Vladislav stared motionlessly at the bottle of vodka, until he finally lifted it and poured himself a shot. He downed the shot without ceremony. And without inviting me, a slight for which I would be eternally grateful.
“My parents are angry with me,” Darja said. “Such things should not be spoken about in the presence of strangers.” She swallowed hard. “But I am tired of being so quiet.”
“And your husband?” Ana said. “What is his name?”
“Kirill.”
The moment she said the name, Vladislav spit on the floor.
Olga witnessed it and gave him hell for it.
He yelled back, pounding the table with his fist, knocking his shot glass to the floor, where it shattered.
I silently wished it were my shot glass that had fallen.
Darja continued as though nothing had happened.
“My father, he does not like my husband. Kirill is an alcoholic, like most husbands in Belarus—including my father. Both are depressed, neither have ever helped around the house. The only difference is that my husband fools around on me. Sometimes Kirill is so drunk, he brings the women to the house. This truly enrages my father.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
When Darja looked up at me, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. The shots of vodka had kicked in and I was already incapable of censoring myself.
“It is very common here,” Darja said defensively. “Men cheat on their wives.”
“They do so in Poland, too,” Ana threw in.
“In the States, too,” I said, not wanting to alienate myself at the table. “But they try to be more discreet about it.”
“How noble of them,” Darja said.
I wanted so badly to peel myself away from this conversation that I felt ready to do another shot with her father. But Vladislav was still busy yelling at Olga, now pounding both fists on the table so hard that he knocked over the bowl of beetroot soup. It, too, shattered on the floor and made one hell of an ugly mess.
Suddenly another voice entered the fray. A male mouthpiece shouting in Russian at the top of his lungs.
“Kirill?” Ana said quietly to Darja.
“Of course, Kirill.”
Darja said his name with the same acidity she’d used when saying the name Chernobyl.
The battle, meanwhile, continued as Vladislav leaped from his chair, knocking it over in the process.
Kirill, a thin, bearded man dressed in loose jeans and no shirt, had lurched into the room. He pointed a finger at Vladislav with one hand and intentionally knocked over a small vase with the other.
Vladislav bent over to pick up his chair, and I was sure the argument was over. But instead of setting it back down at the table, he lifted the chair over his head as though to swing it at his son-in-law.
Olga immediately intervened, gripping the chair legs from behind her husband.
Kirill took advantage of the opportunity and punched the old man in the stomach. The blow was so powerful, it knocked both of Darja’s parents down.
I’d already jumped up. So had Ana and Darja.
When Darja witnessed her parents fall in a heap, she moved to attack her husband. Calmly, Kirill turned, gripped her by the hair with his left, and nailed her in the face with his right.
By the time Darja hit the ground, I was already halfway across the top of the table. I leaped just as I reached the end and swung my right fist, using gravity to throw more force behind it. The punch landed somewhere near the center of Kirill’s face, and he hit the floor like a meteor striking a planet.
Breathing heavily, I stared down at his unmoving form, as Ana helped Darja and then her parents to their feet. I watched Kirill’s chest rise and fall and was relieved that I hadn’t killed him. He’d been looking straight up when I struck him, and for a moment I thought I’d driven his nose up into his brain.
Once everyone but Kirill was standing, I received hugs and kisses from Olga and Darja, and finally Ana.
From Vladislav, I received a shot glass full of vodka.
“Do Dna!” he shouted.
I took the shot in a single go as Vladislav drank straight from the bottle.
“What did he say?” I asked Ana after setting down my shot glass, waiting for him to pour me another.
Ana smiled. “He toasted you,” she said. “Do Dna. It means, ‘Until the end, the heroic.’”
Chapter 49
When I woke late the next morning, my head was on fire and the contents of my stomach had already started the return trek up my esophagus. Quick as I could I scurried to the toilet and vomited. A moment later, Ana stepped in, smiling.
“Good morning,” she said.
