Vendetta Girl (A Natalia Nicolaeva Thriller Book 2) Page 3

  Moving to her desk, she opened the top drawer and began to remove everything from inside, placing the items on her desktop; books, pens, notebooks, paper clips, rubber bands, zip drives, electric cords… When it was empty, she took a small pen knife and carefully pried up the false bottom she’d installed two months earlier, revealing a small stash of cash in multiple currencies, two extra bank cards, three SIM cards still shrink-wrapped in their packaging, and three passports. She scooped up the stash and flipped briefly through the passports, one from Moldova, with her real name, another from Russia with an alias and a third from Germany, this last one courtesy of her old friend Gregor Multinovic. Natalia wrapped a rubber band around the cash, cards and passports before putting them into the outside pocket of her backpack. Grabbing her phone, she held down the power button to turn the device off, then opened the SIM slot and removed her card before placing the phone back into the pocket.

  Opening her bureau once more, she dug through her bottom clothing drawer. From beneath a stack of sweaters, she pulled out her most essential item and held it in both hands; a .40 caliber Glock semi-automatic pistol, with a 15-round magazine. She’d hoped that she would never need it again. Several times Natalia had been tempted to dispose of it altogether. This gun represented a dark past that she’d prefer to forget, and yet, she never could bring herself to get rid of it. In the back of her mind, she’d always seemed to know that the time might come when she needed it again. And so, she slid the gun into her backpack and then when back for her two extra ammunition cartridges. Zipping the backpack closed, Natalia had one more thing to do. She had to warn her roommate. Clearing space on her desk, she found a blank piece of paper and lifted a pen. What could she say? Too much information might put Julia in even more danger, but Natalia had to do her best:

  Julia,

  I know this must all sound very strange to you, but I am going away for a while, and I suggest that you do, too. Please try to believe me when I tell you that if you stay in this room, your life may be in danger. Bad people may come looking for me, and you don’t want to be here if they do. Go stay with Victor for a few weeks, or with your parents. Anyplace but here, I beg of you. I will be in touch when I can.

  - Natalia

  She read over the note, doubting that Julia would heed the warning. Natalia considered waiting for Julia to return, but there was no telling how long that might be. No, Natalia would contact her roommate later. Right now, she had to go. She took the note and placed it on Julia’s desk. Before leaving, she took off her army jacket and tossed it aside, exchanging it for a warmer winter coat, blue with a fur-fringed hood. After zipping the coat up the front, she reached for a small gray beanie, pulling it onto her head and tucking her hair in at the sides, and then slid on a pair of matching knit gloves. She slung the backpack over her shoulders once more and then hoisted the duffel bag.

  The sky was dark as Natalia left the dormitory building. She scanned the courtyard for suspicious characters. A little paranoia could save one’s life. She was still keenly aware of the security cameras, mounted not just on the doorway but throughout the campus. Natalia was being watched, at all times. Her first order of business was to disappear. She had to be untraceable. Walking across the campus, she stopped at a bus stop on the busy Tikhoretskiy Prospekt, placing the duffel at her feet while she sat on a bench, still under the watchful eye of the surveillance state. Likewise would she be if taking a city bus. But a gray-market, private mini-bus? Nobody would be watching her there. She waited while a stream of buses and vans pulled to the curb and departed.

  When Natalia saw a white van with the word Avtovokzal taped across the window, she waved a hand. The van pulled abruptly to a stop and Natalia slid open the side door. Inside was a varied group of people, all heading to the main bus station on a Thursday evening. She climbed aboard, squeezing between a few other passengers, who pushed their own luggage aside in an attempt to make room.

  “How much?” Natalia asked the driver.

  “One hundred.”

