CHAPTER ONE
THE TRAP

BRUSSELS AIRPORT - 1996 Bathed in sweat, Andrei paced the small, grey holding cell, waiting for the police.  He felt the nauseating fear in his guts.  He forced himself to walk faster, trying to relieve the unrelenting panic.

Andrei thought of every possible scenario, every trick which might free him, then rejected them one by one. This time, there was no way out.

He leaned his head against the wall, feeling the tears of frustration well in his eyes.  Again and again, he tormented himself with things he could have done just a little differently to have escaped.  But now, after all he had endured, he would end like this.  Like a rat trapped in a cage.

He slumped on the chair in the middle of the room and ran his hands listlessly through the stolen millions in bundled hundred dollar bills then he dipped his hand into a velvet pouch and withdrew a shimmering handful of smuggled diamonds.  Even in this desolate cell, their beauty seemed cold and uncaring. Andrei let the diamonds fall back into their pouch, closed it and stuffed it into his black leather bag. 
His hand touched something.  He grasped it and pulled it from the case.  It was his .45 automatic!

Andrei fingered it. He briefly considered shooting his way out, or even taking a hostage, then decided that all he would get for his troubles would be to get shot, . . then imprisoned.
He envisioned the years in prison stretched before him.  Endless grey days with nothing to look forward to, but death.  No, he would not end like that.  He had always controlled his own destiny and would choose his own death.

There was only one way out, if he acted fast and had the courage.
Andrei clicked off the safety on the .45 and turned the gun around to point it at his face.  He raised the gun until the muzzle rested against his lower lip.  He opened his mouth and felt the cold steel slip between his teeth.  His tongue flicked nervously across the tip of the barrel.

Sweat sprang from his forehead and ran into his eyes.  He shut his burning eyes tightly and slowly began to pull the trigger.       
His hand began to shake uncontrollably with fear.  He could already feel the bullet explode into his mouth, then shatter his skull before his blood coated the grey walls.He willed his numb, shaking finger to pull the trigger.  His hand felt leaden and shook violently, refusing to obey him, yet he pushed harder, feeling the barrel bounce against his teeth, tasting the oily metal on his tongue.

Andrei felt every piece of steel within the gun move with smooth, indifferent precision as the spring coiled, waiting to catapult the hammer forward, striking the explosive shell that would send the fatal bullet into his brain.

He heard the footsteps of the police outside his cell.  A key was inserted into the lock, as he applied the last ounce of trigger pressure needed.

Above the roar of his pounding heart, Andrei heard the loud metalic click of the hammer strike, . . . and waited for the impact of the bullet....

***

 

 

CHAPTER TWO
THE BEGINNING

RED SQUARE - MOSCOW
WINTER - 1992

Andrei Koslenok turned up the collar of his overcoat in a futile attempt to protect himself from the arctic cold of the wind blowing across the barren expanse of Red Square.

He muttered a few choice Russian curse words as a sudden gust of icy wind penetrated his threadbare clothing.  His brightly polished shoes disguised the worn soles stuffed with cardboard to keep the water from leaking into his shoes through the ample holes in both soles.

He cursed again as he stumbled on the crusted snow, causing him to slip one foot into an icy pool that had collected among the grey paving stones.  Almost immediately, he could feel the shoe fill with the cold slush seeping through the bottom sole

Andrei stopped as he reached the massive gates of the entrance to the Kremlin.  He rested his back against the stone pillars of the gateway, removed his shoe, muttered a few select profanities to himself, then slowly spilled out the excess water, careful not to lose the soggy cardboard insert that offered only slight protection from the elements.  He put the shoe on and stood for a moment, almost savoring the cold wind in his face, as he looked at the bleak, grey Moscow sky, billowing with the promise of another coming snow storm.

Andrei had turned thirty just a few days ago.  He had promised himself that by this time he would have escaped the dreary Russian winters for some warm exotic beach filled with bikini clad young women.

