ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA
Milesch Popov drove back into the town of Zvenigorod singing along to the Snoop Doggy Dog tune “Gin and Juice” that was pumping out of the stereo system of his new Jeep Grand Cherokee. The lyrics, “…with my mind on my money and my money on my mind,” were profoundly appropriate. Though Popov had no idea what he was doing, with a seventy-five-thousand-dollar advance, he knew he could figure it out pretty quick. And lest anyone should forget, the deal he had so artfully negotiated with Sergei Stavropol was for seventy-five thousandplus expenses, against an eventual five hundred thousand U.S. upon delivery of the package-General Anatoly Karganov’s body, or what was left of it.
Popov had all but convinced himself that the new Cherokee could rightly be categorized as an expense. He needed it and was sure that Stavropol would appreciate his rationale. Zvenigorod was no Russian backwater, at least not anymore. Because of its wooded hills and crystal clear rivers, it had often been called the Russian Switzerland, but now with the influx of rich New Russians building their weekend dachas along the river, it was truly beginning to feel like it. In fact, prices for everything had gotten so ridiculously out of control around Zvenigorod that the running joke among the locals was that the only difference between Zvenigorod and Switzerland was that Switzerland was cheaper.
With the right car and the right clothes-a Giorgio Armani suit, another legitimate business expense-Popov had no doubt he would be looked upon as just another rich Muscovite fleeing his harried city life for the peace and tranquility of the Russian countryside. Popov, though, hated the countryside. It reminded him of the orphanage in Nizhnevartovsk, in northeastern Russia on the western edge of Siberia, where he had lived until he ran away when he was ten. It had taken him nine weeks to travel the almost fifteen hundred miles to Moscow, stowing away in the occasional truck, but more often than not traveling by foot, and once he had finally arrived, he never looked back. Over the next twelve years, he suckled at the underbelly of Russia’s largest city, building a modest, albeit successful empire of his own, specializing in extortion, racketeering, and stolen automobiles. To those unfamiliar with him, Popov might have appeared to be out of his league on this job, but in truth, he was blessed with the gift of being a lot smarter than he looked.
The old hunting lodge was still surrounded by crime scene tape when he brought the Grand Cherokee to a stop in the driveway. There didn’t appear to be any cops around and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He didn’t welcome the thought of having to put his fake state inspector credentials to the test. But in all fairness, there wasn’t much he wasn’t prepared to do for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall.
He grabbed the brown file folder off the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. “I fuckin’ hate winter,” he mumbled to himself as he turned the collar of his expensive overcoat up against the wind. Images of sunshine, scantily clad women and a nice vacation villa somewhere in the Greek Islands crowded his mind and he pushed them aside so he could get on with the job at hand. The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he would get paid.
The file he was holding, just like the Cherokee and the Armani suit, was another justifiable business expense. He had gone very far out on a limb to get it, and he would charge Stavropol dearly for it, but it represented a huge savings in time for him. In his hands he held all that not only the local police knew about the case, but also information from Russia’s prestigious FSB. He had read it several times over and though it represented the efforts of some of the country’s top criminologists, Popov was not one to let others do his thinking for him. Besides, he had a piece of the puzzle that the cops didn’t; he knew that Stavropol was somehow involved with the murders.
Popov removed a stiletto knife from his pocket and cut the crime scene tape sealing the front door. After a few moments of working on the antiquated lock with his picks, he was inside. The great hall, with its enormous fireplace, was where the police believed the murders had taken place. As he walked around, Popov could see where blood had stained the floor and walls. He wondered what Stavropol’s beef had been with the three men. They had been respected military leaders, just like him-great warriors. He was about to ask himself how Stavropol could kill his comrades and then realized how stupid he was being. He saw it on the streets of Moscow every day. That was simply how the world worked. Anyway, it had nothing to do with him and what he was being paid so handsomely to figure out.
Out of the three missing generals, the police had retrieved only two bodies. One had been bludgeoned to death and the other shot. The third was anyone’s guess, though they did find traces of blood in the empty grave that matched Karganov’s blood type.
If the two men had been murdered in the great hall, the quickest way to dispose of the bodies would have been to drag them through the kitchen and out back. He followed the trail of blood through the kitchen and briefly referred to the file, which positively identified the blood trails as belonging to both Varensky and Primovich, but noted that there was no trace of blood there that could be attributed to Karganov.
Outside he found the three graves were still cordoned off, but had been steadily filling with snow. As he examined the crime scene photographs in his file, he positioned himself in the different places that the cameraperson must have stood to take the shots. He focused his attention on the pictures of the empty grave, which was believed to have held Karganov’s body and read the report again. When police found it, it appeared to have been disturbed, though by what, they couldn’t say. Besides the traces of blood in the grave, there was nothing specific to indicate that a body had been there.
Popov had done his homework. He knew that Zvenigorod was not known for its wolves and that if any animal had actually gotten to the body, it would most likely have been a wild boar. But boars and wolves would eat their catch on the spot; they wouldn’t have dragged it away. And when wolves and boars feed, they leave evidence behind, yet there was none. Finally, it seemed that Primovich and Varensky had bled more heavily than Karganov-a sure attractor for a carnivorous animal. All that blood, and yet their graves were untouched.
No, it wasn’t a wild animal at work here. Popov was sure of it. Karganov had somehow gotten out of that grave and had left under his own power, or someone had helped him.
Though he had ruled out one possibility, Popov appeared no closer to answering the big question-where the hell was General Anatoly Karganov? A chill wind and a blast of icy snow froze the back of his neck and the sharp jolt caused him to ponder for the first time what might be at stake if he didn’t succeed. Men like Sergei Stavropol might respect those who set limits and drove hard bargains, but there was one thing that they certainly didn’t respect and that was failure. He had heard about Stavropol and what had happened to men who had disappointed him-even his own soldiers.
Popov tucked the file under his arm and hurried back to the Cherokee, possessed suddenly by a motivation even greater than a mountain made of money-the desire to stay alive.