The two men in the front seat of the car were dead long before it shuddered to a halt. It was not the crash that killed them but the bullets that were fired expertly into their heads at close range while the car was still moving. Witnesses would tell of two men on motorcycles, one tall and lanky, the other more powerfully built. Each fired two shots only, and the shots were so perfectly synchronized that the reports were scarcely distinguishable. Surveillance video would later confirm the accounts. One Hamburg detective called it the most beautiful assassination he had ever seen, a rather tasteless remark that would earn him a stern rebuke from his superior. Dead bodies on German soil were never beautiful, the senior man would say. Especially dead Russians. It didn’t matter that they were a couple of Moscow Center gorillas. It was still an outrage.

The two motorcyclists quickly fled and were never seen again. Nor did the authorities ever locate the Volkswagen sedan that appeared within seconds of the crash. A stout troll-like man emerged from the back and flung open the rear passenger-side door of the Mercedes as though it were made of papier-mâché. One witness would speak of a brief but severe beating, though others would take issue with that account. Regardless of what transpired, the tall Slavic-looking passenger who emerged from the Mercedes was dazed and bleeding. How he found his way into the Volkswagen was again a matter of some controversy. Some said he climbed into the Volkswagen willingly. Others said he was compelled to enter the car because the troll-like man was at that instant breaking his arm. The entire maneuver took just ten seconds. Then the Volkswagen and the unfortunate man of Slavic appearance were gone. The same Hamburg policeman saw no artistry in the troll’s handiwork, but was no less impressed. Any fool can pull a trigger, he told colleagues, but only a real pro can snatch a Moscow Center hood like he was plucking an apple from a tree.

Which left only the passenger who had been seated behind the ill-fated driver. All the witnesses stated that he climbed out of the car under his own power, and all suggested he was undoubtedly something other than a Russian—an Arab maybe, perhaps a Turk, but not a Russian. Not in a million years. For a few seconds he appeared confused as to his whereabouts and current predicament. Then he noticed a man with pockmarked cheeks waving to him from the open window of yet another car. As he stumbled gratefully toward it, he was calling out the same word over and over again. The word was “Tala.” On that the witnesses were in complete agreement.

58

HAMBURG