Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Read online

  Moscow Gold

  SOKOLOV #5

  Ian Kharitonov

  Moscow Gold

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2021 Ian Kharitonov

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Kindle ISBN 978-1-64734-269-2

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-270-8

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Take a Look At: Czar of England (SOKOLOV #6)

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  About the Author

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  Moscow Gold

  RUSSIA

  1

  A man wearing combat fatigues strode along Nevsky Prospect, the main street of the former Russian capital. Today, the city simultaneously suffered from an inferiority complex and a delusion of grandeur, being neither Leningrad nor St. Petersburg but stuck somewhere in between. From the city of czars to the seat of the underworld. Leninburg? His scholarly brother might find it amusing.

  Clutching a briefcase, he mingled with the swarm of Scandinavian tourists who’d ferried across the Baltic, attracted by cheap booze if not the last vestiges of Russian culture still present around the city. Nobody gave him a second look. The Kremlin’s warmongering rhetoric had set a military fashion trend. Even though all eyes were glued to the storefronts and flashy outdoor signs instead of him, he struggled to shake off the uncomfortable feeling of just being there. He was a Muscovite through and through and couldn’t wait to get away from the deeply provincial place up north. The midnight sun of the so-called White Nights in early July was disorienting. The confusion of night and day did nothing to ease the fatigue and tension plaguing him.

  He was a wanted man who’d entered Russia illegally.

  Arriving by sea had been the easiest way to do it—in his case, aboard a military vessel which he’d vanished from as soon as she’d reached port.

  Now, he had to get out of town before any of the security cameras picked his face out of the crowd and the FSB’s powerful recognition software identified him as Eugene Sokolov, disgraced elite officer and sworn enemy of the Russian President.

  He knew that the kill order would be out. President Frolov’s personal foes tended to have their life expectancy cut short. When the Kremlin was out to get you, there was no hiding anywhere in the world. Instead, Sokolov was determined to fight back on his own terms—and his own turf. But he had to make it there first. Crossing six hundred kilometers of hostile terrain was no mean feat.

  He turned off the busy sidewalk of the Nevsky through an archway which opened into a back alley. The buildings huddled together to form a narrow passage. Away from the eyes of tourists, the other side of the buildings was far less attractive, covered with mold, grime, and graffiti. As he headed further down the alley, the stench of piss and vomit assaulted his nostrils.

  A rat scampered past crushed beer cans and used syringes which littered the ground and darted under a container overflowing with garbage. A piece of filth in human form stepped out from behind the container. Pale-skinned, dressed in a dirty tee shirt, his forearms bruised from a long history of heroin abuse. The junkie drew a switchblade from his pants pocket. The knife snapped open as he confronted Sokolov.

  “Give me your cash or I cut you.”

  A chance encounter with local scum didn’t feature on Sokolov’s agenda. He had a scheduled meeting that he couldn’t miss.

  “I really have no time for this, you moron. Put that knife away before you get hurt.”

  From behind, a dirty-nailed hand held a blood-filled syringe to Sokolov’s neck. The tip made an indentation where it pressed against his skin, the barest touch away from piercing the epidermis.

  “The case! Drop it!” the second mugger demanded.

  The hell he would. Sokolov’s life depended on its contents.

  Sokolov swung the briefcase, swatting away the HIV-loaded hypodermic, and stomped his thick-soled foot on the attacker’s ankle. The dirty-nailed dopehead cried out. Sokolov powered a back kick into his midsection. The fierce ushiro geri sent him crashing into a muddy puddle.

  Staring red-eyed, the first junkie thrust his knife. Sokolov stuck the briefcase out like a shield, deflecting the blow, and lashed a high roundhouse kick. His foot connected with the pale face, smashing teeth. The moron toppled against the trash container.

  A black BMW 7-Series sedan charged from the other end of the alley and braked in front of Sokolov, tires squealing. The driver’s door flew open and a stocky, square-jawed security-type guy jumped out from behind the wheel.

  He reached for the shoulder holster under his jacket and whipped out a handgun.

  “Get in the car!”

  2

  Sokolov obliged.

  He climbed into the rear where he found himself sitting next to a wiry old man wearing a turtleneck, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and a mane of gray hair. His craggy fingers held a plastic file folder.

  “You must be the lawyer,” Sokolov said.

  “Mark Goldstein, attorney at law. And you are Constantine’s brother. The family resemblance is obvious, although of course you’re taller, younger—and stronger, as those two idiots found out the hard way.”

