Scorpion Winter

by Andrew Kaplan

  “More bad luck?”

  “You could say so. Hryhoriy’s father was a partisan in the war, but he was captured by Germans. They took him to Syrets, the concentration camp they make at Babi Yar, where they killed the Jews. When he got out, he weighed thirty-six kilos. But he was only free for not even a year before he was arrested and executed by KGB.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows?” She shrugged again. “In those days they didn’t need a reason. So then comes my husband, my Hryhoriy. All his life he tried to avoid trouble, but it did no good. He was killed in the riots against President Kuchma. He wasn’t on any side. They mistook him for someone else. Like I said,” she drained her glass, “a hard luck family. You look tired,” she said.

  Scorpion nodded. The horilka was beginning to effect him. Before he knew it, he was back in the house behind the trailer. He fell asleep sprawled on the bed in the dead man’s clothes.

  In the morning, he drove to Kyiv, where he bought a new set of clothes, overcoat, and fur hat at the Metrograd mall. He thought about calling Iryna. But first he needed to deal with the video of Shelayev. They were almost out of time. The Russian ultimatum expired at midnight.

  At the Internet café on Chokolovsky Avenue he loaded the murky video from the button camera to his laptop. He used Wax, a shareware software video editor, to brighten it so Shelayev was clearly visible. He transferred the video from the laptop to the Internet café’s PC and uploaded it to YouTube with a fake new account, putting in Ukraine and Cherkesov as keywords. It was his fail-safe in case something happened to him or if what he was planning didn’t work. He made a DVD of the video and deleted it and all evidence that he had ever been on the café’s PC. When he was done, he made the call that would decide everything.

  The Mercedes limousine was parked up on the sidewalk in front of the Benetton store on Khreshchatyk Street. Two workers were taping the store’s windows. All along Khreshchatyk, crowds rushed past merchants boarding up their windows. In the twenty-four hours Scorpion had been away, Kyiv had been transformed into a city at war. Military checkpoints had been set up at major intersections and at roads leading into and out of the city, and air raid sirens were sounding; practicing for the real thing.

  Ukrainian Army bivouacs and tents had sprung up in parks, churning the snow to dark frozen slush. SAM antiaircraft missile launchers were parked in front of government buildings, many of them surrounded by walls of sandbags. Everywhere, there were soldiers and a general feeling of fear. People were leaving town or stocking up on food and other essentials as if expecting the missiles to hit any second. It was surreal, Scorpion thought, like a World War Two movie.

  A shaven-headed man stood beside the Mercedes limousine, an obvious bulge under his leather overcoat. Scorpion recognized him from Villefranche and the yacht. There was a flicker of acknowledgment in the man’s eyes as well. He held the limousine door open for Scorpion, then climbed into the front.

  Akhnetzov was alone in the backseat. Seated on the side toward the front of the limousine was the other shaven-headed man, his hand inside his coat, and Evgeniya, the blond woman from the yacht. As soon as Scorpion was seated, Akhnetzov indicated to the driver to start driving. The limousine swung off the sidewalk and into heavy traffic on Khreshchatyk Street, much of it militsiyu and military, the driver honking his horn to try to get them to move out of his way.

  “Where are we going?” Scorpion asked.

  “There is a helipad near the Verkhovna Rada,” Akhnetzov said. “The road to the airport is completely jammed. Everyone is trying to get out. I have my plane, a Gulfstream, waiting at Boryspil. Thanks to you,” he growled, “I have to go to Moskva to see what we can salvage.”

  Scorpion didn’t say anything. He looked at the blond woman, who avoided looking back.

  “I do not see the point of this meeting. You failed,” Akhnetzov said.

  “I was set up,” Scorpion said.

  “People who fail always have excuses. Our business is done, you and me. Finished,” and Akhnetzov made a sideways cutting gesture with his hand.

  “We can stop this.”

  “Don’t talk stupidity.” He looked at Scorpion in a way that made the shaven-headed man take out his gun.

  “I can stop it, damn it.”

