“We’ve got to get him out of here,” the attending paramedic said. “Bring over the gurney.”
Another medic ran for a gurney that was parked by the lobby entrance. I’d seen enough endings to know the Russian had the cold shadow of death on him. It was now or never.
I sensed collective shock and disbelief as I knelt beside the injured man and grabbed his collar.
“Who sent you? I demanded.
The paramedic tried to push me away. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I resisted, and kept my focus on the Russian. “Who sent you?” I repeated.
I felt hands on me, but I fought their pull and pressured the driver.
“Tell me!” I yelled.
The man muttered something in Russian and his eyes focused briefly.
“Get off him!” an angry voice yelled, and it was joined by others.
The hands were pulling harder now. I couldn’t resist for much longer.
“Give me a name!” I demanded.
The driver smiled darkly.
“Who’s next? Who’s your next target?” I pressed my hand against his broken ribs, and the sudden jolt of pain brought the getaway driver out of his stupor.
“You’ve failed, American,” he moaned. “You’ve failed.”
I was hauled off the dying man and heard one of the uniformed cops utter the words, “You have the right to remain silent,” as hard steel was tightened around my wrists.
Chapter 35
“We are the Ninety-nine. Elizabeth Connor’s time is at an end and her riches will go to others. We will continue to strike at the one percent, and you must choose: your money or your lives. If you want off our list, unburden yourself of your deadly wealth. We are the Ninety-nine and we shall punish all those who live so greedily while others starve and suffer.”
The masked man sat in front of a large anarchy symbol, a new innovation since the last video. His voice was disguised and the table in front of him prevented an accurate assessment of his size and weight.
Rick Tana, the NYPD detective leading the investigation into Karl Parker’s murder, minimized the window and pushed the tablet computer to one side. We were in the same interview room in One Police Plaza that I’d been taken to after the shooting at the Stock Exchange.
“Hotel surveillance footage corroborates your story,” Tana said. “And this video has sent the media into a tailspin. Fringe groups like the League of Radical Communists are saying this is the beginning of a second American revolution.”
“It’s bullshit,” I replied. “It’s a smokescreen. The assassin is methodical and highly trained, and the getaway driver was an expert in martial arts. This Ninety-nine cover is designed to confuse and divide.”
“Well, it’s working,” Tana remarked. “Talk radio is full of people calling in saying these guys have a point. How come so many people have so much?”
“My buddy worked his whole life for everything he had,” I snapped. “Just like me. Just like you.”
I took a breath and tried to let go of my anger at the divisive politics.
“We’re working on identifying the getaway driver, the motorcyclist who died outside the Stock Exchange, and the three killed in the helicopter crash, but so far we’ve come up blank,” Tana said.
“Did the getaway driver say anything to you before he died?” Tana asked.
The Russian had passed away en route to the hospital.
“No,” I said, inwardly cursing myself for not having done more to prevent the guy jumping.
Tana sighed. “Since your story checks out, there’s no reason for me to hold you.”
“I told you that three hours ago,” I countered, but some of my pent-up tension ebbed away. Tana wasn’t a bad cop; he was just doing his job.
“If you keep showing up at murder scenes, we’ll keep bringing you in,” Tana said.
“I like our little talks, but maybe try to catch the killer next time?” I said, getting to my feet.
Tana walked me through the building to central booking, where Justine waited with Jessie Fleming and Mo-bot.
“Are you OK, Jack?” Justine asked. She looked far more composed than when I’d last seen her.
I nodded.
“Stay in touch, Mr. Morgan,” Tana said, before walking away.
“The Ninety-nine claimed responsibility again,” Jessie said.
“I think that’s a smokescreen. The guy I fought was trained in martial arts, and he spoke with a Russian accent,” I responded. “It feels like a foreign intelligence operation.”
“This little doohickey you found would back up that theory,” Mo-bot said, producing the small black device the getaway driver had dropped. “It’s a satellite communicator, encrypted and daisy-chained to a network of other devices.”
“English,” I said a little too tersely.
Mo-bot feigned hurt. “It’s like a pager,” she replied. “But instead of a phone number, it sends a set of coordinates. My guess is your man was planning to destroy it before he jumped. Someone tried a remote wipe, but I was able to recover the data from the drive. Four sets of coordinates. Robert Carlyle’s headquarters in DC, Karl Parker’s in New York, and Elizabeth Connor’s office on Sixth Avenue.”
“A list of targets,” Justine remarked.
Mo-bot nodded. “My guess is they get a new set of coordinates when they make a kill.”
“A hit squad,” I suggested. “But how do they know who their target is?”
“The identity must come separately. Or maybe they already know who they need to kill, they just don’t know where the target is located,” Mo-bot replied.
“You said there were four sets of coordinates,” I remarked.
“The data packet time stamp shows the latest set was sent just after news of Elizabeth Connor’s death broke,” Mo-bot revealed. “The next target is based at the American embassy in Moscow.”
Chapter 36
Grom Boxing, the home of Spartak Zima. The huge sign didn’t offer even the slightest concession to subtlety. Spartak’s head and sweaty torso must have been at least thirty feet high, and next to the flashy red text was the huge image of his jewel-encrusted Russian title belt. The gigantic billboard was fixed to the side of a converted Soviet-era redbrick warehouse that loomed over Leonid’s car.
Dinara and Leonid had spent the day trawling the files on Yana Petrova’s computer. There seemed little doubt the dead customer-service agent was Otkrov. The admin folder contained log-in details for Otkrov’s servers and information on the notorious blogger’s secure communications tools. The only open case had been the investigation into match-fixing, and Yana’s notes had identified Makar Koslov, Spartak’s trainer, as a person of interest. When they’d got up to speed on the background of the investigation — the alleged throwing of a world title bout with heavyweight champion Larry Kenler — they’d driven across Moscow to Tagansky, a working-class neighborhood southeast of the city.
Dinara pulled her coat collar tight as she stepped into the bitter night. Moscow seemed to grow colder with each passing winter. Or perhaps age was eroding her resilience?
You’re only thirty-three, she told herself, stowing her dark thoughts as she hurried across the busy parking lot. Leonid was a couple of paces behind.
They stepped through a large metal door into a lobby that was decorated in an industrial style that majored on exposed brickwork, ducts and copper piping. There was no one at the front desk, so Dinara went through a set of double doors and entered the gym.
There were more than thirty boxers training on maize balls, heavy bags and ropes, and sparring in the ring. They all had closely shaved heads and the same hunger in their eyes. A few of those nearest turned as Dinara walked into the room, and they stared at her with undisguised hostility.