  “Did you send the junkies after me? Some sort of a test to check me out?”

  “No. I do have certain standards, young man. It was the harsh reality of Russian life that brought them here. An unfortunate coincidence, not uncommon in this town, I’m afraid. Vasily!” he called out to the driver. “To the airport!”

  Vasily threw the gear into reverse, backed out from the alley to an adjacent street, and set course for Pulkovo Airport, a forty-minute drive.

  “Besides,” Goldstein tapped on the folder. “I know all I need to know about you. I’ve had a couple of days to prepare. Eugene Ivanovich Sokolov, born in Moscow to ethnic Cossack parents, et cetera, et cetera. Former officer in EMERCOM, the Ministry for Civil Defense and Emergencies—”

  “Former?” Sokolov interrupted.

  “Why yes, you’ve been discharged. Now that your friend Klimov’s got the ax, the new EMERCOM boss isn’t messing about. You’re also on the FSB Most Wanted Fugitives list. Terrorism. Is it true?”

  “No comment. Anything I say can
and will be used against me.”

  Goldstein chuckled. “I’m not a prosecutor.”

  “Where did you get all that stuff on me, though?”

  “The FSB.”

  “How?”

  “Simple. I bought it from them.”

  “Is everything for sale in this country?” Sokolov wondered out loud.

  “Certainly, yes. For a price. You should be grateful, Eugene. Corruption is what’s kept you alive.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Believe me, corruption is the least of Russia’s problems. It helps ordinary people circumvent the draconian laws which the Kremlin is passing every day like crazy. I’d go as far as to say that all this talk of corruption in Russia is a false narrative.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Corruption is a threat to democratic, civilized societies, not totalitarian ones. South Korea has a corruption problem. North Korea doesn’t. Which one of the two would you rather live in?” The question was rhetorical. “When Kim Jong-Un gifts a shiny new Mercedes-Benz AMG to one of his high-ranked generals, is it corruption? No, it’s part of their normal relationship. Can you imagine rallies and protests against it? Nonsense! But suppose the activists get their way and the general refuses to accept such a present under pressure from the international community and a few dissenting voices at home. And to top it off, Kim also decides to give away his eight-million-dollar watch collection to the poor, and stops showering his wife with designer-name gifts using state funds, and importing caviar for himself while his nation starves. I see your sardonic grin, but please indulge my fantasy for a moment. Is it a victory? A massive blow to the communist regime? Finally, in a dramatic turnaround, Kim launches a crusade against corruption and starts killing crooked generals with flamethrowers. How about that? That’ll show ’em! Does it change the essence of who Kim and his cronies are? Or ease the plight of ordinary North Koreans?”

  “No,” Sokolov said pensively. “It’s a quixotic quest. Tilting at windmills. Deflecting attention from things like concentration camps and nuclear blackmail.”

  “My point exactly. Corruption is a side issue compared to the war, terror, and assassinations that are going on. Cause and effect. In Russia, the fake opposition is criticizing a symptom while turning a blind eye to the illness. I guess it’s safer to uncover riches rather than murders. And then do nothing about either, anyway. Whether the Kremlin is corrupt or not is hardly a reflection of how powerful or murderous the regime is. If anything, it can help bring its downfall sooner, when used correctly. So in your case, consider it a blessing, not a curse.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “I’m speaking from experience. I’ve seen a lot of evil people in my lifetime. But Frolov makes my most notorious clients look like angels. The Kremlin has turned the very concept of law on its head. Not to mention the notions of truth, morality, and justice. It’s a bigger travesty today than it was under the communists. The Russian courts currently have a conviction rate of over 99.5 percent. Even during Stalin’s Great Terror it was under ninety. It’s almost impossible for an innocent man to walk away free. My job in the courtroom has become meaningless. But I’m doing what I can to keep people out of the kangaroo courts. I owe as much to my profession. You’ll have to use every trick at your disposal to win this game because if you’ve pissed off Frolov, your life is at stake and he’ll stop at nothing to get you.”

  “I’m fully aware of that. Do I look like I’m heading off to a street protest?”

  “No,” Goldstein said. “You look like you’re going to war.”

  At the airport, the BMW pulled up right in front of a Bombardier private jet waiting on the tarmac. Goldstein and Sokolov boarded the plane which would land in Moscow in another forty minutes.

  When they were airborne, Goldstein, who sat facing Sokolov in the luxury leather seat, opened his folder.

  “I’ve got something else for you. A fresh start, so to speak.”

