Free The Kremlin Phoenix by Stephen Renneberg

colored Buick appeared, moving
slowly down the road. “We have a looker,” he radioed.
    Woods sat by another window,
hidden in the darkness, holding a camera with a fast telephoto lens. The
digital camera’s light sensitivity was pushed as high as possible, in the hope
of getting a picture of the suspect’s face, even though there was little chance
of a good shot in the darkness. He raised the camera, ready to start snapping
pictures as soon as the car came into view.
    The Buick slowed as it passed the
repaired side door. Harriman focused his binoculars on the driver, getting a
clear look at Nogorev for the first time.
    “He’s checking the door,”
Harriman radioed. “Heads down, I have eyes on the suspect.”
    The Buick rolled past the
repaired door slowly, which Nogorev studied with routine care, before moving on
past the warehouse.
    “He’s now checking the bum’s
sleeping near the bench . . . and the cars.” Harriman said.
    Woods focused manually, snapping
pictures of the driver and the car’s license plates. “The light over the plates
is out. Don’t think I got it,” he whispered as the Buick turned into the first
side street.
    “Hold your positions,” Harriman said.
He put the radio down and picked up the telephone, dialing fast. As soon as
there was an answer, he said, “I want the chopper in the air, now! Tell him, no
lights.”
    “Did he make us?” Woods asked.
    “I don’t think so,” Harriman said
as he hung up.
    No one spoke for several minutes.
After an agonizing wait, car headlights shone down the alley beside the
warehouse. Harriman picked up the radio, finger poised on the send button. When
the same Buick turned into the street, he radioed the team.
    “He’s back! Stand by.”
    The Buick turned in towards the warehouse,
then Nogorev got out and opened the roller door. He failed to notice the patch
job on the front door, or the screw in the padlock, but the new splash of
graffiti momentarily caught his attention. After glancing up and down the
street, he returned to the car and drove into the warehouse, then pulled the roller
door down.
    Once the door was locked, Nogorev
checked the layout of the warehouse, lit by the car’s headlights. He had a
habit of making a mental picture of his base before he left. Now, his mind’s
picture did not match what he saw. The chair was in a slightly different
position. So was the cable from the telephone to the wall. He’d laid the cable
out in an S shape across the floor – now one end was straightened.
    I’m blown! he realized.
    He ran to the car’s trunk,
knowing he only had seconds. Lying on one side of the trunk was a heavy machine
gun, which he was tempted to use, but couldn’t be sure how many people he
faced. Instead, he grabbed the German machine pistol, a black metal hook and a
flashlight, then set the timer on the last and largest of his incendiaries to
fifteen seconds – barely enough time to escape.
    Nogorev sprinted towards the concrete
road barrier at the far end of the warehouse, silently counting seconds. He
leapt over the barrier, rolled on the hard floor, squeezing his eyes shut and
placing his hands over his ears.
    * * * *
    “The rat’s in the trap,” Harriman
yelled. “Go now! Go!”
    Harriman jumped out of his chair,
and ran for the door, followed by Woods and two uniformed officers. The working
girl and her two Johns ran across the street, both men now showing guns in
their hands. One threw a pistol to the girl as they ran towards the warehouse
entrance. To the right, one of the addicts climbed in behind the wheel of their
Chevy, while the second retrieved a pair of shotguns from the trunk and jumped
into the passenger side. The car started rolling forward slowly at first, so as
not warn the killer with screeching tires, then it picked up speed.
    Harriman started across the road
as the two ESU men crashed their car into the roller door, tearing it out of
the wall. An instant later, a fiery blast erupted from the