Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Read online

  He slammed the door shut, deadbolted the lock, and let out a sigh of relief. He was relatively safe, for now. He became aware of the crushing fatigue that made him sink into the ancient sofa marked with cigarette burns. He held the gun on his lap and closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift, his sensitive hearing tuned to pick up any menacing sound. He yearned for sleep but he knew that there was no time for rest. Not yet.

  The run-down apartment was a far cry from his own cozy spot in downtown Moscow. But he would have to make do. He knew that his place in the Presnya district would be under FSB surveillance, so it was a no-go zone. Likewise the land plot of his dacha, a site for an EMERCOM command post—a semi-trailer housing military-grade communications equipment. Allocated to him by his former boss, Daniil Klimov, the mobile command unit would be towed away and gutted, now that Sokolov had been ousted from EMERCOM. Which was to be expected given his run-ins with the authorities. From hero to zero.

  Daniil Klimov had found himself in a similar predicament. EMERCOM, the Russian emergencies agency, was equal to the American FEMA in function but not form. Taking over from his predecessor, Klimov had inherited a corrupt, unwieldy bureaucracy, and transformed it into an efficient disaster-response service, one of the world’s finest. But an altercation with FSB Director Frolov, soon to become President, had cost Klimov his job—and his freedom. He’d briefly been placed under house arrest and even today, a team of FSB goons stationed outside his home kept a watchful eye on him.

  President Frolov had a long memory. He never forgave his enemies.

  Neither did Klimov.

  Major Eugene Sokolov didn’t care about losing his position as the head of EMERCOM’s elite Extra-Risk squad, even though he’d spent his entire professional career there. Under the management of the new man in charge, a former FSB general, the ministry would no doubt degenerate into the dysfunctional mess it had once been, if not worse. Saving lives was Sokolov’s calling but EMERCOM increasingly got involved in political intrigue and less in actual rescue missions. His role had been beginning to feel useless and only Klimov had kept him in it.

  Sokolov was fiercely loyal to his friends and Klimov topped the list. They shared a true manly bond developed over the years and his allegiance lay with Klimov. With him gone, Sokolov saw no point in staying.

  Besides, there was far more at stake now that he’d become a terrorism suspect in Frolov’s Russia. His life, not merely his job. And it wasn’t just EMERCOM that was slipping into decay. Beneath the fake façade of petrodollars papering over the cracks, the whole country had been decomposing for a long time. Years. Decades.

  Klimov, he knew, was too stubborn to sit idly in his mansion and do nothing about it.

  Sokolov needed to check in on his old friend.

  Klimov’s phone line was encrypted, utilizing EMERCOM’s special radio frequency, immune from eavesdropping.

  Or so he believed.

  Sokolov wasn’t going to trust that assumption. In the age of mass surveillance, no conversation was secure. All electronic communication had to be kept to a minimum.

  Just as well, the apartment lacked a smart TV or WiFi access, which could be used for spying but a mobile handset lay atop a charging pad on the coffee table. Sokolov powered it on. It was the closest equivalent to a modern burner phone, Goldstein had explained during the flight, showing off a similar device, acquired from the Dark Web. It operated using a virtual SIM card, making calls via an anonymous VoIP account tunneled through an untraceable VPN network. The rooted operating system faked the phone’s IMEI and Caller ID numbers and its GPS coordinates. Still, despite every conceivable trick to ensure privacy, Goldstein had suggested keeping call durations short in order to stay under the radar.

  Sokolov dialed Klimov’s number.

  A few moments later, his friend answered.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Sokolov said.

  “Thank God. I’ve been worried but I knew you’d show up. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Is everything all right?”

  “Far from it. I’ve been trying to find you. You’re the only one who can help. The matter is…delicate. Can we meet up tonight?”

  “Okay. Where?”

  “Do you like opera?”

  “I hate it.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The line went dead.

  Sokolov was glad to hear his old friend’s voice but he couldn’t shake off a nagging feeling. There was something that irked him. Something in Klimov’s tone that he’d never heard before.

  Fear.

