The Makarov File Read online

  MSYNZ

  First published in 2020 by MSYNZ

  Copyright © 2020 Peter Kozmar

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  THE MAKAROV FILE

  PROLOGUE

  The sound of their footsteps echoed off the drab grey concrete walls of the decaying nineteen-sixties buildings which closed in and surrounded them. The dull, iridescent glow of the street lights pooled on the ground and guided them on their route through the sleeping city. Snow-clearing teams had been busy with the unusually heavy snowfalls; the ice on the sidewalk had Amanda treading carefully to avoid slipping and ending up in an inelegant heap on the ground.

  The cold air cleared her head of the lingering jet-lag following her earlier flight in from Washington. She wasn’t as well prepared for the cold as her companion and, despite her thick woollen hat, the cold slowly seeped through her clothing. She regretted leaving the warmth of her hotel room, but as the senior analyst on the Russian desk in Langley, she had to be here.

  They were to identify the head of a fast-growing mafia organisation originating in Saint Petersburg. Amanda’s sources had finally given her a solid lead and she had jumped at the opportunity to confirm the location of the organization’s headquarters. Her companion, Bruce Chester, Head of Station in Moscow, had ignored her request to follow her lead on her own, and decided to accompany her. Only after he threatened to deny her access to the operation, had she allowed him to come along.

  The lead had taken them to an industrial zone eight miles east of the city centre. They were to scout the area on foot before returning with more agents should the lead prove fruitful. With three blocks still to cover, Amanda noticed two men struggling under the weight of a large roll of carpet a little way in front of their path. As they got closer, Amanda could see the two were moving the carpet from a unit next to the sidewalk into the rear of a large flat-backed delivery truck.

  The shapes of the two men became clearer, the noises of their effort grew louder as the agents approached. The carpet took up most of the sidewalk, forcing them towards the unit; into the shadow of the building. Bruce pressed close to her, then fell behind, allowing her to walk in front and pass the obstruction on their route.

  The men stopped moving the carpet. Amanda was immediately on alert as she sensed there was something wrong; she glanced at one of the men and caught his eye. She was about to turn and warn Bruce when, from out of the shadows, six well-built men wearing ski-masks appeared and moved in on them from both sides: A trap!

  Amanda felt a cloth go over her mouth and nose. As the sweet chemical scent of chloroform engulfed her senses, she struggled and tried to rip the cloth away, she could see Bruce trying to do the same, but the vice-like grip of her attacker was too strong. She grabbed at the man, clawing at his clothing. Her hands got heavier and heavier, the fight slowly draining from her as she breathed in the fumes. Her eyelids became too heavy to keep open; she fell limply into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  ***

  The police had been drawn to the Blue Bridge by an early morning jogger who saw what appeared to be a body floating in the freezing shallows of the Moyka River.

  It had been quickly confirmed, after they’d arrived at the scene, that the strange shape floating in the river was that of a man dressed in thick winter clothing. According to the forensics experts, summoned to the scene before their first coffee, it had been in the river for a few days. Little remained of the face, the only clue to the identity of the corpse came when they emptied the coat pockets to find an ID in a wallet: Bruce Chester, an American Businessman.

  The Senior Lieutenant assigned to the case watched with a stony indifference as they cut open the cadaver on the table in front of him. He hoped this was just another American wandering into dangerous territory at night and not living to tell the tale; somehow things didn’t add up and he felt there was more to this than was immediately apparent. A Private, who’d entered half-way through the autopsy, had needed to recover – from the sight of the bloated corpse – before delivering confirmation of the ID.

  The Lieutenant had surmised as much after a quick examination of the ID when it had been found. “Has the US Consulate been informed?”

  “The Captain is calling them now,” the Private’s eyes drifting back to the grisly spectacle of the autopsy, feeling the contents of his stomach churning and hoping he would be dismissed from the room quickly.

