Antolov had a hand on his holstered Makarov, but all he could do was stare at the sprawled out Gorshevsky, who still had his pistol in his grasp.
Guards in the hall burst into the room, with weapons drawn. They immediately reacted by taking Kalinin into custody, pulling his arms behind his back, snatching his weapon from his hand. The faces of everyone in that room exhibited outright shock.
Antolov knelt next to Gorshevsky's body, placing his fingers on the carotid artery, seeing blood spreading across the chest, and under the body. The pulsing artery beat slower, slower, and finally — nothing. Antolov stood, staring down, then turned, and pointed toward the guards. "Release him! Return his weapon to him!"
Kalinin holstered his weapon without taking his eyes from the former Premier's body, until he saw Zykov out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the wall, holding his side. Blood was seeping through his jacket. "Oleg!" Kalinin put his arm around his partner, helping him down. "Let me look!" He pulled aside the jacket, then lifted the blood-stained white shirt. "It went right through, Oleg. You should be okay. I will get something to help control the bleeding." Kalinin rushed into the bathroom, and grabbed a towel from the rack. "Here. Hold this against it."
"Is he dead?" Zykov asked, wincing.
Kalinin looked over his shoulder. "Yes."
Both Antolov and Sokoloff finally walked to the two agents. "Are you all right, Comrade?" Sokoloff asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I have called for an ambulance." He immediately opened the door and motioned for the security guards to follow him to the hallway. "An ambulance crew will arrive shortly. You will make them wait out here while you assist our comrade. No one is to enter this room. No one. Is that clear?!" Replies were clicking of heels and simple nods. "I will be calling for another ambulance to take the Premier's body to our plane at Schonefeld. Two of you will ride with the Premier, keeping the body covered at all times. I do not want any mistakes." He came back into the suite, motioning Antolov toward the other side of the room.
Kalinin stood, and walked to the body. His eyes caught sight of the PSM pistol, almost unnoticeable in the gnarled hand. Designed around the newly developed 5.45x18mm cartridge, the small pistol, with a 3" barrel, was a suppressed operational pistol. The blowback-operated handgun had a double action trigger and slide mounted manual safety without a slide stop.
The full impact of what he'd done hit Kalinin like a freight train. No longer able to look, he turned and went to the window, resting his palms and forehead against the glass, trying to grasp the situation. He and Zykov had proved their case, but the unexpected outcome was not what they anticipated.
Antolov stepped next to him. "Comrade Kalinin."
"Sir," Kalinin responded, turning to face his boss.
"Any of us could have been injured or killed. You did what was necessary. We believe this was the best way for the situation to end, Comrade."
Kalinin was taken aback, but tried not to show his surprise. "What will happen next, sir?"
Antolov slid his hands into his pockets, momentarily casting his eyes downward. "The Premier's body will be escorted back to Moscow. An explanation for his death will be up to our comrades in the Politburo. You will remain in Berlin. Comrade Dotsenko has still not been located."
"Sir, we should face the possibility he is dead."
"Dead?!"
"Yes, Comrade Antolov."
"You will devote your time in finding an answer."
"Yes, sir. And what about Comrade Zykov?"
"When he is out of hospital, he will join you."
"Very well, sir. Oh, and what happens to Sergeant Baskov?"
Antolov rubbed his chin. "He will be dealt with accordingly. I do not think he will reveal anything — ever." He started to turn away when he looked up at Kalinin, and asked through narrowed eyes, "Was there anything on that second tape you showed the Premier?"
"That recorder has been with me for sometime, sir. I thought if the Premier saw it, he might be convinced to admit his involvement."
A slight smile appeared on Antolov's face, before he walked away.
Unnoticed by anyone, Kalinin rolled his eyes, and blew out a sigh of relief. Hearing voices in the hallway, he went to Zykov, helping him stand. "I will visit you in hospital, Oleg."
"What will happen to us, Nicolai?" Zykov whispered.
"The director has ordered us to continue the search for Dotsenko, or at least find answers. Do not worry."
The door opened, and two security guards escorted Zykov to the gurney. They closed the door to the suite.
Minister Sokoloff glanced at his watch. "The next ambulance should arrive shortly, Mikhail. We will see to it that the Premier is carried out, giving the impression he is still alive."
Kalinin walked into the bedroom, and removed a cover from the bed. He squatted down, and draped it over the body, leaving the face exposed. But then he thought of an important detail, and looked over his shoulder. He went to where Zykov had been standing. His eyes searched back and forth along the white painted wall, until he spotted it. "Comrade Antolov. Here is the bullet from the Premier's weapon, sir."
Antolov ran a finger over the embedded bullet. "Find something to dig it out with."
Kalinin removed a combat knife from a leg strap then pried the compacted bullet from the wall, and dropped it in Antolov's palm.
"There is no need for you to stay any longer, Comrade Kalinin. Just be sure to report to me throughout the rest of your investigation."
"Will you need additional escort to Schonefeld, sir?"
"No."
"Very well, sir." Kalinin looked toward Sokoloff and nodded. "Comrade Sokoloff."
Once he was in the elevator, Kalinin leaned back against the wood panel, rolling his head side to side. "Whatever happens next … only time will tell, Nick." He smiled before reaching into his pocket, and removed the recorder. He tossed it up, let it drop into his palm, then immediately closed his hand around it.
As he walked out of the hotel, he heard the sound of an ambulance siren, still at least four blocks away. A crowd that the East German police was holding back seemed strangely quiet, but curious. They strained their necks trying to catch a glimpse of anyone who exited, knowing the Russian Premier was a hotel visitor.
Breaking into a jog, Kalinin hurried to his vehicle, slid behind the steering wheel, and started the engine. He drove to the building where he had rented a small, one-room flat on the second floor.
Once inside, he dropped the keys on a dresser, then laid his badge on top of his wallet. He made a quick inspection of the room. Everything was still in place, undisturbed. When he first arrived in East Berlin, and as an added precaution, he'd secured all his passports and money in a locker at the train station.
Loosening his tie, he went to a window overlooking the main street. He surveyed the immediate area before pulling down a yellowing shade. He kicked off his shoes, then flopped down on the twin-size bed, locking his fingers behind his head.
The day's events swirled around in his mind. His emotions had gone from excitement to pure consternation. He rubbed his fingers against his eyes, suddenly realizing how very tired he was.
KGB had already called in specialists to clean the entire suite, leaving no evidence whatsoever. The Neues Deutschland would report the Russian Premier had been taken ill and returned to Moscow. It would also state that bodies of Russians who died in the bombings were flown to Moscow on Gorshevsky's plane, at his insistence.
The following morning his death was officially announced on Soviet radio and television. The cause of death: a stroke.
That same morning Sergei Kovashenko was elected chairman of the committee in charge of funeral arrangements. It was assumed that Kovashenko was the most likely candidate for the position of General Secretary.