Olga immediately swept past her into the bedroom, carrying a plate of something that resembled cucumbers. Despite my protest, she picked up one of the smaller ones and stuffed the tail end in my mouth, making me gag.
“Eat it,” Ana said.
I allowed myself a bite and it was all I could do to keep it down.
“They are pickled gherkins,” Ana said. “They will help with your hangover.”
I grimaced. “They will?”
Ana shrugged. “Olga seems to think so.”
Olga patted me on the arm, turned, and left the room, leaving me with the plate of gherkins in my hand. I turned and gazed out the window. The snow on the ground gleamed so brightly it set my retinas ablaze.
I closed my eyes, rubbed them with my free hand, and opened them again. For a moment I was sure I was hallucinating.
“Is that our…?”
“It is,” Ana said. “It’s our SUV. It’s fixed and ready to go, thanks to Vladislav.”
*
A half hour later, Ana and I were back on the road heading north to Minsk, the capital and largest city in Belarus. From what we had elicited in Poland and Ukraine, one thing was clear: a terribly large sum of money was being paid for Lindsay Sorkin.
That had long ago ruled out any conventional ransom, long ago ruled out any fear that she’d been taken to be sexually exploited. It made no business sense: the buyer would never recoup his losses.
That left her father, Vince Sorkin, as the motive. The weapons designer. Creator of this remote-controlled automaton that could potentially replace soldiers on the battlefield. Dmitry Podrova had said that the buyer in Belarus denied that Vince Sorkin was the reason behind the kidnapping, but I remained convinced that the denial had been a negotiating tactic. After all, if not for the media, the Podrova brothers would have never known about the father’s worth to other potential bidders, like the Syrian, Bilal ibn Hashim.
This was about Vince Sorkin and Nepturn Technology—what I had feared from the very beginning. This was why, all those days ago, I’d stood from the marble table and tried to leave the cottage, why I’d told Lori Sorkin that she’d be in better hands with the French National Police.
If this was indeed about Vince Sorkin, now that we were here, Minsk was the logical place to start. First, despite the fall of communism, it was believed that roughly 80 percent of Belarus’s economy remained state controlled. Which meant that the Belarusian government—and by extension its secret national intelligence agency, the only intelligence agency that retained the Russian name “KGB” following the dissolution of the Soviet Union—was one of the few holders of enough wealth to make such an offer for Lindsay’s capture. And it made sense. Belarus’s colossal neighbor Russia continued to exert power over the former Soviet states in any way it could. The Russian president was known to have cut off Belarus’s supply of natural gas on several occasions, the sole apparent reason being to remind the former Soviet state of its powerlessness in the region.
Of course, logic also dictated that there was another possibility. That the man who had hired the Podrova brothers was yet another broker, and that Lindsay Sorkin’s ultimate destination was, in fact, Belarus’s big brother, Russia. This was now my greatest fear. If we didn’t find Lindsay quickly in Minsk, there was a good chance she’d be taken to Moscow. Onc
e she was there, perhaps in the control of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service or SVR, all bets would be off. Ana and I would have no chance whatsoever of recovering her from such a goliath.
“I have never been on such a lonely freeway,” Ana said, peering out the passenger-side window.
We were doing just over eighty miles per hour, so we’d passed a few vehicles, but not many. And only one or two cars seemed to be keeping pace. I checked the rearview now but it was empty.
“Speaking of lonely,” I said, “did I hear Darja right this morning? Did she tell you her husband had packed his bags and left her when he regained consciousness last night?”
Ana nodded. “It is a good thing, Simon. He contributed nothing and he hit her all the time. She is very happy he left.”
“Still,” I said. “I feel like it’s my fault.”
“Probably. But think no more about it. Darja told me that almost seventy percent of marriages in Belarus end in divorce.”
I checked my rearview again and saw a silver sports car I’d seen earlier. A man in sunglasses was driving. He seemed not to have any passengers, which afforded me some measure of relief. Then again, we were searching for the Russians. Why in the world would the Russians be following us?
