Chapter Fourteen
Podil
Kyiv, Ukraine
The night was very cold; the snow had stopped falling. Scorpion huddled in the shadows near a kiosk across from the building. He watched a red and yellow tram go by, the light from its windows reflected on the snow. He was supposed to meet Iryna in an apartment above a pub in Podil, the old river port and former Jewish district, on a street off Kontraktova Ploscha, Contracts Square, but he was about to call it off. He had spotted at least three men in thick jackets covering the front entrance, and there were probably more covering the back and inside. He called her cell phone.
“Pryvit,” she said, and at the sound of her voice he imagined her tilting her head to the side to hold the phone to her ear under a black curtain of hair.
“Get rid of your muscle with the guns. It’s like a mafia meeting in Vegas,” he said.
“Someone wants to meet you. He needs protection. Besides, what if you’re the—” She stopped abruptly. He waited for her to say, what if he was the assassin, but she didn’t.
“We both know that’s not true,” he said. “Besides, if I was the one . . .” He left the threat unfinished.
“Give me a minute,” she said, and must have covered the phone because he heard only muffled sounds. “All right. Come up when it’s clear,” she said, coming back on the line.
He saw one of the men near the pub open his cell phone to answer a call. He hung up, then made more calls. Scorpion watched as two of the three men left their posts and went inside the pub. He waited another minute, then crossed to the front door.
“U vas yest pistolet?” the man with the cell phone said, asking in Russian if he had a gun.
“Da,” Scorpion said, handing him the Glock from the holster at the small of his back. “I want it back.”
“Bez bazaar,” the man said, then thoroughly frisked him. When he was done, the man indicated that he should go up to the second floor.
Scorpion stepped into the lobby and took a narrow elevator to a single apartment that occupied the entire second floor. Slavo, the aide he had seen with Iryna, was waiting with a pair of tapochki house slippers. After Scorpion stepped across the threshold, Slavo handed him the tapochki, and Scorpion took off his street shoes and put them on. As was the custom, he left his shoes by the door and went in.
They were waiting for him in the dining room. Iryna was sitting at the table with a stocky middle-aged man with a shock of graying hair and a cleft chin. Scorpion immediately recognized him as Viktor Kozhanovskiy from his posters and images on television. Kozhanovskiy got up to shake his hand. He did it like a politician, clasping Scorpion’s hand with both of his as if to convey his deep friendship and sincerity. On the wall behind him a silent TV showed the lead news of the day: a fistfight in the Verkhovna Rada—the parliament—between members of Kozhanovskiy’s party and supporters of Cherkesov, who were accusing Kozhanovskiy of corruption.
“Welcome, Mr. Kilbane. Will you have some tea?” Kozhanovskiy said in good English as Scorpion sat down.
“Why not?” Scorpion said. “But first . . .” He took out the handheld electronic sweep unit. “Do you mind?”
“We should do the same to you,” Kozhanovskiy said. “Go ahead.”
As Scorpion scanned for bugs, Iryna poured the tea into a stekans—a glass with a metal base and handle. When he completed the scan, he sat down. Iryna gestured that he should help himself to sugar, jam, or honey, and passed him a plate with horishke pastries and bublyky, almond cookies.
“Of course, we called Reuters in London,” Kozhanovskiy said, pouring himself more tea and mixing in a teaspoon of jam. “It seems you are who you say you are.”
“Nice to know,” Scorpion said, thinking it was a good thing Shaefer had followed up. But the cover was thin, very thin.
“Iryna has briefed me. Firstly, has anyone seen Alyona? None of our people seems to know anything.”
“She was at the Black Cat, the café on Andriyivsky Uzviz, this morning. She was supposed to be in a play but hadn’t shown for last night’s performance. She told her fellow actors she couldn’t be in the play anymore.”
“They were concerned?” Kozhanovskiy asked.
“With good reason. Apparently, her boyfriend—this Sirhiy Pyatov—is abusive. She was afraid of him. She told them they were mixed up in something.”
“Isn’t he with the campaign?” Kozhanovskiy turned to Iryna.
She nodded. “Dirty tricks.”