  Natalia pulled a bill from her pocket and handed it forward. The driver slid the rubles into a leather pouch and pulled back onto the road. As they moved down the avenue, Natalia knew that it would take at least 30 minutes to get to the bus station from here. If any curious parties had watched her get onto this minivan, they would know exactly where she was headed. But if she got off somewhere in between? Somewhere dark and quiet, without any cameras? Then she would be in the clear. She could find a quiet, out-of-the-way hotel and hole up while she figured out what to do next. In the meantime, she had twenty minutes in this crowded mini-van to try to piece together what had just happened. One thing was clear from Sasha’s interaction with the killer. This was not a random shooting. They knew each other. Sasha was involved in something larger and more menacing than he’d understood. And what of Aleksy? He’d seemed more like an innocent bystander. To the killer, Aleksy was an afterthought. Natalia felt as though she were spinning down a dark and swirling drain. If she didn’t seek out justice for her friends, she doubted that anybody would. The murders would be filed away and forgotten, buried in some police file that nobody cared to solve. For now, Natalia would find that hotel room. She would settle in to give this matter some thought. At this stage, it wasn’t too late for her to simply disappear.

  Chapter Three

  The room was as bleak as her mood. Natalia sat at a small desk, eating chicken chow mien from a cardboard takeout box. She scooped the last of the noodles into her mouth and then tossed the chopsticks and container into a small metal trash bin near the bed. Her worst nightmare from these past months had come true. She was on the run again. She’d gone out for an innocent beer with a gregarious young friend, and then...

  Looking around at the stained brown carpet, the dirty walls, the worn, yellow bedspread, Natalia still questioned her involvement in this incident. She didn’t have to risk her future, her career, her life, over events that she really had nothing to do with. She could let it all blow over, take a few months off, and then get on with her studies. People were murdered. It happened. But then, this was not just any murder. This was a contract killing. A professional hit. Going to the police was a dangerous proposition. Whoever ordered this was a powerful adversary. They couldn’t operate in this city without contacts at the highest levels. For Natalia to show herself would mean taking on great risk. She thought of the video on her phone, of the perpetrators climbing from their sports car and fleeing the scene in the Range Rover. There was no question that law enforcement officials would be able to identify them, if they cared to. Natalia leaned back in her chair. She could send her file to the media. Not the state-run propaganda outlets, of course. An opposition journalist was Natalia’s only hope. She needed an ally, who knew the ins and outs of this city’s underbelly. Somebody who wasn’t afraid of authority, yet savvy enough to stay out of trouble. Who could that be? Natalia wasn’t sure. She would be careful. If possible, she would stay in the shadows, unidentified. Natalia pictured the fear on Aleksy’s face the moment before he was shot. It was the end and he knew it. Natalia owed them both to do some digging. If there was any way to exact revenge without risking her own life and security, she would do her best to find it.

  Opening the outside pocket on her backpack, Natalia pulled out her phone. She took one of her unopened SIM card packages and peeled off the shrink wrap before pulling the plastic card from a sleeve. After prying out the SIM, she inserted it into her phone and powered on the device. She entered a PIN and then navigated to the app settings to switch off the location sharing. Natalia’s first order of business was to scan the local press, to look for media reports of that night’s slayings. Checking the state media sites, she found nothing. A toddler was the lone survivor of a small plane crash in Siberia. Youths clashed with police at a political demonstration in Brussels. A small earthquake shook Azerbaijan. It wasn’t until she checked the opposition newspaper, Novaya Gazeta, that she found anything at all, and yet the article wasn’t quite
what she’d expected.

  TERRORIST ATTACK LEAVES TWO DEAD, SCORES INJURED IN ST. PETERSBURG

  Two suspected terrorists were still at large Thursday night after intentionally ramming a city bus with one stolen car and then escaping the scene in another in the Petrogradsky District.

  Two unidentified pedestrians were run down and killed while walking on the sidewalk as the attackers made their getaway. Seven passengers aboard the bus and an unknown number of additional pedestrians were seriously injured.

  According to local authorities, the attacks are believed to be the work of a local terror cell. “We have seen them use these tactics before,” said spokesman Vladimir Denisovich of Petrogradsky District Police. “They may be Chechen extremists, or members of a Kurdish opposition group. We don’t yet know which organization they represent. What we can tell you is that we are focusing all available resources on identifying, locating and apprehending the terrorist criminals involved.”