“I have to call Davignon,” I said, pulling my mobile phone out of my pocket. “Would you hit Speaker, then dial?”
A moment later, the sound of a muffled ring coasted through a flow of static.
“Simon?” Davignon said.
“Yes,” I replied. “I have Ana with me and you’re on speakerphone.”
“Where are you, Simon?”
“Belarus. We’re in an SUV on the way to Minsk.”
I hadn’t spoken to Davignon since I was in a taxi on my way to the hostel in Odessa, so I briefed him on everything that had happened since then: Yuri Bobrovnyk and the boat, the explosion meant for us on the train, the Podrova brothers, and our night in Gomel. I skipped over the vodka, the fistfight, and the hangover.
Davignon took it all in, then said, “So if what this Dmitry Podrova told you is true, Lindsay is still alive.”
“Alive and heading north, Lieutenant. If so, we’re on her trail.”
“This is terrific news, Simon. And you, how are you holding up?”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. Question is, how is Lori doing?”
“Better, I think. Her breakdown appears to be more mental than physical. She is still in hospital under observation. I visit every few hours. I am the only person she will see.”
I frowned. “What about her husband?”
“They had a terrible fight. I don’t know all the details but it seems she is now blaming Vince for everything.”
I wondered if Lori had come to the same conclusion I had—that Vince was most likely the motive behind Lindsay’s kidnapping.
“I need to speak with Vince as soon as possible,” I said. “I have some further questions for him about his role at Nepturn Technology. Is he with you now, Lieutenant?”
Davignon hesitated. “I am afraid not, Simon.”
“All right,” I said. “Where is he, then? At the hotel?”
Davignon cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, at present, we have no idea where he is.”
I stared down at the mobile phone resting in the center console, my mouth agape.
“What the hell do you mean, Lieutenant?”
“Of course, I had Vince under constant protection,” he said defensively, “but he somehow slipped away from my men.”
“Slipped away?”
I feared Vince might be on his way to Ukraine. Which would be terrible. Because if Moscow was indeed involved, Vince Sorkin might well be our only bargaining chip. If something were to happen to him, it could be to his daughter’s peril.
“You need to get him back, Lieutenant.”
“We are trying, Simon.”
I sighed. I could tell by his voice that Davignon was every bit as frustrated as I was.
“All right,” I said, trying to calm myself. “If Vince contacts you to find out where I am, don’t tell him that I’m in Belarus. If he’s left the country, do everything you can to get him to return to Paris. If he follows me, he may be playing right into the kidnappers’ hands. Make certain he understands that at the end of the day, he may be his daughter’s last hope.”
I ended the call, exasperated. If Vince were in sight, I could have strangled him for being so stupid. But then, what did I do in the days after Hailey was taken? I’d done what I thought was right. I’d listened to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d remained at home, waited by the phone, allowed them to conduct their search without my interference.
Only no one ever called.
No one ever found Hailey.
Over the past ten years I’d convinced myself that it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d done things differently in the days immediately following Hailey’s disappearance. Hailey would still be missing, she’d still be dead. But I wasn’t sure I believed that anymore. What if I had put in the effort that I’d been affording Lindsay Sorkin right from the start? If I hadn’t waited for the Bureau to give up. Could I have found Hailey? Could I have tracked down the monster who stole her from her mother’s arms?
“Are you okay, Simon?” Ana said.
I rubbed away the tear that was forming in my right eye.
“I’m fine,” I said, staring at myself in the rearview to make sure my face no longer betrayed the lie.
I looked well enough, I thought.
But in the rearview I’d caught something more than just my reflection.
That same silver sports car was behind us again.