He ran his hand through his dark wavy hair.  A woman passed by just at that moment and smiled a small inviting smile.  He was used to women flirting with him, and flashed her a quick, charming smile, more from habit he knew, than any particular interest in the woman. Andrei was what would be considered a handsome rogue with a charming demeanor.  His strong face was framed by dark, slightly curled hair that rumpled carelessly over his forehead.  His skin was finely textured and he purposely kept it tanned by a used sun lamp he had purchased inexpensively at a flea market, to give him the look of someone who had just returned from a tropical vacation.  His high cheekbones framed his best feature, dark, flashing, almost hypnotic eyes capped by long dark lashes and thick, black brows.  Had he wanted, with his lean, muscular six foot body and good looks, he could have been a model. He had been approached on occasion with such propositions, but when he learned that models in Russia got paid next to nothing, it held no interest for him.  He had only one goal in life, to amass enough money some day, to leave all this far behind him.

As he looked across the square to his right he saw St. Basil’s Cathedral with its brightly colored domes almost cartoonish in its contrast to the bleak Russian buildings which surrounded the square. He forced himself to breathe deeply of the cold air and feel the icy wind against his face.  If everything went right for him today, his life would change forever.

After years of pursuing one small bit of business after another, he finally had his big chance.  Through a family acquaintance, he had  heard certain people in the government wanted to find a way to circumvent the lock De Beers Consolidated Mines of South Africa had on the Russian diamond industry.

Andrei was intimately familiar with the Russian way of doing business.  In a small way, he had been in business ever since he was a young boy.  The older boys recruited him at the age of six to hustle the tourists who arrived on fancy European rented buses.  He quickly learned a few phrases of English, French and German, the languages most often spoken by the arriving tourists.  The older boys, sometimes only eleven or twelve years old themselves, quickly taught him the basics of hustling for money.
They would equip him with worthless Russian medals they bought in bunches at small kiosks, for only a few kopecks or a fraction of an American penny.  Andrei would then offer the tourists the trinkets for whatever they would pay him, from a few pennies to sometimes as much as a dollar.

He quickly learned to play on his small boy good looks, his angelic face framed by dark curly hair.  Andrei found he had a flair for the dramatic.  Each day he would invent a different tale to tell the swarms of tourists.  One day he would be an orphan his parents having died just days before.  Another time he was raised by a sickly old grandmother in need of medicine.  Whatever the story, he found the more dramatic it was, the more he was rewarded with money from the tourists who listened with sympathetic ears.

As he grew older he graduated to other things. Sometimes it was selling merchandise, the origin of which was somewhat vague, on the black market.  On various occasions, he did quite well and when he did, he would foolishly spend his resources on parties, vodka and women.  Other times, like the last few years, he had not done as well.  Except for an occasional odd deal such as selling Ukrainian marble to Israel or Russian gas masks to Kuwait, the transactions had been few and far between.

  But this would be different. He had a meeting with the people who could fulfill his dream of making his big deal come true.  Today he was meeting with the heads of the Kristall Factory, a diamond-cutting company run by the Russian Government Agency, known by its acronym, Komdragmet.  Komdragmet controlled Russia’s entire diamond and gold industry plus its precious metals and gems.

Andrei clutched his worn briefcase under his arm, ran his fingers through his wavy hair, took a long last look at Red Square, then turned and walked through the Kremlin gates.

The pungent odor of stale Russian cigars hit his nostrils as Andrei entered the smoke filled room.  President Yeltsin’s Deputy Finance Minster, Anatol Golovaty, a distant relative of Andrei, walked brusquely over to Andrei who was standing in the doorway of the Kremlin boardroom.

”Andrei Koslenok, I am very glad to see you again.  How is your dear, lovely mother?” 
“She is fine,” answered Andrei, “and sends her warmest greetings.

He gave Andrei a friendly handshake and walked him about the private room.  As they walked, Andrei recognized several of the men sitting around the massive conference table as government dignitaries, others as members of the board of the Kristall Factory and a few faces with which he was not familiar.   

   
Andrei realized that everyone here expected something from the deal and to exclude anyone would squelch any prospect he had for success. He quickly calculated the amount of money he might have to pay  multiplied by the fourteen people in the room.  Then he reminded himself that any money paid out would come from the funds they gave him.  He exhaled slowly and forced himself to smile and relax.  After all, if they wanted to take some of their own money, why should he care?