  The article had a photo taken at the scene of the accident, with the mangled bus, and in the foreground, the body of a victim draped with a sheet. “What about the shootings?” Natalia said to herself. “Why no mention of them?” She scrolled through every other site she could find. Not one additional outlet even covered the incident. Maybe it was too soon. They hadn’t had time to get the story. They’d have more info in the morning, surely. In the meantime, Natalia would do what she could to move things along. She read the reporter’s name on the byline: Roman Barkov. At the very least, she could provide him with some evidence.

  Before she emailed her video, Natalia watched it herself, several times. She saw the crumpled Maserati, with the driver emerging from beneath the airbags. She saw the bloodied killer climb from the rear, pulling his gun as they carjacked the Range Rover. She zoomed in to get a better look at his face. Was he identifiable? Clearly, they both were. Somebody would recognize these men. Even if not, facial recognition software and an immigration database could solve this case easily enough. That is, if the right people wanted it to be solved.

  Natalia opened her email app, but instead of using her own account, she created a new one, just for this one contact. Concerned.Citizen@rumail.com.

  Dear Mr. Barkov, she wrote. I thought you might be interested in watching this video of the so-called “terrorist attack” that occurred in the Petrogradsky District tonight. I can assure you, this was no terrorist attack. Please contact me if you’d like further details. A Concerned Citizen

  After uploading the video file, Natalia hit the Send button. She wasn’t ready to send it directly to the police. The less contact she had with authorities, the better. Natalia didn’t want them to know who she was, or why she had an interest in the case. She didn’t want them trying to trace this new email account. It was better to keep things as simple as possible. All the same, she had no idea if she could trust this reporter, Roman Barkov. A quick search revealed a string of other articles written by him. Barkov seemed to specialize in politics. This was the kind of stuff that could get a reporter in this country into trouble, or worse. He covered the fabulous wealth acquired by public servants; the fancy homes, expensive cars, and jewelry. The single wristwatch worth more than the annual salary of the regional official who wore it. Barkov wrote about the death of his colleague, Anna Politkovskaya, more than a decade earlier, gunned down under mysterious circumstances on the president’s birthday. He covered the Litvinenko poisoning, the Magnitsky bludgeoning, the Nemtsov shooting; a veritable who’s who of Russian political murders.

  Even more interesting to Natalia than the articles by Barkov were the ones about him. “Opposition Journalist Arrested for Tax Fraud,” read a headline in the official state media. Clicking on that link, Natalia found a photograph of the reporter, hands cuffed behind his back as he leaned over the hood of a police car, face turned toward the camera. He looked angry, but then why wouldn’t he be, arrested on trumped-up charges? She could tell that he was an attractive man, tall in stature with short, dark hair and strong features. He was the charismatic type; the kind of man who, under better circumstances, could have had his own career in politics. Back on the search page, the articles continued. Barkov at a protest. Barkov on trial. Sentenced to two years in prison. Released twelve months ago.

  Who are you? Did you film this yourself? It was a simple response from Barkov himself, some twenty minutes after Natalia contacted him.

  Yes. She wrote back. Do you recognize these two men?

  Have you contacted the police? He ignored her query.

  No. Not yet. Can you answer my question?

  Thank you for your video. This will be quite helpful. I will be in touch, Barkov replied.

  Natalia felt frustrated. Was he giving her the brushoff? Did he recognize these men or not? Apparently, he wasn’t keen to say. This was no terrorist attack, she quickly wrote back. Why do you mention only the pedestrians in your article? Why not the two students shot to death just blocks away?

  What students?

  Sasha Antov, and Aleksy… somebody. Murdered at the underground bar, with the purple picture frame above the door.

  No mention by police of any shooting.

  “Does he think I made this up?” Natalia said to herself in frustration.

  Meet in person to discuss? he wrote.

