, and his
meticulously pressed uniform, it was obvious that Vladimir
maintained a strict Army discipline and appearance despite
his current temporary assignment to the SID, the Special
Investigations Department, of the town prosecutor's
office.
Although he was authorized to wear his
military uniform or civilian clothing, as desired, he
normally preferred the uniform, since it kept his mind on his
Army roots and the honor and integrity associated with
it.
He was
one man the Mafia or their teneviki friends and
associates would never be able to reach with money, promises
of power or threats of violent death.
They
knew that fact quite well themselves already, he was sure of
that. And if not, they would soon find out.
The
teneviki, or the economic part of the Soviet Mafia as
the politicians liked to call them...the so-called shadow
people...had to do with the game of semantics in a way, much
like politics itself.
It was like calling a cobra a
poisonous snake or a poisonous snake a cobra. In either case,
their bites could be lethal or at least hurt like hell
regardless of how they were called.
Vladimir Antonovich had learned that simple
truth months ago after he'd first been attached to the SID,
and he and his wife had almost lost their lives at the hands
of the then procurator-general of the Soviet Union, Boris Churnov.
Then,
like now, no one could be trusted regardless of his
prominence or his lofty government position. The dark shadows
cast by the Mafia could be anywhere, in or out of government,
now like before.
Pushing
deeper into his comfortable chair, he unconsciously moved a
short strand of dark hair back away from his forehead. He was
careful that it did not interfere with the narrow part at the
left side of his head that looked like a military barber had
carved it there.
With
the hair in its proper place, he rubbed the side of his face.
He thought about the teneviki and their expanding
activities despite Churnov's and Goseigen's deaths months ago
at the Finnish border. The Mafia organization had new leaders
presently, secretly recruited from the ranks.
He
suddenly wondered how much of the sting-like operation,
summarized in the folder beneath his hand, could be safely
revealed to Frunze or to Kulick, while the whole town was
under various degrees of suspicion these days.
No
matter how much he trusted both of them; there was always
that small doubt in the back of his mind, especially whenever
he thought about the deceits of the former procurator-general
of the Soviet Union, Churnov, and the disgraceful manner in which
he'd lived and died.
It was
a matter of record that Churnov had been murdered, Mafia
style, near the Finnish border six months ago by KGB Colonel
Goseigen, a powerful Mafia godfather himself, who'd ended up
dead at the same time with a bullet hole in his chest.
Vladimir shook off the images of Churnov
and Goseigen, and thought again about his own partners,
Frunze and Kulick.
He
recalled that Frunze had been assigned to the SID from the
KGB at about the time the new prosecutor's office had been
formed a year ago.
Kulick
had come from the Army like himself. Vladimir and Kulick had
served in Afghanistan, although not at the same time nor with
the same unit.
Still,
Vladimir had always felt more of a bond with Kulick than with
Frunze, even though they'd all been on the same SID team for
the past year, working shoulder to shoulder, or as Kulick
liked to say, cheek to cheek. Kulick was something else
again.
But
that was the way of combat soldiers, especially those who'd
faced death during the same war, whether they'd served at the
same time together in it or not.
All
that really mattered was that they'd been there in the same
place to engage the same enemy face-to-face, and had lived to
tell the tale about their adventures.
That
was what bonding was all about. Living to tell the tale,
living to talk freely with a comrade who'd been there,
too, living to remember the ones who'd fallen in the
fray.
Living
with a vodka glass held high, tears stinging, speeches
droning, teasing the brain with the glories from the past, of
fallen comrades, smiles that used to be.
Vladimir sighed deeply, and suddenly
thought about the bushy mustache Kulick wore that always
seemed to be in his way whenever he ate or drank in his
usually undisciplined manner, something like a child, wet and
sloppy.
Frunze, on the other hand, he
recalled, was always neat and clean and professional, young
and athletic-looking, tough to the core. Although in his
early thirties like Kulick, possibly several years younger
than Vladimir himself, Frunze looked younger than he actually
was.
Vladimir thought that it had a lot to do
with his tedious daily physical-conditioning regime that he
sometimes liked to miss himself. Smiling, he remembered
Kulick rarely ever made it to the gym either, preferring to
smoke another pack of cigarettes instead.
Clearing his mind of his partners, Vladimir
glanced at the thick folder
beneath his hand. He touched it lightly, and then tapped its
hard cover several times, making nervous rat-a-tat-tat,
rat-a-tat-tat sounds.
Calming
his finger, he looked closely at the security classification
marking on the folder's face. Using his first finger, he
touched each of the letters in the marking one at a time
until he reached the last of them.
T O
P S E C R E T EYES ONLY!
The security and special
compartmented markings should certainly deny those without
the appropriate security clearances and need-to-know access
to the contents of the folder regardless of how high their
grades or positions might be.
Only
those possessing the proper authorization would ever see the
contents of the folder, if he or the new committee could help
it. And they could.
Vladimir still hoped the ominous markings
would help protect the contents of the folder, but he had
serious doubts about that already.
