by Jenni Wiltz
The wood-paneled walls held portraits of Ivan, Peter, Lenin, and Stalin: the great men who had made Russia fearsome in the minds of her enemies. He would be another like this, an uncrowned Tsar who gave Russia back to herself after her brief, sloppy affair with Western-style capitalism.
Starinov turned his attention to the stack of folders sitting on his desk. Each contained a dossier on an active FSB agent—name, photo, and biographical sketch. Periodically it became necessary to sort the wheat from the chaff, or even the wheat from the wheat. It mattered less who was sorted than that the sorting be done. Without fear, men became lazy.
He picked up a pen and glanced through the dossiers. If he read something that displeased him, he drew a slash across the photo and tossed it to the floor. One by one, he made his way through the stack, spending no more than a few seconds on each. When he was through, the man sitting quietly in the corner would gather the discarded files and pass them on to Vympel.
Starinov picked up the last file and held back a smile. “Galen Ibrahimovich Popov,” he read, waiting for the man in the corner to comment. The agent in question was one of his; surely he would not let his own perish without offering a trade.
“Not him,” the man said quickly.
“Popov’s last three attempts at recruitments have failed. He is useless.”
“He is my brother-in-law. I brought him into the agency.”
“I see,” Starinov purred. “Well, I suppose I can offer you a bargain. Popov can be spared if you give me another name.”
The man pressed his lips together. Beads of sweat gathered within the fine hairs of his neatly trimmed moustache. To his credit, the man held eye contact as he processed his options.
“Time is short,” Starinov pressed. “And I wish to retire for the evening.” He held the pen in his right hand, poised to make the final stroke. “What is your answer?”
The man’s mouth opened just as the phone rang.
Starinov glared at the blinking red light on the console. “I am not through with you,” he said, leaving his pen uncapped on the desk. He picked up the handset, watching the man in the corner shift uncomfortably in his chair.
The voice on the line transmitted through crackles and pops. “Your Excellency, this is Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Kyrillovich Borovoi. You asked me to report directly to you once our objective had been achieved.”
Starinov felt a thrill of anticipation in his chest. His eyes flickered to the portraits on his wall. “You have the letters?”
“Da. I request your permission to extract Professor Brandon.”
“Vadim’s agent didn’t pick her up?”
“There was a mistake in the file, Your Excellency. Dashkov got away with the wrong woman, the professor’s sister.”
Starinov tapped his finger against his desk blotter. “Does he know this?”
“He must, sir. But we have Professor Brandon under full surveillance and she has received no communication from Dashkov or her sister.”
“Are you certain? No email or text message?”
“No, sir.”
Starinov hesitated. It was unlike Vadim to let his agent disobey a direct order. If the boy had not checked in yet or admitted his mistake, Vadim would have no idea the wrong sister was in custody. But he knew the way Vadim ran his operation. He knew Vadim’s agents confided in him completely—Vadim insisted on it. Something was wrong.
Borovoi sensed his hesitation. “What are your orders, sir?”
“Bring the letters and Professor Brandon to me. I will deal with the rest.”
“Yes, sir. And…sir?”
“Yes?”
“Dashkov has killed five of my men. Please take that into consideration.”
“I will,” Starinov said, hanging up. He waited for the green light to flash briefly, an indication that the digital recorder had captured the call in its entirety. The recording would be transferred to his chief of staff, who would use the digital signature of Borovoi’s phone to track him. If something went wrong, the cleaners could at least be given a GPS coordinate.
“Now,” he said, tight smile on his lips. “Where were we?”
The man in the corner did not answer.
“I believe you owe me a name,” Starinov said. “Have you thought of one? Or shall I supply one for you?”
The man looked up, hopeful. “Yes. Anyone.”
“Vadim Primakov.”
“What?” The man shook his head. “But…he’s a director.”
“No one is above suspicion. Not even you, Valery Vakhanovich.”
“I cannot. Vadim is a friend.” Beads of sweat fell like tears down Valery’s face.
“If it helps you at all, Primakov has been lying to us. He is playing his own game, with his own rules.”
“This is about the Romanov letters.”
Starinov nodded.
“Vadim asked for my help. He wanted me to help his agent and I refused. He wanted me to ask you to call off your men.”
“I have very little sympathy for Primakov’s man, considering he has already killed five of mine. Nor for Primakov himself, who failed to bring the existence of the letters to my attention. That does not make me happy.”
Valery shivered. “Of course not.”
“Enough of this,” Starinov grumbled. “You may save your brother-in-law or you may save Primakov, a man who may be a traitor to Mother Russia. At the very least, he has been a traitor to me. The decision is yours.”
Valery clamped his lips shut. His eyes shone with moisture.
Starinov watched the man’s tears gather and curled his lip. “It’s a shame,” he said, picking up the phone. “Your sister is ill, is she not? Your brother-in-law’s salary pays for the drugs that keep her cancer from spreading. It will be such a shame when she cannot afford treatment.” He sighed. “But then again, living with cancer isn’t really living, is it? Perhaps you’re making the right decision after all.” He held up Popov’s file and began to dial.
