Black Rose (The Project Book 9)

by Alex Lukeman

  They were in an isolated dacha on the outskirts of Moscow. It was a place used sometimes when it was important that no one see the prisoner except his interrogators. Curtains covered the windows. The rugs had been removed, revealing a wooden floor scarred with years of use. Dark stains on the wood testified to past interrogations. The dacha had been a favorite of Lavrenti Beria's for questioning special prisoners, when Beria had been head of Stalin's secret police.

  The door opened. General Vysotsky and another man entered the room. Vysotsky's companion walked with a limp and wore steel rimmed glasses. His eyes were a watery blue behind the glass lenses. His hair was thinning on top, a nondescript brown color. He had a neat mustache clipped short across his upper lip. The man wore a white laboratory coat. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He carried a small, black bag.

  Yezhov recognized him. He didn't know the man's name, but he knew who he was and what he did. The few who knew his occupation called him the Doctor.

  Vysotsky walked over to Yezhov. The doctor sat down in the empty chair, opened his bag, and laid out three syringes on the table. He added several vials of liquid and a package of needles. Then he sat back and waited.

  Yezhov saluted. "Sir."

  "What has he said, Captain?"

  "Nothing of value, sir. He did say that he would feed me to his dogs."

  "Perhaps he does not understand the seriousness of his situation."

  "No sir, I don't believe that he does."

  Vysotsky turned to his prisoner. "Do you know who I am?"

  "Yes. You are General Vysotsky."

  "Do you understand the seriousness of your situation, comrade Kamarov?"

  Kamarov's head was clamped to the back of the chair with a steel brace. His eyes darted from side to side. Sweat ran down his forehead. He licked his lips. Vysotsky could see his mind working, searching for a way to turn things to his favor.

  "General," Kamarov said. "I can make you a very rich man. Very rich. Wouldn't you like that? Whatever it is you want to know, whatever it is worth to you, I can offer you more."

  Vysotsky placed his hands behind his back and looked thoughtful as he considered Kamarov's offer.

  "What about my Captain? Would you make him rich also?"

  Kamarov smiled.

  "Yes, of course. Whatever he desires."

  "But you told him you would feed him to your dogs," Vysotsky said.

  "I was angry, upset. He'd killed my driver and my guards. I apologize, I didn't mean it."

  Vysotsky turned to Yezhov. "You hear that, Captain? He says he's sorry."

  "I don't accept his apology."

  Vysotsky turned again to Kamarov and sighed. "You heard what he said. I'm afraid that it's out of my hands."

  "What do you want?"

  "Your friend in Switzerland, Gutenberg. Tell me about him."

  "Johannes? What's there to tell? I have business dealings with him, money dealings. He is useful because of his extensive banking connections."

  "And your other friends? The Indian who sells drugs, for example?"

  "I don't know who you mean," Kamarov said. He licked his lips again.

  "Allow me to introduce the man sitting next to you," Vysotsky said.

  Kamarov's eyes darted left. Vysotsky continued.

  "This is the Doctor. Doctor, this is Konstantine Kamarov. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

  "I know who he is." The Doctor's voice was soft and bloodless.

  Vysotsky picked up an odd looking surgical tool from the table. He held it in the light and looked at it and showed it to Kamarov.

  "What does this do?" he asked the Doctor.

  "First I make a few simple cuts across the forehead and around the face. That requires only a scalpel. I lift the scalp and with the tool you have in your hand, I clamp the skin and pull it away. It is then possible to remove the face and hold it up for the subject to see."

  Kamarov turned white.

  "Is it painful?" Vysotsky asked in a curious tone.

  "Oh yes. Then after the subject has seen his face, I hold up a mirror so that he can see what he looks like without it." The doctor's tone was conversational, clinical. "I usually save that procedure for later in the interrogation, if the subject has been uncooperative."

  "Can you give comrade Kamarov a brief demonstration of your skills?"

  "Certainly."