Andrei slowly walked around the table with Anatol, pausing to shake hands and introduced himself to each of the dignitaries.  Despite his anxiety he knew how important it was to his success to appear cool, confident and relaxed.  The cool part, he reminded himself with a wry smile, was no problem, as his toes were still nearly frozen due to his leaky shoes.

For a moment, Andrei was flushed at being suddenly thrust before the panel of some of the most influential, if not the richest people in Russia; however, the hesitation was only momentary as he opened his briefcase and removed his proposals.  After each of the members received a copy of the proposal which Anatol passed around, Andrei cleared his throat and began.

"Gentlemen, it is an honor for me to make this proposal in front of such a distinguished panel," Andrei began, gaining confidence with each word he spoke, he continued, “and I come to you today to propose a solution to a problem we are all facing; how we can become independent in cutting and distributing our valuable diamond resources without being dictated to by a foreign company." 

Andrei raised his voice notably on the last portion of the sentence as he knew the importance of getting the people in this room on his side, and against a common enemy, in this case the De Beers Consolidated Mines of South Africa.   If Andrei had learned anything in his 30 years in Russia, it was that Russians worked more successfully against a common enemy than for a common friend.
Andrei continued, "I have studied the contracts closely that we have with De Beers, and I have found a way for us to establish our own diamond cutting factories, without the interference of De Beers."

"Gentlemen, if you would please turn to page seven of the contract in front of you and refer to the second paragraph."  Andrei waited as each of the fourteen members obediently shuffled through the papers looking for the proper place.  He was suddenly filled with a feeling of power seeing he could dictate, if only for a few minutes, the actions of so many important men, that he continued with renewed vigor and confidence.

"You will see that paragraph two allows us to establish our own diamond cutting plants."
Yevgeny Bychkov interrupted, "Yes, but that paragraph refers to the plants that we already have within the borders of Russia."

Andrei smiled confidently, "Chairman Bychkov, you are absolutely right!" pausing for dramatic effect, then he continued, "however, it only states that we are allowed to establish our own diamond plants.  It does not specify that the plants have to be within the borders of Russia."

The room broke out into a loud discussion as the implication of what Andrei had just said began to dawn on each member.  Andrei watched with quiet satisfaction as smiles spread across their faces; first one, then another, then the rest of the men at the table.  Their faces lit up when they saw the ample opportunity to subvert the contract with De Beers, in the name of Russian nationalism, and at the same time, incidentally, enrich their own pockets.
"Are you certain of this?" Yevgeny Bychkov asked.

Andrei noted an almost pleading quality to his voice, much as a child asking for a piece of candy, wanting to hear a ‘yes’.  He hesitated for a moment for the room to fall silent as they waited for his answer, then Andrei gave them what they wanted.

"Dah," he said resoundingly "Yes, I have studied the contracts carefully and I am certain the contracts not only allow Russia to have its own factories, it absolutely guarantees Russia's right to establish diamond cutting factories, anywhere in the world."

Andrei looked directly at Yevgeny Bychkov as he finished his sentence.  He knew well that each man would follow the lead of Bychkov in coming to a decision.
Bychkov sat in silence as if contemplating what was just said, yet his eyes did not break contact with Andrei, as if he was seeking an answer to an unasked question.  For what seemed like an eternity to Andrei, their eyes locked.  Against all instinct Andrei forced himself to look steadily, calmly into Bychkov's eyes and not break away.  He could feel the room fall silent around them, waiting.

Unexpectedly, Bychkov raised his hands slowly and began to applaud.  One by one the men joined him.  Then Anatol stood up, and soon the entire room stood in tribute to Andrei.  It took a few minutes for him to realize the applause was for him.  He nodded appreciatively and smiled, almost self-consciously, knowing it would have a winning effect on the men.

The meeting continued with only perfunctory questions from some of the panel members on how best to establish such a factory.  Andrei confidently fielded each question by referring to the plan for establishing a factory in California, already drawn into the proposal in anticipation of a multitude of questions.  However, the questions were few and Andrei soon realized they were asked now only as a means of appearing professional in front of Chairman Bychkov.  He knew that from the moment Chairman Bychkov indicated his approval, no one would dare oppose the plan.

