“What’s with you? Every time I think we’ve come to some kind of accord, you pull the rug from under me.”
“Now you know how I’ve felt ever since I came over.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Russians. They think just because they’re men they’re entitled to fuck me.”
He shrugged. “That’s the way it works here.”
“Not with me.”
He made a face. “I wish I understood you better.”
“Don’t expect any help from me.”
“I won’t,” he said sourly. “Now.”
She needed a break. Rising off her stool, she crossed to the window, studying the incomprehensible activity surrounding their plane and learning nothing. But at least the vise around her chest had loosened, her breathing flowing freely again.
Zherov waited some time for her to come back, nibbling and drinking. When she evinced no sign of moving, he came to her, standing too close for comfort. She was about to step away when he said, “Why are you being like this when you’ve asked for my help?”
She picked up a date dipped in honey and coconut from a small bowl on a nearby table, held it out to him.
His neck turned ruddy. “Thanks, but I don’t need a payment.”
“I thought you were making it clear you did.” She popped the date into her mouth, chewed reflectively. “Either you try to help us both out—because, Anton, it’s clear that you’re in as much danger as I am—or you don’t. It’s entirely up to you.”
She cocked her head. “Do you remember how contemptuous of me you were when you first walked on the plane?”
“That was then, this is now.” His hands were busy doing nothing. He knew he’d made a series of mistakes with her but had no idea how or what he needed to do to rectify the balance of power. “Besides, I was pissed at Dima for sending me to be your nursemaid.”
“No more than I was.”
The mood developed the thickness, the darkness that comes just before an electrical storm. They regarded each other for long minutes, then he pulled out his mobile phone, stepped away and made a couple of calls out of her hearing.
“Okay, done,” he said when he returned. “I may hear something, I may not.”
The sunlight was fading. Still, she felt it even through the glass. “If I thought you had a heart, Anton, I’d feel sorry for you.”
He shook his head, pulled at his earlobe. “Evan Ryder. The American shpion. She’s your sister, yes?”
She stared at him.
“Is she anything like you?”
“She’s too much like me.”
Zherov shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Then we could use someone like her.”
At length, Kobalt shook her head. “I know Evan. Not even on the point of death.”
He grinned. “I imagine that, too, could be arranged.”
Outside, darkness had descended.
22
AFTER HOURS
At the violet hour—that is, just after sunset—the Moscow Aquarium was all but deserted. Here and there the night crew went about their appointed tasks silently and efficiently. A contingent swept up the debris that children and adults alike left, cleaned out corners, mopped the floors until they gleamed like gold in the low lights. Others with doctorate degrees, trailed dutifully by their note-taking assistants, glided between the tanks on steel catwalks that overlooked the open tops. Now and then, one or another would stop, kneel down, check on certain charges, dictate to their companions. The susurrus added to the soft background sounds that could only be heard at this time, when the crowds had filed out, the gates closed.
But the aquarium never slept; at least its denizens never slept.
In the dusky evening, a man bundled in a heavy overcoat, its lambs-wool collar turned up and a wide-brimmed fedora jammed onto his large head, was escorted through the discreet employees’ side entrance by two grim-faced SVR agents. They left him inside the door, from where he was ushered into the aquarium proper by a marine biologist with whom he’d gone to school in St. Petersburg, a man who inexplicably—at least to the bundled figure—chose science over the FSB, science over money, a dacha in the Moscow hills, and mistresses plentiful and sparkling as Christmas ornaments.
The man in the heavy overcoat held a small satchel in one hand. He spoke to his friend as he had when they were at school, confiding secrets to each other, sharing a trust that needed no words to explain. The man in the heavy overcoat was Director General Baev, head of the SVR, the marine biologist by his side was Dr. Morayev. The amusing appropriateness of his name was never lost on him. In fact, he used to joke with Baev that his family name was why he chose marine science over the FSB. All his friends called him Morayev, even Baev, whom Morayev in turn addressed as Slava.
