The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [48]
Provalov reflected on the fact that he hadn't asked his informant exactly who had given him this new flood of information. He hadn't forgotten, but perhaps had allowed himself to be a little gulled by the descriptions of the alleged former Spetsnaz soldiers who'd made the murder. He had their descriptions in his mind, and then removed his pad to write them down. Blond and red-haired, experience in Afghanistan, both living in St. Petersburg, flew back just before noon on the day Avseyenko was murdered. So, he would check for the flight number and run the names on the manifest through the new computers Aeroflot used to tie into the global ticketing system, then cross-check it against his own computer with its index of known and suspected criminals, and also with the army's records. If he got a hit, he'd have a man talk to the cabin crew of that Moscow-St. Petersburg flight to see if anyone remembered one or both of them. Then he'd have the St. Petersburg militia do a discreet check of these people, their addresses, criminal records if any, a normal and thorough background check, leading, possibly, to an interview. He might not conduct it himself, but he'd be there to observe, to get a feel for the suspects, because there was no substitute for that, for looking in their eyes, seeing how they talked, how they sat, if they fidgeted or not, if the eyes held those of the questioner, or traveled about the room. Did they smoke then, and if so, rapidly and nervously or slowly and contemptuously … or just curiously, as would be the case if they were innocent of this charge, if not, perhaps, of another.
The militia lieutenant paid the bar bill and headed outside.
"You need to pick a better place for your meets, Oleg," a familiar voice suggested from behind. Provalov turned to see the face.
"It is a big city, Mishka, with many drinking places, and most of them are poorly lit."
"And I found yours, Oleg Gregoriyevich," Reilly reminded him. "So, what have you learned?"
Provalov summarized what he'd found out this evening.
"Two shooters from Spetsnaz? I suppose that makes some sense. What would that cost?"
"It would not be inexpensive. As a guess … oh, five thousand euros or so," the lieutenant speculated as they walked up the street.
"And who would have that much money to throw around?"
"A Muscovite criminal … Mishka, as you well know, there are hundreds who could afford it, and Rasputin wasn't the most popular of men … and I have a new name, Suvorov, Klementi Ivan'ch."
"Who is he?"
"I do not know. It is a new name for me, but Klosov acted as though I ought to have known it well. Strange that I do not," Provalov thought aloud.
"It happens. I've had wise guys turn up from nowhere, too. So, check him out?"
"Yes, I will run the name. Evidently he, too, is former KGB."
"There are a lot of them around," Reilly agreed, steering his friend into a new hotel's bar.
"What will you do when CIA is broken up?" Provalov asked.
"Laugh," the FBI agent promised.
The city of St. Petersburg was known to some as the Venice of the North for the rivers and canals that cut through it, though the climate, especially in winter, could hardly have been more different. And it was in one of those rivers that the next clue appeared.
A citizen had spotted it on his way to work in the morning, and, seeing a militiaman at the next corner, he'd walked that way and pointed, and the policeman had walked back, and looked over the iron railing at the space designated by the passing citizen.
It wasn't much to see, but it only took a second for the cop to know what it was and what it would mean. Not garbage, not a dead animal, but the top of a human head, with blond or light brown hair. A suicide or a murder, something for the local cops to investigate. The militiaman walked to the nearest phone to make his call to headquarters, and in thirty minutes a car showed up, followed in short order by a black van. By this time, the militiaman on his beat had smoked two cigarettes in the crisp morning air,