Sergei smirked. “I am arms dealer, no?”
Well . . . hell. “Seryozha, Vee asked softly, “what happened to my Glock?”
He developed a sudden interest in the local channel’s sports report. “Is not important. I loaned it, I get you new gun.”
“Oh, God, you didn’t,” Vee whispered. “How could you?”
“Did you tell your office about Robey while I was gone from the table, or did you wait for Doucette to do it?” Sergei challenged.
“I wavered,” Vee admitted. “I left it to Cade.”
“Good. Unless Robey doesn’t have the balls to do it, your people will find only a corpse. And many clocks.”
And it stopped short, never to go again, when the old man died . . . The old song about a venerable grandfather’s clock that died with its master echoed in Vee’s mind.
“That’s why he asked to speak to you alone,” Vee said, her voice hushed. “He wanted a gun?”
“It is done,” Sergei returned firmly. “I told him to run, but he wouldn’t leave his toys. His options, after that, were very few.”
“Sometimes, just for a moment or two,” she said slowly, “I think I understand you. But now this.”
Vee stalked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Shaking, she dropped onto the toilet seat, hunching her shoulders while hot tears scalded her eyelids. Seryozha, her Seryozha, had done this. Played on Robey’s grievance, his isolation. Tempted him into treason. And now . . . enabled his suicide. With Vee’s gun.
For a few weak seconds she felt an urge to call Cade back, to return with him to her relatively golden life in Sarasota County.
Sanity crept back. She had a vital job to do, and she’d see it through. She just didn’t have to allow it to become so . . . personal. Yes, that was it. She was long past having to turn Sergei up sweet. They were locked in an irrevocable partnership. He no longer needed special benefits.
“By the way,” Vee said as they settled into their comfortable first-class seats on a non-stop flight from Atlanta to Moscow, “how did you pay for the tickets?”
“I memorized the Wilsons’ number the last time you let me use the card.”
Of course he had. Vee accepted the hostess’s offer of pre-flight champagne and hoped Daddy winced when he saw the bill. Or was luxury travel customary for DHS agents and spies? After all, there had to be some percs to the job. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Sheremetyevo.”
Vee drew a deep breath, scowling at the bubbles in her glass, which had caught the mid-day Georgia sunlight shining through the window beside her. Sheremetyevo was Moscow’s equivalent of Orlando International. Through gritted teeth, she hissed, “I mean after that.”
“Another long flight.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Seryozha moved his long legs out of the aisle and inched closer to Vee as the Economy Class passengers began to board, juggling cases that looked way too large for the storage bins.
“Tell me we’re not going to Siberia.”
“I could tell you that, but it would be a lie.” Vee groaned. “You went to college in Siberia, what is problem?”
“Maybe I figure I’m going to be really tired of flying by the time we hit Moscow.”
“Is too bad.” Sergei shrugged, waggled a finger to the hostess for a refill of champagne. “Long flights good for catching up on sleep.”
“Couldn’t you have just made a phone call? Or tried e-mail?” Vee instantly regretted the poor-little-me sound that had crept into her voice.
“So far you have been a true professional, Valentina. Do not spoil your image.”
Dammit! Using the skeptical professional brain she had ignored all too often in the last few days, Vee couldn’t help but wonder if Seryozha was getting her out of the way. Leading her on a snipe chase away from whatever was planned in the U. S. Trust, trust, trust, it all came down to trust. And how could she trust Sergei Tokarev any farther than she could throw him?
But what about Sergei Ivanovich Whatever? The man she’d slept with. The man whose shoulder had been a pillow on all the flights they’d made together in the last few days. The man she didn’t have to turn because he already seemed to be on the side of the angels.
She had no choice. She had to trust him, follow his lead wherever he took her. Fortunately, their cover was firmly in place. They’d endured a brief hang-up when they declared firearms in their checked luggage, but the matter had been resolved in a matter of minutes after a quick phone call to Airport Security. As far as the U. S. government was concerned, they were golden. Daddy was trusting her instincts. She, in turn, was going to have to trust Seryozha. And pray.
