“Mr. President, the news of the moment is the recent decision by the Duma to extend the interim presidency by three months but to bring forward next year’s elections to January. How do you view that decision?”
Kuznetsov translated rapidly and listened while Komarov replied in sonorous Russian. When he had finished, the interpreter turned to Jefferson.
“Clearly I and the Union of Patriotic Forces were disappointed by the decision but as democrats we accept it. It will be no secret to you, Mr. Jefferson, that things in this country, which I love with a deep passion, are not good. For too long incompetent government has tolerated a high level of economic profligacy, corruption, and crime. Our people suffer. The longer this goes on, the worse it will become. Thus the delay is to be regretted. I believe that we could have won the presidency this October, but if January it must be, then we will win in January.”
Mark Jefferson was far too experienced an interviewer not to realize that the answer was too pat, too rehearsed, as if delivered by a politician who had been asked the same question many times and could reel off the answer as if by rote. In Britain and America it was customary for politicians to be more relaxed with members of the press, many of whom they knew on first-name terms. Jefferson prided himself on being able to present a portrait in the round, using both the words of the interviewee and his own impressions to create a real newspaper article rather than a litany of political clichés. But this man was like an automaton.
The reporter’s experience had already taught him that Western European politicians were accustomed to a far greater degree of deference from the press than British or American ones, but this was different. The Russian was as stiff and formal as a tailor’s dummy.
By his third question Jefferson realized why: Komarov clearly hated the media and the whole process of being interviewed. The Londoner tried a lighthearted approach, but there was not a flicker of amusement from the Russian. A politician taking himself very seriously was nothing new, but this man was a fanatic of self-importance. The answers continued to come out as if on cue.
He glanced at Kuznetsov with puzzlement. The young interpreter was clearly American-educated, bilingual, worldly, and sophisticated, yet he treated Igor Komarov with spaniel-like devotion. He tried again.
“You will know, sir, that in Russia most of the real power is vested in the office of the President, far more than in the President of the United States or the Prime Minister of Great Britain. If you were to contemplate the first six months of that power in your own hands, what changes would an objective observer see taking place? In other words, the priorities?”
Still the answer came as if from a political tract. Routine mention was made of the need to crush organized crime, reform a burdensome bureaucracy, restore agricultural production, and reform the currency. Further questions about precisely how this could be achieved were met with meaningless clichés. No politician in the West could have got away with this sort of thing, but it was clear Kuznetsov expected Jefferson to be completely satisfied.
Recalling the briefing he had received from his own editor, Jefferson asked Komarov how he intended to bring about the rebirth of the greatness of the Russian nation. For the first time he got a reaction.
Something he said seemed to jolt Komarov as if he had received an electric shock. The Russian sat staring at him with those unblinking hazel eyes, to the point that Jefferson could no longer meet the gaze and glanced at his tape recorder. Neither he nor Kuznetsov noticed that the president of the UPF had gone deathly pale and two small bright red spots burned high on each cheek. Without a word Komarov suddenly rose and left the room, passing into his own office and closing the door behind him. Jefferson raised an inquiring eyebrow at Kuznetsov. The younger man was clearly also puzzled but his natural urbanity took over.
“I am sure the president will not be long. Clearly he had just recalled something urgent that must be done without delay. He will be back as soon as he has finished.”
Jefferson reached forward and switched off his recorder. After three minutes and a brief telephone call Komarov returned, sat down, and answered the question in measured tones. As he began, Jefferson put the machine back on.
An hour later Komarov indicated the interview was at an end. He rose, nodded stiffly at Jefferson, and withdrew to his office. In the doorway he beckoned Kuznetsov to follow him.
The adviser emerged two minutes later and was clearly embarrassed.
“I’m afraid we have a problem with the transport,” he said as he escorted Jefferson down the stairs to the lobby. “The car you came in is urgently required and all the others belong to staff members working late. Could you take a taxi back to the National?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Jefferson, who now wished he had brought his own transport from the hotel and ordered it to wait for him. “Perhaps you could order one?”
“I’m afraid they don’t take phone orders anymore,” said Kuznetsov, “but just let me show you how.”
He led the mystified feature writer from the main door to the steel gate, which rolled aside to let them pass. In the side street Kuznetsov pointed to Kiselny Boulevard a hundred yards away.
“Right on the boulevard you’ll pick up a cruising cab in seconds, and at this hour you’ll be back at the hotel in fifteen minutes. I do hope you understand. It’s been a pleasure, a real pleasure, to meet you, sir.”
With that he was gone. An extremely put-out Mark Jefferson walked up the narrow street to the main road. He was fiddling with his tape recorder as he walked. Finally he slipped the machine back into the in
side breast pocket of his blazer as he reached Kiselny Boulevard. He glanced up and down for a cab. Predictably there were none. With an irritable scowl he turned left, toward central Moscow, and began to walk, glancing over his shoulder every now and then for a taxi.
The two men in black leather jackets saw him come out of the side street and walk toward them. One of them opened the rear passenger door of their car and they slid out. When the Englishman was ten yards away each man slipped a hand inside his jacket and produced a silenced automatic. No words were spoken and only two bullets fired. Both hit the journalist in the chest.
The force stopped the walking man, and then he simply sat down as his legs gave way. The torso began to topple but the two killers had covered the ground between them and him. One held him upright and the other flicked a hand inside the jacket, quickly puffing out the tape recorder from one breast pocket and his wallet from the other.
Their car rolled up beside them and they jumped in. After it roared away a woman passerby looked down at the body, thought it was another drunk, saw the trickling blood, and began to scream. No one took the car’s license number. It was false anyway.
CHAPTER 8
SOMEONE IN A RESTAURANT DOWN THE STREET FROM THE killing had heard the screaming woman, looked outside, and dialed 03 on the manager’s phone to summon an ambulance.
The crew had thought they might have a cardiac arrest until they saw the bullet holes in the front of the double-breasted blue blazer and the mess of blood beneath. They called the police as they raced toward the nearest hospital.
An hour later Inspector Vassili Lopatin of the Homicide Division stared moodily at the corpse on the gurney in the trauma unit of the Botkin Hospital while the night duty surgeon peeled off his rubber gloves.
“Not a chance,” said the surgeon. “A single bullet, straight through the heart, close range. It’s still in there somewhere. The postmortem will recover it for you.”