  Akhnetzov regarded him curiously.

  “How?”

  “With this,” Scorpion said, tapping his pocket where he had the flash drive from the button camera.

  “Too late. The Russian deadline is midnight. Look at them,” gesturing at the people on Khreshchatyk, many carrying plastic bags, rushing from store to store. “They know what is coming.”

  “I have proof,” Scorpion said.

  “What proof?” Akhnetzov said. “You have something on Li Qiang?”

  “The Chinese were a red herring, what we in the trade call ‘black info,’ ” Scorpion said.

  “Still, you made a govno mess. I heard somebody found Li Qiang’s bodyguard, Yang Hao, in a car with three bullets in him.”

  “Kyiv’s a dangerous city.”

  “So long as you’re around. Why did you want to see me?”

  “I know who killed Cherkesov and I can prove it.”

  “I’m not sure it matters anymore,” Akhnetzov said. “Things are moving too fast.”

  “The Russians have no pretext for war. It rips away their fig leaf.”

  “Maybe they don’t care.”

  “They’re not a monolith. This whole thing is pure SVR. Who are you going to talk to in Moscow?”

  “Trust me, they are plenty important. Why?”

  “You can bet there are people outside the SVR, people in the FSB and the president’s office, who might love an excuse to get out of this mess if they can show they got something for it.”

  “And tell them what?”

  “Cherkesov was killed by a man named Dimitri Shelayev. He was head of security for Gorobets.”

  Akhnetzov looked sharply at Scorpion.

  “The man behind Davydenko?”

  “The man who tells Davydenko what to do. Gorobets runs things. The Chorni Povyazky are his private army.”

  “It may be too late,” Akhnetzov said thoughtfully. “What makes you think this will stop the Russians?”

  “Because I’m going to put it on TV,” Scorpion said. “When we met on the yacht, you told me you own a TV station.”

  Akhnetzov nodded. “We own Inter. The biggest in Ukraina.”

  “I want you to put Iryna Shevchenko on in primetime. It’ll be a sensation.”

  “To do what? To say she’s not guilty. So what?”

  “I have a video of Shelayev confessing he killed Cherkesov on Gorobets’s orders. He was in charge of security that night at the stadium. It made it easy for him to plant the bomb. The whole thing was a power struggle inside Svoboda.”

  For the first time, Akhnetzov looked genuinely interested. “He actually says it? He accuses Gorobets?”

  “Better than that. After he admits it, he commits suicide,” Scorpion said.

  Akhnetzov tapped his finger on his lips. Scorpion watched him work it out. He was reminded again how intelligent Akhnetzov was. He had created a business empire, almost an entire industry, from nothing, from an idea.

  “You’ve got the whole thing, the confession, the suicide, everything on the video?” Akhnetzov asked.

  Scorpion nodded. “If we prove this all happened within Svoboda, the Russians have no excuse to intervene.”

  “No,” Akhnetzov said. “It’s better than that. It’s good television. We’ll put it on Liniya Konfliktu. It’s the top-rated show, primetime.” He spoke rapidly to Evgeniya in Ukrainian. She got on her cell phone and made a call. Akhnetzov turned to Scorpion. “I’ll have Evgeniya send you a text to let you know when to be at the studio.”

  The limousine pulled into a park with government buildings and broad expanses of snow. Militsiyu guards stopped it and peered inside. The driver said something to them and the guards waved them on. They drove
through the park toward a helipad near a big columned building topped with a dome; the Verkhovna Rada, the parliament building. There were squads of soldiers and two SAM missile batteries parked in front, and a private helicopter was just landing on the helipad. The limousine stopped and the two shaven-headed men jumped out and checked to see that it was clear, then stood by the door as first Scorpion, then Akhnetzov and Evgeniya got out.

  The day was gray and cold, the wash from the helicopter blowing against them. From where he stood, Scorpion could see the Puppet Theatre on a snow-covered hill in the distance. The image of Alyona and the bodies hanging in that room beneath the stage flashed in his mind. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.