“Like what?” Scorpion asked.
“You have to understand, this is self-defense,” Kozhanovskiy said, lighting a Marlboro Menthol. “The Cherkesov campaign paid someone to publish a story in Sevodnya that claimed I looted the treasury when I was Minister of Finance. Among other things, they’ve accused us of running a heroin ring out of our campaign headquarters, that I’m a puppet for the Americans, and even that I’ve fathered a secret love child with Iryna!”
“That’s a better story than the assassination. Is it true?” Scorpion said.
Iryna looked directly at Scorpion. “I work with Viktor Ivanovych. I don’t do it with my legs spread. Gospadi! To be taken seriously as a woman in this country isn’t so simple.”
“Iryna is a public figure in our country.” Kozhanovskiy said. “And because she’s beautiful, she gets more than her share of media attention, which is helpful to us. But trust me, her brain is more valuable to us than her looks.”
“So what kind of dirty tricks did Pyatov do?” Scorpion asked Iryna.
“He created a false Facebook page supposedly of one of Cherkesov’s officials named Makuch,” she said. “It implied that Makuch is a pedophile. Pyatov also put out leaflets in Donetsk claiming Cherkesov is a homosexual. They put Photoshopped pictures of him in a woman’s pink panties and bra on the Internet,” a ghost of a smile on her lips. “He sent out notices in Kharkov oblast, an area we expect to go overwhelmingly for Cherkesov. They were supposedly from the Central Election Commission, telling people they hadn’t registered properly and were not eligible to vote.” She shrugged. “Things like that. They do the same to us.”
“What else can you tell me about Pyatov?”
“In the beginning, he was useful, as I said. Then he stopped showing up. No one’s seen him in two or three weeks.”
“And neither of you has heard anything about an assassination plot?”
“Not till you showed up,” Iryna said. She looked hard at Scorpion. “What’s happened to Alyona? She’s only been missing for a few hours. What aren’t you telling me?”
She was good, Scorpion thought. Whoever judged her just on her looks underestimated her. She had that extraordinary combination of being cool, smart, and sharp that the Russians call krutoy.
“She’s probably dead,” he said, watching them. Kozhanovskiy stared at him, stunned. Iryna had to stifle a gasp. Either they were both great actors or he had caught them by surprise.
“What do you mean ‘probably’?” Iryna said, taking a deep breath.
“There’s no body. I entered her apartment. There were traces of blood in the bed and in the shower. I found a hacksaw from Pyatov’s work hidden under the sink, its blade missing. The hacksaw frame had traces of blood. Her neighbor told me sometime around noon there were screams and sounds of a quarrel and the televidenie got very loud. Later, she saw Pyatov leave alone with a big suitcase on wheels.”
“Gospadi,” Iryna said softly, almost to herself. My God.
“What about Pyatov?” Kozhanovskiy asked. “Does anyone know where he is now?”
“I checked at his work,” Scorpion said. “They haven’t seen him in three weeks.”
“You’ve been busy,” Iryna said, looking at him with those intense blue eyes with a tinge, he could swear, of real interest, as if seeing him for the first time.
“If Pyatov killed Alyona, it means . . .” Kozhanovskiy began.
“Tak, yes—it means he couldn’t trust her,” she said. “The assassination plot could be real.”
<
br /> “Pyatov worked for us!” Kozhanovskiy said. “The media will crucify us! It’s a disaster.”
“It’s worse than that,” Iryna replied, her fist clenched on the table. “If the Russians think we killed Cherkesov, they’ll invade. It’s the end of Ukraine!”
“NATO will have to do some—” he started to say.
“Nichivo!” she snapped. Nothing! “NATO will make noise and the UN will tsk-tsk; the Europeans will cluck and the Americans will shake their fingers and say, ‘Shame on Russia,’ and they—will—do—nothing,” she concluded, enunciating each word.
Kozhanovskiy looked at her. “We should call the politsiy.”
“Before we find out who else might be implicated?” she said. “And what if they arrest us? On the eve of the election! Half the politsiy are crooks and the other half are working for Cherkesov!”
“What can we do?” he asked.