  4

  Sokolov stood waiting outside the columned portico of the Bolshoi. It wasn’t just down to the fact that he had no ticket, or that he’d fail the dress code, still wearing his khaki outfit, or that suffering through Bizet’s Carmen would bore him to death. Improved safety measures had been implemented inside the theater and he wouldn’t be able to pass the metal detectors, security cameras, or the scrutiny of armed guards. Police presence had been increased in the wake of a recent terrorist attack down Theater Drive. Sokolov had witnessed its horrible aftermath personally a few months ago. The memory struck a chord and he could almost feel the burning stench in his nostrils.

  He remained invisible. As darkness fell, artificial illumination lit up the Bolshoi and the surrounding buildings. Soon enough, the audience poured out of the exits. The hum of chatter was hanging over the crowd as they discussed the performance they’d just seen. Most of them were heading toward the Metro station in small groups while some went to their parked cars. As the human wave dissipated, Sokolov picked out Klimov and approached him. He was suited up but wore no tie—he hated donning a noose around his neck. His hair seemed to have grayed a bit more in the matter of days since he’d last seen him. Sokolov guessed it wasn’t the opera that had stressed him.

  “How was the show?”

  Klimov waved his hand dismissively. “Garbage. This place has lost its standards. And the Barber of Seville was just as woeful last week.”

  As a talented ballet school prospect in his youth, Klimov knew his classical music.

  “Why do you keep coming back, then?”

  Klimov’s eyes scanned Theater Square as if he were searching for someone, before he said, “Let’s go. I’ll explain everything.”

  Leaving the Bolshoi behind them, they walked in the opposite direction from the EMERCOM headquarters and the ominous Lubyanka building of the FSB looming somewhere in the back. They strolled toward the Kremlin. Due to the sanctions and the economic downturn, the designer boutiques of top luxury brands had vanished from the area, stripping naked the blocky edifices which lined these streets, baring their ugliness. Most of Moscow’s historic architecture had been demolished, replaced by grim structures like the imposing Duma building which housed the so-called Russian Parliament.

  Sokolov glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody was following them.

  No sign of a tail.

  “So, what’s on your mind?” Sokolov asked.

  “Spain. But it has nothing to do with the opera. How much do you know about Moscow Gold?”

  “Not a whole lot,” Sokolov admitted. “My brother is the historian, not me.”

  “The background is important to understand the situation. I think I’ve got myself into a real mess.”

  “In that case, I’d appreciate a quick refresher.”

  “Much like in Russia, the Spanish Civil War began after a weak king abdicated and the country was taken over by socialists and anarcho-communists,” Klimov began. “In four and a half years of their rule, Spain descended into chaos. Violence in the streets, political assassinations, pillaging of churches became rampant. Spain was thrown into turmoil that only the Army was capable of opposing. Thus the 1936 military coup marked the start of the Civil War. But the Nationalist generals weren’t just fighting against the Republican government but also their Soviet backers. The Spanish Republicans were Comintern members who act
ed at the bidding of Moscow. Stalin viewed Spain as a springboard. The Civil War was an opportunity to ignite a bigger conflict that would spread across Europe and let the Red Army roll in to capture the entire continent. A prelude to a new World War and the World Revolution that would follow.”

  “And they came close to achieving it. Didn’t Stalin lend considerable support to the Republican forces?”

  “True. Despite a non-intervention agreement, the Kremlin sent thousands of military specialists and political commissars from the Red Army and the NKVD to aid the Spanish communists. Before the end of the year, Soviet ships arriving to Barcelona and other Republican-controlled ports delivered a stream of munitions. Over a thousand artillery pieces, tanks, aircraft, 200,000 bombs, 150,000 rifles and four billion rounds of ammo.”

  “But despite Stalin’s best efforts, the Nationalists gained control over large parts of Spain,” Sokolov said.

  “And they were advancing toward Madrid. In these circumstances, the red government decided to appropriate and evacuate the gold reserves of the Bank of Spain. Moscow offered to take it for ‘safekeeping’—a proposal which was accepted. Within twenty-hour hours, the vaults were broken into and the gold was secretly loaded into wooden boxes, transferred by train to the port of Cartagena and shipped off to Odessa.”