Director General Baev was a compact man, burly, with an intimidating manner, armor against his personal insecurities. His features were lopsided, one eye slightly higher than the other, and on his nearly lipless mouth, which lifted on one corner, was what appeared to be a perpetual smirk or snarl, depending on his mood. He had thick, slicked-back hair the color of a mink’s pelt, and an unfashionable full beard. The backs of his hands were forested with coarse black hair.
In contrast, Morayev was small and slightly round-shouldered from his studies through a microscope. He was a bachelor, and often spent weekends at Baev’s dacha when the sparkly Christmas ornaments were in attendance. He enjoyed a good time as much as the next man.
Morayev accompanied Baev only as far as the enormous shark tank, where another man was already waiting, hands crossed over his bathing suit, the only article of clothing he wore. Morayev stopped dead in his tracks a very healthy distance from this man, as he always did. He was terrified of him even though Baev often made sport of his phobia. Great whites or tiger sharks didn’t bother the marine biologist one whit, but just the sight of Minister Darko Vladimirovich Kusnetsov, director of the FSB, gave him heart palpitations. Kusnetsov was a curious amalgam of the venal and the righteous. Like most men in high government positions he was open to money grabs, payoffs, and sending his ill-gotten gains to safety offshore. On the other hand, he would not countenance in himself or anyone under him trafficking in drugs or human exploitation. Those who dared vanished without a trace.
“I will leave you now, Slava,” Morayev murmured and, without waiting for a reply from his friend, turned on his heel and, as far as he was able, beat a hasty retreat.
The two officials—the director of SVR and the head of its parent organization, the FSB, the Federal Security Service—met above the center of the shark tank, shook hands, then embraced as Russian comrades. Over the years, they had formed an uneasy truce. Minister Kusnetsov would never call it a friendship; Baev was his inferior in rank, and Baev himself was not foolish enough to think it so. And yet on some level neither would admit to, there was an unspoken bond between them. One of the reasons was that they were in agreement on their rules of corruption. The other was right here below them.
Baev opened his bag, took out his bathing suit and two towels, stripped down, and climbed into the suit. They then both drew masks and freediving carbon fiber fin blades from the bottom of their bags. One after the other, the men lowered themselves into the tank. They were both champion swimmers and expert free divers. This activity they had years ago devised for themselves required them to swim with sharks without gear or protection.
After super-filling their lungs without churning their legs, they sank down. Flexing their legs, they moved in the same rhythm with the sharks. There was the usual assortment of non-threatening animals: reef sharks, lemon sharks, lemon-tip sharks, and the couch potatoes of the breed, nurse sharks. The fact was sharks were by nature shy; a far cry from the one depicted in Jaws.
Baev, however, was particularly drawn to bull sharks because they were the most aggressive, and adaptable: they could swim in both salt and fresh water.
For his part, Kusnetsov preferred the tiger sharks. He loved their
lean lines, feral eyes, and predatory stare. Over the years, he’d stared down several of these fellows. He’d never been hurt; neither of them had.
The danger and ineffable beauty were only part of the benefits the two men found in the depths of the shark tank. There was also the silence—so absolute they swore they heard their hearts beating, the blood circulating through their veins and arteries. Nowhere else in their busy lives could they find the profound peace they basked in here.
Baev found the eight-foot bull shark he’d dubbed Ongendus, the first king of Denmark, or possibly the great beast found him, for Baev was certain that by this time Ongendus recognized him. They swam side by side, Baev so close to that primitive heart, wanting to touch it and all it signified, without knowing how. This was as close, he thought, as he would ever get to the mystery and wonder of life itself.
Twice they surfaced to refresh their lungs. Once a curious lemon-tip followed them almost to the surface, hanging with them as they breathed, then lost interest as they dropped down again into the green depths. And when at last they both tired, Baev found himself, as always, reluctant to leave Ongendus’s side.
Afterward, they sat on the catwalk toweling off. Baev brought out a thermos of iced vodka from which the men took turns drinking.