Chapter 50
By the time we arrived in Minsk it was snowing again. The beauty of the capital caught me completely by surprise. The buildings didn’t scrape the sky but rather ceded to it, allowing for spectacular panoramic views that instilled a sense of calm not found in other major cities. There was so little noise that had I been blindfolded, I would’ve feared I’d gone deaf. No traffic, no horns, no screeching brakes, not even a policeman’s whistle. The city was as silent as the grave. And as clean as any I’d ever seen, even Honolulu or Helsinki.
The excitement of arriving was soon replaced by the realization that we had no clue where to go now that we were here. We knew the Russians’ names—Jov Sergeyev and Sacha Orlov—but that did us little good if they were originally from Moscow and spent most of their time in Ukraine.
Of course, I would have liked to obtain more information from Dmitry Podrova, but Viktor had gone and spoiled my plan. Once we’d left the Podrova brothers, I’d called Rudnyk and told him what went down at their place. But not before asking him whether he’d ever heard the names Jov Sergeyev and Sacha Orlov. He hadn’t, and the names weren’t in Ukraine’s system. I then tried Jess Kidman. She’d never heard the names and they weren’t in Interpol’s system either. Kidman was, however, able to pull up and send to my phone a grainy photograph of the Syrian, Bilal ibn Hashim. Unfortunately, given the quality of the photo, I wouldn’t have been able to pick the Syrian out of a lineup.
There was no one else to call because there was no else we could trust.
After driving aimlessly for a few minutes, I pulled the Grand Vitara into a garage for an underground shopping mall beneath Independence Square.
“As much as I love shopping,” Ana said, “I am not sure this is a good time, Simon.”
I glanced in my rearview, hoping the silver sports car had followed us, but I saw nothing but empty blacktop in the mirror. I pulled into one of the parking stalls and told Ana to follow me.
The mall was named Stolitsa and it was as impressive in style as any in the West. But it was also rather empty, not only of customers but of stores. Muzak replaced the silence of the surface, but other than that the underground shopping center was fairly quiet. I scanned the stores that still existed. Unlike most malls throughout Europe, I didn’t recognize the brand names advertised in the shops’ windows.
An
a looked perplexed. “What are we doing here, Simon?”
“Maybe wasting precious time,” I said. “But I hope not.”
I pulled her into a clothing store with a cluttered window. We rounded a number of racks of women’s clothes.
I moved up front to the window and peeked out between two well-dressed mannequins, both of which were well prepared for a winter in Siberia.
Meanwhile, a stern-looking saleswoman began her approach from the rear of the store.
I turned to Ana. “Do you know enough Belarusian to get her to leave us alone?”
“I think so,” she said.
Before I could say another word, the saleswoman was upon us.
“Preevyet,” Ana said, holding up a dress she’d just snatched off the rack. “Skorlka ehya styeet?”
The saleswoman appeared annoyed. She tore the dress from Ana’s hands, fished out the sales tag, and displayed it inches from Ana’s face.
“Spaseeba,” Ana said.
As she said it, I turned my head back to the window that looked out onto the mall. A dark man with black hair and an elongated nose was passing by. He was dressed in a long black leather jacket and wearing sunglasses.
As my eyes followed him he reached into his jacket but continued staring straight ahead.
Suddenly, in one fluid motion, he turned and extended his right arm, aiming a 9 mm handgun directly at me.
“Down,” I shouted.
As I went to the floor, the storefront window exploded and a bullet buzzed my left ear.
Ana and the saleswoman screamed.
I reached for my Glock and got to my knees, scanning past the mannequins for my target. One mannequin had fallen, another had been cut in half at the waist.
I couldn’t see the shooter.
A ringing sound was piercing my left ear. I tried to shake it away, to no avail.
Behind me, the women were crying but I couldn’t risk a look back. Not yet.
Finally, I heard shouts and shrieks down at the other end of the mall, and I got to my feet and leaped through the empty window and onto the marble floor. My feet slipped, but once I gained purchase I was running with every bit of strength I had, my right arm extended, still holding the Glock.
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 22