  “Let me guess. The Kremlin never gave it back.”

  “It was the heist of the century. Spain had the world’s fourth largest gold reserves. Over five hundred tons of gold in total.”

  Sokolov whistled. At the current rate, it was worth tens of billions of U.S. dollars.

  “What happened to all that gold after it reached Moscow?”

  “Stalin had all the Soviet functionaries who’d been involved in the affair executed during the purges within the next couple of years. A way of cutting off loose ends. But the gold did crop up later. It was used by the Kremlin as a fund to finance covert activities abroad. Funneled through a network of Western banks to support the communist cause around the world. Left-wing terrorists in Europe or the Castro regime in Cuba, for example. In fact, the term Moscow Gold became a British euphemism for Russian meddling in foreign affairs. But then the Soviet Union collapsed and Moscow Gold vanished without a trace. Until now.”

  “What exactly have you learned about it? And how?” Sokolov asked, his interest piqued as they got to the crux of the matter.

  “I got word from a whistleblower who had managed to track it down. It was a cold approach. She contacted me a few days ago, pleading for help.”

  “Do you trust her? Who is she?”

  “Her name is Paulina Pavlova. She’s a high-ranking manager at one of the biggest state-owned banks, VIB. Through her line of work, she discovered the trail of a staggering amount of money. Going all the way back to Moscow Gold, the accounts had remained hidden around the world all these years. Dormant. Growing. And now, reactivated.”

  “To what end?”

  “The same deadly purpose as before. Destabilization of the West. Elections hacking. Cyber warfare. False-flag terrorist attacks. Chaos.”

  Sokolov felt sick to his stomach. The havoc wreaked by the Kremlin’s hybrid war against Western democracies was all too vivid. It was a threat that Europe and the U.S. seemed unprepared or unwilling to deal with. Given the colossal damage that could be done with limited resources, Sokolov hated to imagine the kind of result Frolov could achieve with a black ops budget worth billions. Unlike the Kremlin Khan, he didn’t wish to see the world burn.

  “The information is highly sensitive,” Klimov continued. “We can topple Frolov by exposing it. Paulina has told me she’s got everything documented. She claimed it’s a bombshell that the Western leaders would have to react to. Seizure of these assets would cripple the Kremlin, foil Frolov’s plan to destroy the West, and put him under considerable pressure from his own inner circle. The cash-strapped oligarchs would blame him for losing Moscow Gold. The repercussions would be severe. But first, there has to be a way to leak these documents. And make sure they don’t fall into wrong hands. Judging by your brother’s involvement in the Mercury-18 affair, and the source he received his information from, the two of you should have the right connections outside Russia. I could be wrong, of course.”

  There was no point denying it.

  Sokolov was beginning to grasp his intended mission.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “I know just the person for this task. Magda Janowska, Polish investigative journalist, a thorn in the Kremlin’s side. She’s returned to Warsaw but still covers Russia. She’d jump at the chance to break this story. It could result in public uproar in the West.” He didn’t mention that Constantine was currently in the United States, working for the Harry Richardson Foundation, a CIA front. “Do you want me to act as a go-between and relay the information?”

  “That was my idea, originally. But something went wrong.”

  “What happened?”

  “You see… We were supposed to have a rendezvous with Paulina tonight. At the opera. She was going to hand over the data. A flash drive with a few hundred gigabytes’ worth of files. But she never showed up.” Klimov paused. “I think they got her, Gene.”

  Sokolov tried to remain calm despite a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “Let’s not overreact. There could be a million other reasons.”

  “Ever the optimist, Gene. I know you’re trying to sound reasonable but I trust my gut feeling. She’s gone.”

  As they reached Mokhovaya Street, the spires of the Kremlin came into view across the road. The late-evening traffic wasn’t congested, the vehicles breezing along six lanes, headlights glaring.

