Deadly Impact--A Richard Mariner nautical adventure by Peter Tonkin Page A

left, past the blaze of Detsky Mir, the children’s emporium which is yet another example of the manner in which Russia is opening its doors to international business. The CEO of Russia’s most famous toy store might be Vladimir Chirahov, but the chairman of the board of directors is still the British business tycoon Christopher Alan Baxter.
Like the old Gazprom/BP combo,
thinks Ivan;
like Bashnev/Sevmash and Heritage Mariner, though Richard’s not on the Russian boards any more than Felix or Anastasia are on his.
    Ivan is not heading for Detsky Mir. He plans to pass it instead and cross the car-choked road by Kuznetsky Most metro station, to go into the new building that houses the section of the much-expanded FSB to which he has just been summoned. Without pausing or deviating, the massive man in his long black coat strides through the teeming crowd of lesser mortals all the way across to the doorway with the brass plaque which states: FEDERAL SECURITY SERVICE BUILDING.
Reception
.
    Many Muscovites would be too nervous to go where Ivan is going, to talk to the men he is due to meet. But the most powerful of them, the federal prosecutor, is Ivan’s father, so he feels that he has little to fear. Probably. Even if the other two are almost as powerful as his fearsome father –
otets
. Viktor Ivanov, the current head of the FSKN, the Federal Drug Control Service, and Yuri Oleshko, the FSB’s Director of Investigation. So Ivan approaches the reception door on Kuznetsky Most and rings the bell, waiting impatiently to be identified and admitted.
    His father lingers, massively and impatiently immediately inside and they tower, shoulder by shoulder for a moment, seeming to fill the huge room between them. ‘Federal Prosecutor,’ says Ivan, equably, by way of greeting.
    â€˜Hunh,’ growls the federal prosecutor by way of answer. ‘You’re late.’ He turns away and begins to walk briskly into the interior of the building.
    Ivan easily overcomes the urge to consult his Poljot President chronograph. They both know he is punctual to the second. So he follows, a metre or two behind, like a crown prince in the Tsar’s footsteps. Ivan the Terrible, perhaps. ‘What’s this all about, sir?’ he asks as the federal prosecutor – whom he has never actually thought of as
otets
– reaches the stairs. ‘Drugs,’ Lavrenty Michaelovitch Yagula, Federal Prosecutor of the Russian Federation, says over his shoulder. ‘Krokodil, heroin, cocaine, gang warfare, Afghans and Italians. Bashnev/Sevmash. Heritage Mariner.’
    â€˜Anything in particular, sir?’ asks Ivan, showing none of the surprise or concern that he feels at his father’s cryptic words.
    â€˜Yes!’ snaps his father, going from cryptic to obscure with typical abruptness. ‘Eleven bullets.’
    The Yagulas come into a large meeting room side by side. Ivan’s narrow eyes sweep at once over the two men at its far side and the news page enlarged on the screen between them.
FSB operatives kill 11 Afghan terrorists
, says the headline. Ivan recognizes it from yesterday’s
Moscow News
. But he is damned if he could see what this has to do with Bashnev/Sevmash or with Heritage Mariner. ‘That looks like a step forward,’ he probes, pointing at the news report with his chin. ‘Your men have done good work there, General.’
    Ivanov grunts – the sound is very much like those the federal prosecutor made. ‘
Someone
did good work,’ he growls. ‘But not the FSKN. My men were led by the nose. The whole thing was a set-up.’ He zooms in on the photograph that accompanies the article. Judging from the amount of blood around the shrouded figures, they had been all-but shot to pieces.
    â€˜But who …’ asks Ivan, finding himself in the unaccustomed position of not being able to join up the dots.
    Yuri Oleshko leans forward suddenly. ‘The facts