“Wait,” Valery whispered, blinking quickly in the dim light. “What do you want to know about Vadim?”
Chapter Thirty
July 2012
Daly City, California
The Seashore Oaks nursing home complex sat high on a ridge, five miles inland and lifted well into the fog bank. Natalie saw nothing but solid gray in every direction, including down. It was like nuclear winter—the worst possible place to send a loved one to die.
Constantine parked the Monte Carlo in front of the entry vestibule. She stared at the long, low building with loathing. Don’t go in there, Belial said. You know what they do to people like you.
“I know,” she whispered. “But it’s the only way.”
“Is it Belial?” Constantine asked. “What’s he saying?”
She forced her throat to swallow. Every muscle in her body felt tense, locked in place to keep her from exiting the car. “The doctors. They all want to lock me up.”
“Natalie, they won’t lock you up.”
She turned to face him and felt her eyes fill with angry tears. She hated that the doctors could make her so afraid. But if there was one thing Belial insisted on, it was that she stay away from hospitals and doctors. “How do you know?”
He flicked aside his jacket, revealing the Walther in his waistband. “I won’t let them.”
Don’t be stupid, little one. One gun is no match for thousands of vials of haloperidol, chlorpromazine, droperidol, thioxene, iloperidone…shall I go on?
“Belial, be quiet!” She balled her hands into fists and pressed them to her forehead. “I’m doing this.”
Find another way.
“There is no other way!” She looked down at her newly purchased handbag, inside which lay the miniature trove of Romanov artifacts she’d stolen from Yuri’s box. The bag felt empty without the letters. “We need this.”
Her eyes wandered to the automatic sliding doors of the vestibule. A white-coated doctor trotted out to a parked car and fumbled with his keys. Belial
tensed, ready for trouble. They sent him out here to spy on you. He’s going to run back inside and tell them you’re coming. They’ll be ready.
She grasped the door handle so tightly that ridges of white bone rose up over her knuckles. Constantine put a warm hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“What if the doctors find out that I belong in there? What if they don’t let me leave?”
His hand moved from her shoulder to her cheekbone. He let his index finger slide down the curve of her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, feeling his warmth radiate throughout her body. “You don’t belong in a place like this,” he said. “And I won’t let them keep you. All you have to do is pretend we’re husband and wife, visiting an old man. Can you do that?”
His azure eyes met hers head-on without fear or doubt. She watched for that moment of distancing, the one when people shut themselves away from her to protect their self-image or their ideas about safety. It didn’t come.
Her heart clenched in her chest, stealing her breath. In the same moment, the back of her skull erupted with the heat of a lightning strike. Pretending is all you’re going to get, little one. You know that, don’t you?
“Yes,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I know how to pretend.”
She followed Constantine through the automatic sliding doors into a reception room. He smiled at the woman behind the desk. A plastic nametag identified her as “Myra.” Her hair was black at the roots with blond permed curls that cascaded to her shoulders. “Good morning, Myra,” he said, thickening his consonants to make the Russian accent unmistakable. “I’m here to visit my uncle.”
“What’s your uncle’s name?” Myra asked, straightening the keyboard on her desk.
“Grigori Voloshin.” Constantine spelled the name for her as she typed.
A white-coated man emerged from the hallway on her right and passed directly behind her. All his attention was focused on the chart in his hands and he scribbled madly as he walked. He’s writing something about you, Belial growled.
“No,” she said. “Cut it out.”
“What was that?” Myra asked, looking up at her.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife,” Constantine said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “She just found out her grandmother is ill.”
Myra curled her lip. Her front teeth were stained with coral lipstick. “You’re just having a run of bad luck, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your uncle is sick, too. I’m afraid we can’t allow you to see him.”
“Why not?”
“The only approved visitor on the list is his son, Yuri.”
“But we’ve come all this way to surprise him! Please, just let us see him for a few minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” Myra said. “Patients who left the ICU less than 48 hours ago are only allowed approved visitors, and you’re not on the list.”
Natalie narrowed her eyes. Convalescent homes couldn’t be that different from hospitals or sanitariums and she knew those institutions thrived on protocol—pointless bureaucracy that enforced a power structure. All they had to do was find out who had the power. “How do we get on the list?” she asked.
The sympathetic furrow slipped from Myra’s brow. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You can’t just ‘get on the list.’ It’s a long process that involves paperwork and documentation of your relationship to our patient.”
The doctors did this on purpose, Belial said. They want to kill him without witnesses.
Constantine bent forward over the reception desk. “Are you absolutely sure there’s no way we can see my uncle? Perhaps it would help him to see a friendly face.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I wish there was a way I could help.”
“Listen,” she said, shoving past Constantine. “His son’s been murdered. Someone needs to tell him. Do you want it to be you or do you want it to be me?”
Myra gasped and looked back to Constantine. “Is this true?”