  “Here,” he said, handing Akhnetzov the flash drive from the button camera. “If what I’m planning doesn’t work out, show it to the Russians.”

  Akhnetzov nodded. As he and the others started toward the helicopter, Scorpion shouted after him.

  “If they don’t invade, you owe me the rest of the money!”

  Without turning around, Akhnetzov waved to acknowledge that he heard and continued toward the helicopter. Scorpion watched them board and take off, heading high over the Dnieper River toward the airport. He took out his cell phone and called Iryna.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’m with Viktor—and Slavo,” she warned. “We’re leaving for the front. It’s terrible what’s happening.”

  “Don’t go. Meet me. We can stop this.”

  “You found Shelayev? You have proof?”

  “It’ll change everything,” he said. He heard her talking urgently to Viktor in Ukrainian. She came back on.

  “Viktor wants to talk to you,” she said.

  “Mr. Kilbane?” Kozhanovskiy said. “You found what you were looking for? You can prove we had nothing to do with Cherkesov’s death?”

  “I have Shelayev’s confession on video.”

  “He says he was acting under Gorobets’s orders?”

  “It’s all Gorobets; all of it.”

  There was a pause. He heard them talking urgently among themselves in Ukrainian. Kozhanovskiy came back on.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “This is—” He took a deep breath. “—good news.”

  “Put Iryna on. We don’t have much time,” Scorpion said.

  Iryna came back. He told her where to meet him.

  “One moment,” she whispered. He waited until she came back on. She must have gone somewhere to get away from Slavo, he thought. “I’m worried,” she said. “I tried to call the clinic about Alyona. No one picked up.”

  “All right,” he said, his teeth clenched.

  “Except it’s not all right, is it?”

  “No.”

  Scorpion ended the call and got back into the limousine. As they headed toward the center of town, he called the Medikom clinic. The phone rang for a long time. He dialed again. Finally, on the third try, a woman answered. He asked for Dr. Yakovenko. The woman told him the doctor had left on vacation. He asked about a patient, giving her the name they had used to check Alyona into the clinic. The woman told him to wait. After what seemed like a long time, she came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, pane,” she said. “There’s no record of any such patient.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Shevchenkivskyi

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  Iryna was waiting for him at a counter at a snack bar in the Central Station. She wore glasses and the curly redheaded wig under her fur Ushanka hat and had ordered coffees and pampushky pastries for two. Scorpion had watched her enter the station’s main entrance from the McDonald’s across the street. It didn’t look like she was followed, but he watched for another ten minutes just to make sure.

  The TV in the McDonald’s was broadcasting news about widespread panic. Tens of thousands were evacuating Kyiv, headed for the countryside. All roads out of the city were packed with cars going one way, military vehicles going the other. In some districts of Kyiv and other cities, there had been looting. Store windows were smashed and supermarket shelves picked clean. Gangs of youths roamed the streets, breaking into houses and taking food and whatever else they could. Gorobets, speaking for Davydenko, declared at a podium that the office of the acting president had declared a state of martial law. “Looters,” he said, staring straight at the camera, “will be shot.”

  Scorpion double-checked one last time, then crossed the street to the station. The main hall was crowded with people, many with families, heavy with luggage and desperate to get out before the war started. He found the snack bar. It was standing room only and thick with cigarette smoke. As he squeezed in beside Iryna, he put his hand on the counter and she gave it a squeeze.

  “Why is Slavo still around?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I think until you called, Viktor was beginning to question whether I wasn’t too much of a liability.” She looked around. “Why are we meeting here?” Crowded in at the counter, they could have been any couple trying to get on a train.

  “The airport is jammed. Every flight is booked. There’s a train leaving for Krakow at 2248 hours. Thanks to a little extra,” he said, rubbing his thumb against his fingers in the universal sign for money, “I was able to get two tickets. I want you to come with me.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Because of the war?”

  “Because after the TV broadcast, we’ll have done everything we can.” He partly covered his mouth with his hand so only she could hear him. “There are a lot of people who want me dead around here, and after the broadcast, your life won’t be worth a plugged nickel either. Not if Gorobets has anything to say about it.”