  The senior officer nodded. “We’ll have an American coming to investigate the murder soon enough,” his tone held a note of contempt, “if only this was a straightforward robbery.”

  “You don’t think it was a robbery which had gone wrong, sir?”

  “He still had his wallet and they tortured him!”

  He shook his head at the naivety of the junior officer’s words, “Someone wanted us to find him and, that someone, is sending a message to the Americans and using us to deliver it.” The Lieutenant blew into his hands to warm them from the chill of the mortuary. He sighed wearily as he turned to leave. He gave the junior officer a cursory inspection from his pale face down to the vomit on his shiny boots … as he reached the door he spoke over his shoulder, “You’d better tidy yourself up, we are going to be very busy.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Flint’s head throbbed. Pain radiated in waves from his temples across the entirety of his skull. His mouth felt like he’d been in a sand eating competition and won first prize. Daylight streamed through the cheap net curtains and bore into the back of his head. Instinctively he turned away to bury his face in his pillow, but the pillow smeared his face with something cold, damp and sticky. Yuk! he thought as he breathed in the all too familiar smell; it wasn’t pleasant.

  He lifted himself up, arms trembling. His stomach heaved. “I can’t carry on like this,” he whispered to the empty room as he slowly opened his eyes. Was the room spinning around him, or was he spinning around the room … the feeling in his stomach made him believe both options were equally possible.

  He got up and stumbled across the room before steadying himself with both hands against the wall. He stared at the reflection in the bedroom mirror; he hardly recognized the face looking back at him with its blood-shot eyes, chubby cheeks and the remains of last night’s Chinese meal in his hair and, now, across his face. He felt like shit, he looked like shit, something had to change. Tears welled in his eyes and ran down his puke-speckled cheeks. His thoughts were muddled but one appeared to crystalize through the fog … Andy Flint, you are an alcoholic.

  His thoughts of self-pity were disturbed by a loud knock at the door, the noise echoing around his woolly brain like an almighty crash of cymbals. He closed his eyes to allow the pain to recede. Wiping his tears away with his sleeve, Andy staggered towards the front door of his apartment. He fumbled with the lock for several moments as his fingers didn’t move with their usual dexterity. With the lock released, he opened the door to a tall, slender man wearing a bespoke suit and holding a phone well beyond the price of anything Andy would consider buying.

  The man had a confident look about him. He looked Andy up and down, eyes lingering on the various stains on his shirt, his unkempt hair, and the remains of takeout smeared on
his face. The confidence faded. A manicured hand moved through his hair, a silver wedding ring glinting in the light. The man sighed, paused, and spoke quietly, “Mr Andrew Flint?” Andy nodded slowly. Pain radiated with each move of his head.

  “I am Vladim Martirossian’s Personal Assistant, Tomas Dortman.” Dortman paused again, eyes flicking to the mess on Andy’s face, “I’m here to retain your services on behalf of his wife.”

  The daylight burned Andy’s eyes and made his headache worse. Though the man’s English was excellent he had more than a trace of a German accent. “Vladim? We haven’t spoken in years.”

  Dortman looked past Andy and into his apartment. “May we continue this inside?” Dortman pointed inside. Andy opened the door further and backed into his apartment. His friendship with Vladim Martirossian went back years, though neither man would say much about it. Even with the persistent throbbing of his head, Andy could see Dortman’s nervousness. Yep, I’m a mess!

  “I had a bit of a rough night,” Andy lied suddenly realizing the state of his apartment, after several weeks wallowing in his alcohol-induced stupor, may not be a place you’d want to willingly walk into unless it was necessary! Andy stood in the middle of his living area and turned as Dortman locked the door behind him. What the hell is this guy up to? he thought.

  Andy did his best to remain calm, moving slowly towards the kitchen and nearer the drawer where he kept his gun. But with his curiosity piqued, he wanted to see where the conversation would lead. “So, to what do I owe this honor?” His gun was now within reach so he was able to focus on Dortman.

