as he proceeded in the direction of the hangar.
Someone opened the access door and the group moved inside, away from the rain. They made their way to the office where Federov waited, only now turning from the window. The man they were escorting held his hands in front of him, lifting them when he recognized Federov. Steel manacles circled his wrists. The man held them out to Federov.
“Take them off,” Federov said.
“We were told—”
“To bring him to me and leave him in my charge. You have done that. Give me the key, then you can climb back into your aircraft and leave. You have carried out your orders. He is no longer your responsibility.”
The man in charge of the detail still protested. “Do you realize who he is?”
The manacled man glanced at Federov, a faint smile edging his lips. He was tall, with broad shoulders. His head was shaved, the smooth skull glistening from the rain. He had lost some weight since Federov had seen him last and his face was pale, a little gaunt. Federov saw the big hands flexing. He knew exactly what the man was thinking, what he would do if he was not covered by the SMGs. Whatever else, Federov thought, they have not subdued his personality.
“Yes,” Federov said. “I know exactly who this man is. His name is Viktor Kirov and he is my friend.” Federov’s nostrils flared slightly as he allowed his anger to rise. “Now get out of here,” he yelled, “before I show you what my authority allows me to do.”
The leader of the escort detail took a key from his pocket. He handed it to Federov without another word, turned and led his men from the office. Federov watched them leave the hangar and return to the plane. His own men had returned to the building and remained there as Federov closed the office door. He crossed to the waiting man and removed the manacles, tossing them onto the desk that stood against the far wall.
Viktor Kirov rubbed each wrist where the manacles had chafed at his flesh. He remained where he was, watching as Federov unscrewed the top of a large steel flask and poured hot coffee into a plastic mug. He held it out to Kirov.
“Not the celebration I would have wished for, Viktor, but welcome home, my friend.”
Kirov took the mug, savoring the smell of the coffee. After he had tasted it, he nodded slightly. “An improvement on that cabbage water they gave us to drink and called tea.”
If Federov felt any awkwardness, he hid it well. “Once we get to Moscow, I promise you something even better. I have arranged to have an apartment placed at your disposal. The wardrobe has new clothes in it and the refrigerator is well stocked.”
“Will I find a young woman in my bed, as well?”
“That can also be arranged. I suspect you might have a little tension that requires relieving.”
“A little? My God, Karl, have you forgotten how long I’ve been locked up? Three long, lonely years. Just make sure whoever you send has stamina. She will need it.”
They both laughed.
Kirov watched as Federov drank his own coffee, his hands wrapped around the mug. “Are you cold, Karl?”
“Yes.”
“Compared to my cell this is almost tropical. There even the rats wore overcoats.”
“Dammit, Viktor, I only wish this opportunity had come sooner. You should not have spent so long in that place.”
“I’m not going to argue that point,” Kirov said. “Karl, I know that if there had been any other way, you would have worked something out. I heard how you fought to have me transferred to a better prison. You have been more than a friend, Karl. More than anyone had a right to expect. For that I thank you.”
Federov nodded. “Drink your coffee, then we can get out of this place. We have a long drive back to the city.”
“Plenty of time to talk, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you can tell me who I have to kill for you first.”
For the first time since he had entered the office Viktor Kirov’s eyes glistened with enthusiasm. Seeing the expression on his friend’s face, Karl Federov smiled.
He had his man, the one individual who would help his cause and who would do exactly what Federov wanted without argument, or regret.
Kirov was thirty-two years old. The last three had been spent in a bleak, isolated prison run by the FSB and overseen by guards who were little better than some of the inmates. These were political dissidents, men, and some women, who posed a threat to the regime, as well as recidivists and terrorists, or possible terrorists. The government played no favors. If someone was an embarrassment, dangerous, with agendas that might create an outcry, then the isolationist regime in the prison would either kill or cure. Once the subject was out of the public eye, it became easier to handle.
Viktor Kirov was a special case. He had been trained by the very people who finally locked him away. Kirov was a natural-born killer, a man who had no conscience when he was given his orders. It didn’t matter who the victim was. Man. Woman. Child. Kirov handled them all with the same cold detachment. His training had come from the best, and Kirov surpassed every one of his instructors. His supreme test came when he was given the order to kill one of the other applicants on the training course. The man had failed to reach anything like the required standard. His dissatisfaction turned him sour, and he began blaming everyone at the training academy for his poor achievements. His grievances were looked on with disapproval. He managed to alienate everyone around him. His vehement lack of control drew the attention of the academy director, a man who despised those who showed weakness. The director solved his problem easily. He chose the best pupil from the course to carry out his order.
He chose Viktor Kirov.
He was confident he had picked the right man. Kirov’s performance during the course had been exceptional. The director, who prided himself on his ability to know his trainees, had reached the conclusion that Viktor Kirov was head and shoulders above the rest. Kirov was an individual. Something of a loner. A borderline sociopath. And his instructors had reported that Kirov had that rare quality capable of making him an excellent assassin. There was a cold streak within him, a propensity for violence that he kept close to the surface, contained and controlled until it was needed.
Three days after the failed trainee had quit the academy, the director asked Kirov into his office. He told Kirov what he wanted in no uncertain terms, explaining that he would not allow the man to spread malicious rumors about the academy. An example had to be made. Kirov understood what was being asked of him and accepted the mission without hesitation. The director offered assistance, but Kirov declined.
Two days later there was a small report in the press that a young man had been found dead in a back ally. His neck had been broken during an attempted robbery. No one had seen or heard a thing. The case was never solved and became just another statistic.
The director found the man’s wallet on his desk a day later.
Kirov was immediately recruited into a special section of the FSB and over the next few years his particular talents were well used. He became his section’s chief assassin, traveling extensively to carry out wet work for his employers. Europe, Africa, even the U.S.A. played host to Viktor Kirov. He was never caught.