The
markings were only words. An AK assault rifle and a bayonet
might be better. Unauthorized intruders would surely respect
the show of deadly weapons more than written words unless, of
course, they happened to be awesomely stupid or fanatically
insane, or both, he thought.
In that
case, more deadly measures might have to be taken other than
a “show of force” to keep unauthorized personnel
away.
But
this time, that wasn't the plan at all. This time he and the
others on the newly formed committee actually wanted the
Mafia buggers to show up, and try to gain access to the
files, at least one part of them.
And
when they did, they'd have them once and for all. That was
the plan at any rate; but even the best-laid plans had been
known to fail, at least sometimes.
Vladimir traced a straight finger beneath
the words being used for the operation, RED MERCURY, and
wondered if it had not been too conspicuous a phrase, a
code-word term that seemed to cry out the object of the
operation, or at the very least, a possible area of
involvement.
He
recalled that he'd not been able to persuade the minister to
change it, so he'd had to accept it like a lot of other
things he couldn't control himself these days.
Squirming in his chair, he remembered the
time. He was supposed to meet with the Minister of Foreign
Affairs in less than an hour, and Frunze and Kulick were
still "missing in action" like always. He sat up and pushed
the button on his intercom-telephone set, even harder than
the last time.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where are they?”
“I…I don't know, sir. I'll try
again,” Alena said nervously.
“Never mind. It's too late. When you
find them, if you ever do, tell them that I had to go to
another meeting. Set up a new time for them
later.”
“Yes, sir. Is that all,
sir?”
“No, just remind them that I damn
well want a detailed briefing about the bodies that were
found last night when I get back. I don't know yet what's
going on here, but I want them to find out the details and
tell me.
"The
bodies might have something to do with several of the recent
Mafia kidnappings they've been working. I want them to update
me on them, too. Did you get all of that?”
“Yes, sir. I'm sure they have a good
excuse for their tardiness this time.” She hesitated a
moment to catch her breath. Although Vladimir
had never been exactly mean to her,
his curt military manner could be intimidating at times.
“They may still be over at the militia forensic
labs,” she stuttered.
“They're never late, sir, or rarely
ever.” She tried to make excuses, but even she knew
that that would be a useless exercise. Vladimir Antonovich
was not a man who accepted excuses, only successfully
completed actions.
“Yes, I know; they're only late
when I need them.” He straightened his tie using his
thumb and first finger this time to do the job.
Keeping
the tie straight and tight was a boyhood habit that he'd
learned from his stepfather during his youth, before he'd
entered the Army at the age of eighteen back in 1969, some
seventeen years ago.
Vladimir thought about the initial report
he'd received early this morning concerning the bodies that
had been found.
The
fire trucks had been quicker than usual, and had been able to
put out the automobile fire before it had completely
destroyed everything, including the people inside of
it.
The
forensic people at the militia labs were still examining the
bodies since the SID had no labs of its own.
From
the initial report, the victims had been badly mutilated,
besides being burned, almost like they'd been tortured by
someone who knew what he'd been doing.
There
were no license plates on the vehicle either, and although
the motor serial number had been erased, the forensic people
had indicated in their preliminary report that they thought
they might be able to find out what it was anyway.
That
is, they emphasized, "assuming the obliteration had not been
done too long ago, or done by a professional."
Vladimir smirked a little when he had
images of one part of the report that had said that the
entire engine head had been removed and taken to the labs for
tests.
Despite their somewhat unorthodox
methods, it would be the forensic people who would ultimately
find out who owned the automobile that the bodies had been
found in; he'd bet his life on that.
Glancing at his wristwatch, Vladimir
quickly pushed back from the desk. He had a meeting to get
to. He'd have to talk to Frunze and Kulick later, or maybe
shout at them a little, he thought, since they'd not kept him
properly informed of their whereabouts this morning.
He
stopped by Alena's desk. Alena came to mock attention in her
chair in the outer office as he loomed over her and her newly
installed Agat computer, a proud addition to her cluttered
desk.
“I'm leaving,” he said.
“I'll be at the Foreign Affairs office most of the
morning, with the minister himself.”
He
waited to see if she had anything to say about that. She
didn't; it was on his calendar already. He didn't have to
remind her of any of his appointments. After all, she was in
charge of that part of his life.
He
continued, unshaken by her coolness under fire. “And
don't forget to round up my two tardy malingerers for me
either. I must speak to them today without
fail.”
He
stepped back a pace, and started to say: “Did you get
all of…” He saw the wide smile on her lips, so
didn't complete the sentence.
He knew
she understood what had to be done anyway, so why keep asking
her if she'd gotten “all of that?”
Vladimir Antonovich touched the brim of his
service cap with two cocked fingers as a friendly salute to
her, and then turned abruptly about.
He crashed through the door like he
was in a hurry, like always, charging for a bitterly
contested battle on the other side of the hill where all the
action was.
That
was a place he loved to be, in the thick of it, despite
Aleksandra's grave reservations about the dangers lurking
there, trying to steal him away, maybe forever
someday.
Chapter Excerpt for A Debt of Honor. Copyright ©
2001 by Robert A. Gallinger.