With the final questions from the panel completed, Bychkov turned his attention to Andrei and asked in a booming voice, "Isn't there something you forgot, Mr. Koslenok?"
Flustered by the vagueness of the question, Andrei raised his eyebrows and looked at Bychkov, waiting uncomfortably.  I knew it was too easy he thought, feeling the tension in his stomach.  What is it I could have forgotten?

Then Mr. Bychkov smiled, amused at his own little joke, "The money Mr. Koslenok, the money!"
"The money?" Andrei repeated blankly.

"Yes, Mr. Koslenok, I believe to establish a plant you will need some money to begin your operations before the shipments of diamonds start arriving, don't you think?"
"Yes, why yes, of course, . . . the money." Andrei repeated, not knowing how to continue.
Mr. Bychkov conferred briefly with Boris Ilich, his Assistant Deputy who looked at Andrei inquisitively, then Bychkov turned to Andrei and smiled.
"Do you think $1.5 million would provide you with enough capital for you to go to the United States and find us a suitable location for a factory?"

Andrei was speechless and his knees felt suddenly weak.  He had hoped only to make a good presentation today.  Then maybe in a few months they would make a decision as to whether or not they would send Andrei to establish a plant.  But this was far more than he had dared to hope for.

Andrei was in shock.  This was beyond anything he could ever have dreamed.  His mouth fell open for a moment. Then he composed himself long enough to smile and vigorously shake each of the hands of the departing dignitaries, while he too was quietly shaking inside. Finally, only he and Yevgeny Bychkov were left in the room.

Andrei walked over and enthusiastically shook Bychkov’s hand repeatedly until the older man freed his hand and put a fatherly arm over his shoulder.
"You are a very intelligent young man Andrei.  You have managed to solve a great problem for us all, and for Russia. However, you understand Andrei," Bychkov almost whispered, "we must all  prosper from this venture."  Andrei understood all too well what was meant by the intonation on the word ‘all’  and nodded in silent agreement.

Knowing the Russian KGB penchant for having bugs or other devices planted in offices of the Kremlin he immediately grasped why Bychkov was speaking in a hushed whisper.  Andrei replied in a low tone, "Mr. Chairman, I understand that ‘all’  must prosper. 

I consider it my duty to uphold your faith in me."  and louder, just in case any hidden microphones had caught their conversation, he continued "Mr. Bychkov, it is my honor to be able to further the fortunes of Russia in this endeavor."

Bychkov smiled broadly at the quickness of this man and his charming manner.  He understood that the loudly announced message was for the benefit of whoever else may be listening.  He gave Andrei a brief bear hug and whispered in his ear, "Come to my office tomorrow, I will have $1.3 million waiting for you. The $200 thousand is for expenses.  I am sure you understand."

Andrei understood.  The two hundred thousand dollar expense was to go into Bychkov’s and the other dignitaries pockets.  He knew that was the way in which business was conducted in Russia, so he thought nothing more of the incident.

Andrei’s mind reeled with excitement.  He had come here with nothing but the threadbare clothing on his back, and now, with just a few words spoken by a close friend of Yeltsin, a man he had just met,  . . . he was a millionaire!

When Andrei left the Kremlin gates it had started to snow heavily.  In his exuberance, he made several snowballs and threw them at Lenin’s statue before hailing a cab.  As he got into the taxi, Andrei impetuously took off his leaky shoes and threw them high in the air.

 Dark storm clouds had gathered over Red Square and the wind was bitter cold.  To Andrei Koslenok, the world had never looked more beautiful.

***

CHAPTER THREE
THE ASSASSIN

While Andrei was celebrating his good fortune, a secret meeting was being held in a side room of a Moscow night club in another part of the city.

Gathered in the dimly lit, smoke-filled room were a motley assortment of Moscow’s less desirable elements along with members of the KGB, purportedly for the purpose of gambling. In a meager attempt to provide a cover, a deck of cards lay dutifully on the table, untouched.

Tonight, there was more at stake than a pile of chips.  Each person at the table had been called to provide a special service needed by the Kremlin.  No names were exchanged, as the men sat silently facing each other.  Yet many were already known to others in the room, if not by name, then by reputation.  Most were members of the current criminal Mafia flourishing in the new Russia.