At Sheremetyevo they scarcely had time to stretch their legs. Ten at night back at home, it was eight a.m. in Moscow. They changed airports, flying Aeroflot to Irkutsk, a mere three-thousand-plus miles east of Moscow. Vee peered down at the vast empty spaces covered by mountains and massive forests, punctuated by occasional clusters of smoking chimneys, and wondered, as she always did, at the size of it all. She thought she caught a glimpse of Novosibirsk and the university perched in the wilderness outside, but it might have been wishful thinking. By the time they made their final approach to Irkutsk, a city only a few hundred miles north of Mongolia, Vee just wanted it all to go away. She barely glanced at Lake Baikal, a body of water so large it contained one-fifth of the world’s fresh water. Nobody, friend or foe, should have to spend this much time on an airplane.
And then Vee saw the bush pilot waiting to greet them. Dear God, it wasn’t over. “I’m going to get you for this,” she hissed into Seryozha’s ear.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Valentina, I am sorry. Where is the tough FBI agent I met in New York?”
“Rolled flat under the Russian bear.”
He laughed and gave her a swift hug before shaking hands with the classically devil-may-care bush pilot, whose name was Georgi—“call me Gosha”—Rybin. He looked a bit like a Viking warrior gone amuck, Vee thought. His outdoorsman’s face could have been any age from thirty to fifty. His blue eyes were keen and far-seeing, and he sported a blond beard as long and bushy as the thick string mop of hair dangling from his head. His brown leather jacket was so seamed with age, it looked as if it might be a hand-me-down from World War II. But the muscles bulging beneath it were very here and now. Gosha Rybin gave the appearance of a man who, if necessary, could tuck his bush plane under his arm and walk home. Unfortunately, his Siberian accent—rather like a good-ol’-boy-Texas drawl—was so strong she could only catch two or three words in each sentence.
Vee sagged in relief when she realized the two men were making arrangements for the following morning. A bed. She was actually going to sleep in a bed tonight.
In spite of severe jet lag, Vee managed a good meal at the hotel restaurant. She even rallied enough to appreciate the strong hot tea served in tall glasses, with silver filigree holders to protect the fingers. All the restaurant service lacked was for the bill to be added up by fingers flying over an abacus, something Vee’s mother had seen back in the days of the Cold War before the wonders of modern technology found their way to Siberia.
By eleven o’clock Vee and Seryozha burrowed into their separate beds, trying to pry their bodies away from U. S. Eastern Standard Time where it was high noon. Frankly, Vee thought, before she dropped over the edge into the great black void, her body was too tired to give a damn about losing thirteen hours of her day, about sex or the lack thereof, or even about the miserable fucking bomb. She slept.
Gosha’s plane turned out to be exactly what Vee expected the moment she saw the rough and ready bush pilot. A twin-engine Antonov that had been flying since before the age of jets. If she hadn’t objected to the Cessna that flew them from Green River to Omaha, why did this plane strike terror in her heart?
Maybe because she was thirteen time zones from home, speaking a language she’d practiced very little in the last eight years. Becaus
e the hunt was counting down, tension building. Because she really, really feared they were on another wild goose chase. Because, in spite of the camaraderie between Seryozha and Gosha, who obviously knew each other, something didn’t feel right.
Or maybe because she’d gotten word before they left Orlando that Weldon Robey was found dead in his lounge chair, a miniature carousel clutched in one hand, her gun in the other. Daddy was not pleased. She was so far out on a limb she could feel the thin branch cracking under her. Were they on a genuine hunt to save thousands of lives, or was she being led straight off the end of the plank?
Since Seryozha could have snapped her neck with ease any time these last few days, she was going to have to stick to trusting him. But it wasn’t easy.
“Courage,” Seryozha urged as they strapped in. “After this, we are almost there. Only a short drive to a dacha in the forest.” A dacha was the Russian equivalent of an American cottage—some used solely as vacation homes, others occupied year-round. They were usually made of logs and surrounded by a picket privacy fence, even in the middle of nowhere. Extremely picturesque. Oddly enough, her mother had told her, the Russians had been ashamed to have tourists see them—until they learned that Americans were utterly charmed by log cabins.
