The Moscow Vector

by Robert Ludlum

  “Just those four?”

  Petrenko smiled humorlessly. “Those four that I know of,” he said softly. “But there may well have been others. Officials from the Ministry of Health made it clear that my colleagues and I were not supposed to ask too many questions, lest we risk ‘provoking an unnecessary panic’ among the general population. Or stir up sensationalist reports in the news media.

  “Naturally, we fought the decision to the highest levels. But in the end, all of our requests for an expanded inquiry were denied. We were forbidden even to discuss these cases with anyone beyond a very small circle of other scientists.” The sadness in his eyes intensified. “A Kremlin official actually told me that four unexplained deaths were trivial, ‘mere statistical background noise.’ He suggested that we instead focus our efforts on AIDS and the other illnesses that are killing so many in Mother Russia. In the meantime, the facts surrounding these mysterious deaths have been classified as state secrets and buried in the bureaucracy.”

  “Idiots,” Smith growled, feeling his jaw tighten. Silence and secrecy were the bane of good science. Trying to conceal the emergence of a new disease for political reasons was only more likely to lead to a catastrophic epidemic.

  “Perhaps,” Petrenko said. He shrugged. “But I will not take part in a coverup. That is why I have brought you this.” The Russian gently tapped the side of his black briefcase. “It contains all the medical information relevant to the four known victims, as well as samples of their blood and selected tissues. I only hope that you and others in the West can learn more about the mechanisms of this new illness before it is too late.”

  “Just how much hot water are you going to be in if your government finds out that you’ve smuggled this data out?” Smith asked.

  “I do not know,” the Russian admitted. “That is why I wanted to give you this information in secret.” He sighed. “Conditions in my country are deteriorating rapidly, Jon. I’m very much afraid that our leaders have decided that it is safer and easier to rule by force and fear than by persuasion and reason.”

  Smith nodded his understanding. He had been following the news out of Russia with increasing concern. The nation’s president, Viktor Dudarev, had been a member of the old KGB, the Soviet Committee for State Security, stationed in East Germany. When the USSR crumbled, Dudarev had been quick to align himself with the forces of reform. He had risen fast in the new Russia, first taking charge of the FSB, the new Federal Security Service, then becoming prime minister, and finally winning election as president. All along the way many had wanted desperately to believe he was a man sincerely committed to democratic norms.

  Dudarev had fooled them all. Since taking office, the ex–KGB officer had dropped the mask, revealing himself as a man more interested in satisfying his own ambitions than in establishing a genuine democracy. He was busy drawing more and more of the reins of power into his own hands and those of his toadies. Newly independent media companies were muzzled and then brought back under government control. Corporations whose owners opposed the Kremlin were broken up by official decree or had their assets confiscated in trumped-up tax cases. Rival politicians were coerced into silence or smeared into oblivion by the state-run press.

  Satirists had dubbed Dudarev “Czar Viktor.” But the joke had long ago worn thin and now seemed well on the way to becoming a harsh reality.

  “I’ll do what I can to keep your name out of it,” Smith promised. “But somebody in your government is bound to trace this information back to you once the news leaks. And it will leak at some point.” He glanced down at the other man. “Maybe you should come out with the data. It might be safer.”

  Petrenko raised an eyebrow. “Seek political asylum, you mean?”

  Smith nodded.

  The scientist shook his head. “No, I do not think so.” He shrugged. “For all my faults, I am a Russian first and forever. I will not abandon the motherland out of fear.” He smiled sadly. “Besides, what is it the philosophers say? For evil to triumph, all that is necessary is for good men to do nothing? I believe that to be true. So I will stay in Moscow, doing what I can to fend off the darkness in my own small way.”

  “Prosím, mete mi pomoci?” The words came floating toward them out of the mist.

  Startled, Smith and Petrenko turned around.