Two of the men, dressed in telltale drab grey suits that screamed KGB, now officially known as the Federal Security Bureau, sat uncomfortably to one side of the large table eyeing the assembly of con men, thieves and murderers. 

In better days these criminals would have been sent to Siberia without benefit of a formal trial; but for now, the KGB men were reduced to working with this scum.

The two KGB men were from the old Communist guard.  Despite the recent renaming of the KGB to the Federal Security Bureau, the name KGB, was still the only term they and the Russian people recognized and used.  Through the upheaval, the men held onto their positions only by adapting to the new way of life in Russia and by pretending, on the surface at least, to be in favor of change.  Secretly, the two men abhorred the new democracy, the burgeoning crime rate and President Yeltsin, who they blamed for most of Russia’s ills. They yearned for a return to the old Communist regime, where they ruled without question.
If it took working with the scum gathered in this dark, dingy room to accomplish their goal of overthrowing Yeltsin and returning the Communists to power, they would gladly do so.  As the two men looked around the room, they waited for the day when these men would know the misery of a Siberian prison.

The door opened, and Boris Ilich, who was a well dressed bald man in his mid-forties, entered the room with an air of self-importance.  He walked briskly to the head of the table and placed his briefcase flat on the worn, wooden surface.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I have asked each one of you here for the common good of Russia.  You have been chosen because each of you have a specialty we need.”  Before he continued, he looked carefully around the room. “The project is top secret. It will present personal danger to each of you; but, I can assure you, the rewards will be worth the danger.”

The nine men around the table smiled and leaned closer in response to the smell of money.

“In this briefcase,” he continued, patting the top of the case, “are the detailed plans for each of you.  You will know only what pertains to your part of the project. For security reasons, there will be no sharing of information between you. Once you receive the plan, there will be no withdrawal. Incompetence or divulging information will be met with termination.  Is that understood?”

Boris looked at each man present and said in a low, ominous whisper, “If you wish to withdraw from this project, now is your last chance to do so.”

The room fell silent as Boris looked into the eyes of each man.  One of the younger men looked nervously from side to side before speaking, “Sir, I would like to excuse myself from the project.  Urgent family matters have come up. My wife is soon having our first child and there will be complications.”

Boris Ilich nodded his approval as the man stood up and walked rapidly to the door. It was opened by a hefty, beady eyed bodyguard wearing expensive, black, leather gloves, who had entered the room along with Boris Ilich.

“Anyone else?” he asked, looking around the room.

The rest of the men waited as they met Boris Ilich’s gaze with their own. They had not survived this long by failing to recognize a trap when they saw it. Any man who withdrew now, or even indicated doubt, would be found floating in the Mockoba River before morning. They already knew too much and lives depended ontheir silence. As if to underline their unspoken understanding, the bodyguard who wore the black gloves quietly slipped out the door, marked only by the deathly hush which had fallen over the room.

The click of Boris Ilich’s briefcase broke the silence. He opened the case and passed out sealed envelopes. Each envelope bore a name of one man on its cover. One envelope remained sealed in the case.

“Most of you already know who I am,” Boris continued, “thus, my life is now in your hands.  I can assure you, your life is also now in mine. If anyone speaks my name outside this room,” he paused for effect, “that person will be eliminated.”

As if to emphasize his point, he directed his eyes in the direction of the two KGB men, then continued, “Gentlemen, you may open your envelopes now. You are to read and memorize your instructions. Take whatever time you need; however, when you leave this room, everything but what is in your head, stays here.  For your protection, as well as mine, there will be no paper trail which leads to this meeting.”

He paused a moment, looked around the room, then picked up his briefcase and said, “Good luck gentlemen.  When you have finished with your instructions you may leave them on the table. These two men will stay here until you leave,” he said as he indicated the two KGB men with a slight nod of his head.
“When you leave, I suggest you do so individually. I don’t want you to attract attention.”  Then he added as he turned to go, “By the way, the money is for your expenses.”

The men who had not already grabbed their envelopes now eagerly reached for them and ripped the official seal on each flap.  As the thick bundles of ruble notes and American dollar bills fell upon the table, the men ran their fingers over the small fortunes each had received, then casually placed the bundles into their inner jacket pockets.