  The doctor drew fluid from one of the vials into a syringe, shot a bit the air and then injected it into Kamarov's arm. The Russian sucked in his breath.

  "It will be a minute or two before it acts," the doctor said. "The drug stimulates the nerve endings and enhances the sensation of pain. Let me demonstrate before it takes effect."

  He picked up a scalpel and drew a shallow line along Kamarov's left forearm, leaving a thin trail of blood. Kamarov flinched but said nothing.

  "A mere superficial cut," the doctor said, "nothing any of us would consider especially painful."

  He looked at his watch. "The drug should be taking effect about now."

  He took the scalpel and drew another line on Kamarov's arm, parallel to the first. Kamarov screamed, a sound of agony.

  "How long does it last?" Vysotsky asked.

  "Usually about two hours. I can keep the subject alive that long. I rarely need to use a second injection." He picked up another tool from the tray. "This one is used to peel skin from other parts of the body."

  Kamarov started sobbing. His bladder let go and urine dribbled off the sides of the chair.

  "I think he understands the seriousness now," Vysotsky said to Yezhov. "Don't you, Konstantine?"

  "Yes, yes. I will tell you what you want to know. Please, get him away from me," he said.

  "This is your only chance," Vysotsky said. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes, yes, I understand."

  "Doctor, please wait in the other room."

  "As you wish," the man said, disappointment in his voice. He got up and left the room.

  "Tell me about your friend Gutenberg," Vysotsky said again.

  Kamarov began talking.

  CHAPTER 40

  "It was terrible," Selena said. "Those poor people had black...things...all over their bodies. Then the building blew up and it rained blood and body parts on us."

  It was a Monday morning in Virginia. Through the French doors of Elizabeth's office, Nick saw the cat dozing in the sun on the warm stones of the patio.

  "Thank God you weren't infected," Elizabeth said.

  "We were buttoned up and lucky," Nick said. "What's happening in Brazil?"

  "The government quarantined the entire state of Roraima. There aren't many roads up there and it was relatively easy to isolate. But that doesn't mean the plague won't spread. It's certain the disease got onto the reservation. If they want to, the Indians can travel without being seen. They can go wherever they want and the government can't stop them. So far not much has been done except for the quarantine. Brazil isn't equipped for something like this."

  "Have they requested aid?" Selena asked.

  "They're playing it down. They don't want to scare off the tourists."

  "Reminds me of Jaws," Lamont said. "Come on in, the water's fine and there ain't no sharks out there."

  "It's not our concern anymore. The question is, what is AEON planning next?"

  "Maybe Gutenberg will send out another email that tells us what he's up to," Nick said.

  "We can't count on that."

  Elizabeth glanced out the window. Burps was awake, eyeing an unreachable bird perched on the roof. His tail twitched in frustration.

  "Steph, has there been any unusual activity from Gutenberg?"

  "Not really. Although there is one thing that's odd."

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and waited.

  "He's been trying to contact the Russian, Kamarov. There's been no reply. I can tell that he's getting annoyed."

  "SVR installed a bug on Gutenberg's computer. That means Vysotsky knows AEON was behind the raid in Russia and that Ka
marov was involved. He'll want to interrogate him. That could explain why Kamarov isn't answering Gutenberg's emails."

  "You think Vysotsky arrested Kamarov?" Nick asked.

  "It's what I'd do," Elizabeth said. "Perhaps not an official arrest. Kamarov's nephew is Vysotsky's boss. He has to be careful. If I were him, I'd grab Kamarov in secret and take him someplace where I could take my time questioning him."

  "I might be able to find out where Kamarov is," Stephanie said, "or at least where he isn't. That might tell us something."

  Elizabeth nodded. She looked around. "Anyone have anything else?"

  No one did.

  "Then that's all for the moment. Nick, Selena, please stay for a few minutes. There's something I want to talk with you about."