  A somewhat younger man, hard-faced and unsmiling, stood just a few feet away with his left palm held out as though begging for money. Beneath a tangled mane of long, greasy brown hair, a tiny silver skull dangled from his right earlobe. His right hand was hidden inside a long black overcoat. Two other men, similarly dressed and equally grimy, stood close behind him. They too wore small skull-shaped earrings.

  Reacting on instinct, Smith stepped in front of the smaller Russian scientist. “Promite. Sorry,” he said. “Nerozumím. I don’t understand. Mluvíte anglicky? Do you speak English?”

  The long-haired man slowly lowered his left hand. “You are American, yes?”

  Something about the way he said it raised Smith’s hackles. “That’s right.”

  “Good,” the man said flatly. “All Americans are rich. And I am poor.” His dark eyes flickered toward Petrenko and then came back to Smith. He bared his teeth in a quick, predatory grin. “So you will give me your friend’s briefcase. As a gift, yes?”

  “Jon,” the Russian muttered urgently from behind him. “These men are not Czech.”

  The long-haired man heard him. He shrugged blithely. “Dr. Petrenko is correct. I congratulate him on his acuity.” The folding knife he’d been concealing inside his coat came out in one, smooth motion. He flicked it open. Its blade looked razor-sharp. “But I still want that briefcase. Now.”

  Damn, Smith thought, coldly watching the three men starting to fan out around them. He backed up slightly—and found himself penned against the waist-high parapet overlooking the Vltava River. This is not good, he told himself grimly. Caught unarmed and outnumbered on a bridge in the fog. Really not good.

  Any hopes he might have had about being able to just hand over the briefcase and walk away unharmed had vanished when he heard the other man use Petrenko’s name so casually and confidently. This was not a run-of-the-mill mugging. Unless he missed his guess, these guys were professionals and professionals were trained not to leave witnesses behind.

  He forced himself to smile weakly. “Well, sure…I mean, if you put it like that. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt here, is there?”

  “No need at all, friend,” the knife-wielder assured him, still grinning cruelly. “Now, tell the good doctor to hand over that case.”

  Smith drew in a single, deep breath, feeling his pulse accelerate. The world around him seemed to slow down as adrenaline flooded into his system, speeding his reflexes. He crouched. Now! “Policii! Police!” he roared. And then again, shattering the fog-laden silence. “Policii!”

  “Fool!” the long-haired man snarled. He lunged at the American, stabbing upward with his knife.

  Reacting instantly, Smith leaned aside. The blade flickered past his face. Too close! He chopped frantically at the inside of the other man’s exposed wrist, hacking at the nerve endings there.

  His attacker grunted in pain. The knife flew out of his suddenly paralyzed fingers and skittered away across the paving. Still moving fast, Smith spun back around, slamming his elbow into the long-haired man’s narrow face with tremendous force. Bones crunched and blood spattered through the air. Groaning, the man reeled back and fell to one knee, fumbling at the red ruin of his shattered nose.

  Grim-faced, the second man pushed past his fallen leader, thrusting with his own blade. Smith ducked under the attack and punched him hard, angling up to come in right under his ribs. The man doubled up in sudden agony, stumbling forward. Before he could recover, Smith grabbed him by the back of his coat and hurled him headlong into the stone parapet of the bridge. Stunned or badly injured, he went down on his face without a sound and lay still.

  “Jon! Watch out!”


  Smith turned fast, hearing Petrenko’s shout. He was just in time to see the shorter Russian scientist drive the third man backward with desperate, uncontrolled swipes of his briefcase. But then the wild glee in Petrenko’s eyes faded, replaced by horror as he looked down and saw the knife buried up to the hilt in his own stomach.

  Suddenly, a single shot rang out, echoing across the bridge.

  And a small, red-rimmed hole opened in the middle of Petrenko’s forehead. Pieces of shattered bone and brain matter flew out the back of his skull, driven by a 9×18mm round fired at point-blank range. His eyes rolled up. Then, still clutching his briefcase, the dying Russian staggered and fell backward over the parapet, toppling into the river below.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Smith saw the first attacker scrambling back to his feet. Blood ran red across the man’s face, dripping off his unshaven chin. His dark eyes were full of hatred and he held a pistol, an old Soviet-model Makarov. One spent cartridge rolled slowly across the uneven pavement.