Vee unclenched her teeth so she could ask, “A dacha where?”
“Outside Bratsk.”
Bratsk. Well, dammit, she’d been to Bratsk, but flying in from Novosibirsk hadn’t been such an ordeal. She’d wanted to see the famous dam on the Angara River that flowed north out of Lake Baikal, heading toward the Arctic Sea. At the time the dam was built, it had been the largest dam in the world, a source of power for a good part of Siberia. Vee liked Bratsk. The small pioneering community in the midst of the Siberian forest was as close to the end of the world as she’d ever been.
She felt an odd sense of relief. The end of their infinitely long journey wasn’t unknown territory. Yet she was still in a land far, far away and painfully aware there was no back-up. Their sole security rested on fast thinking, plus a Glock, a Sig-Sauer, and a couple of stubby revolvers.
And could she really be sure about Sergei’s Sig-Sauer and his .38?
Chapter 18
Compared to their recent flights, the trip north was short, less than ninety minutes. After leaving the Baikal area, they followed the winding flow of the Angara River on its way to meet the even mightier Yenisei. Below them Vee saw nothing but river, forest, and the occasional belching smoke of a lumber mill. Mile after mile after mile. She couldn’t help but think that when global warming drowned milder climates, humanity would be able to retreat to the vast reaches of the Siberian forests.
They were into the last days of September now, and soon the sunlight outside was sparkling off towering evergreens dusted in snow, like a thin coat of whitewash over an area long associated with exile, torture, and death. Vee shivered, burying a sudden surge of fear in a determined rush of pragmatism. Snow, and she didn’t even have a pair of boots.
“Not to worry,” Seryozha said, leaning close to her ear. “We will buy boots.”
Vee stared. They were growing much too close . He was sucking her in, body, mind, and soul.
And if she let him, she had failed. Let her side down. She wasn’t going to do that, no way, no how. Vee crossed her arms, continuing to stare out the window as the forest seemed to rise to meet their descent. Roads through the trees became visible . . . a modern town of concrete buildings spread out below.
“There is even a movie theater,” Seryozha told her. “All the comforts of home. Sometimes they even show American films.”
“Right.” Vee eyed him from under her lashes, scepticism rampant.
“Is small world, Valentina. “Not so different from your Alaska.”
He was probably right, but Vee felt as if she was about to step down onto the surface of the moon . . . or maybe Mars.
The driver of an aging Lada taxi dropped Gosha at the two-story hotel in the center of town, then pointed out a place where they could buy boots. Within an hour of landing, they were on a road leading into the forest on the far side of town. Vee admired the willowy white-barked birch trees that were now visible among the evergreens, yet the pristine wilderness was marred by the smoke and stench from a nearby lumber mill. Evidently, even the far reaches of Siberia were working their way toward having a pollution problem as serious as their western neighbors.
After a drive of two or three miles, the taxi pulled up in front of a log cabin that sported an ancient Ford pick-up in the driveway and a white picket fence surrounding a scrap of lawn that was as neat and well-kept as the rest of the property. Somehow not what she’d expected from the next contact on Sergei’s list, but then he hadn’t told her much. Only that the man’s name was Kiril Mikoyan and he was elderly. Vee was uncomfortably aware that while in Russia she was only a tag-along, capable of little more than watching Sergei’s back and waiting to see what he would do next.
Sergei lifted the latch on the gate and, together, they crunched over untouched snow to the dacha’s front door. Not a home with a lot of visitors, Vee noted.
Silence. Sergei frowned. “Not good if he has left.”
“Left? As in flown out of Bratsk? Surely Gosha would have known if he had?”
“Many pilots fly to Bratsk. Commercial flights also.” Sergei walked to the side of the house, leaped the low fence, then swung Vee over. She thought she caught a small grunt of pain, but obviously he was vastly improved from the wreck she’d met in the hospital—what?—little more than two weeks ago.