Constantine sighed. “I’m afraid so. The police contacted us yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” She jiggled the mouse at her desk and refocused her eyes on the screen. “It says here that Gregory’s son is his only living relative.”
“Grigori,” Natalie snapped. “His name is Grigori.”
Myra leveled her with an arctic glare. “That’s what I said.”
“Look, can you at least give him a message? Tell him Nicky and Alicky sent us here. Tell him it’s about the girls.”
The woman hesitated, glancing down at her mouse.
“It’s important,” Constantine pressed. “Yuri was his only son, and he should have a member of the family break the news to him.”
She sighed and ripped the top sheet from a stack of sticky notes. “What did your wife say again?”
Natalie repeated her message and watched with satisfaction as the woman shuffled off to fulfill their request. She’ll tell the doctors about you, Belial said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “As long as I get to see Grigori.”
You must be careful with him, little one. His mind is fragile.
“What do you mean?”
He is near the end of his journey. He will see through a heart that is not surrendered.
“Fuck,” she said. “I was afraid of that.” She looked up at Constantine and wondered if his willingness to pretend to be married to her counted as a surrendered heart.
“You look worried,” Constantine said. “Did Belial tell you something about the letters?”
She nodded. “Apparently getting in is the easy part.”
“He’s an old man. Just tell him he needs to give us the letters or Yuri will die. There’s no way he knows it’s already happened.”
Natalie thought of the way she and Beth could spend afternoons in Beth’s office, wrapped up in research. All of a sudden, Beth would look up from her desk and gasp, fully aware that halfway across town, her son had just fallen off his skateboard in the driveway. “He’ll know,” she said.
“Natalie, that’s impossible.”
She opened her mouth to retort as Myra shuffled back behind her desk. Natalie pushed Constantine aside. “What did he say?”
“He wants to see you,” Myra said grudgingly. “He said he’s been waiting for you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
July 2012
Daly City, California
Grigori had a single room with a large double-paned observation window facing the hallway. Everyone who walked by could look in and see him, whether he curled up and slept or sobbed alone and waited to die. The man on the bed looked older than his eighty years. His skin had withered and darkened, like fruit dried in the sun.
Natalie put her hand against the door and absorbed the feeling of cold and dread it gave her. I can’t help you in there, Belial said. My brother’s hand is already upon him.
“I understand,” she said with a shiver. Then she turned to Constantine. “You have to wait outside.”
He shook his head. “I’m coming with you.”
“No,” she said again. “It’s like a séance. You have to believe.”
“Natalie, he’s just an old man.”
“Keep the doctors away from me. I’ll call for you if I need help.” Before he could follow, she slipped through the door and locked it from the inside. She pressed her palm to the observation window and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
Then she turned to the rheumy-eyed man on the bed. The sleeves of his gown barely covered his shoulders. The armholes were cut so wide she could see the slack flesh of his forearm, now empty of muscle, lying useless against his chest. “Mr. Voloshin,” she said, pulling up a rolling stool at his bedside. “My name is Natalie.”
“Natalia,” he corrected, as if she ought to have known to use the Russian version of her name. His right index finger lay encased in what looked like a plastic pencil sharpener, and at least half a dozen tubes snaked out of his gown, connecting wi
th bags and machines that surrounded the head of his bed. “Did Yuri send you?”
“No. But he gave me your box.”
“How much did he sell it for?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying, Natalia.” He sighed, the exhale interrupted by liquid pooling in his lungs. “That poor family will never know peace, will they?”
“Peace and certainty are luxuries we don’t all get.” She thought about how hard it was to make her shrinks understand that angels and the afterlife were real things, not the made-up invention of Israel’s lost tribes. “But you don’t have to be afraid of me, I promise.”
“Of you?” he said, a tiny smile curling his lips.
“Yes, me,” she said defensively. “Lots of people are afraid of me.”
“They can’t see it, can they?”
“See what?” She resisted the urge to look behind her.
“The angel. Standing behind you.”
Natalie gulped. “That’s Belial. No one’s ever seen him before.”
The old man smiled, wrinkling his parchment-thin cheeks. “He thinks you’re beautiful. He tells you things he doesn’t want anyone else to know.”
A thousand questions sprang into her mind. She opened her mouth but clamped it shut immediately. This isn’t about you, she told herself. Get it together. “I need to know where the real letters are, Grigori.”
He chuckled. “So you’ve discovered my little trick. Did your angel tell you?”
She smiled at him. “I figured it out myself. The paper wasn’t right. It was too new.”
“I could think of nothing else. I knew Yuri would sell them as soon as I was gone.”
“Grigori, how did you get them?”
“My father carried them from Ekaterinburg to Korea. He gave them to me when he knew he could no longer keep them safe.” He took a deep breath but couldn’t fill his lungs without coughing. She poured a glass of water from the carafe on his nightstand and held it to his lips. Grigori swallowed obediently, draining half the glass and patting her hand when he’d had enough. “Thank you,” he said, eyes glistening with cough-induced tears. “They tell me it will only get worse until the end.”