  Ronnie, Stephanie and Lamont left the room. Elizabeth opened a drawer and took out the file on Selena's father. She opened it to the first page and turned it so that Selena and Nick could see it.

  Selena drew in a breath when she saw her father's name.

  "Selena, do you know what this is?"

  "It's a CIA file about my father."

  "Have you seen it before?"

  "Shit," Nick said.

  Elizabeth waited.

  "Yes, I've seen it. I thought it had been destroyed."

  "You knew about this, Nick?"

  "I knew about it. We didn't tell you because we weren't sure how you'd react. Finding out that Selena's father might have been a Russian spy wasn't exactly a great item for her resume. We were afraid you'd think she was a security risk."

  "I don't know what's more disappointing," Elizabeth said. "The fact that you didn't trust me or that you thought I would judge Selena by who her father was."

  "He wasn't a traitor." Selena's face was flushed.

  Nick said nothing.

  "How did you get the file?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Adam gave it to me," Nick said. "He said it was the only copy."

  "You seemed angry every time Russia came up in our meetings," Elizabeth said to Selena. "Stephanie wondered why. She went looking for reasons why you might be upset. She found this file in a restricted archive at Langley, buried behind a half dozen layers of added encryption."

  "Spying on me," Selena said.

  "I don't want to hear that," Elizabeth said. "I know that's not what it was and so should you."

  "How would you feel? The KGB killed my father, my mother and my brother. I have every right to be angry with the Russians."

  "How long have you known?"

  "I've known for months."

  "You knew about Valentina?"

  "Valentina?" Selena said. "Who's Valentina?"

  Elizabeth looked at her, surprised. "I think you'd better tell me about the file Adam gave you. What did it say?"

  "It was a classified file, obviously old, clearly authentic."

  "An actual paper file?"

  "Yes."

  "Go on."

  "It said he was an agent, something I didn't know about him. It said he'd been giving information to the Russians. It listed deposits in his name, hidden in accounts located offshore. There were photographs of him in East and West Berlin, meeting with people identified as Russian agents. There were a lot of details. It said that his death wasn't an accident and that the KGB executed him. The last part concluded that the Russians acted because they no longer trusted him."

  "And that was it? Nothing more?"

  "The only other thing I discovered was that my uncle also worked for the CIA. I didn't know that, either. His signature was on many of the papers in the file."

  Elizabeth sighed. "I can only imagine how you must've felt when you read that."

  "No you can't," Selena snapped. She took a breath. "I'm sorry. Yes, it was upsetting. I thought I knew who he was. That got turned upside down."

  "There was no mention in the file of any one named Valentina? Or Antipov?"

  "No."

  "What you getting at, Director?" Nick asked.

  "There's more to the story, another section of this file that you haven't seen. Selena, the rest of it is going to come as something of a shock to you."

  "I don't think there could be much about this that would shock me after finding out my father was a spy."

  "I just wanted to prepare you," Elizabeth said. She pushed the file across her desk. "Read it, and then we'll talk."

  Selena took the file and began reading.

  CHAPTER 41

  The fresh green of approaching spring dusted the manicured garden beds of the Bois de Boulogne. Valentina Antipov loved the park, though she thought that calling the Bois de Boulogne a park was like calling the Mona Lisa a pretty picture. She ran here early in the morning every day, unless prevented by her assignment to Gutenberg. The spacious grounds in the west of Paris were a reminder that life was about more than the unpleasant necessities of her job.

  Valentina only vaguely remembered a time before she'd begun training to be a spy. It had started when she was five years old, when her mother took her to a gray building on the outskirts of Moscow and left her in the care of a man wearing the uniform of a captain in the KGB. Captain Vysotsky became the substitute for a father she had never known. A stern father, a demanding father, but a father who was stern and demanding was better than none at all. She saw her mother infrequently, sometimes not for a months. When Valentina asked about her, Vysotsky would say that her mother was a hero and was serving the needs of the Motherland.