  From behind, a cyclist raced down the sidewalk and stopped sharply in front of them. He wore a cycling helmet and a tracksuit, a messenger bag slung across his body. He thrust his hand into the pouch and whipped out a gun, suppressor attached.

  Sokolov froze in his tracks and pushed Klimov out of the line of fire.

  The cyclist unleashed a muffled shot. Instead of hitting Klimov square in the chest, the bullet grazed his side.

  The momentum carried Sokolov to the ground. He crashed to the pavement next to his friend.

  The muzzle flashed again, the cyclist tapping off two more shots in quick succession.

  He found his mark this time.

  The slugs tore into Klimov’s body, ripping through soft tissue, rupturing the heart and hitting the spinal column as they exited. Blood splattered Sokolov, pumping from the gaping wounds in his friend’s chest.

  The cyclist swung the silenced gun, aiming at him.

  Desperately, Sokolov dug out the TT from inside his camo jacket, leveled the barrel, and pulled the trigger. The semiautomatic bucked in his grip, thundering. The blast obliterated the cyclist’s face, knocking him off the bike which clattered to the ground as he went down like a sack of bricks.

  Sokolov turned to Klimov. Life was ebbing away from him.

  “Find her…” he wheezed.

  “I promise,” Sokolov murmured.

  Then Klimov’s gaze went blank.

  Sokolov pressed his fingers against Klimov’s neck, checking for the pulse in the carotid artery. There was none.

  Daniil Klimov was dead.

  Sokolov cried out from the insufferable anguish, rage, and disbelief that reverberated through his soul.

  There was no time to mourn the loss, however.

  Ahead, a Kia hatchback swerved sharply as it pulled up, brakes screeching, and two burly men armed with handguns jumped out.

  The clean-up crew.

  Sokolov popped a few rounds in their direction, forcing them to crouch behind their vehicle. It gave him a momentary advantage but that was all he needed.

  Sokolov ran.

  He darted across the roadway, fleeing from the assailants. Angry motorists braked to avoid hitting him and blared their horns. He leaped out of the way of an onrushing SUV that almost ran him over and sprinted to the other side of the street.

  He wasn’t clear o
f danger yet.

  The cleaners followed him, waving their guns at the passing cars to halt traffic. It cost them a few more seconds.

  He rushed into Alexandrov Gardens, a public park which consisted of lawns and flower beds stretching for 800 meters along the western Kremlin wall.

  As he charged down the cobbled main alley, startled passersby scattered away, having heard the gunshots and glimpsed the firearm in his hand.

  The cleaners couldn’t be far behind but he didn’t dare to look and slow down.

  His survival instinct urged him to take cover in the trees. Traversing the manicured grass, he slipped behind a row of lindens. His heart jackhammered. The gun felt heavy, finger slick on the trigger.

  Pursuing him, the two gunmen detected his position and shot at the trees with their silenced weapons.

  Splinters flew from the sizzling bullets. In the darkness, the exterior lighting of the Garden wasn’t enough to give them a clear shot at his silhouette. Proceeding down the alley, their own figures, however, were spotlighted by the glow of lampposts. Sokolov couldn’t miss. He took aim and fired off a round that scythed the first gunman down.

  As the second cleaner scrambled away, Sokolov kept shooting at him with the roaring TT. The bullets hit the man’s thigh and shoulder. He collapsed, stifling an agonized scream.

  Sokolov sprung into the open space, eliminated the distance in a few strides, and kicked the loose gun away into the grass.

  The first man lay immobilized, a pool of blood oozing on the cobblestones from the hole in his chest.

  The second cleaner was groaning at Sokolov’s feet.

  It had been a hit team. The killer. The cleaners. There also had to be the watchers.

  Sokolov bent over the prone man and battered his face with the butt of the TT. He smashed his eye, nose, mouth. Bone crunched. A gurgling whimper escaped the would-be assassin’s throat.

  “The watchers. Where are they? Talk or I’ll beat you to death.”

  “The submarine. On Tverskaya,” the cleaner growled through blinding pain.

  He passed out with a final blow to the base of the skull.