Mo-bot feigned hurt. “It’s like a pager,” she replied. “But instead of a phone number, it sends a set of coordinates. My guess is your man was planning to destroy it before he jumped. Someone tried a remote wipe, but I was able to recover the data from the drive. Four sets of coordinates. Robert Carlyle’s headquarters in DC, Karl Parker’s in New York, and Elizabeth Connor’s office on Sixth Avenue.”
“A list of targets,” Justine remarked.
Mo-bot nodded. “My guess is they get a new set of coordinates when they make a kill.”
“A hit squad,” I suggested. “But how do they know who their target is?”
“The identity must come separately. Or maybe they already know who they need to kill, they just don’t know where the target is located,” Mo-bot replied.
“You said there were four sets of coordinates,” I remarked.
“The data packet time stamp shows the latest set was sent just after news of Elizabeth Connor’s death broke,” Mo-bot revealed. “The next target is based at the American embassy in Moscow.”
CHAPTER 36
GROM BOXING, THE home of Spartak Zima. The huge sign didn’t offer even the slightest concession to subtlety. Spartak’s head and sweaty torso must have been at least thirty feet high, and next to the flashy red text was the huge image of his jewel-encrusted Russian title belt. The gigantic billboard was fixed to the side of a converted Soviet-era redbrick warehouse that loomed over Leonid’s car.
Dinara and Leonid had spent the day trawling the files on Yana Petrova’s computer. There seemed little doubt the dead customer-service agent was Otkrov. The admin folder contained log-in details for Otkrov’s servers and information on the notorious blogger’s secure communications tools. The only open case had been the investigation into match-fixing, and Yana’s notes had identified Makar Koslov, Spartak’s trainer, as a person of interest. When they’d got up to speed on the background of the investigation—the alleged throwing of a world title bout with heavyweight champion Larry Kenler—they’d driven across Moscow to Tagansky, a working-class neighborhood southeast of the city.
Dinara pulled her coat collar tight as she stepped into the bitter night. Moscow seemed to grow colder with each passing winter. Or perhaps age was eroding her resilience?
You’re only thirty-three, she told herself, stowing her dark thoughts as she hurried across the busy parking lot. Leonid was a couple of paces behind.
They stepped through a large metal door into a lobby that was decorated in an industrial style that majored on exposed brickwork, ducts and copper piping. There was no one at the front desk, so Dinara went through a set of double doors and entered the gym.
There were more than thirty boxers training on maize balls, heavy bags and ropes, and sparring in the ring. They all had closely shaved heads and the same hunger in their eyes. A few of those nearest turned as Dinara walked into the room, and they stared at her with undisguised hostility.
Spartak Zima wasn’t in the gym, but Dinara recognized his trainer, Makar Koslov, from the photos on Yana’s computer. The former middleweight champion was leaning over the ropes, shouting instructions to the duo sparring in the ring. Koslov was a long way from his fighting prime. A large gut strained the seams of his Grom Boxing T-shirt, and his black sweatpants clung to a couple of tree-trunk legs. Narrow eyes, a broken nose and permanent fat lip did little to enhance the looks of a man whose broken face had taken far too many beatings. He wiped a hand over his bald head and, when one of his fighters gestured toward Leonid and Dinara, he glanced over.
Koslov stepped down from the ring. “Yes?” he said.
“We’re investigating a murder,” Leonid replied. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Koslov sneered, but Dinara’s eyes shifted beyond him. The young boxer who’d pointed them out hurried into the far corner of the room where another trainer sat with a gray-haired man who wore a black jacket and a matching black T-shirt that had the number “100” outlined against the dark background. It was subtle, but those who understood its significance would know the man was a member of the Black Hundreds, an old ultra-nationalist group that had recently been revived by a group of self-proclaimed patriots. Dinara had received briefings on the Black Hundreds while at the FSB. They had a lot of former priests, politicians and soldiers in their ranks, and commonly used boxing gyms and football and martial arts clubs as recruiting grounds.
“Who are you? Either you’re a cop who’s here without authority,” Koslov remarked, closing on Leonid, “or you’re someone who shouldn’t be here at all.”
“I’m interested in joining. I think I’ve got what it takes to become a champion,” Leonid replied, toeing the line with the former middleweight champion of Russia. “So far I’m not impressed with how you welcome prospective members.”
Koslov glowered, and Dinara stepped between the two men.
“Makar, I’ll attend to this. Get back to your training.”
Dinara glanced over the large man’s shoulder and saw the silver-haired member of the Black Hundreds approach. He had the upright posture of a military man, and the cold eyes of someone who couldn’t care less about the feelings of those around him.
Koslov backed away, eying Leonid until he reached the ring.
“Keep working,” he yelled at the two sparring fighters, who’d paused to watch.
The men resumed trading blows.
“This is a members’ only gy
m,” the silver-haired man said.
“And we’re not accepting new applications.”
“And you are?” Dinara asked.