  "You can see how important it is, can't you, Valentina? Your mother works to keep us all safe and protect us from our enemies. That's why she can't be here as much as you'd like."

  "It's good that she's a hero," Valentina had said, "but I wish she could spend more time with me."

  Valentina had been nine at the time. The memory was burned into her mind. A day later (or was it two or three, she couldn't quite remember), Captain Vysotsky told her that her mother was dead, killed in the line of duty by the treacherous agents of the West.

  Years later Valentina found out that the truth was somewhat different. Sofia Antipov had gotten drunk and lost control of her car on an icy mountain road in the Swiss Alps. The car had smashed through the guard rail and plunged over a thousand feet until it shattered on the unforgiving boulders far below.

  Valentina's intelligence and motor skills were well above average, a fact that did not escape her teachers' attention. When she reached the age of fourteen she was singled out for specialized training in the art of killing. By the time she was twenty-two, she was expert in all the tools of her trade. Along with martial arts, knowledge of poisons and use of the garrotte, Valentina was gifted with skill in weapons from the present and the past. She could use a Zulu spear or a samurai katana as easily as a Makarov pistol.

  A little more than twenty years after her mother's death, Vysotsky had risen to the rank of general and Valentina had been molded into a perfect killing machine.

  Morning sun lit the magnificent pavillion of Napoleon III as she ran past. The last French Emperor would have been shocked to see that his pavilion had been converted to a hotel and restaurant. She kept running until she came to the end of the Grand Cascade at the Lac Inferieur, the largest lake in the park. Water ran everywhere in the Bois, flowing through artful channels into lakes and ponds and fountains. Valentina slowed her pace to a jog and then to a walk. She found an empty bench facing the lake and sat, letting her body cool. She thought about what the day would bring. She had to meet with her handler later, at a bistro in Montmarte.

  Lucien is getting pushy, she thought.

  She watched a pair of joggers go by on the path.

  Why has he called for another meeting? It's bad tradecraft. I don't like the way he undresses me with his eyes. Lots of men do that and I don't mind, but with him it's different.

  For a moment she entertained the thought of placing something unpleasant in Lucien's espresso and watching him die. But of course she couldn't do that unless it became necessary. Lucien was getting careless. She dec
ided to let Alexei know about it.

  Alexei Vysotsky was the closest thing to a father that Valentina had ever known. She wasn't sure how to describe her feelings for him. It was probably love, although Valentina wasn't certain what love actually was. Whatever it was, her feeling for Vysotsky was mixed with deep resentment and grudging admiration for the unrelenting discipline he had imposed upon her over the years.

  Valentina was proud of her skills. She knew she was one of the stars in Vysotsky's elite group of high level agents. It was unusual for her to be asked to seduce someone and maintain a relationship with them. There were plenty of agents available for that, men and women both, depending on the sexual preference of the target. Her primary role was as an assassin. The fact that Vysotsky had assigned her to Gutenberg told her that sooner or later she'd be ordered to eliminate him.

  She hoped it was sooner. Gutenberg was becoming tiresome. Besides, he was a lousy lover. Lucien, on the other hand, was probably quite adept in bed, but Valentina would sooner sleep with a snake than with him.

  She rose and started back for her apartment at an easy walk. There was time to go home, shower and change before her meeting. As she walked she was aware of everything in her environment, her paranoia high. That man with an umbrella could as easily be her counterpart from an enemy agency. The woman with a baby carriage might have a gun under those blankets.

  Even though Valentina knew that the man with the umbrella was probably anticipating a spring shower or that the baby carriage contained nothing more menacing than a sleeping infant, she remained alert. She was still alive because she never dropped her vigilance.

  It was a condition of her occupation.

  She passed a couple strolling with their two children. The woman was laughing. She looked happy. The man said something and smiled.

  I wonder what it would be like to have a family.

  CHAPTER 42

  Selena sat in shock, staring at the file in her hands. Elizabeth waited, watching her.