  “Mr Martirossian’s wife would like to retain your services.”

  “So you said, why me?” Andy asked.

  “You know Mr Martirossian.” Dortman couldn’t conceal the look of notable distain he had for Andy’s apartment. “He trusts you with his life,” a slight note of disbelief had crept into his voice. As his eyes glanced around the room, cataloguing every inch of the rundown apartment, he continued, “Naturally, for your discretion and absolute confidence during your service for Mrs Martirossian, you are to be paid three thousand dollars a day plus expenses.”

  Andy felt his chest tighten. He desperately needed money. The last of his savings had long gone and he knew he wouldn’t last another week before he’d max out all of his credit cards. Dortman was still talking, “I have fifteen thousand dollars with me to alleviate any immediate financial commitments you may have.” His eyes were back on Andy, all emotion withheld once again, “That money is additional to your daily rate … um … let’s call it a signing-on fee. Mrs Martirossian wants you to be focussed on the task without any … distractions.” Again Andy picked up the doubt in Dortman’s tone.

  I know it’s hard to believe and I can’t blame you. Andy’s head spun and felt dizzy. It was a lot of money. He rubbed his chin, considering the offer, he didn’t want to look too desperate! As Dortman placed neatly wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills on the cluttered desk in the corner of the room, he knew, for this amount of money, the assignment would not be straightforward. “If I don’t achieve what she wants, do I have to pay any of it back?”

  “No,” Dortman turned to face Andy, “accept the assignment and the money is yours.” He pointed to the pile of cash, “whether you take a day or a month to complete the assignment, you keep the fifteen thousand.” Dortman paused again before adding, “if you accept, you will need to leave with me today for Europe where you will meet Mrs Martirossian.”

  Andy needed to freshen up, sharpen his mind, and think. He held his hand up between himself and Dortman, “I need to think.” Dortman nodded.

  Andy stumbled to the bathroom, rushing to close the door and put something between himself and the German. He steadied himself against the wall as he stripped out of his soiled clothes and stepped into the grimy shower. He turned the tap on. For the first few minutes he gripped the sides of the shower cubicle, motionless, as the cold water hit his body. He knew it would eventually warm up, but he needed the blast of cold water to wake him up.

  As his head became clearer, he realised just how timely and useful the assignment could be. Maybe the gods of fortune were finally looking favourably upon me. It’s a generous offer. Probably more generous than I deserve. It shows Ana Martirossian clearly wants to retain my services. But Ana doesn’t like me. Why isn’t the offer from Vladim? Regardless, the money will keep me from being evicted from my apartment, at least for a few months.

  ***

  Alone in the front room, Tomas carefully looked around. He could see the apartment hadn’t been cleaned in months. The heavily stained carpet felt sticky underfoot. A thick layer of dust covered the large, flat-screen television. An old green couch faced the television, worn, badly frayed and giving off an unpleasant odour. On the floor around it were empty bottles of bourbon and the television remote. The remote had seen better days; its battery compartment held in place with sticky tape.

  Tomas looked at the cheap office desk on which sat a large CRT monitor that wouldn’t be out of place in the 90s. Just in front of the monitor, a keyboard missing the ‘a’ and ‘p’ keys. The mouse on the right of the keyboard rested on a mat sporting an indistinguishable logo. Also on the desk, were scattered a number of empty microwave meal and fast food containers. Two of the containers held large mould growths which had oozed onto the desk.

  Tomas studied the papers which were scattered around the desk, they were all unpaid bills. Flint had missed three payments on his car, was behind on his mortgage, and had reached the limit of his credit card without making any of the minimum payments. A notice had been included with the credit card bill detailing the fees and charges that would be added to the debt by a recovery agency acting for the bank.