Later, clothed and energized from their swim and the vodka, they repaired to an office within the aquarium they always used. Baev plunked himself down on a small sofa while Kusnetsov sat in a swivel chair behind the desk. He was long, slender, and sleek, like his beloved tiger sharks. His bald pate held a fringe of salt-and-pepper hair that on anyone else would have looked monkish. Not on the minister, though. His eyes were glittery, black, and insatiable. Like his tiger sharks you never knew what he was thinking or what he would do next, though Baev had a long history of making correct guesses.
“So.” Kusnetsov clasped his hands behind his head, his favorite position for off-the-record conversations. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie. Each item of clothing fit him perfectly. “Has Dima bedded her yet?” There was no need to clarify who the “her” referred to. Often, it seemed to Baev that all their conversations about Dima started with the same question. But, in fact, he was beginning to believe that they were about Kobalt herself.
“She has resisted every advance, even the most subtle.” Baev considered a moment, then dared to say, “I find that commendable.”
The minister appeared to brush aside his words of praise. “And yet he continues to bend the rules for her,” he mused. “This makes their relationship … questionable. Any woman who can get whatever she wants from Dima without fucking his brains out is to be watched closely. We both know how dangerous Dima is under his preening surface.”
“Well, that’s his MO, isn’t it? Time and again, he offers you the chance to think he’s ineffectual as an enemy.”
“The question is whether he chose wisely with Kobalt.”
“She’s a stone-cold killing machine,” Baev reminded him. “Anouk, Leda, the American Lila Butler. The Swede Elias Larsson, the Chechen Alu Islamov—she terminated them all with perfect efficiency and no sign of remorse.” He took a breath. “Kobalt is a weapon, but she’s a weapon Dima wants for himself.”
Kusnetsov grunted. “As proof of your thesis, it is my understanding that Dima leant Kobalt one of our planes so she could fetch her children back from whomever took them.”
Baev nodded. “That would be a logical assumption, but the fact is she’s going after Omega again, the group she was sent to infiltrate six months ago.”
“And the children?”
“They think she’s dead, quite naturally. It seems she wants to stay dead to them too.”
For a long time after that, the minister remained silent. He stared down at his fingertips as he tapped them together. At length, he looked up. “It seems my assessment of Kobalt may be somewhat off base. Two question marks have been erased. But …”
Here it comes, Baev thought.
“There’s the third, namely the fact that her remit for Omega ended in failure.”
Baev was careful to keep his surprise off his face. “If you read the minutes of her debriefing on that remit, you’ll see that she provided us with crucial intel. Omega is a fanatic God-based cult. They’re indoctrinating Russians citizens, turning them against the Federation.”
“Unacceptable, absolutely. But what she failed to do was bring back actionable intel. Who is Omega’s leader, what is Omega’s ultimate goal? How far along are they toward achieving it? And where, precisely, is their main headquarters? The compound in Odessa was merely a satellite.”
“That is why I haven’t reprimanded Dima for sending her off,” Baev said. “She’s been given a second chance at completing her Omega remit.”
“As far as I am concerned, the jury’s still out. Kobalt has still to prove her worth to me.” Kusnetsov’s strong hand swept through the air between them. He cleared his throat, forearms on the desk, his torso leaning slightly toward Baev, indicating he was now prepared to discuss the core of their conversation. “My chief concern is Evan Ryder. She is Kobalt’s sister.”
“They hate each other.”
Kusnetsov lowered his head, a bull about to charge. “Nevertheless, Ryder is a possible temptation for Kobalt, a conduit to the West. These possible loopholes in Kobalt being iron-bound to us I will not tolerate.” He glowered. “I have expressed this very concern a number of times, Slava, and yet—” His hands opened like shovels as if, Baev thought, about to scoop out Baev’s grave. A ball of ice instantly formed in Baev’s lower belly. “And yet Ryder remains alive and well.” Kusnetsov’s nostrils flared as if he had sensed a foul odor. “Where does your Ryder remit stand? Do you even know where she is?”