He reached inside his jacket, released the safety on his automatic pistol, and undid the small retainer strap on his shoulder holster, just in case someone would be foolish enough to follow him, which would be unlikely,  . . . he reassured himself.  Still, one never knows about those KGB thugs.  In many ways, they were more dangerous than the new, vicious Russian Mafia criminals he counted himself among, and they had more experience. 

He began to regret his impulsive decision to withdraw, but there was no way back.

Ivan pushed open the exit door to the narrow alley and looked cautiously to both sides. To his right, the alleyway that led to the street was crowded with eager people waiting to enter the popular nightclub. The line had wrapped around the corner and into the narrow alley. To the left, the alley narrowed past an old, crumbling building, a few hedges, and then opened into a dimly lit street.

Ivan tried to think rationally. If he turned to the right, he could mix with the waiting crowd and the street traffic; however, if no one saw him leave by the side door, they would now be looking for him in front of the nightclub and he risked running directly into his pursuers. If there were any pursuers at all, he reminded himself. On the other hand, turning left would give him a straight run to another street. He saw no one in the narrow alley; besides, he doubted that anyone could have left the club before him, much less expect him to escape through the alley.

He walked quickly to the left, down the dark, quiet alley.  As Ivan neared the distant street, he began to chide himself for seeing shadows hiding in each bush. His heart beat wildly at each sound in the night, the rustle of leaves, the rocks under his feet, the distant footsteps from the club.

His throat felt dry as he tried to swallow. His hand rested on the automatic under his coat. It was damp with perspiration.  Hispulse beat loudly in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the night.

He turned to look behind him, sensing the presence of unseen footsteps,  . . . unknown danger.
The alley was empty. He was safe. He laughed at himself, his fear,  . . . his paranoia.

His hand relaxed on the butt of his gun.  Ivan removed his hand from under his coat allowing his arm to swing, relaxed by his side, as he turned his head away from the noise of the club in the distance and walked toward the street before him.

He chided himself again at his foolishness for jumping nervously with each noise, each shadow. After all, they were only that, shadows. Even the one last bush remaining, before the open road, seemed to have its own menacing darkness,  . . . its own movement.

How absurdly the imagination works when you are scared, Ivan thought. As if to prove to himself that the danger had passed, that he was no longer the scared kid he was a few minutes ago in the alley, he moved from the center of the path to brush closely by the bush, daring it to frighten him with its impotent darkness. He laughed at the crazy images his mind had conjured as he brushed against the rustling branches of the last bush. He cockily ran his hand across the dried leaves.

A glittering steel blade flashed through the leaves and into his soft, warm abdomen, piercing the neatly tailored shirt his wife had prepared, turning it crimson with fresh, hot blood,  . . . then it ripped into the soft muscles and deep into his vital organs.  A black gloved hand twisted the blade expertly, slicing the major arteries, then left the knife protruding from the stumbling, walking corpse.

The young man had already walked passed the deathly bush before he felt the terrifying pain. He looked down, unable to believe the knife was actually there, deep in his guts.  He looked at it blankly, then grasped it clumsily with both of his hands and pulled it out. Ivan watched, horrified, as blood spurted in aortic pulses from the wound.

“Aaaaaaahhh! Anna!” he screamed in terror and unbearable pain, then half turned to seek his attacker. In the glow of the dirty streetlight, he saw only the bush and a distant, murky shadow walking down the alley.

He pushed hard on his intestines with his left hand, as if willing them to stop coming out, yet they emerged in streams of spurting blood between his shaking fingers.  He screamed in rage at his unseen attacker, as he pulled weakly at his automatic.  With his last remaining strength, he loosened his pistol as he wobbled unsteadily from the loss of blood. He balanced for a split second, fired his gun crazily into the air, then spun sideways,  . . . and crashed, lifelessly, on the cold, hard Moscow alley.

 The dark figure heard the shot, then the “thud” as the body hit the pavement. He didn’t bother to turn, he didn’t need to.  He had felt the man die as he twisted the knife into his soft guts.

The assassin paused, smiled coldly,  . . . and walked slowly into the crowded club.

 

***