  Given his history and profession, there existed a very likely possibility that he was under surveillance. Even now, the FSB was probably logging this correspondence on their servers. Meeting Barkov in person was another whole level of risk, but then, sometimes one had to take chances. Where? she asked.

  My office?

  No, she shot back. Neutral location. Quiet.

  Not fond of public meetings with strangers.

  Do you want the story or not? While she waited for his response, Natalia tried to formulate a plan. She checked the local map on her phone. Just a few blocks away, she saw a promising spot. Volkovo Cemetery, front gate, 10 am. tomorrow, she wrote to Barkov.

  You win. See you there.

  Natalia powered off her phone. After showering and changing into clean undershorts and T-shirt, she shut off the lights and climbed into bed, listening to the sounds of the city outside her window; the muffled cacophony of traffic, sirens, the shouts of a wandering drunk. This was going to be a long and lonely night.

  Chapter Four

  Natalia was one of only a handful of guests huddled for breakfast in a small hotel dining room. Quickly, she ate two slices of toast, buttered with jam, and a bowl of stale muesli. The coffee was decent. Strong and hot. When she was finished, she took a quick look out the front window to see a thick, dark layer of clouds. The street was damp from an overnight rain.

  Back in her room, Natalia tossed the key onto the desk and sat on the bed, watching the time tick by until the clock reached 9:00, at which point she took her coat from the back of the chair, slid it on and zipped up the front. Opening her backpack, she took out her gun and dropped it into her coat pocket. From the desktop, she lifted her beanie and pulled it on tight, tucking her hair in at the sides once more, then slid the knit gloves onto her hands. She was ready. Arriving at the cemetery early would give Natalia time to scope out the location and develop a strategy.

  As she emerged from the hotel, Natalia inhaled a deep breath of crisp morning air before moving up the street. Two blocks off the main road, past a series of decrepit commercial warehouses, Natalia came to a small parking lot. On the far side, an arched gateway led through a wooden fence. Beyond loomed a forest of tall, ghostly trees reaching upwards, with just a few golden leaves still clinging to their branches. The ground beneath was covered in a carpet of decomposing foliage. Down a garden path, she saw a small yellow chapel with a green copper dome and matching steeple.

  Pushing her way through the gate, Natalia entered the cemetery, boots crunching on the path as she continued up the lane, that deep, musty odor of autumn filling her lungs. It was quiet, all right. Unsettling, even. This could work. Passing the chapel, she came to the cemete
ry proper, with crumbling grave markers lining the path. She paused to read a few. Vladimir Drobkin, 1898-1917. So young, she thought. The same age as Natalia. Or Sasha. Yet what a different time he had lived in, even more tumultuous than her own. Natalia moved on. If anybody tried to ambush her, at least she’d see them coming. No surveillance cameras, no hidden microphones behind these damp tombstones. She headed back out front to wait, finding a sheltered spot beside a warehouse across the street.

  At two minutes to ten, Natalia spotted a man heading up the sidewalk from several blocks away. He was tall and broad, with short dark hair, walking quickly in blue jeans and a camelhair coat, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets. As he drew near, she recognized him. This was her man. Late 20s, handsome… even more so in person than in photos. She could feel his charisma even from a distance in the way that he carried himself, chin tilted slightly upwards as he walked. He continued toward the front gate and stopped, standing in place as he furtively searched the area. When he spotted Natalia watching him, he lifted a hand from his pocket and waved. She glanced up and down the street once more to see if he’d been followed, then waved back and made her way across.

  “Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?” Barkov asked.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  Barkov took a look around as well. “What else do you have for me?”

  “Let’s walk.” Natalia motioned toward the gate. “Don’t worry, I won’t harm you.”

  At this, Barkov couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s not you I’d worry about.” The pair walked side by side up the path, past the chapel and on among the tombstones. “I’ve always found something appealing about a deserted cemetery,” Barkov continued. “It gives one perspective, doesn’t it? How petty our little concerns are here on earth. We fight and we struggle, and for what? The grim reaper always catches up to us in the end.”