“Indeed, I do.” Baev ventured a breath without choking on his anxiety. “We have finally located her. The abduction of Kobalt’s children gave us the opportunity we needed. HUMINT indicated that she, not Kobalt, is trying to track down the children. I have dispatched a pair of ‘farm hands’ to terminate her.”
“Farm hands?” The minister glowered. “What are you talking about?”
Baev cleared his throat. “‘Farm hands’ are blatnoy”—criminals—“newly released from fenya.” Prison. “All of them are handpicked. They ran murder-for-hire operations on the inside. All they live for is murder; they do it better than anyone else.”
“Including Ryder.”
Baev nodded. “Including Ryder.”
Kusnetsov lifted a palm from the table, lowered it silently, deliberately, which, as Baev well knew, held more weight than if he had slammed it down. The minister was at his most dangerous when calm. “All right. But listen well, Slava, I want this over and done with. No fuckups, no dangling threads. Terminate Evan Ryder, quickly and neatly.”
Baev rose to his feet like any good soldier having been given his marching orders, answered formally, “I understand completely, Minister Kusnetsov.”
*
Baev should have gone straight home, but he didn’t feel like it. He had an itch he couldn’t scratch. Home was the last place he wanted to be. Dismissing his driver and bodyguard, he slid behind the wheel of the armored Navigator. He was better off driving when he needed to work out an issue, especially one that had been on the periphery of his consciousness for some time.
As he drove along the embankment to the Moskva, he deliberately turned his mind away from the problems vexing him. Moonlight in Moscow. How that took him back to his youth, when he would stroll along the riverbank with his current girlfriend, while the silver light on the black river worked its romantic magic. But that was a long time ago. Tonight, it seemed further away than usual. When had he lost his taste for romance? Was it the same time he fell out of love with his wife? Perhaps he had never loved her. Perhaps the carapace of cynicism created by working within the clandestine services had already made him immune to love—to normal, humdrum human concerns altogether.
He shivered, feeling more alone than he had in some time. H
e could always go to a club, get smashed on vodka and wind up with some young woman, as vapid as she was gorgeous. He had numbers in his cell, women who’d gladly take his money for a night of debauchery. But neither of those things appealed to him. With a start, he realized they hadn’t in a while. His job had consumed him completely, and now he resided in the belly of the beast: powerful, wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, and absolutely, totally alone.
Taking a police exit, he drove down the ramp to the water’s edge, and parked. He felt trapped, and he almost stumbled in his haste to get out of the Navigator. Pulling his overcoat more tightly around him, he walked a distance along the service road. Across the river lights glimmered, their reflections dancing over the water. He stared out at the Moskva, but his gaze was turned inward.
“Her remit for Omega ended in failure,” Kusnetsov had said, speaking of Kobalt. That was the received wisdom by the handful of people who had read the report of her debriefing. Everyone simply assumed she had failed, that she had slipped up, given herself away somehow. But Baev wasn’t so sure. Agents like Kobalt were in their own way fanatics; their attention to detail was almost superhuman. So if she hadn’t slipped up, then what? The only other possibility was that she was betrayed. Which meant someone inside SVR, possibly even Zaslon, wanted her dead. Who and why?
Drawing out his cell, he made a number of calls, asking the questions that needed answering. Once—but only once—he was forced to raise his voice.
Back in the SUV, he turned on the ignition, waited for the heater to warm his extremities. He paused a moment, then made one more call.
He drove deeper into the night, away from his lavish apartment, his wife, his teenage children, who were hardly there anyway. He did not think about any of them, allowed a mental scrim to slide down over their images, relegating their existence to the shadowed recesses of his mind.
Twenty minutes later, in the thin traffic, he pulled up onto the concrete apron of a modern townhouse, one of a long, snaking line, a three-story, four-bedroom residence three blocks off the Novorizhskoe Highway. It was quiet here, outside the Ring Road, and high barrier walls effectively muffled the traffic noise from the highway.
The Kobalt Dossier Page 16