  “But Viktor—” she began.

  “Maybe he can pull it off. After the broadcast, Davydenko and Gorobets will be on the defensive. But NATO is scared shitless. If there’s a way out, they’ll take it. The Russians too. They’ve backed themselves into a corner. Our broadcast will give them the excuse they’re looking for. If Gorobets gives them what they want, the Russians will do a deal. Look around you,” he said, glancing at the people packing the snack bar. “These people aren’t ready to fight a war.”

  Iryna took a cigarette out of her handbag and lit it. She took a long puff and exhaled thoughtfully.

  “What would we do in Krakow?” she said.

  “Get on a plane. There are some places I’d like to show you.”

  She gave a little snort of laughter. “Gospadi, all this time I’ve thought you were the least romantic man I’d ever met.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “We can’t go,” she said. “So much depends on us. What about Alyona?”

  “You tell me. The clinic said they never heard of her.”

  “She’s gone. Disappeared.” Iryna nodded. “I stayed at the clinic all night. In the morning, when I left to meet with Viktor, Alyona was still there. She was in no condition to be moved.”

  “And now supposedly that doctor, Yakovenko, all of a sudden, with a war coming, has gone on vacation!”

  “After we spoke, I asked Viktor to have someone check it out. All they got was that men came into the clinic sometime after I left and took someone—no one will say who—away. No one saw anything. No one knows anything. The nurse told them if anyone asked her even that, she would swear the patient never existed.” She leaned closer. “Shelayev killed Cherkesov? You’re certain? You’ve got proof?”

  Scorpion nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Gorobets lied. He told Shelayev that Cherkesov was planning to give Crimea back to Russia.”

  “That’s crazy. Even Cherkesov—” She stopped herself. “Shelayev admitted on video that Gorobets ordered Cherkesov’s death? Will that be enough for the Russians?”

  “It’ll have to be,” Scorpion said, checking his watch. “We better get to the TV station.”

  Iryna began gathering her things.
Before she got up, Scorpion put his hand on her arm.

  “About Krakow?” he said.

  Iryna stood, pulling her handbag strap over her shoulder. She pressed her body against his. He could feel the entire length of her against him. “I can’t leave my country. Not now,” she whispered. She took his hand and they went outside.

  It had started to snow. Traffic in Vokzalna Square was heavy. They caught a tram heading toward Prospekt Peremogy. Looking out the tram window at the streets and the falling snow, Scorpion had the most bizarre thought. For no reason he could imagine, he wondered if he would ever see snow again.

  The Inter TV station was in a rectangular building in the Shevchenkivskyi district. They walked into the lobby, stamping their feet on a mat to clear the snow. The receptionist’s eyes widened when, despite the wig, she recognized Iryna. She gave them directions to the station manager’s office on the second floor. Before they got there, Iryna stepped into a women’s bathroom and came out wearing the black wig cut the way people were used to seeing her. The change was incredible. She was the Iryna again. Even her walk was different. They knocked and went into the station manager’s office.

  It seemed he’d been alerted by the receptionist, because he was standing behind his desk, waiting for them. He was a middle-aged man with thick plastic-rimmed glasses.

  “Dobry den,” he said to Iryna. “I am Vladyislav Korobei.” He looked at Scorpion. “Khto vy?” Who are you?

  “Miy okhoronets,” Iryna jumped in quickly. My bodyguard.

  Korobei came around the desk saying something Scorpion couldn’t get, but he caught a mention of Pane Akhnetzov. He gestured at the big screen TV on the wall and clicked on the volume with a remote. They listened to the announcer’s voice-over while watching a TV spot for Iryna’s upcoming appearance. There were images of Iryna, Kozhanovskiy, and Cherkesov, followed by a montage of the rally in the stadium in Dnipropetrovsk and a jumbled video of shooting and people running. The camera froze on the fireball of Cherkesov’s car exploding, then cut to a head shot of Iryna, looking drop-dead gorgeous at some function.