  One by one, he placed several papers from the folder onto the walnut table separating them.

  “Social security. Driver’s license. Passport, complete with a Schengen visa. A new identity that will make you invisible to everyone, including the FSB goons.”

  Then the lawyer produced a set of keys.

  “The keys to your new apartment and your new car.”

  “Nice,” Sokolov said. “Now that’s what I call an all-inclusive service.”

  “Wait, that’s not all—and none of it comes free. Surely, you’re aware that I’m acting on behalf of a client.”

  Sokolov nodded. “Uncle Ari.”

  “I’d rather avoid using these vulgar nicknames. Aram Boghossian is a respected businessman. He owed your brother a favor once. Unfortunately, you cannot enjoy such a privilege a second time. But you can pay Mr. Boghossian back for all the good faith he’s shown you. There’s also the matter of your unemployment that he’s willing to solve for you. A man of your skills and talents is much sought after and your CV is second to none. By agreeing to work for him, you’d get a decent job and start settling your debt at the same time.”

  There was always going to be a catch, Sokolov thought. Back in the day, too many martial artists in Russia had become gangsters. He’d known some of them personally, having practiced karate together in the same dojo. None had managed to stay alive or out of prison. It was a path he’d never choose. And Uncle Ari Boghossian was a vor v zakone, one of the most infamous Russian Mafia lords, someone Sokolov would never want to associate with. True, he was the last of his kind, living by a certain code of ethics, but a gangster all the same. Even a legit security gig with such a man was a slippery slope. Before long, Sokolov would end up getting involved in extra activities, such as having to intimidate, beat up or murder someone.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Sokolov said, “I’ll have to decline Mr. Boghossian’s magnanimous offer.”

  Goldstein peered at him over the horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Stop fooling around, Eugene. How are you expecting to pay for all this? And you will have to pay, one way or another. It doesn’t come cheap. A couple of hundred grand. American bucks. Not worthless rubles.”

  Sokolov smiled. “Does Mr. Boghossian accept cash?”

  He picked up the briefcase, worked the combination locks, which snapped open. When he revealed the contents, Goldstein stared incredulously at the neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  3

  The car, as expected, was a Jeep Grand Cherokee. Sinister black. Sokolov climbed into the driver’s seat and checked the glove box. Inside, there was a hefty TT semiautomatic. A dangerous item in the event of a police search but the Jeep’s special license plates meant that no traffic cop would dare pull him over. Sokolov was beginning to see the bright side of corruption.

  The apartment was located in east Moscow, in an area known as Death Valley due to the high number of fatal car accidents occurring on its main highway. The name seemed apt for the neighborhood in general, a depressive maze of proletarian slums, sandwiched between the highway—ironically named Enthusiasts’ Road—and Izmaylovsky Park, a dark swathe of land infested by druggies, contributing to the area’s high crime rate.

  Finding the designated address, Sokolov parked the SUV in front of the residential block and checked the gun. Full mag. He buried the TT deep in the pocket of his military-style jacket and got out, stepping into unknown territory.

  The apartment building was a Khrushchev-era relic. Concrete slabs slapped together, five stories high. The former industrial area had fallen into decay and as part of its redevelopment, the old building should have been taken down decades ago. The residents had already been relocated to new, cheap housing at the city’s expense. But the property had been stuck in bureaucratic limbo after the real estate developer and the city official handling the deal had both been arrested for corruption. Both were Goldstein’s clients. After the new condominium project had fallen through, Uncle Ari had snapped up the property, long overdue for demolition,
at a bargain price, and converted it into a sort of barracks for his triggermen. On paper, the block of thirty units no longer existed.

  Since most of Uncle Ari’s men had also been relocated by the authorities to Butyrka prison and various other penitentiary facilities, the apartment block now stood abandoned.

  For Sokolov, it was the perfect safe house.

  On the outside, the concrete panels looked worn down. The front door was locked to keep the bums and druggies away and there were metal bars on every ground-floor window.

  There was no elevator, so he climbed the stairs. The building appeared deserted, with peeling paint and mold on every wall. As he reached the third floor, his fingers gripped the gun, ready to react to danger.

  He burst into the apartment, aiming the gun in front of him. A quick sweep. All clear. No surprises from the cops, FSB, or Mafia. The apartment itself was a drab one-bedroom affair. The interior featured dilapidated Soviet furniture, faded wallpaper, linoleum-lined floors, and rust-stained bathroom fixtures. The air was stale. Satisfied that he was alone, he returned to the living room.