“We have to stop Pyatov,” she said.
“How do we even know he’s the assassin?” Kozhanovskiy growled. “All we know is what this journalist,” indicating Scorpion and using the word like a curse, “is telling us. We have no idea who he is.”
“Alyona’s friends, the actors at the Black Cat,” Scorpion said, “told me that three weeks ago Pyatov came into money. They said he had a big deal going. The same time he stopped showing up for work.”
“The same time he stopped working for us,” Iryna murmured.
“They said he was Syndikat,” Scorpion added. “They were afraid of him.”
“Sooka suna, it fits,” Kozhanovskiy cursed. He looked at Iryna. “Now what?”
She took a sip of tea, eyeing Scorpion.
“Mr. Kilbane, you mean to track Pyatov down, don’t you? We couldn’t stop you if we wanted to, could we?”
“Wherever the story takes me,” he said.
“Yes,” Kozhanovskiy put in. “Where exactly do you fit in all of this, Mr. Kilbane? This doesn’t seem to be normal journalism.”
Scorpion shrugged. “My definition of ‘normal’ is pretty elastic. I promised Iryna I wouldn’t print the story till I had the facts.”
“Your word!” Kozhanovskiy said, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Can we trust him?” he asked Iryna.
“Of course not!” she snapped. “If he’s going after Pyatov, one of us has to go too. And it can’t be you, so it has to be me.”
“I haven’t agreed to any of this,” Scorpion said.
“Just tell me. Do you really think Pyatov will be at Cherkesov’s rally in Dnipropetrovsk?” she asked.
“It was your idea,” Scorpion said. “Nighttime, a big stadium with a clear shot and multiple exits, crowds, chaos. Like you said, it’s perfect.”
“I don’t like this,” Kozhanovskiy said to her.
“We can’t let Kilbane go off on his own. It’s too important,” she said.
Scorpion started to get up. “You two will want to talk this over,” he said.
“Kilbane, stay. Please,” Kozhanovskiy said, holding his hand up. “I know this isn’t your country, but there are millions of lives at stake.” He turned to Iryna. “What about one of the others? Slavo? Misha?”
“We don’t know how far this goes. No one else must know,” she said.
“Forget it. I work alone,” Scorpion said.
“You think I’m not tough enough,” Iryna said, fishing in her handbag. She pulled out a small Beretta Storm 9mm pistol and showed it to them.
Scorpion smiled. “You know how to use that?”
“My father took me hunting in the Carpathian Mountains from the time I was a little girl,” she said, putting the gun back. “I’m a pretty good shot.”
“Yes, but are you willing to use it?” he asked quietly.
“You really don’t understand, Mr. Kilbane.” She smiled oddly. “We members of the upper class like to kill things. It’s our way of proving we’re tough enough to deserve our privileges.”
“What about the campaign?” Kozhanovskiy said. “You don’t have the time. We need you.” He looked at her. “I need you.”
“What choice do we have? Besides,” she grimaced, “Slavo is dying to take my place. You won’t be sorry. He’s very good.”
“Not like you,” Kozhanovskiy said.
“People look at me, they see my father. To be the child of a great man is to be an afterthought.” She looked down at her plate.
Kozhanovskiy glanced at his watch, then stood up. “I have an interview on Inter TV,” he said. “What about Pyatov? And him?” indicating Scorpion.
Iryna got up as well. “I’ll handle it,” she said, air-kissing Kozhanovskiy once on each cheek.
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I have to try,” she said, brushing off his suit jacket with her hand.
“All right,” he said, going to the closet. “From now on this is your only assignment. Slavo!” he called out as he pulled on his fur hat and overcoat, then said to Iryna, “Keep me posted,” and to Scorpion, whose hand he shook before he left the room, “Buvay, Mr. Kilbane. You are quite a reporter. Only two days in Ukraina,” shaking his head. “I’ve never met one like you.”
Scorpion watched him talking in rapid-fire Ukrainian to Slavo and two of his bodyguards who stood outside the apartment door. They all left together. When he looked back, Iryna was watching him.