They tromped past the truck to the back of the cabin, where they found a chopping block and a large woodpile under a lean-to, but no sign of Mikoyan. Sergei pounded on the back door, muttering imprecations under his breath when there was no response.
Something had gone very wrong, Vee realized. More than coming half way around the world to discover a contact was not at home. Color had drained from Seryozha’s face until his skin rivaled the snow around them. Paler than the day they’d met in the hospital. “Seryozha?”
“Nichevo.” He waved her concern away, his poker face slamming down as hard as a knight’s helm, obscuring any hint of his thoughts.
Dejectedly, they trudged back toward the waiting taxi. “Maybe he’s just out?” Vee suggested to Sergei’s gloom.
“Without his truck?” he shot back. “This is very bad, Valentina. If he’s gone, it is because the bomb is in play. He has gone to arm it.”
Vee stopped abruptly a few feet beyond the truck. “Mikoyan’s your bomb expert?” she demanded.
Glumly, he nodded. “ He is the only person left who worked on the ten bombs when they were made. He armed them with the original batch of U-236, which has now decayed to useless. And he is surely the best qualified to re-arm them with the freshly made isotope.”
“Damn.” Vee heaved a sigh. “To come all this way—”
The taxi driver honked, waved a hand out the window, pointing. A silver-haired man strode up the road, his body obscured by a gray lumber jacket. On his arm was a large wicker basket full of . . . something.
Sergei shouted, waved and took off at a lope, Vee following as fast as she could. Surely the man was Mikoyan. Thank you, Lord!
“Mushrooms,” the vigorous old man declared when he noticed Vee peering into his basket. “Not many left, but I wished to gather them before they were buried in snow.” His sharp gray eyes turned to Sergei. “You have come for me then? This is it?”
A few quick questions, and Sergei’s shoulders slumped. Another dead end. Mikoyan knew only that a summons would come, he would be flown to the right place, arm the bomb, and then be sent on his way to a promised new home in Canada. For which he was exceedingly grateful to Sergei Ivanovich.
Seryozha swallowed a string of profanities. The luck that had sheltered him for so many years seemed to have run out. But he couldn’t leave the old man loose, ripe for plucking, so they’d have to take him with them. If all went well, Mikoyan would end up
in Canada, as promised. There was a point when the charade had to stop. A point-of-no-return when the sting operation would hang poised on the brink of annihilation, and only fast footwork could keep them all from becoming ash. With luck, Mikoyan wouldn’t join Robey in the grave.
“May I take my mushrooms?” the old man asked.
They met Gosha and enjoyed a quick lunch at the hotel before piling into the plane, mushrooms and all, for the flight back to Irkutsk. Sergei stared out the window, eyes focused inward rather than on the infinite forest below. At last things were going well. Without Mikoyan, Leonov and the terrorists would have to scramble to find someone to arm the bomb. And perhaps, just perhaps—if he’d held out during that beating in New York—they didn’t have the U-236. Which left the antique nuke no more dangerous than a stick of dynamite. Finding another source of the isotope would entail a big delay. Hopefully as long as the twenty years since the bombs went missing.
So . . . at the moment they were making progress—slow and painful—but optimism was beginning to peek out of the gloom. When he’d waked up on that flight to Wyoming with all the Feds and realized he’d lost two vital weeks . . .
He’d seen the mushroom cloud. Seen the bodies . . .
Experienced the horror of catastrophic failure.
And known, when he discovered the new 9/11 hadn’t happened yet, that the reprieve he’d been granted would be short-lived.
Unless he undid what he had set in motion.
So not to despair. He had the little old bomb maker in hand, and he’d probably hidden the U-236. Two out of three was good. More than enough. He had maneuvering room to find the bomb.
Sure he did. Leonov could still unearth a bomb expert among the bright and greedy young physicists who were in diapers when the ten nuclear bombs were made. And Leonov might well be holding the lead container with the U-236 that had already begun its decay.
Lead container. Containers. Small, round. Two of them. Enough for more than one bomb. Govnó! They emerged out of the mist of his mind as clearly as if he held them in his hands.
Limbo Man Page 18