  The American tensed, knowing already that it was too late. The other man was too far away—well out of his reach. Smith whirled around and threw himself off the bridge, diving headfirst into the fog. Behind him, more shots crashed out. A bullet tore right past his head and another ripped through his jacket, sending a wave of white-hot pain searing across his shoulder.

  He struck the surface of the Vltava in a white burst of spray and foam, plunging deep into its icy, ink-black waters. Down and down he slid into a freezing void of absolute silence and utter darkness. And then the river’s swift current caught him in its grip, tugging at his torn jacket and his arms and legs, sending him tumbling and rolling as it dragged him north, away from the bridge’s massive stone piers.

  His lungs were on fire, screaming for air. Grimly, Smith kicked out, clawing his way up through the frigid, turbulent water. At last, his head rose above the rippling surface and he hung there for a long moment, gasping and panting, straining to draw in the oxygen his body craved.

  Still caught in the current, he swung around. The Charles Bridge was invisible in the swirling fog, but he could hear shouts and panicked voices reverberating across the river. The sounds of gunfire seemed to have roused Prague’s citizens from their late afternoon torpor. Smith spat out a mouthful of water and turned away.

  He struck out toward the eastern bank, angling across the current sweeping him downstream. He had to get out of the river soon—before the bitter cold sapped his strength completely. His teeth began chattering as the chill penetrated his waterlogged clothes and bit deeply into his body.

  For a long, despairing moment, the mist-shrouded shore seemed to hang just beyond his rapidly tiring reach. Aware that his time was running out fast, Smith made one last desperate effort. He kicked out again and this time felt his flailing hands touch a bank of mud and small pebbles at the water’s edge. Straining, he hauled himself out of the Vltava and onto a narrow strip of withered grass and neatly trimmed trees, apparently part of a small riverside park.

  Shivering and wracked by pain in every muscle, he rolled over onto his back and lay staring up at the featureless gray sky. Minutes slid past. He drifted with them, too exhausted to go any further.

  Smith heard a startled gasp. Wincing, he turned his head to the side and saw a small, elderly woman bundled up in a fur coat staring down at him in mingled fear and amazement. A tiny dog peered out from behind her legs, sniffing curiously. The air around them seemed to be growing darker with every passing second.

  “Policii,” he said, forcing the words out past his chattering teeth.

  Her eyes opened wide.

  Summoning up the last of his broken Czech, Smith whispered, “Zavolejte policii. Call the police.”

  Before he could say anything more, the fast-gathering darkness closed in around him and swallowed him whole.

  Chapter Two

  Northern Operational Command Headquarters, Chernihiv, Ukraine

  For hundreds of years Chernihiv had been called “the princely city,” serving as a fortified capital for one of the princedoms at the heart of the Kievan Rus, the loose confederation of Vikings who had made themselves the masters of what would later become Russia and the Ukraine. Several of its beautiful cathedrals, churches, and monasteries dated back to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and their golden domes and spires lent a quiet elegance to the little city’s skyline. Every year, busloads of tourists made the short journey from Kiev itself, one hundred and forty kilometers to the south, to gawk at Chernihiv’s ancient sites and artwork.

  Few of those tourists ever noticed an isolated complex of Soviet-era concrete and steel buildings on the city’s outskirts. There, behind a barbed-wire perimeter fence guarded by heavily armed soldiers, lay the administrative center for one of the three major combat organizations of the Ukrainian military—the Northern Operational Command. The sun had long since set, but lights were still on throughout the complex. Staff cars bearing flags from every major unit in the command filled the parking areas surrounding a floodlit three-story central headquarters building.