“Just so you know,” she said, holding her cell phone in her hand. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn what Reuters says. I don’t trust you even one centimeter. You don’t act like a journalist. You have no interest in politics or in interviewing me or Viktor Kozhanovskiy. A real reporter would’ve jumped at the chance. Who the bloody hell are you?”
Chapter Fifteen
Centralny Vokzal
Kyiv, Ukraine
They spent the night in a first-class sleeper compartment on the overnight train to Dnipropetrovsk. Two beds narrow as coffins and facing benches so close, if they both sat at the same time, their knees were touching. The curtains were drawn over a window caked with ice as the train rocked across the countryside in the darkness.
Iryna had changed into wool clothes, a synthetic down overcoat, and a woolen hat pulled down over a curly blond wig. When she met him on the freezing platform of the Central Station, he had barely recognized her. She gave him a start because in the blond wig, she looked like Alyona in the pouty photo. She could have been any pretty Ukrainian blonde. Scorpion had changed his image too. Instead of a suit and overcoat, he wore a heavy sweater, jeans, ski jacket, and a wool cap. Designed so no one would give him a second glance.
Back at the apartment over the pub she had asked him: “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“I’m exactly who you think I am,” he’d told her.
“Are you CIA?”
He shook his head.
“How do I know you’re not working for the other side?”
“Anyone who speaks Russian as badly as I do couldn’t possibly be working for the other side.” He paused. “Why didn’t you tell Kozhanovskiy?”
“You know why.”
“To protect the campaign? Is that what this is?” he asked. “Trying to live up to Daddy?”
“Self-preservation,” she replied, shaking her head. “You said it yourself when you first came to see me. The trail leads back to me.”
Now, settled in the compartment, they didn’t talk about what happened on the train platform.
A crowd of about twenty tough-looking men wearing black armbands began grabbing people. They let some alone and shouted at others. Then all at once fighting broke out. A group of the men with armbands surrounded a man with his wife. They manhandled the woman aside and began beating the man with their fists. He fell to the platform. One of the men took out a workman’s hammer, and the man screamed as his hands and knees were smashed with the hammer. The assailant continued to hit him in the face with the hammer, while the other men crowded around and kicked him as he lay on the platform.
Three of the men with armbands had come
up to Scorpion and Iryna.
“Cherkesov abo Kozhanovskiy?” one of them asked.
Scorpion grabbed Iryna’s arm.
“My z Kanady,” Scorpion had said—We’re from Canada—meanwhile staring at the men savagely kicking the fallen man on the platform whose face was bleeding and who could no longer protect himself.
The man questioning Scorpion had followed his glance.
“Ne khvylyuy tesya,” he said. “Vin prosto Zhid.” Don’t concern yourself, he’s just a Jew, waving it off. Scorpion felt Iryna start to move forward and tightened his grip on her arm.
“Remember why we’re here,” he whispered to her, turning them away from the beating.
In the train, the female suputnikh brought them tea and biscuits. Iryna lit a Dunhill cigarette, her fingers trembling. For a long time neither of them spoke. It was warm inside the car, and Scorpion took off his heavy sweater.
“Maybe we’re on a fool’s errand. We should let him kill Cherkesov,” Iryna said finally, meaning Pyatov.
“Is war better?”
“I don’t know,” she said, looking away. “He hasn’t been elected yet and look what he’s doing. I’m watching my country commit suicide.”
“It isn’t pretty,” he said.
They sipped tea and listened to the rhythm of the wheels on the track.
“What will you do when we get to Dnipropetrovsk?” she asked.
“I assume you have someone undercover with the Cherkesov campaign?”
She nodded. “You won’t tell me anything about yourself?”
“What about you? Are you married?”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. He was older. Like my father.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted a pretty ornament. I outgrew it—him. I’m nobody’s anything,” she said, tossing her hair. “Your father? What was he like?” she asked.
“I hardly knew him,” Scorpion said. “We’d only been together about a week, then he died. I was four.” He was surprised to find himself telling her the truth. She had that effect on him, or perhaps it was the compartment, the intimacy of it: the one overhead light, the darkness outside, the rocking of the train detached from the rest of the world.
Scorpion Winter Page 8