  He removed his cell phone from his pocket and carefully took photos of each of the demands then emailed them to himself. Task complete, he placed the phone in his pocket and looked at a glass display cabinet in the corner of the room. A framed photo of Flint meeting with President Obama in the Oval Office of the White House was front and centre. He looked fit, sharp and confident. Obama looked younger too, probably in his first term. The photo taken before Flint had left the Agency.

  Of the two men smiling in the photo, Flint had seen the biggest transformation since the photo had been taken, and not for the better. The man Tomas had just met looked older, heavier and broken. On the glass shelf below, rested Flint’s graduation certificate from The Farm, where he received a distinction. Above the shelf with the White House photo, another photo of Flint standing in the middle of Red Square. In the background were the high walls of the Kremlin and Lenin’s Mausoleum. On a small red cloth lay a medal. Tomas saw a star but couldn’t read the inscription. Curious, he opened the cabinet, carefully removed the medal and held it close to read the inscription.

  “Hero of the Russian Federation,” Tomas read to himself, then let out a quiet whistle, “for a former CIA agent, Flint is full of secrets.” Tomas carefully replaced the medal within the cabinet and closed its glass door. Despite the general clutter seen around the rest of the apartment, the glass case was clean and free from dust or grime. Tomas noted there were no pictures of the ex-wife or children the dossier had mentioned.

  The sound of flowing water stopped.

  “Do you have the paperwork with you?” Flint called, his voice muffled through the door.

  “Yes.” Tomas moved back to roughly where he had been standing when Andy had entered the bathroom.

  “Good, then I’ll sign.”

  ***

  Andy briefly read the paperwork before signing. He handed the papers back to Dortman. “Will we be gone for long?” Andy asked, retrieving his passport from the back of the bottom drawer of the desk.

  “We will be away for a few days. You do not need to pack. We have everything you need.”

  “Why am I meeting with Mrs Martirossian? Can you tell me why I’m not meeting Vladim? What’s going on?” Andy asked.

  “I’m sorry Mr Flint
, I can’t say more. Mrs Martirossian wishes to see you in person. Then all of your questions will be answered.”

  The feeling of frustration didn’t subside as Andy moved quickly into the bedroom where he found his cell phone, he knew it should have been replaced a year ago as tape held it together and he felt a pang of shame knowing Mrs Martirossian might see it. As Andy emerged from the bedroom, Dortman had already stepped into the street. Andy grabbed a small black backpack from the bottom of a cupboard and stuffed the cash Dortman had left into it.

  Don’t want to leave that lying around. The neighbourhood wasn’t too safe these days as gangs and drug addicts had started to slowly move in, driving out those with any money or sense. Andy headed for the door and set the alarm.

  A sleek BMW with blacked out windows waited, its engine ticking away gently. Their chauffeur, dressed in a smart grey uniform complete with peaked cap, held the rear door open for Dortman. With Dortman seated, he closed the door and moved around to open the other rear door for Andy. A few moments later the BMW threaded its way effortlessly through the late afternoon Washington traffic.

  Dortman spoke, “I need to make a phone call.” Andy nodded, his eyes moving to the traffic they were passing. All he wanted to do was sleep. Dortman removed his cell phone and hit a speed dial number, the call was answered quickly, as if the person on the other end was waiting for it.

  “Hello Mr Williams, it is Tomas Dortman.” The line went quiet for a few seconds. “I need you to work your magic on the apartment of a new employee. He’s a friend of Mr Martirossian. I’ve been inside and it needs some attention,” he paused, “No, I stand corrected it needs a lot of attention; bring a trash dumpster.” How rude! It’s not that bad really, just needs a bit of dusting and a vacuum, Andy thought.

  Another pause, Dortman continued, “No limit. The payment is to come from Mrs Martirossian’s personal account and use Felix. I know he’s in Washington and has a knack with hopeless cases.” Dortman remained silent while he listened, then added, “We’re on our way to the airfield. I’ll have our driver bring you the key for Mr Flint’s apartment so you can get started. Goodbye.” Dortman hung up and pocketed his phone.