  Inside the building, Major Dmitry Polyakov stood off to one side of a crowded briefing room. He had carefully chosen a position that gave him a good view of his boss, Lieutenant General Aleksandr Marchuk, the man in charge of the army’s Northern Operational Command. The tall young major checked the folder under his arm yet again, making sure that it contained every report and draft order the general might need for this emergency military conference. Polyakov was well aware that Marchuk was a hard-charging, thoroughly professional soldier, one who expected his senior military aide to be ready to respond instantly to any need or order.

  Marchuk, his senior staff officers, and Northern Command’s division and brigade commanders sat around three sides of a large rectangular conference table. A detailed map of their operational zone stood on an easel set up at the head of this table. Each high-ranking officer had his own briefing folder, an ashtray, and a glass of hot tea set out before him. Cigarettes smoldered in most of the ashtrays.

  “There’s no doubt that both the Russians and Belarussians have dramatically tightened security along our joint border,” the briefer, a full colonel, continued. His pointer tapped the map at several places. “They’ve closed every minor crossing point from Dobrjanka here in the north all the way to Kharkiv in the east. Traffic is only being allowed across at checkpoints set up on the major highways—and then only after intensive searches. Moreover, my counterparts at both Western and Southern Command report similar measures being taken in their areas.”

  “That’s not all the Russians are doing,” one of the officers sitting at the far side of the table said grimly. He commanded a Covering Force brigade, a new combined-arms formation made up of armored reconnaissance troops, scout and attack helicopters, and infantry units heavily armed with anti-tank missiles. “My forward outposts have observed company-strength and battalion-strength reconnaissance forces operating at several points along the frontier. They appear to be attempting to precisely locate the duty stations of our border security detachments.”

  “We should also keep in mind those troop movement rumors passed to us by the Americans,” another colonel added. The crossed hunting horns on his shoulder tabs identified him as a member of the Signals Branch, but that was only a cover. In reality, he served as the head of Northern Command’s military intelligence section.

  Heads nodded around the table. The American military attaché in Kiev had been distributing intelligence reports suggesting that some of Russia’s elite airborne, tank, and mechanized infantry units had vanished from their bases around Moscow. None of the reports could be confirmed but they were disturbing nonetheless.

  “So what is Moscow’s official excuse for all of this unusual activity?” a heavyset tank division commander sitting next to the intelligence chief asked. He was leaning forward, and the overhead lights gleamed off his bare scalp.

  “The Kremlin claims these are merely precautionary antiterrorist measu
res,” Lieutenant General Marchuk answered slowly, stubbing out his own cigarette. His voice was hoarse and sweat stained his high uniform collar.

  Major Polyakov hid a worried frown. Even at fifty, the general was ordinarily a strong, healthy man, but now he was ill—quite ill. He had not been able to keep any food down all day. Despite that, he had insisted on calling this evening conference. “It’s only the damned flu, Dmitry,” Marchuk had rasped. “I’ll get over it. Right now, the military situation demands my full attention. You know my rule: Duty first and last.”

  Like any good soldier given an order, Polyakov had nodded and obeyed. What else could he do? But now, looking at his leader, he was beginning to think he should have pushed harder to try to get the older man to seek medical attention.

  “And do we believe our good Russian friends and neighbors, Aleksandr?” the tank division commander asked wryly. “About these so-called antiterrorist measures?”

  Marchuk shrugged. Even that small movement seemed to take an effort. “Terrorism is a serious threat. The Chechens and others will strike at Moscow and its interests whenever and wherever they can. We all know that.” He coughed hoarsely, paused for a moment to catch his breath, and then forced himself to carry on. “But I have not seen any information—either from our own government or from the Russians themselves—that would justify so much military activity on so large a scale.”

  “Then what should we do?” one of the other officers murmured.

  “We will take precautions of our own,” Marchuk said grimly. “To keep ‘Czar Viktor’ and his cronies in Moscow honest, if nothing else. A little show of force on our part should go a long way toward deterring any idiocy by the Kremlin.” He pushed himself to his feet and stood facing the map. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. His face was gray. He swayed once.